Restaurant Tales and Sausage Fails

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Loop-deeeeee, loop. A farm story gone astray. Way back when, when I started my career as a farmer, I was promised a few perks to balance out all the dirty tasks my new job would entail. Now thank heavens I’ve never been the cleanest person in the world because if so, the amount of feces I acquired on my pants after my first day on the job would have sent any me running to the nearest body of water. ANY WAY, yesterday, part of the promised walking property tour went underway. Farmer Tom’s sister Erin, her 22 month old Oliver- who would have made Beyonce proud with the booty shake he did for me on my birthday- and I hiked all around the perimeter of the back fields. After a run in with Muhammad the bull, trying to chase down one of the Jersey girls in heat, aka Muhammad was trying to get some bitty and the brown cow was not feeling it, we looped around the lower field, fed the chickens and headed back up county highway road to the farm. Now somewhere along our scenic loop, I chimed into Erin about how when ever Papa Lewis and I go running at bear swamp, state land that’s beautiful to run through in the neighboring hamlet of Decatur,  we never do a loop. Always one straight shot there and back. And ohhh how I love me a good running loop, I told her. Damn Papa Lewis. Well what goes around comes around they say, and ohhh let me tell you, that comment came around to bite me right in the ass. Later on that day, as we had previously planned, Papa Lewis and I were to go running. Upon his arrival to the home front, he asked whether I wanted to run in town or Bear Swamp. Well golly I thought, one last run at Bear Swamp before heading across the border, what more could a girl ask for. (Except maybe some cash money love from the padre before departure.) We drive up there. I’m suddenly cranky and have gone mute. Papa Lewis, cheery and chipper as ever. Now for a little scene setter, it’s raining. If you’re wondering whether we turned around and drove home as the rain began to fall, you probably don’t know my Dad. So we start running. Me, still not talking. Mi padre, smiling as mud splattered all over the back of his legs. As we approach the second hill of the run, instead of heading straight, we veer to the left. Stunned, I ask excitedly, a quick mood change has occurred, “are we doing a loop?” Yeah, why not, he responds. Has he ever mentioned this possible loop before on the million runs we’ve done there? Nope. You want to know why? Because as I am soon to find out, he has no damn idea where he is going. Shocker. Yeah, so back to the run, through the rain, as it’s starting to get dark. We bush whack through a small forest towards an A-frame cabin that we used to get drunk at in high school. A few minor scratches on the legs, now to back track here while selecting apparel for the run I had originally chosen running tights but exchanged them for shorts after doing a temperature test out the window, I angrily expressed my discontent, stating I would not be running through those damn prickers again. Instead, we ran through a forest double the size of the previous wooded area we passed through, with enough pricker bushes to puncture an iguana.  Convinced the road, that would lead us back to the car, was just up past the forest of death, Papa Lewis lead the way. Note, following any Lewis, pretty much anywhere, is like asking a blind person to do a cross word puzzle. Three hours later, with approximately 25 new scratches, my mom gets home. After displaying my new body markings to her, bad move on my part, she lectures me on being stupid enough to go running with “nit-wit-man,” as she calls him, before my trip. Rambling on about the need for me to stay safe and healthy before leaving, she storms out of the kitchen only to find the motorcycle helmet I wore home after a ride on the back of Farmer Tom’s motorcycle. “Real safe Kara, real safe,” was all I heard as she marched upstairs.

Loop-deeeeee, loop. A farm story gone astray.

Way back when, when I started my career as a farmer, I was promised a few perks to balance out all the dirty tasks my new job would entail. Now thank heavens I’ve never been the cleanest person in the world because if so, the amount of feces I acquired on my pants after my first day on the job would have sent any me running to the nearest body of water.

ANY WAY, yesterday, part of the promised walking property tour went underway. Farmer Tom’s sister Erin, her 22 month old Oliver- who would have made Beyonce proud with the booty shake he did for me on my birthday- and I hiked all around the perimeter of the back fields. After a run in with Muhammad the bull, trying to chase down one of the Jersey girls in heat, aka Muhammad was trying to get some bitty and the brown cow was not feeling it, we looped around the lower field, fed the chickens and headed back up county highway road to the farm.

Now somewhere along our scenic loop, I chimed into Erin about how when ever Papa Lewis and I go running at bear swamp, state land that’s beautiful to run through in the neighboring hamlet of Decatur,  we never do a loop. Always one straight shot there and back. And ohhh how I love me a good running loop, I told her. Damn Papa Lewis.

Well what goes around comes around they say, and ohhh let me tell you, that comment came around to bite me right in the ass. Later on that day, as we had previously planned, Papa Lewis and I were to go running. Upon his arrival to the home front, he asked whether I wanted to run in town or Bear Swamp. Well golly I thought, one last run at Bear Swamp before heading across the border, what more could a girl ask for. (Except maybe some cash money love from the padre before departure.)

We drive up there. I’m suddenly cranky and have gone mute. Papa Lewis, cheery and chipper as ever. Now for a little scene setter, it’s raining. If you’re wondering whether we turned around and drove home as the rain began to fall, you probably don’t know my Dad.

So we start running. Me, still not talking. Mi padre, smiling as mud splattered all over the back of his legs. As we approach the second hill of the run, instead of heading straight, we veer to the left. Stunned, I ask excitedly, a quick mood change has occurred, “are we doing a loop?” Yeah, why not, he responds.

Has he ever mentioned this possible loop before on the million runs we’ve done there? Nope. You want to know why? Because as I am soon to find out, he has no damn idea where he is going. Shocker.

Yeah, so back to the run, through the rain, as it’s starting to get dark. We bush whack through a small forest towards an A-frame cabin that we used to get drunk at in high school. A few minor scratches on the legs, now to back track here while selecting apparel for the run I had originally chosen running tights but exchanged them for shorts after doing a temperature test out the window, I angrily expressed my discontent, stating I would not be running through those damn prickers again.

Instead, we ran through a forest double the size of the previous wooded area we passed through, with enough pricker bushes to puncture an iguana.  Convinced the road, that would lead us back to the car, was just up past the forest of death, Papa Lewis lead the way. Note, following any Lewis, pretty much anywhere, is like asking a blind person to do a cross word puzzle.

Three hours later, with approximately 25 new scratches, my mom gets home. After displaying my new body markings to her, bad move on my part, she lectures me on being stupid enough to go running with “nit-wit-man,” as she calls him, before my trip. Rambling on about the need for me to stay safe and healthy before leaving, she storms out of the kitchen only to find the motorcycle helmet I wore home after a ride on the back of Farmer Tom’s motorcycle.

“Real safe Kara, real safe,” was all I heard as she marched upstairs.

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Say Hello to the New CEO of Autumn Valley Farm.

That’s right, you’re looking at her.  Mhmmm. Today, if there were a farmer, job-status achievement ladder I would have made it to the top. Alas, my clever farming ways have brought me great victory.  If you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about, let’s just say this non-paid raise is comparable to the mail boy at Ralph Lauren being asked to design a new line for next fall-yeah, that’s a big deal.

This great new power that I have is largely due to my new intern, yes, I have an intern. While intern Brian doesn’t actually know he’s my intern, in all actuality he is only my intern for the five days he’s come to volunteer on the farm, he’s doing the grunt work that I used to do and I’m moved on to bigger and better jobs on the farm.  Who shoveled the shit off the cow platform today after milking? Intern Brian did. And who got to DRIVE A TRACTOR BY HERSELF TODAY? CEO farmer Kara did.

Being allotted the responsibility to drive that orange beauty from the lower field, down the road and across the creek from the farm where the meat chickens graze, back to the home base felt like the time I got to play second base for a WHOLE inning back in my little league days. The day before my second base stardom I probably dodged a baseball thrown by a snail.  At ten years old my hand eye coordination was deeply affected by a fear of baseballs after being pegged in the helmet when up to plate by a pitcher who was three years my elder and had 13 inches on me.

Back to the present, I do have to say, intern Brian did not mess around. After assisting me in cleaning the pig pen, and helping me chase Wilbur back into the pen after he made a run for it, he put his baby fresh farm arms to work scraping layer upon layer of chicken feces and feathers off the chicken coop floor. Job well done Brian, job well done. 
 
 

Filed under farming interns atumn valley farm upstate ny

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Three Week Anniversary

It’s official, today is my three week anniversary as a farmer. While I’m aware that most farmers wait until a month on the job to look back on their past life, and laugh at how pathetic their arm muscles were back in the day, I’m jumping the gun a week early.

Yes, my arms muscles have surpassed their previous level of skimp, and it’s true, eating lots of calcium, especially in the form of raw milk, will turn your fingernails into little sheets of concrete, prompting you to grab gardening shears for nail clipping day. But enough about my great new physical features, let’s talk about those animals.

In all my three weeks on the farm, yesterday was by far the most INTENSE. Farmer Tom and I had to bury Momma Ankle Bracelet. Momma Ankle Bracelet died on Saturday, I found her. Momma Ankle Bracelet was a damn good cow, be being an official farmer qualifies to make statements like that. She sported a neon green ankle bracelet while pregnant so during the morning milking no one would try to milk her. (I’m convinced Farmer Tom put that ankle bracelet on right before I came.) Last Monday she gave birth to a baby steer named, Moo. Oliver, farmer Tom’s 16-month year old nephew named the calve that, quite an appropriate name seeing as the first three days after escaping the womb Moo had the vocal tendencies of an opera singer.  

Farmer Tom and his dad, Farmer Darren, think it might have been milk fever that killed her, a common sickness prone to cows after giving birth. I’ll spare you the details of the burial process, seeing as the cow weighed around 1000lbs, it wasn’t a quick and easy one.

One a more positive note, Wilbur and Wilma are doing much better now that we have moved them to there own pen inside the barn. Now, instead of hiding in corner, they charge me when I enter the pen with their breakfast. Breakfast doesn’t last to long in the pen, seeing that they usually scarf down half of it in two minutes, then, damn feisty little shits, often spill the rest milk out onto the barn floor.

Farmer Kara cleans it up.

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 Since becoming a member of the Autumn Valley Farm staff, I have made some GREAT additions to the barn’s decor.

 Since becoming a member of the Autumn Valley Farm staff, I have made some GREAT additions to the barn’s decor.

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Say hello to the chickens. Way back when, approximately two weeks ago when I started my farm life, farmer Tom sat me down to discuss my morning chores. After waking his ass up, not a chore he assigned but one I often find myself doing, I am to feed the chickens, turkeys, pigs, and calves before the morning milkin’. After the morning milkin’, I trade in my farmer hat, strap on my protective neon glove and head for the chicken coop. Now I’m an egg hunter. The egg collecting process, it’s pretty dangerous, probably in the top five most dangerous jobs-IN THE WORLD. So it’s my first day as an egg hunter, I make Bailey, my egg hunting guard dog, join me in the chicken coop. I am to collect the eggs from every chicken box. As for the boxes occupied by a hen, trying to peacefully lay her egg, I am still to reach my hand in there and grab the eggs nestled beneath her bottom. Not being a farmer from birth, Farmer Tom often forgets that, I had no idea how the hell I was supposed to capture these eggs from under an aggressively pecking hen. I tried the scare tactic, the angry face tactic, the “ohhhh hey girl, no you didn’t” look on my face tactic, nothing worked-shows how brave those damn chickens are. Me, showing my true scaredy cat colors, couldn’t bring my self to shove my gloved hand in there. The glove is not one that goes up to the elbow or anything. So, I yelled to Farmer Tom, who joined me in the coop, put on the glove and used the gloved hand to shove the chickens head to one side of the chicken box, then with the his bare hand he grabbed the eggs from underneath. “Kara, use your brain,” he said leaving the coop, as if I hadn’t exhausted every egg stealing option a non-farmer would think of. I probably hear that statement at least three times a day. The next day, after my lesson, I marched bravely down to the coop and gathered all the eggs. Congratulating chickens with multiple eggs in there box on a job well done. Returning to the barn, I told Farmer Tom the great news on the egg production that day. Unknown to my little brain, Farmer Tom informed me that each chicken only lays one egg a day. After one hen lays her daily dose, she retreats from the box and another chicken pops a squat in the same box and does her duty, thus the multiple eggs. Leaving the barn, Farmer Tom yelled, “Use your brain Kara.”

Say hello to the chickens.

Way back when, approximately two weeks ago when I started my farm life, farmer Tom sat me down to discuss my morning chores. After waking his ass up, not a chore he assigned but one I often find myself doing, I am to feed the chickens, turkeys, pigs, and calves before the morning milkin’. After the morning milkin’, I trade in my farmer hat, strap on my protective neon glove and head for the chicken coop. Now I’m an egg hunter. The egg collecting process, it’s pretty dangerous, probably in the top five most dangerous jobs-IN THE WORLD.

So it’s my first day as an egg hunter, I make Bailey, my egg hunting guard dog, join me in the chicken coop. I am to collect the eggs from every chicken box. As for the boxes occupied by a hen, trying to peacefully lay her egg, I am still to reach my hand in there and grab the eggs nestled beneath her bottom. Not being a farmer from birth, Farmer Tom often forgets that, I had no idea how the hell I was supposed to capture these eggs from under an aggressively pecking hen. I tried the scare tactic, the angry face tactic, the “ohhhh hey girl, no you didn’t” look on my face tactic, nothing worked-shows how brave those damn chickens are.

Me, showing my true scaredy cat colors, couldn’t bring my self to shove my gloved hand in there. The glove is not one that goes up to the elbow or anything. So, I yelled to Farmer Tom, who joined me in the coop, put on the glove and used the gloved hand to shove the chickens head to one side of the chicken box, then with the his bare hand he grabbed the eggs from underneath.

“Kara, use your brain,” he said leaving the coop, as if I hadn’t exhausted every egg stealing option a non-farmer would think of. I probably hear that statement at least three times a day.

The next day, after my lesson, I marched bravely down to the coop and gathered all the eggs. Congratulating chickens with multiple eggs in there box on a job well done. Returning to the barn, I told Farmer Tom the great news on the egg production that day. Unknown to my little brain, Farmer Tom informed me that each chicken only lays one egg a day. After one hen lays her daily dose, she retreats from the box and another chicken pops a squat in the same box and does her duty, thus the multiple eggs.

Leaving the barn, Farmer Tom yelled, “Use your brain Kara.”

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Since leaving NYC and headed upstate I don’t go to enough restaurants to maintain the original theme of this blog. SO, for the time being, Restaurant Tales and Sausage Fails will be where I document my life as a farmer. Farmer Kara.

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Troubles in the pig pen.

This morning, the calves in the lower field had escaped. The fence, obviously broken, failed to zap the little boogers who were grazing happily on fresh grass bordering the side of the road this morning when my cranky little self came peddling up the hill. But I was far from the crankiest at the farm this morning.

Farmer Tom went and got two new pigs yesterday afternoon. Wilma and Wilbur, joined Waddles, named after the growths below his neck that look like limp penis’ that hang and “waddle” from side to side, Woodrow and Wilson. Wilma and Wilbur, just being little tikes, were getting ferociously bullied by the veterans of the pig pen. Woodrow or Wilson, I can’t tell the difference, went into attack mood when ever Wilma or Wilbur tried to approach the feeding tank. Scared silly, Wilma and Wilbur had squeezed their way between the fence enclosing the pen and the wall. Quite an ambitious escape route if you ask me, seeing as the space between the fence and the pen is only wide enough to fit passing mice.

After pig counseling was complete, aka the two little pigs stayed huddled in a corner after the fence opening was fixed while the big pigs guarded the feeding tank, it was a milking time.

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I’m a farmer bitch.

Last Monday, after recently relocating to my new semi-permanent residency in the grand ole town of Worcester, boredom struck. After walking my dog in the woods, reading the Sunday Times, cooking breakfast, and surfing the web it was only 2 p.m. Alright,the night before I probably fell asleep before midnight, not a lot of recreational activities happen past 10 p.m. here.

Back to the point, so I was bored. Decided to wander my way up to my farmer friend Tom’s house to see when I could start work on the farm. Tom runs Autumn Valley Farm. Took it over when his pops had to go work for the town, not my town, the town of Decatur. Decatur is so small it doesn’t have a post office but it does have a town court, corrupt little hamlet.

Autumn Valley Farm, it’s a great damn farm. They have free range chickens, turkeys, pigs, grass fed cows and the cutest puppy named Bailey. Early in the summer I was home when my mom was turning a quarter century and stopped by the farm for some ground beef. Tom wouldn’t accept any form of payment, I offered him three types. Instead, he said my I would just have to work on the farm in the fall in return for the meat. Dealo, I replied.

Chickens were all over the yard when I got there Monday, hence the whole free range thing, and being the brave soul that I am, I did my best to avoid them and their beaks. Tom wasn’t there but he soon returned with some local townies. He told me to report the next day at 8:30. We all hung out on the front porch for a bit, in mid conversation townie Roger asked me if I wanted to shoot a gun, I said sure, he went to his truck to grab. Having a gun in your back seat is totally normal, if you’re a red neck that is.