The Old Corncrib - Repost

The corncrib was a relic of the days when the previous owner of the farm had grown field corn to feed his cattle, his mules, his chickens, and his family. The corn was harvested after drying on the stalk in the field, and the unshucked ears were stored in the small slat-sided building that was lined with rodent-proof woven wire to protect the precious golden bounty. Nowadays, the corn crib stood empty, but for a few ancient moldy cornshucks. (Art's Blood, p. 123)

This, of course, is the original of the corn crib where Elizabeth and Ben found the unhappy Kyra. It's functioning today as a tool shed and a carport for our little utility vehicle but in 1973, when we bought the upper part of the farm from Clifford and Louise, the corn crib brimmed with fat dry ears of white corn -- Hickory King, I think it was.

Corn was the staff of life on the small farm. Every so often Clifford would take a bag or two of the whole corn to a mill in Tennessee where it would be coarsely ground -- shucks, cobs, and all -- and mixed with cottonseed meal and molasses to make feed for the cows. Every day Louise would pull the shucks off a few ears and toss them to her chickens who would eagerly peck the cobs clean. Nell the mule was the daily recipient of more ears (but not too many, lest too much corn make her 'rank' (overly frisky and unmanageable.) The fattening pig, who lived mostly on buttermilk, foods scraps, and garden waste, would be fed ears of corn during the month or so prior to butchering to "harden up the flesh."

And this same corn, shucked and shelled would be taken, not to the big mill, but to a nearby little mill run by a belt attached to the rear wheel drum of a tractor. The owner of this improvised mill would take his pay in meal -- in a little measure specifically for the purpose. This fragrant meal, which was freshly ground in small batches twice a month, provided the best cornbread in the world. Eaten midday -- hot and steaming out of the wood stove, dripping with home-churned butter, it accompanied an array of vegetables, fresh or home-canned, depending on the season, and a very modest taste of some sort of meat. The leftover corn bread might go to the pigs or the hounds, or, dunked in chilled buttermilk left after the day's churning, provide a light supper.

"You keep the mule to plow the corn and you grow the corn to feed the mule," Clifford told us. Man, animals, and corn -- their existence was interwoven.

Bounty

Giving thanks for the year's bounty . . .

A happy Thanksgiving to all of you!



 

From the Farm

Our chickens have been on strike -- well actually they're moulting and not laying. This happens at least once a year and I don't begrudge then their rest. But it means we're only getting one or two eggs a day and have had to supplement with store-bought. 

I buy only eggs from  'cage-free, humanely raised' chickens but even so, look at the difference in these yolks! The store-bought version is a pale shadow of the Real Thing from our chickens.
 

But though we're almost out of eggs, the milk is flowing!

Behold! Homemade butter, courtesy of Justin and Claui (and, of course, Marigold.) And lovely milk with a bit of top cream. (Some has already been skimmed to make butter.)

I'm so proud of those young uns!

Now She Is a Cow

On Tuesday, Marigold the heifer gave birth, thereby becoming a cow! Bubba's a healthy little bull --who looks like his Devon sire.

These two pictures are from Wednesday -- and the first milking.

Below is a slide show of the birth with captions, for those who might be interested. A little earthy, perhaps, but that's how birth is...

The Great Chicken Masssacree - Part 1

I'm going to lull you with pretty pictures while I tell you that I spent most of yesterday butchering chickens. (Ah, the glamorous life of a writer...)

This was our first time to do this in quantity -- a dozen birds -- and it went amazingly well, due to John's advance prep. We took our time, cleaning everything after each bird with a good wipe-down of bleach and water solution and keeping everything covered to avoid attracting flies and yellow jackets.

And then in the  evening we sat on the porch, listening to an NPR report about salmonella  and the recall of a billion eggs and the not-so-great conditions on factory farms. As we listened and sipped our gin and tonics, we enjoyed the tantalizing aroma of roast chicken.

There's a web album below for those of you interested in picture of the process.  Click on the picture to view.

And here's a LINK to a website with very complete instructions, should you want to try this at home.

The Great Homegrown Chicken Harvest

Growing Chicks

Three weeks ago our "Freedom Ranger" chicks were fluff balls. Now they are partially feathered out and ready for the move from the brooder box to the elegant accommodation of the pasture chicken tractor.

 

Their rate of growth and those outsize legs make it clear that these are broiler chicks, destined for the table.

For now they're confined in the tractor but John will string an electrified netting to make an adjoining paddock.  In a few days, when they've gotten used to the chicken tractor, the door will be opened and the chicks will have a much expanded area to scratch and peck.

 Kate the donkey is watching the whole operation with interest.

The Old Corncrib

The corncrib was a relic of the days when the previous owner of the farm had grown field corn to feed his cattle, his mules, his chickens, and his family. The corn was harvested after drying on the stalk in the field, and the unshucked ears were stored in the small slat-sided building that was lined with rodent-proof woven wire to protect the precious golden bounty. Nowadays, the corncrib stood empty, but for a few ancient moldy cornshucks. (Art's Blood, p. 123)

This, of course, is the original of the corncrib where Elizabeth and Ben found the unhappy Kyra. It's functioning today as a toolshed and a carport for our little utility vehicle but in 1973, when we bought the upper part of the farm from Clifford and Louise, the corn crib brimmed with fat dry ears of white corn -- Hickory King, I think it was.

Corn was the staff of life on the small farm. Every so often Clifford would take a bag or two of the whole corn to a mill in Tennessee where it would be coarsely ground -- shucks, cobs, and all -- and mixed with cottonseed meal and molasses to make feed for the cows. Every day Louise would pull the shucks off a few ears and toss them to her chickens who would eagerly peck the cobs clean. Nell the mule was the daily recipient of more ears (but not too many, lest too much corn make her 'rank' (overly frisky and unmanageable.) The fattening pig, who lived mostly on buttermilk, foods scraps, and garden waste, would be fed ears of corn during the month or so prior to butchering to "harden up the flesh."

And this same corn, shucked and shelled would be taken, not to the big mill, but to a nearby little mill run by a belt attached to the rear wheel drum of a tractor. The owner of this improvised mill would take his pay in meal -- in a little measure specifically for the purpose. This fragrant meal, which was freshly ground in small batches twice a month, provided the best cornbread in the world. Eaten midday -- hot and steaming out of the wood stove, dripping with home-churned butter, it accompanied an array of vegetables, fresh or home-canned, depending on the season, and a very modest taste of some sort of meat. The leftover corn bread might go to the pigs or the hounds, or, dunked in chilled buttermilk left after the day's churning, provide a light supper.

"You keep the mule to plow the corn and you grow the corn to feed the mule," Clifford told us. Man, animals, and corn -- their existence was interwoven.