What a Week

What a week. I suppose that would be obvious from the lack of posting. It started with the pig killing, which then involves several days of processing (and weeks of salting every so often). Then I sold my mower, looked at a cow (and made an offer), husband had some off-farm paid work, I had some work in the neighborhood, and it got exceedingly cold. Plus the regular stuff.

Since I blogged extensively about the last pig killing, I was wondering why I felt compelled to blog about it again. Because it is important, that's why. And unusual enough these days. I am often appalled at how rare real skills are and these guys that helped us, one and all, all ages, all sorts of conditions and choices made, but one and all skilled.


Testing the Temperature
Originally uploaded by Contrary Goddess.

This is testing the temperature of the scald water. You should be able to run your fingers through it three times and it burn on the third pass to where you do not want to make a fourth. That translates to 145 degrees, about, and depends on how hot the fire under the tank is, how big and cold the pit is, etc.


Unloading
Originally uploaded by Contrary Goddess.

We brought our pig to the scald in the pick-up. We liked to have never got him in the pick-up. 350 pounds is a bit much for two people to lift. Ain't he purty though. That black hair was just glistening. Folks have commented all summer about our black pig, and at the scald we found out why. Although one kind person said he was hard to scrape because it had been so cold and he'd grown a winter coat. Which was true enough. But I don't think it is an old wives tale that dark pigs are harder to scrape. Although I don't see what the big deal about that is. Although I might in the future.


Gutting
Originally uploaded by Contrary Goddess.

This man nearly always does the gutting. He's good at it. But it threw him when I told him it was an intact (not castrated) pig. It is supposed to make the pig grow a bit better and be a bit leaner. The tale is that it makes the meat strong. Our meat was fine although this pig was under a year old.


Mirrormirror
Originally uploaded by Contrary Goddess.

This is carcass laid out for blocking. Our patriarch who always does this was not feeling well enough this year. While that was sad, I was so heartened at how his grandson, who was a rather bratty 5 year old when we moved out here, stepped up and did a fantastic job. As he enters his adult years, he is not doing something useless but is going to butcher school. How cool. A daughter remarked how it looked like they were cutting butter as they cut up the carcass. That is a function of sharp knives and skill.

There are a few more photos in my photostream on flickr if you are interested. The other pig killed this day we named Pigzilla as it was probably better than 650 pounds, which is pretty incredible. We got the leaf lard and the jowls from it as well as from our pig so I've been able to put up a good bit of lard. And let me just say, lard does make superior biscuits. I'm sure it will pie crusts too.

On the other fronts, I'd bought the mower hoping it would help around the farm and with a plan to pay for it by mowing for neighbors. I did pay for it that way (and more) but it proved less than helpful on the farm. Most of our land is just too steep to be mowed that way, and in the orchard, it was impossible to maneuver around the trees. So it was good to sell it and move on. As to the cow, so far I still only have the one. As to the cold, gosh, I'm glad this will be a warm week.

Routine Changes

Pig & Rooster
Originally uploaded by Contrary Goddess.

Maybe it was that he was only going to be part of the routine for a few more days that made me take such stark note of evening chores the other night. The "neighborhood" pig killing, which is really a family that does it, had happened already at least twice. The first time they called us to let us know NOT to bring our pig. They had like 10 of their own, too many to kill in a day even with a crew. That day they got seven of them. The next Saturday it was blowing cold and they did two but couldn't stand to do any more. This Saturday they called while I was off milking and we hurried to get things together. I'll post more later but enough to say that we are busy processing and a great deal of him is salted.

He was a good and well loved pig. He still is.

February Evening Chores

Mine are almost the last chores. It is dark and with the moon waning half full, it hasn’t risen when I head outside. I have two coats, boots, gloves, the omnipresent hat, a milking bucket and a grain bucket. I stop by and put four scoops of beef mix in the one.

She’s standing by the fence, near the gate. The stars shine and twinkle, the planes stand out. The gate is held shut with a bunge cord that I pop loose. She has walked up to the gate now, almost but not quite in my way. I rub her shoulder and she moves on, slowly, to the shed. Her bell rings with her movements. I set the milk bucket down, make sure the stool isn’t covered with snow (and if it is, I brush it off -- nothing colder than a wet frozen butt), pick up her fortex bucket and put the rocks in it, then half the grain. She sticks her nose in as I take off my gloves and lay them, palms down, on the stool. Insulation. Then I take the rope and hook it to her halter. The snap is broken but sorta kinda works without actually snapping. Works good enough anyway.

I arrange the stool and sit down on the flashlight in one motion, noting how hard the ground is, how I will place the bucket. I brush her teats off and squirt the first few squirts from each on the ground to clear any bacteria that might be hiding near the opening of the ducts. Then I put the bucket under her and go to town squirting. How fast her milk comes down depends on many things -- how full she is, how relaxed she is, if she is mad at me for something or not. Usually it is after 100 squirts and before 200. I work the front teats first, then the back, then the front again, then the back again.

Usually about here she needs her seconds of grain. With her seconds she moves over, always does. I move over and milk alternating pairs of teats until there is no more. Then I pat some roast part of her, stand up, put my teat warmed hands into my sat on gloves, release her halter from the snap, pat her head, tell her I love her, pick up the buckets, look for the dog and head back to the house. She mostly ignores me as she finishes up her grain.

At the house I say, “If you will drain the milk, I’ll get the other animals.” The horse and donkey are turned out and then put back in our field at night. It makes me feel better. They could get out of the other one, given enough time and a full belly. One afternoon the donkey got a full belly and did get out, discovering the pig and bellowing heartily that he did not approve of this pig thing. I pick up the pig bucket that has somewhere around a gallon or so of liquid plus any scraps from the day, and an empty bucket and head back out. It is so quiet in the cold. I get a couple scoops of corn for the equines, a couple scoops of pig feed for the as yet unsalted pig. If it is really cold, he’ll get a scoop of corn too.

The dog, knowing the routine, is off barking the pig. The pig, knowing the routine, is oinking and squealing. I pour a little in the trough so that the pig positions himself and I can figure out how to get the rest in there without spilling it all. I pat the pig and head on down the hill.

At the wide gate I stop. The moon has risen but I can’t see any sign of anything, just grass rising on the hill to the woods. No movement. No nothing. I whistle the distinctive horse whistle then call the horse’s name in a certain way. Then silence once more. Only after a few seconds there is a rustle of grass. Then the sound of mass softly hitting the earth. Usually after than I can detect his movement, see his light mane and white blaze moving through the darkness, catching the moonlight. The donkey is invisible but I can hear him. I go in their field and put their corn down, look them over always watching for any lameness or sign of sickness, and go shut the wide gate.

I cover the germinating plants in the greenhouse and walk back up the hill to huddle in the warmth of the stoves. It is a movie night, the popcorn is popped, and they are waiting for me.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Pig with Jack-O-Lantern
Originally uploaded by Contrary Goddess.

On the farm, it just isn't a problem. The jack-o-lanterns are fun, but really, they are farm animal food to begin with (it takes a sugar pumpkin to make a pie). Our grandfathers grew big pumpkins to feed to the cows in winter -- they keep well and are a highly nutritious supplement for them. They work just as well for pigs and chickens.

Make this photo big, it is worth it.

p.s. below is a sugar pumpkin holding pumpkin soup -- chicken broth, pureed pumpkin and cream, spiced with your regular pie spices but also enough mustard to make you sweat! Cooked of course. Mmmm good.

Soup's Served
Originally uploaded by Contrary Goddess.

Etcetera

I haven’t actually weighed him, but I swear the pig must weigh 60# now. It is incredible. He’s also hilarious. My body moving anywhere means “food coming!” to him and he starts oinking and squealing and completely cutting a shine. He roots his feed pans and so we put an old torn up ball in there for him to play pig soccer with. He likes it, but not as much as his pans, or his dog kennel. Root root push root squeal. “Where’s the food, ok, there’s the food, where’s the MILK?!” That’s his life. And then I pet him. First he tries to eat the toes of my shoes but as I rub his ribs he stills, goes sideways, falls over. He loves his belly rubbed, and that spot in between his eyes where the bullet will eventually go and still him forever. And behind his ever so cute triangle ears. His rate of growth is amazing though. Our neighbors said if he had his absolute fill of food, he could go from weanling 20#er to 300#er between July and December.

On the other hand, we had another incubator full of eggs NOT hatch. Elder daughter said, reasonably, observantly, “I don’t think it is warm enough. The eggs don’t feel warm.” Well, the thermometer SAYS 100, but she’s right, the eggs have never quite felt warm. So we dug around for another thermometer and it was in the 80s in there. No wonder we didn’t have a hatch. So we’ll do an extra late hatching, hopefully now at the right temperature, and hope for the best all around. And on the bright side, we had a hen go broody on a nest we feel is reasonably well protected and so we gave her 15 eggs so maybe she’ll have success with her brood.


Back on the fortuitous side, a bag of snap peas had hidden at the bottom of the fridge and were found for a good supper side dish the other night. The peas are strung and sorted into “green” and “white”, and then the green ones are steamed and eaten and the white ones are shelled for seed. Well, these seed were sprouting already. And it just rained for two days. And turned cool. So if we can get them in the ground, that is just all good.

Also good is that an uncle gave us 25 bales of real good quality hay. Which reminds me of our barn project which hasn’t seen much action lately but that was always a long-term proposition.


And these are just cute.