A (semi-serious) Debate About the Death Penalty...Or, Fly Fishing Anyone?

In an effort to keep my blog family friendly, please note that this post is not intended for small children who haven't already had "The Talk." You know, like I was forced to have with my kid way, way too early? By a stupid rooster.

When you live with farm animals, sometimes they force your hand on a lot of unpleasant things.

But, I digress.

I constantly debate internally over whether it is better to allow Jesse the Rooster (formerly known as Crazy Hair Bernice), a chicken with unconfirmed mild psychosis, to continue to live in solitary confinement indefinitely, or to kill him and use his lovely feathers for fly tying.

I just don't know.

I feel more than a little guilty about causing gender confusion early in his life. I'm almost certain (from watching plenty of Criminal Minds and CSI) that those early days when we were sure he was a hen contributed to his current behavioral problems.

Jesse used to be a very gentle, Zen creature. Then we let him live with the girls, and testosterone turned him into something that would strike fear in the heart of any chicken wrangler. I know there's a way to "fix" that, but I absolutely, positively draw the line in my adventures in farming at that word spelled c-a-p-o-n-i-z-e. I can't even figure out how to use the caponizing kits sold at the feed store, and believe me, I've read the instructions more than once when perusing the aisles. They say, "requires some skill and a steady hand." I think we can all agree that absolutely does NOT describe me.

Even on a good day.

Plus, the tiny little knife makes me feel vaguely queasy and causes Matt to break out in a cold sweat of sympathy. I know it's probably strange that I can shoot a deer, elk, or a rabbit but can't cut out a chicken's...um, you know.

Sometimes when I forget why we separated Jesse from the general population, I think we should give him a hen as a companion. Then I remember what a mean, rotten, son of a button he is and realize I couldn't do that to any of my precious chicken girls.

It would be like setting your best girlfriend up on a blind date with Ted Bundy.

Besides, all my poor hens finally have almost all of their feathers back.

It's like putting a criminal on death row versus giving him life in prison. Only, he's not costing that much money to feed.

You know, when we dare to put our hands in his chicken run to feed him.

I can honestly say that this is not one of the things I'd thought I'd spend a lot of time deliberating about at this time in my life when I was seventeen.

The thing is...did you see what lovely hackles he has? My father-in-law drools every time he comes for a visit.

That mildly psychotic rooster would sure make some gorgeous flies.

Comfort Food...Or, Yes, Alcohol Does Count as a Secret Ingredient

I love Fall for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that some of my favorite comfort food is Fall food.

I love hearty deer stew, homemade pot pies, baked squash, freshly roasted pumpkin seeds, and big loaves of crusty homemade bread. It makes me hungry just thinking about all the goodness the season has to offer. (Pardon me while I wipe some drool off my keyboard...)

But my very favorite Fall comfort food?

Baked apples.

I start with fresh picked apples from my in-laws orchard. I use expensive Brandy (my secret ingredient), fresh honey from our hives, and plenty of butter. Heavy on the brandy, light on the honey, so they're not too sweet.


Yes, alcohol totally counts as a secret ingredient. (I can't believe you'd even ask).

It gives me an excuse to use some of my favorite pottery - these handmade apple bakers. I feel all warm and fuzzy just getting them out of the cupboard.

The best thing about baked apples isn't even the comfort factor, or the handmade stoneware bakers.

It's the smug feeling that you're eating healthy fruit for dessert.


Even if it's smothered in brandy, butter, and honey.

Pumpkin Is A Natural Wormer...Or, Too Much Information (Again)

This is not the headless chicken.

You know, like the headless horseman?

Whew, I just kill myself sometimes. Oh, you didn't find it that funny? Okay, so it's actually just a picture of a chicken really, really enjoying fresh pumpkin.

It's one of the pumpkins that we accidentally grew in our garden (she writes proudly). Sidenote: Some of the best things I've ever done I've done on accident.

I subscribe to "Backyard Poultry" magazine. In the last issue, there was an article on worming chickens.

Yes, I know - TMI, Julia, TMI.

Our chickens have always been wild about pumpkin. Turns out it is a natural wormer. The chemicals found in the (uncooked) seeds and meat cause worms to die in animals, poultry, and humans, and be flushed out with...you know, that stuff I find all over my Bogs on a regular basis? Yes, I know, TMI. Again.

I'd like to consider that passing this information along to the rest of you was my good deed for the day.

Just in case you need to eat some uncooked pumpkin.

Which is totally your own business.

Talking Turkey...Or, Complicating Parent Teacher Conference

Today's post is a little convoluted, so I'm going to try to simplify my story by laying out a few facts about our situation in terms of the simple life.

1) When we decided to fully embrace simplicity by moving to a farm, we did not move to a farming community. We bought an acre and a half at the base of the Wasatch Moutains in Utah, smack in the middle of affluent subdivisions in one of the wealthiest cities in the state. We chose this piece of property because it adjoins my in-laws property, which has been in my mother-in-law's family since the 1930's. Matt's family has lived there since before there was a city in the area.

2) Because of 1), the fact that we farm is unusual in the community. Most of those around us with acreage use it as horse property or as estate land only.

3) Because of 1) and 2), Q has a unique situation at school. He's the only kid whose mom is a potter and whose family keeps farm animals.

4) When we got turkeys, we had every intention of raising them to eat. We didn't know they would become like giant feathered dogs that follow us everywhere and want to be cuddled. Seriously, who could have predicted that?

So, now that I've laid the groundwork for today's post, you'll understand when I say that given that Matt & I both hunt our turkey experiment quickly led to the purchase of these:


What hunter wouldn't want the chance to practice calling turkeys in a domesticated environment? Sadly, our first attempts led the turkeys to look at us pityingly. It was kind of like the looks you get when you're in Paris attempting to order food from a French waiter using what you learned in high school French class.

Poor turkeys.

Spending time with the turkeys, we all have had an opportunity to spend hours and hours listening to the sounds at each phase of the turkey's lives. We hear cheeps, peeps, purrs and rasps, gobbles, and huffs and puffs. Turkeys have a very diverse, complicated language. They are also very social animals.

And noone is better at talking turkey than little Q. He can make very authentic turkey sounds using his own voice. Q gobbles. They gobble. Q giggles. They gobble. Q chirps. They gobble. The hen chirps. Q giggles.

It's very entertaining for everyone, turkeys included.

And strangely enough, this leads me to parent teacher conference last week. I met with Q's teacher, a lovely woman in her early twenties in the beginning of her teaching career. She has no children, which I don't hold against her. I taught Junior High Math in my early twenties, and didn't have children. However, my perspective if I was a teacher now that I'm a parent of a precocious boy would be much different than it was back then (enough said). Things that bother you when you don't have children are easily tuned out once you do have children.

We went through the usual rundown of Q's school work, talked about how he talks too much to his friends in class and works on his own projects instead of his classwork when he's bored (hmmm...wonder where he gets that from?). Then she asked me quietly if Matt, who wasn't able to attend, is truly Turkish? And if so, would he be willing to give a presentation on his home country to the class?

I sat there in my small-person-chair in silence for a good 45 seconds staring blankly at the poor young woman.

"I'm sorry, what?" I finally asked, blinking slowly.

"Quin told me that he speaks English and Turkish, so I assumed he picked it up in your home. I thought perhaps your husband is Turkish?"

I started to laugh. I swear, it was completely involuntary. It started out as shocked laughter, but ended up as near-hysterical. By this time, poor little Q is as confused as I am, but at least he fit in his chair.

I managed to compose myself enough to explain to her that Q doesn't speak Turkish, that we own turkeys and that he can gobble, cheep, and purr with the best of them. Q's teacher didn't even crack a smile.

As a peace offering, I asked if she'd like me to bring a turkey to the class around Thanksgiving to show the children what they look like in person.

She stared at me blankly for a good 45 seconds. Then she politely declined the invitation.

As we left the classroom and headed to the Book Fair, Q gave me a sideways look. I started to explain to Q that talking to turkeys is very different from speaking Turkish.

And then we both started laughing hysterically.

The End of An Era...Or, Goodbye Binky

Seven years ago, I mentioned to Matt that I'd always wanted to keep chickens. To my surprise, he thought it was a great idea, and he spent that Spring researching, designing and building a chicken house and run for our suburban backyard. I got special permission from the city to keep a backyard flock.

That May, we brought home 6 chicks from the local feed store - 3 Barred Rocks and 3 Golden Sexlinks. We each named two of the chicks. Mine were Binky and Bucky, Matt's were Pinky and the Brain. Two-year old Quin named his chicks Rocko and Sluggo. Don't ask me why a toddler would give names more suited to thugs to sweet little baby chicks, but he did. We tried to convince him to pick different names, but Quin was adamant. It became a joke, and our little flock became the "Chicken Mafia" (or the "Cluckanostra," as Matt liked to call them).

Those six hens taught us what to do and what not to do when raising chickens in suburbia. We weathered chicken diseases, visits to disbelieving vets, laying problems, and chicken nutrition issues with our starter flock. We learned how to maintain chicken health by "turning" laying on and off using light. We learned how to be compassionate and loving with our chickens. I learned all about what makes chickens great pets and companions. When we lost the first of those six hens at two years old to cancer, it was heartbreaking. I still get choked up thinking about it. Most of our original hens lived longer than we'd ever anticipated, with the last being Binky, the little grandmother of our current flock.

Binky quit laying over two years ago, but after over five years of giving us friendship and eggs, we felt she deserved a retirement without work or worry. As far as we were concerned, she'd more than earned her keep. She taught two other flocks of pullets the ropes, and was a trooper in dealing with Jesse (the serial rapist rooster) making sure he knew she wouldn't put up with any of his funny business. As an old hen, she'd go toe-to-toe with any rooster, fighting just like they do, with wing slaps and "spur" kicks.

While we were on the muzzleloader deer hunt this fall, a neighbor kindly looked in on our girls for us. She called to tell us that she'd found Binky dead in the chicken run a day after we left.

Binky had fallen asleep in a puddle of sunshine and didn't wake up.

Just the way I want to go.

With the last of our original backyard flock gone, and a remaining large rural flock of girls, it's like the end of an era for us.

Keeping Binky and the chicken mafia got us where we are today. We owe much to those first six hens. They all helped sparked the desire for more chickens, more land, more space, more farm animals. Our success with them helped give us the courage to take things further, one step at a time.

And while it may seem strange that this blog post is something of a eulogy for a chicken, it is no less than a dedicated pet deserved after eight years of being part of our strange, extended farm family.

Bye, Binky. You were loved. You will be missed.

Thanks for everything.

HONEY!

I've been AWOL on my blog for a bit...mostly the product of Fall harvest time. A successful muzzleloader deer hunt meant meat to process and freeze, and a full garden meant plenty of vegetables to store and preserve.

And Fall for beekeepers in Utah means HONEY to harvest. So, things have been sticky at our place for a bit (pun intended).

We learned a lot from last year's honey robbing, which we've been applying to this year's harvest. We want to keep all 12 of our hives as healthy as possible all winter long, so we left a lot behind for the girls to feed themselves, with some supplement from us, through the cold Utah months.

I got a few emails from folks wanting to know if and where we would be selling our honey. Locally, we are planning to sell honey at the upcoming Pumpkin Festival in Sandy. But, we also set aside some honey to sell to family, friends, or other interested parties. We have honey processed, packaged and ready to go right now.

The honey has great flavor - not too sweet, but very floral. It is a combination of orchard, clover, and alfalfa. The honey is raw - cold triple-filtered (which takes a ton of time but is worth it), and not processed with heat, which keeps all the natural antibodies and other good stuff in the honey. It has no additives, and is pure - not cut with syrup like the honey you buy in the store.

If you are interested in buying honey from us, you can click on the link on the right-hand side of my blog under the big picture of a bee, or you can email me. We currently have 12 oz. honey bears and 1 lb. bottles. Within the next week or two, we will also have 8 oz. jars. I'll try to post pictures of the packaged honey over the weekend.

Shipping in the US via USPS priority mail is $4.95 to $5.95 for up to 3 1 lb jars or 2 12 oz. honey bears (the honey bear jars are larger and bulkier). Due to import/export restrictions, I can't ship outside of the US.

Parking on a Salt Lick...Or, Cow Spit and Retribution

A few years ago, we went fishing with my in-laws. We left late after work on a Friday night so we could hit the lake first thing Saturday morning. We didn't get on to the mountain until nearly 2 am. Exhausted from a full-day of work and the long drive, we set up our tents and sleeping bags and fell asleep.

A couple of hours later, Quin woke Matt and me up, panicked. Something was snuffling and snorting against the outside of our thin Coleman tent right next to Quin's sleeping bag. Quin was sure it was a bear.

Matt peeked out the front of the tent, and in the waxing light of the pre-dawn morning, he witnessed a mighty and majestic free range cow not-so-gently trying to move our little tent out of it's way. Well, actually, several mighty cows. Mighty...pushy...cows.

In our exhausted haste to set up camp, we had set up our tents right in the middle of a salt lick.

So, while we were out hunting last week, I could empathize with the poor fellow who owned this trailer. He parked and staged his trailer for rifle elk season to save the spot he wanted. When we happened by, there were three cows investigating his trailer.

One was licking the door. The other two were circling the trailer, like they were trying to figure out how to move it.

The trailer was parked on top of a salt lick.

I guess if you can't get to the salt lick the cowboys left for you, then leaving some cow spit for the person who covered it up is fair retribution.

Looking Out For the Next Generation of Women Hunters...Or, Raising Boys That Hunt With Girls

Fresh back from deer camp, getting caught up on the blogs I regularly read and missed while I was in the wilderness, it was interesting to see that the blog post I'd mentally been formulating on the long drive out of the High Uintahs runs parallel to this post from NorCal Cazadora.

Growing up in Utah, deer camp was the mysterious place where only men went to conduct sacred male rituals. There were Deer Hunter's Widows, and Hunters Widow weekend sales at the mall dedicated to the women and children left behind while groups of men congregated in the woods to drink beer, shoot guns, and go without showering for a week.

Hunting season was a good excuse for "Fall Recess," a couple days off of school which most of the children didn't realize coincided with deer season. The tradition never changed even though fewer and fewer families hunted together as the years went by. Hunting became more of an excuse for "male bonding" and less of an opportunity for families to hunt for food together. Families no longer relied on the game meat as a food source. Little boys were taught to hunt as a rite of passage in families where hunting was a tradition. Girls and women were not included.

And I'm not sure when being excluded as women in a "men's sport" turned into not wanting to participate.

I'm one of the fortunate few women who found a companion who wanted an active hunting partner instead of someone to cook dinner back at camp and wash the dishes. Matt wanted me to enjoy hunting as much as he did so he took the time to teach me how to hunt, was patient when I wasn't ready to do something, didn't make fun of me when I cried because I couldn't shoot a .22 as well as I wanted, and attended my hunter's safety test with me.

He was so proud that I passed that he laminated my hunter's safety test target. He bought me my first large caliber hunting rifle for Christmas that year.

And I'm lucky that my father-in-law felt the same way about his wife, so that Matt was raised in a home where women were strong, active hunters, too. Hunting was a family affair. It was their annual family vacation. Matt grew up eating game meat every night for dinner.

Hunting has become a large part of how we live voluntary simplicity. We eat or use every part of the animals we harvest. We rely on the meat we put in our freezer to get us through the year. We reguarly eat rabbit, trout, deer and elk, in addition to raising and harvesting our own poultry. Hunting is as much as part of providing our own food as gardening and canning or gathering our chicken's eggs every evening.

Hunting isn't always easy or fun. Not all women want to participate, and that's fine. I've had unpleasant experiences in the field. I've been too close to ornery moose, I've been too cold, too hot, and I've had pine gum in my hair. I've gone days without a shower, felt less-than-attractive in hunting gear made for men, and I was once nearly attacked by a startled squirrel when sitting on a waterhole. We've had bears come in to camp. One year, I got a really bad perm right before leaving for the hunt. Imagine trying to comb that mess after going without washing it for over a week! At eight months pregnant, I still went to deer camp, even though I was uncomfortable and peeing in the forest required assistance (I wasn't one of those cute tiny pregnant women and it was hard to squat and then stand back up by myself). The women I worked with at the time questioned my sanity going hours from the hospital that close to my delivery date, but even before my son was born, I wanted him to know what hunting meant to our family.

And I've experienced some things I'd never experience anywhere else. I've seen amazing sunrises and sunsets, witnessed wildlife in it's natural habitat, and hiked to some of the most beautiful and remote locations in the country. I've spent hours in silence, watching the wild world happen around me and felt my place in the universe as part of that process. Hunting is not about killing, it's a beautiful process in the circle of life.

I hope that I'm the same kind of example to my son that my mother-in-law was for Matt. I hope Quin will have the same respect for female hunters as his father and grandfather.

Mothers teach their sons by example, and active female hunters can directly influence the future of women hunters by teaching our boys that girls belong in the field with them. As women, we need to reinforce the family aspects of hunting, teaching our children that deer hunting is not just for men, that it is not about drinking beer with the boys, shooting up the forest, and disrespecting the animals we're there to harvest.

And it starts with us - one mother at a time.

One child at a time.

One hunt at a time.