Our shoots are too short. I find myself thinking that every time we wrap an interview segment.

The Shoo Fly segment was no different.

It’s not the impressive fact Felicia Fisher left a position as a Park Avenue attorney to pursue her new career (well, maybe it is) nor the fact we share the common ground of motherhood while we’re “re-inventing” ourselves that leaves me with deep appreciation. I believe that it’s simply the fact that she has chosen a nostalgic route for herself — a destiny that was your birthright a couple of generations ago but now, if you wish it, you must carve it out of a 21st-century lifestyle.

Well, it seemed as though the “interview” flew by….

I’m lucky the Black Buggy Baking Company is just a few miles away (I ate close to half of the Shoo Fly Pie that she left with me that night) but I’m even luckier to have found her friendship!

Care for another dose of nostalgia?  Check this out: Dinah Shore – Shoofly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy

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Turkeys have been, by far, the biggest surprise for me. I think I knew what to expect when we began raising the sheep—that they’d be, well, “sheepish.” The goats, frequently portrayed in cartoons eating tin cans, will nibble at just about anything. And chickens?  Well, they just act chicken-like.

But the turkeys? They watch EVERYTHING you do and EVERYTHING that goes on in the barnyard. As young adults,  they begin to rely on a precise feeding regimen and know exactly when and where the next feeding should occur.

Our flock is especially sensitive to the sound of heavy truck transmissions and will gobble, in unison, as one approaches. I think they think the school bus is some large yellow bird. Although we can’t see the bus when it’s about a half mile away and approaching, the turkeys begin to gobble and it’s my cue to call the kids. “I hear the turkeys…the bus is coming!”

The other morning took the cake. Usually, they will wait on the porch for someone to make their way to the barn for their feeding. I had changed the screen door for the storm door the day before and as I sat at the computer a few feet away, I heard a singular “tap” on the storm door. Then it came again. I waited. There it was again. I went to check it out thinking it was someone’s knock. It was. I opened the door to see the three gobblers, having pecked at the plexiglass, standing on the doormat as if to say, “we’re ready for our corn now.” I laughed out loud—very loud—which started a gobbling reaction from them.

You can only imagine my excitement in visiting Koch’s Turkey Farm and seeing all of those turkeys! Many, many thanks to Duane and the Koch family for a fun visit!

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Take a walk in tall grasses this time of year and you’ll  likely pick up all sorts of hitchhikers (yes, we called them “hitchhikers” as kids)  As a  mom, I tend to find these indoors more than out: on socks, coveralls, the dryer lint screen, bath towels.

The typical varieties around here are Agrimony and Tall Beggar’s Ticks.

Agrimony Seeds

Agrimony’s aliases should clue us in:  “Cockeburr,”  “Sticklewort,” “Philanthropos” (maybe because it gives freely of its seeds?). It’s a lovely native plant—with tall, showy spikes in the late summer. The seeds rely on passersby (human and/or animal) to pick up and unknowingly deposit them elsewhere.

Tall Beggar's Ticks

Tall Beggar’s Ticks have unique prongs which grab at any soft material—a shirt, dog hair, etc. Nathaniel, my son, upon seeing the collection on my pants promptly said, “Mom, pull those out gently because if the spikes break in the material, it’ll bother you for days!” I agreed. Just one plant can yield hundreds of prickly-pronged seeds.

In 1941, a Swiss engineer returned from a walk with his dog and found burdock seeds lodged in the animal’s fur. After careful microscopic scrutiny, he became fascinated by the “hook and loop construction” that he saw. Do you know what he invented?

Velcro.

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I hadn’t made apple butter for years before this Fall (and I LOVE apple butter!).

I remember slaving over my first batch when the children were very little. The hours at the stove…the slow, slow simmer…the aroma that filled the house…the toddlers who turned their noses up at the texture! That’s right: neither of them liked it. At all. Of course, I found this out AFTER the batch was finished. Needless to say,  the apple butter page in the Ball Blue Book went unused for years (I can tell because that particular page is clean—as in no stains/spills/rings or other  canning “footprints” that divulge years of use).

This was the year I broke out the cinnamon and gave it another shot—for the kids!  I am sure in years past, I made a small batch here or there but can’t really recall. I’m happy to report: they both love it. Well, now they love it.

Maybe a few more years down the road when that apple butter page has earned its stains, spills, and rings, I’ll forget about the years I didn’t turn to it. On second thought, I probably won’t. It’s a sweet memory, nonetheless.

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“Quick—get your camera and meet me down where we piled the sheep manure!”

Not exactly the kind of quote you hear often, is it? David was quick to notice inky cap mushrooms that had grown out of the mass of manure and thought it might make an interesting blog entry. He was right.

“Coprinoid” or Inky Cap Mushrooms get their name from their caps which disintegrate, sometimes, within hours (hence the “quick” command). We’ve all seen the species at one time or another. Usually, you’ll find these mushrooms in manure, rotting wood, or forest debris because they help in the decomposition of these materials.

If you’ve ever noticed a small collection of colored “dust” on a leaf or piece of bark near mature mushrooms, you’ve probably witnessed a “spore print.” These are spores which have been released by the mushroom. The Coprinoid caps actually begin in an oval shape and as they mature, the gills liquefy, gently disintegrating. This is their method of reproducing; the spores are picked up and deposited by the wind. 

The urgency was necessary after all; the Inky Caps were gone the next day.

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I mentioned in an earlier post that I took the kids to an antique tractor show. One of the displays was an antique cider press…a LARGE, antique cider press. I spoke with the woman handing out the samples of cider. She said her husband came home telling her he thought the dusty old machine he spied at a farm, where he occasionally works, was a press and asked the owners if he could clean it up and bring it to the show.

It was really something to behold. Buckets of apples were dumped and washed on the tray, then gently guided into one of the holders which made its way up the conveyor. They were milled at the top and the scratting collected until a handle released it onto the thick cloth lining a wood tray. Each tray’s cloth was folded over before another tray was placed on top. When a handful of trays had been stacked, the apples were pressed and the cider flowed!

People (as well as bees) gathered to watch the process and, of course, have a taste.  Imagine what this would have meant to a community hundreds of years ago…celebrating a summer’s worth of hard work, welcoming fall, and a delicious reason to gather.

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I took the kids to an antique tractor show at the fairgrounds last month. The air was filled with the spits and sputters and little puffs of smoke from hit-and-miss engines. Crowds gathering and dispersing among the many historical displays.

As we strolled past a corn sheller, the gentleman operating it pointed to Nathaniel and said, “Young man, your mom wants to make corn bread!!”  Nathaniel looked up, quizzingly, as the man repeated, “she needs your help—go on out and gather a bushel of corn.”

He reached down and pulled up a handful of ears and handed them to Natalie. “Shell ’em,” he directed.

You can imagine they were both smiling by now as Natalie cranked the wheel and Nathaniel added the corn. Once the mill chewed the kernels off, they began spilling out the chute.

“You’re not done yet!  Mom can’t make cornbread out of this!  You need to mill it—grind it up!”

So they gathered the kernels and put them down the mill chute and began to crank. The bowl caught the light, yellow, cracked and milled corn.

“Good job,” he said, “now take this in to mom. She’s in the kitchen waiting for it!”

We thanked him for such an interesting and fun demonstration. Other children had now gathered to give it a go and we slowly made our way to the next display.

I glanced back as I remembered shelling corn with my grandfather to give to the wild geese that gathered on his pond every year around this time making their way south. I loved that corn sheller.

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It’s November, 1941.

The newest issue of Life magazine is on the newsstands. On the cover is a woman knitting; the caption reads “How to Knit.” Now, this wasn’t your ordinary housewife-tutorial…something you’d pick up to do in your spare time…maybe something to try. In this issue, there was a simple pattern for a vest. There were simple instructions. There was an agenda. The objective?  Knit a million sweaters for soldiers by Christmas. Christmas, 1941. No kidding.

A movement was born. Sweaters, socks, mufflers, mittens—all were being knitted for soldiers abroad. And, until Pearl Harbor, many of these American-made warmers were bound for Britain in the “Bundles for Britain” campaign to assist displaced Londoners. Other committees soon formed to send the same handmade knitwear to other countries: Finland, Poland, Belgium.

“Knit for Victory” it was called (once America was fully engaged, knitting for American soldiers took precedence). Many knitters who’d picked up their needles to knit for World War I soldiers, immediately did so during WWII and the American Red Cross played the part of organizing this massive movement. If you worked in a factory, like many women did, it was a way to use your down time. If you had a loved one overseas, like many women did, it was a way to connect…to contribute…to actively participate on the Home Front. Besides, they say, the hand-knit socks lasted longer than the machined ones and knitting kept your mind occupied! 

So, you see, knitting, most definitely, has a special place in our history. Whether you knit for fun or for  “a purpose,” it’s a skill well worth pursuing.

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Baw Blue, our devilishly handsome Navajo-Churro ram will return to his home farm in a few days. We heeded his owner’s warning and gave him full and free access to the girls. (Translation: we did not venture into the pasture while he was here except for feeding and watering. Blue’s known to be quite territorial when it comes to his “girlfriends.”)

I’ve missed my ewes! Reese will hear my voice from across the yard and call out – at least, I’m thinking she’s calling out to me. She’s probably just making her random matriarchal “baaa-aa.” Yesterday morning, however, I left the pasture after changing out the water buckets and when I was back at the spigot, I heard her trademark “baaa.” I was shocked to see her standing at the open gate that I had forgotten to latch!  Everyone else was too busy chomping at the hay I’d left in the rack to notice the gateway but there she was just standing and alerting me of something “different.”

So, Blue will make his return journey this weekend having spread his maleness (we hope) amongst 11 ewes and we’ll go back to coddling our sheep. It was nice having him around these last few weeks. He added a certain “something” to the landscape.

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If there’s one common element that links all of the folks I’ve met on the series, it’s passion. And Mark Lopez is a prime example.

The number of registered Ayrshires in North America has declined significantly over the past 30 years. See the ALBC website for more. www.albc-usa.org/

Mark is a husband, father, veterinarian, and dairy farmer—but not just any dairy farmer. He harvests raw milk from his heritage breed Ayrshire dairy cows. His time, energy, years of education, and love for his herd come to focus upon ensuring the quality of his dairy products. The herd grazes naturally on grass and enters the barn for milking twice a day, every day. Each individual in the herd is known by her name and sweet, subtle quirks.

Mark’s passion is not only for his beloved Ayrshire but also for the dairy operation itself. Harvesting and public sale of raw milk require the maintenance of strict standards in the collection process as well as throughout the collection areas.

Wholesome Dairy Farms is a special place; I’m glad it’s part of the ag community in this valley.

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