What I don’t know about chickens

daphne on June 16, 2011

Chicken:

Not a chicken:

Hang tight. We have just about reached the end of my knowledge about chickens.

They have beady little eyes.

The color of the eggs they lay is directly linked to the color of their earlobes.  Impressive sounding, right?  At least until you get to the obvious follow-up question.

So no, I do not know how one locates a chicken earlobe.

I also do not know how the eggs decide who will go on to become a big chick and who joins us for breakfast.

Nor do I understand what drove the children to spend copious amounts of time passing weeds into the coop.

Perhaps it had to do with the pathetic state of farm strawberries this year.  Hail damaged and dusty, we picked barely enough to squeak out 4 jars of jam  Hardly enough to get us through the summer, let alone the school year, but I am not concerned in the slightest.

Who needs cowboy-hick-farmland berries anyway?

Not us.

We are partial to their beautifully bountiful backyard suburban cousins.

Hay is for Horses, Not Bras

daphne on September 29, 2009

Some of you may have gotten wind of the fact that I’ve got a hankering to be rolling around on the farm with a rugged cowboy.  It’s a beautiful fantasy.  Freshly harvested vegetables pose in a photogenic basket. The scent of fresh hay crushed beneath my back. The vivid blue of the sky peaking through cracks in the old wooden ceiling of the barn.  Somewhere in the distance a rooster cackles.

Oh yeah. It’s hot.

Thing is, much as I may covet a good old fashioned roll in the hay, I never have, actually, rolled in the hay.  And given my current circumstances I probably never will (though if I can get my hands on a hat, Halloween is looking promising.)  While I am ensconced in my life here in the suburbs,  I’ll just bet that somewhere out there someone is rolling in actual hay with an actual cowboy.  So to that lucky lady I must ask:

Doesn’t the hay make your boobs itch?

You see, recently I had the good fortune of experiencing hay in my bra, not from a wild romping in the barn with this guy,

but from the stomping about at Monroe Farm during harvest day, picking basil and carrots and pumpkins and strawberries.   Here, the carrots pose artistically, fresh from the earth–

And the sweet children, with the largest pumpkins they could find upon hearing that said pumpkins would have to be hand carried twenty-seven miles, uphill, in the snow, to the car.

You’d never know it from the handful of fresh strawberries and my cowgirl-ish good looks and cheerful smile–

but trust me, already the hay had worked its way in. And I was one heck of an itchy cowgirl.

I never would have guessed it, but it turns out that hay in the bra can make one feel a tad cranky.  That being said rules are rules; they may seem unfair, they may be difficult to understand, it may even appear to some as though they were made up on the spot out of poking discomfort but I assure you that on the farm rules are made to be followed, and that has nothing whatsoever to do with itchy lady parts.

Take for example this gem that came screeching out of my mouth towards the end of a delightfully long day:

NO! I said no and if you pick up one more grasshopper I will take it and saute it and call it dinner. Do not touch your sister’s grasshopper!  NOT one more grasshopper AND I MEAN IT!

If you think I’m crazy, that’s ok.  City slickers don’t know what it’s really like down on the farm.  Besides, I was just looking out for this guy

Poor Jiminy, he’d already lost his jaunty top hat and cane and I could barely make out the words to his exuberant show tunes.

With the grasshoppers set free and the time for liberating hay from it’s hiding place drawing near, it is time once again for a gratuitous picture of a cow. Those of you who have been around a while know that prior to my infatuation with cowboys, I had a thing for cows.  I’ve even been know to throw in a gratuitous picture of a cow, or two here at the Greener Biener.  It’s been a while, so here you go, one gratuitous picture of a cow

What?  You’ve got a problem with my picture of Bessie?  Perhaps you think you could do better chasing down a wild cow for a photo session with hay in your bra?  (If so, send me your successful picture and I’ll post it on the site, no jealousy, no hard feelings. I promise.)

Smash it! Mash it! Turn it into Juice!

daphne on September 20, 2009

There was an old vibrantly stunning woman,

Who lived in a shoe the suburbs,

She had so many children melons,

She didn’t know what to do wanted to hurl them off the roof for a satisfying splat.

Watermelon has never been my favorite fruit. It’s ok.  It’s fine in a fruit salad if someone else has cubed it and dealt with all the wrangling of the thing and the resultant sticky elbows. But frankly a 20 pound piece of food represents more of a commitment than I’m willing to make.

Thanks to the CSA, I was at my watermelon-y wits end.  I didn’t know what to do.  I was sighing and mopping my brow and wringing my apron strings when all over a sudden help arrived–

Yes, ladies it’s true. I was at a loss until Jack Lalanne came along.  Not in this form, exactly. Climbing that mountain barefoot and naked and waiting 50 + years for my melon distress would have proven too much even for that manly man.  Nope, this is the form that Jack Lalanne took when he came to my rescue. My neighbor’s Jack Lalanne Power Juicer—

While I was absorbed with the complex assembly of Mr. Lalanne, the girls and Dave determined that, based primarily on the fact that our actual apple tree didn’t fruit, the “not crab” apple tree could play the part of a real apple tree this year. The fruit was beautiful,

but despite the new marketing campaign it still tasted like bitter dirt which in my book is a dead giveaway.  That, and the greenish tint to its hard flesh. The children were not deterred.

Acadia quickly put on her cowboy boots, a halter top, and a wrap-around skirt and clamored up the ladder. What? It may not be a real apple tree, but we would never consider wearing anything less to a harvest.

As it turns out the tart “not crab” apples provided a nice balance to our juice plans. Here, some of the fruit awaits it’s fate–

The girls, along with Mr. Lalanne, made short work of 50 pounds of watermelon and 100s of “not crab” apples.  At the end of the day our melon problem had been solved. No more melons.  However, we now had a bit of a juice problem.  Gallons and gallons of juice.

There was green juice

And pink juice

And green juice with a pink stripe

And pink and green juice with penny loafers and little alligators with their collars up.   Wait, wrong decade. For a minute there I was transported back to seventh grade.  That’s just how powerful Jack Lalanne can be.

We drank some juice.  We sent some juice to the neighbors. We spilled enough on the floor that Kira may remain routed to that spot for a couple of years.  We filled pitchers and loaded up the fridge.  Then we pretty much hit the juice wall and so we froze whatever we could fit into ice cube trays.

And muffin tins.

And plastic cups.

And toilet paper rolls.

And old dolly heads.

Green Beans are good for you, M+Ms are good for me

daphne on September 14, 2009

I realize that the following admission might call into question my rightful ownership of the domain Greener Biener (it IS pronounced bean-er,) as indeed it is true that no green beans were consumed by me in the making of this site.  Green M+Ms? For sure.  Green Beans? No thank you.

I was not a kid who fluttered with thoughts of a perfect wedding, nor did I trace the names of my future children onto my notebooks.  The stuff of my dreams was heftier:  One day I would be the boss of my vegetable domain.  I would choose which healthy stuff to eat and which to show the door.  It would be glorious.

When I grew up I would not eat green beans.  No one could make me.  So there.

In those early dreams of a bean-free future, I didn’t figure on joining a CSA as a ploy to convince myself to sample otherwise ignored vegetables.  Nor did I factor in the possibility that I’d be surrounded by a bunch of green bean-eating traitors.

Yesterday I had a day.  The kind of day that should only be concluded with a dinner of red wine and M+Ms.  But it was not to be.  For there was a family to feed and daughters for whom an example must be set.  Apparently there was also a husband who thought it’d be cute to add green beans to an otherwise innocuous spinach salad.

I kid you not.  He added green beans to my salad.

Normally he’s a decent guy. A really good guy who pitches in and spends time with the kids and helps with dinner and all that jazz. He’s even agreed to dress as a cowboy for Halloween, so you know he’s got my best interest at heart.  Of course I was blindsided  by his staggeringly despicable bean transgression.

I did what any whiny toddler self-possessed woman would do. I wrinkled my nose and plucked the offensive things from my plate. Oh, I was sly. The children would never know that mommy gets dessert without finishing her veggies.

“WHO’S BEANS ARE THESE?” Dave bellowed, in a blatant attempt to rat me out.  I glowered at him, expressing with one evil eye how I felt about his egregious choice of broadcasting my action around the kitchen.

The kids remained oblivious.  Kira shrugged and munched contentedly.  Acadia dipped a bean in ranch dressing.  I played like I had already devoured my share.

But now they’ve got me rethinking this whole anti-bean campaign.  After all, the girls really seem to enjoy the snappy green things.  And they are loaded with all that good stuff that makes for heart-healthy, bone-strong little bodies.

Ahh, what the heck?  Let them eat beans.

But please, oh please, leave me to my M+Ms.

Welcome to the Jungle

daphne on August 10, 2009

We put in some time in the garden this weekend, and I think I finally understand those people who think slapping bugs and pulling weeds is relaxing.  It was delightful. I sat myself down in the wet dirt and wrestled with the overgrown jungle in our backyard.  There was no traffic concerning me.  I didn’t have to worry about finding a smoke-free room with two beds somewhere on the safe side of some random town.  After weeks out on the open road it was terrific to be hemmed in by strawberries plants in the midst of staging a coup to overtake the yard and towering 6 foot high raspberry bushes.

Also standing strong was the rhubarb.  Back in June, as we were getting ready to leave town, I judged it done and planted squash right on top.  But clearly I was premature in writing off the rhubarb–

Before I get all puffed up about the glorious successes in our garden, I admit one major disappointment.  Though the vines of the pumpkin, the squash and the cucumbers are gorgeous thick twists heavy with flowers, I worry that when push comes to grow, they will not produce.  NO FEMALE FLOWERS.  AGAIN. Now, I like hanging with guys as much as the next sorority girl, but I’m begging for a nice nerdy science guy out there somewhere willing to explain why inside the house I make all girls, but outside the house it’s one bachelor party after another.  Please?

At least I have some producers to appease me while I ponder the infinite questions of vegetable sex.  Our tomatoes did just fine without us.

Even the rainbow chard that I thought would never show poked it’s head up.  In our absence the bugs had a feast, but at least I can feel good knowing that the little critters received a healthy dose of vitamin-rich antioxidants.

We got potatoes! These truly were the easiest things to grow.  I stuck one rotten looking spud in the ground, cruised around the nation for a couple of months, and Wham! Bam!  French Fries Ma’am!

And finally, after 7 weeks of gifting our CSA share to the happy, healthy Redfern family, we finally got our hands on some local, farm-fresh veggies

We started with the eggplant. According to Dave, a self-acclaimed afficienado, the eggplant parmesan I made that night was the best he’s ever eaten.  I take full credit, gracefully.  Though real credit is probably due to the fact that the eggplant was the freshest we’ve ever had.  Freshly-picked eggplant–ours was picked 24 hours beforehand–is much sweeter and holds far less water.  The less water in the eggplant, the less of a bitter aftertaste.)

Strawberry picking in the pouring rain

daphne on June 13, 2009

The hazy images dancing in my brain of what life on the farm, in particular, life with my family on the farm, looks like, may need a bit of adjusting.  Last year, everything went according to plan.  We set out for the farm to pick strawberries, and after a few glorious hours of basking in the sun and snacking on warm berries, the sunset bled down on my happy golden girls.

This year the scene was a little different.

It was chilly and wet, and there was a threat of a serious thunderstorm that we had to out-pick.  On the plus side, we were the only nutjobs people picking on this stormy 50 degree day.  And that waving wheat sure smelled sweet as the wind blew in before the rain (Oklahoma fans in the house?)

Our little farm hands were game and smiled, at least for a few minutes.  That’s about how long it took for the first drips of cold rain to trickle down their necks and into their shoes.  But we pressed on.  There was no time to stop and taste the berries; we had a box to fill before lightening put an end to all this farming fun.

Maybe I was a little tough on my pickers, what with fingers turning blue and lips chattering, but I had this idea in my head, this sunshiny, farm-freshy ideal to be lived up to.  Besides, I wanted those berries.   So no, that thunder clap was not too close.  And no, that cow is not mooing extra loud because he got hit by lightning.  Less questions, more picking.

Cold day aside, we were lucky for the chance to pick berries, albeit in the snow, up hill, both ways.  Just days after we picked, the farm got drenched with almost 3 inches of rain, decimating the berry patch and forcing other, less hearty CSA members to go strawberry-free.

Meanwhile, we lucky ones dried off, warmed up, and bellied up to a box filled with the delicious fruits of our labor.


Here it is, your moment of Zen

daphne on November 2, 2008

For those of you who aren’t obsessive fans of the Daily Show with Jon Stewart, let me explain.  At the end of each of his faux news shows, Jon Stewart features “a moment of zen.”  Typically it’s a funny quote or a ridiculous image from the day’s news.  The point is to send the viewers off with a smile.

Just the other day I was, as usual, frantically scrolling through polls and predictions. My heart was racing to and fro, so I took a break to read an email from my mother.  She forwarded a link to a blog she reads from the Martha’s Vineyard Fiber Farm, which calls itself the “home of the county’s first fiber CSA.”

CSA, if you remember, stands for Community Supported Agriculture.  Monroe Organic Farms CSA provided our family with farm fresh fruits and veggies all summer long.  Martha’s Vineyard Fiber Farm keeps my mother and other members in organic wool.  My mother, in turn, keeps her grandchildren cuddly and warm in handmade sweaters.  It works out pretty well for everyone. Well, everyone except those chilly little goats, I suppose.

In the final days leading up to this historic election, I have a challenge for you.  Relax, it is one that does not include knocking on doors or calls to mysteriously undecided voters.

Nope, here’s my challenge to you: I challenge you to click on this link.  Baby Goats Wearing Sweaters. Go on, click it, and try not to smile.

It’ll only take a second.  Positive results guaranteed.  It’s a crowd pleaser, something for everyone, regardless of the color of your state or the state of your mind.

Go on, click it:  Baby Goats Wearing Sweaters. I promise you won’t be disappointed.

The Celery is Coming, The Celery is Coming

daphne on October 29, 2008

Run for your lives!

Yes, I know that there’s plenty to be scared of these days.  Is it irresponsible for me to heap insult atop the terrifying fear that grips so many of us regarding the very future of our families, our country, our whole suffering planet?  Sorry, I’m just telling it like I see it.  And frankly, if you’re not already a little jittery around veggies, this is the stuff of nightmares. After years of playing second fiddle to the ever-popular carrot, celery has gone mad.

Following our final CSA delivery, Kira got a little too close, drawn in no doubt by the frilly fronds of this 30 lb menace. No worries, my parenting instincts kicked in, and I knocked the monster to the floor, protecting my darling daughter from the green hulk.

Seriously. That’s celery.  And at no more than half a dozen months old, it’s practically engulfing my seven year old.  What on earth has it been eating?

If you look closely you can see the anxiety behind Kira’s smile/grimace. No doubt she’s thinking that if the vegetables have been breeding for superior size trouble is close at hand.  Think of the poor poor chocolates.  What chance does a mere cookie hold against greens bent on global domination?

What’s that? Have I gone too far?  Too much on your plate these days to increase your worry to include our imminent demise by celery?  OK, I can see that.  Perhaps I should be doing my part to ease the pre-election pressure.  How about this?   I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s been way too long since my last Gratuitous Picture of a Cow. I love the cows.

Meet Bessie, a proud milker-to-be. I met her on the Kindergarten Pumpkin Patch field trip which I found informative and interesting. (Acadia’s take: no snacks=no fun.)  At one year, Bessie is serenely awaiting her bovine prince charming, who will arrive in the form of artificial insemination.  After the romance has cleared, Bessie will be ready for a lifetime of providing milk to happy little children.  Thanks, Bess.

Strike Two, Cauliflower’s Outta Here

daphne on October 27, 2008

Ok, Ok, I’ll give cauliflower another chance. Geez, I had no idea the cauliflower lobby had so many activists. You guys really love the stuff.  Apparently you’ll go to the ends of the garden to make some converts (or at least leave me a comment…thanks!)

Our final CSA delivery featured this royalty of the cauliflower family, lovely in shades of lavender.

So fancy did it seem that I decided I would try one of the many delicious-sounding recipes that flooded my inbox (does sarcasm come through online?)  No, really, I’m a grown-up and the mature thing to do is to take my medicine eat my vegetables like an adult.

This royal purple variety did present an opportunity to test the uncanny ability of the girls to identify the category of a food item simply by hearing its name:  Present them with tiramisu, and they’re in, foreign language or no;  though fois gras will send them screaming.  Bon bons? Oh yes, yes.  You get my drift?

Which brings me back to the cauliflower:  I boiled, blended and whipped that lavender bouquet into mashed cauliflower, all the while using my happy fairy thoughts to devise the perfect name. The color was extraordinary, like something out of Neverland.  Perhaps a plop of purple passion?  The girls would be on board, for sure.  It’s all in the name…

I sat in the kitchen, mashing and pondering, when Acadia come in.

What’s that Mom? Cauliflower?

Damn!  That child is quick.  I hastily revised my plan, figuring I’d sell them on taste, an angle best known historically for its total lack of success.

I scooped up a spoonful, brought it to my smiling mouth, and prepared to be blown away.  And blown away I was as I hit a major, deal-breaking snag: it was yucky. Really, really yucky.  I know, I know and I am sorry. Truly I am. But what was I supposed to do? It was just that yucky.

The girls didn’t know what to do with themselves at dinner. Not only did mom not make them taste the cauliflower but she’s wasn’t pushing the broccoli either.  They were on to me.  Something was rotten in the state of the kitchen.

(And considering the smell, I’m blaming the cauliflower.)

Mashed Cauliflower

daphne on October 27, 2008

Go ahead and try it, but I can’t make any promises.  This was not a big hit in our house, although most likely my attitude was the problem.  Please, send your success stories my way!

Directions

  • Divide a head of cauliflower into florets that are all roughly the same size.
  • Steam cauliflower pieces over boiling water (15 to 20 minutes), or until the cauliflower is tender.
  • Drain the cauliflower and toss it in a bowl of ice water to stop cooking.
  • When the cauliflower has cooled, put the florets in a food processor along with 1/2 cup of water.
  • Puree the cauliflower on high speed until smooth, but with some very small pieces of cauliflower remaining in the mix for just a bit of texture.
  • Pour all of the pureed cauliflower into a medium sauce pan.
  • Add the cream, salt, white pepper, garlic powder and onion powder to the cauliflower and stir.
  • Set the saucepan over medium heat and cook, stirring often, for 5 to 10 minutes, or until thick.