vangogh goes for a bath

Wednesday and Thursday were those two-in-a-million days that give so much light and warmth and happiness that your mind almost falls for the same trick your half-naked body has already fallen for. I gave in yesterday, in the garden, in shorts and and un-shod white feet. I allowed myself the momentary confusion to believe we were on the other side of winter, headed for even warmer days, headed for summer.

But of course, it is winter we are headed for. And this morning the gods resumed their nasty autumnal pleasure of a cold, incessant rain.

We've been going ten million miles an hour through the fall and I think we are just nearly approaching a tapering point. I keep saying that, but we must be slowing down. The cows and pigs are moving ever closer to their winter quarters. The barnyard is littered with hay. We are already nervously counting bales and mouths, mouths and bales. Squinting in our calculations, hoping the two add up. The garden is officially closed. The winter rye was sown to cover the ground. The Aged Ps are visiting and yesterday they planted 500 cloves of garlic with me well past the sun's set. The older laying hens are molting.

The cold rain makes my body ache for the sun of the two days before. But, I suppose its like enjoying a ripe tomato from the garden. I can't have the warmth of the sun all year round or I wouldn't love it so stupidly and fully as I do.

Hoping for a couple more of those sun-days peppered through this fall, but over all, trying to be as accepting as I am able of this rain.

Vermont in Brooklyn

Good Friday to any of you New Yorkers. I am writing to tell you that our friends and neighbors Sam and Makenna of Poorfarm Farm are having their annual pumpkin, syrup, and garlic sale in Brooklyn tomorrow.

I always thought Vermonters were blowing smoke up their own bums when they said they could taste the difference in syrup from one sugar bush to the next. Maybe they are. But, there are most certainly some syrups that are better than others. Poorfarm Farm's syrup is literally the most delicious syrup I have ever tasted. I take sips from the jug in our fridge and cut out any middle man of yogurt or granola or pancakes.

So, if you are in need of a hit of Vermont autumn and are in the big fancy city, head over to see them outside the Brooklyn Commune.

601 Greenwood Ave, Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn, NY

Saturday (tomorrow) Oct. 13th 10-5pm. I'd get there on the early side. I hear they have quite the reputation in Brooklyn and may sell out early.

all photos generously borrowed from poor farm farm

three bags full

The lambs have been sheared for the first time in their little wooly lives. Ayana and I were planning on watching many youtube videos and then going for it on our own, but several kind and concerned women thought that could be rather dangerous for my sheep. So, I stuffed away my pride,  relented, and hired a shearer. I am so glad I did. She was strong and fast, professional and kind. She showed us the very basics of the job, making it look viciously easy in only the paradoxical way things that are extraordinarily difficult can appear. 

Now I have this wool. Something to consume myself with this winter when we are more confined to the indoors than we would like. It hasn't snowed yet. And, I won't be starting this until it does. But once the snow falls, I must skirt the fleece. Then scour it. Then card and comb it. Then spin it. Then weave it. I have the vainglorious aim of weaving a proper rug out of it all. Who knows? Though, I must say, I am rather excited about this very small but very new chapter of farming that I am adding to our mix. Handwoven Icelandic wool rugs from Vermont. That's something I could someday sell to you city folk, yes?

mellow yellow

Today is the first sunny day in seven. They are threatening snow flurries for Sunday and tomorrow doesn't look so great either, so we must revel in the yellow today. 

Ayana and I made a honey custard ice cream last night with honey comb candy, and, it being vastly inappropriate ice cream weather I thought I would share the recipe. 

The following is adapted from Andrea Reusing's Cooking in the Moment. 

For the ice cream custard :

make at least 3 hours and up to 24 hours before serving

makes 1 quart

4 farm fresh orange egg yolks

3 c. whole milk, or preferably full cream milk

2/3 c. honey

1/8 t. salt

an ice cream maker, a whisk, a thermometer and a stovetop

Whisk together honey, egg yolks, and salt and set aside. Heat milk in saucepan on medium heat stirring frequently until a steady simmer. Remove milk from heat and add (SLOWLY and while whisking) the hot milk to egg/honey mixture. Careful not to scramble the eggs, hence slow and whisking. Return mixture to the sauce pan, and on medium low heat, stirring constantly, bring mixture to 175°F. Remove from heat and pour into a clean bowl. Allow for the steam to settle off the custard and then place in the fridge for at least 3 hrs of chilling.  Once chilled put through your ice cream maker per their instructions. 

Sprinkle the honeycomb candy on top for ultimate un-fall enjoyment. 

For the honeycomb candy: 

needs at least 20 minutes to chill in the freezer

2 T water

2 T honey

1 1/2 t baking soda (twice sifted)

3/4 c. sugar

a candy thermometer, saucepan, whisk, and a greased cookie sheet

Pour water into saucepan, then sugar, then honey. Don't mix the ingredients in, just allow the heat to take over. On medium high heat allow the mixture to reach 300°F (candy thermometer). Remove immediately from heat and sprinkle in baking soda. Quickly combine with a whisk in several strokes and pour the now ever expanding mixture (thanks to the baking soda) onto the cookie sheet. 

Allow it to cool in the freezer and then break into shards to serve over honey ice cream. 

fiddlehead and sabia and the want of horse

Fiddlehead and I want a lot of things. We want an indoor toilet. We want those insulated rubber Muck boots. We want the chickens to not wake up so early. We want the grey cat who lives in our barn to let us love her and pet her. We want land we can call our own, with an old farmhouse and a post & beam barn. We want a café to open up on our dirt road and we want the New York Times to be sold at our gas station. But, most of all, we want a horse. I want a horse. I need a horse. Fiddlehead could probably, in actuality care less for having a horse. He doesn't seem to be too thrilled when we make him sit atop Sabia, our landlord's aging buckskin. But I am consumed with the thought. Of riding my horse over the hill to see the neighbors, or corralling the cows with him or packing a picnic in his saddle bags and taking Nick and I to the top of the mountain for lunch. I want to get a small cart to have him pull fencing materials across the farm and feed for the chickens and hay for the cows. Someday I want to get two bigger, draft horses, and name them California and Davy Crockett (long, childhood imaginary friend story) and have them pull a plow and a cultivator and a sleigh in the winter.

Someday soon, when we buy our own land, we will get a horse. Or three. Right now we have a self-imposed moratorium on new animals. Let's wait to see how winter plays out.