Rainbeau Ridge Weblog

Busy is Better!

It was just one of those days—the insanity of Spring and the farm was dizzyingly busy.  

Before morning rounds and milking even began, Alanis decided to kick off the day by delivering her twins, pre-dawn.  With the sun just popping up, Justin tackled rounds, Ron took on the milking of our first set of does, I hit the milk parlor, ladling our second batch of the season before heading to bottle feed our early kids.  The farmhouse kitchen was sparkling and the spring opener of in lisa’s kitchen with Nicki teaching knife skills was about to launch.  The trio of co-op gardeners set to work in the office, watering seedlings, the hoop house and planting more peas in the pool garden.  Kevin tackled the last of spring’s essential farm improvements.   And before we could even catch our breath, it was noon.  Cooking students armed with their new skills, had departed, barns were cleaned, the garden was in order (save the newly discovered pests in the hoop house), molds were brimming with curd and it was time again to feed those adorable babes.

I love when people call to set a meeting and say “let’s do it early, maybe 10am”—by then we’ve put in a whole day’s work on the farm!  Exhilarating in its whirling dervish pace and I wouldn’t want it any other way!

-Lisa

Strange, but Enjoyable

There was something vaguely familiar about it.  I can’t put my finger on it.  As I came around the corner to the farm on Sunday morning, red maple buds carpeting the road after being knocked off by a gentle rain, a cool mist in the air, a cloud-filled sky, it finally dawned on me.  I recognized it—Spring!

The reason it was so hard to recognize was because we were only just emerging from the strangest winter in ages.  Not that I minded the no snow concept . . . I never once put on my carhartt overalls.   And it was a pleasure not to be constantly cracking ice from animal water buckets. 
 
But the shoulder season never existed.  There was virtually no maple sugaring, no mud season.  And then summer temps happened—the whole thing has me a little spooked.  What price will we pay for the mild winter?  What happens when the weather decides to be spring or even worse, the winter that wasn’t—what will become of our trees and plants that are many weeks ahead of schedule?

As the clouds dissipated, the sun poked out, highlighting the verdant green grass.   The bluebirds played in the orchard and I decide to stop thinking and just enjoy—each day for what it is.

-Lisa

Almost Kidding

The moon is bright, the stars are out, the air is crisp and the barn, newly cleaned, smells of fresh hay.  A perfect scene set for kidding season.  I've been away from the barn for much of the winter, the does under Lauren's and Ron's care.  But it didn't take more than a couple of midnight barn checks and it all came flooding back to me-- I'm pumped for my absolutely favorite time of year-- the miracle of birth. 

With Olivia and Florence, sisters O and Flo bedded down and virtually inseparable, we all have our ways of preparing for this special season.

-Lisa

 

How Many Seasons?

My son, the Michigan graduate, used to say, in college there were two seasons, ‘winter’ and ‘construction’.  For most if us, four seasons is more the norm.  But as a gardener, I feel there are many more than four.

The cusps of the seasons are themselves unique time periods.  For example, the end of winter, the air, just at the edge of spring here in the northeast, has a sweet smell to it.  The accompanying moisture is clean and sugary.  The gray landscape is slightly edged with chartreuse as spring lies in waiting.  If you’re out in the early morning as farmers are, the slightest increase in bird life is in evidence.

Currently it’s August and by anyone’s standards, we’re well into summer.  But I would disagree—the morning lawn is graced with dew, the sun is already rising lower in the morning sky, setting noticeably earlier at night.  It smells like ‘school’…a new season?

And then there are the seasons as defined by crops—we are deep into tomato season right now—those heirloom varieties with their cracks and crevices, juices dripping as I slice them liberally on my tomato sandwich (perhaps the only permitted use for mayonnaise but stunning with our mixed herb goat cheese spread).  We’ve passed through blueberry season too quickly.  Peaches are here and I can’t wait for pear season!  Eating seasonally is not only healthy for you but the flavor is so superior—you wish you could bottle it!

There are a few alternatives to hold onto those edible seasons.  From where I sit, there’s no such thing as “too many tomatoes” or a “zillion zucchini”.  I am intent on finding a few more ways to prepare those ingredients, eating more than I should, knowing that before too long, those tastes will be only distant memories.  And although it takes some time, a “no regrets” approach is to freeze or preserve. (Zucchini relish is pictured here; full tips to follow.)

Two? Four? More?  No matter how you account for the seasons, there’s no doubt that every occasion on the farm is unique, precious and most certainly delicious.

-Lisa

A Different Lens . . . Fond Farewell

As my 10-month internship comes to an end I am struck by a quote from Abraham Lincoln that says, “The greatest fine art of the future will be making a comfortable living from a small piece of land.”  How did he know?  At this point in my life I can truly say that I’m a living, breathing example of Abe’s insightful prediction.

At first it was hard to imagine integrating my 25-year career as an LA-based advertising entertainment photographer with a total immersion in sustainable organic farming.  But it happened -- amazingly, beautifully, sometimes with difficulty, but always profoundly.    It’s allowed me to coin a new expression, “I’ve been debarnacalized.” I define this as breaking a lifelong routine and series of attachments while opening myself up to a whole new horizon of experiences.   Nothing is lost in the process.  It’s my way of saying this love affair with an inexplicable something I’ve found within the garden has brought me to a place in life I could never have expected; the path from the garden is going to continue with new chapters.

So as I pull my head out of the soil, so to speak, it’s time for a little reflection.   This was a year Mother Nature unleashed her fury.   Record breaking weather patterns tested everyone’s mettle.   From the worst Nor’easters the North East has seen since the 20’s, to the unrelenting spring flooding, right into a sweltering heat wave that topped the mercury at 107 degrees.  Extremes were the norm.   Each season was so unpredictable it was hard to get a handle on what to prepare for.   My mantra became “expect the unexpected.”   It should have been exhausting, but instead it was totally invigorating.  You’d think after a day’s work of harvesting 2,250 heads of garlic I would have collapsed.  Tired, yes.  Ready for more, absolutely.   Call me Julie the sponge, because I was definitely taking it all in, rain or shine, snow, sleet or hail – I wanted to be in the eye of the storm, and I was.  

A kaleidoscope of images from the farm has cast its spell on me.  I won’t forget animals breeding and dying right before my eyes, or the mid-wifing of many births late into the snowy night, and a most unusual relationship with ‘Genki’ the pea hen.   There were lovely walks with Llulu the llama. I experienced the baby turkeys hatching, the kids growing, milking the does, and hearing the billy goats bleating. 

And then there was the mind-bending strategic planning that felt like mental somersaults, involving such things as insuring proper crop rotation, succession planting, seed calculations per bed space requirements while landing each crop safely into the ground. Not to mention the madness of future uncertainty, i.e. the potential loss of over 300 tomatoes.  It took incredible persistence and an ultimate display of faith across the board to see it all through.  This was definitely not for the faint-of-heart. 

I couldn’t wait to go to sleep at night, only to discover what awaited me in the garden the next morning. Walking the gardens at 6:30 AM with a cup of coffee in hand initiated my days. Traversing fields of cool wet grasses (in winter months, crampons worn in the crustiest of icy garden landscapes) to reach the gardens awakened my senses.  Talk about aromatherapy, this was the ultimate. Refreshingly effervescent, the path between the hoop houses lined with chamomile and thyme heightened my senses. 

As my last days on the farm unfolded, my experiences ran together ranging from the subtle to the overwhelming, an accumulation of events I often described as a cinema multiplex, a living theater, an awakening of a force so great that it will be forever etched into my memory.  Whew!  My photography captures moments, but this is a canvas with no borders, a series of images, sensations, teachings and realizations that leave me breathless and in a state of awe.

The chef at Bedford Gourmet calls me her “farmer.”   The encouragement and support I’ve gotten from the garden co-op members has been extraordinary.   Who knew I’d have such a wide smile on my face because of genuine relationships with a few of these wonderful peeps and even with a pea hen (a female peacock)!  I’m reminded of the beginning of my internship and my ‘Edward Scissorhands’ faux pas of hacking down a rare pink grape vine to a half -inch from the ground which Isaac thought I killed.  Not to mention the Elderberry tree I chopped down to a shocking state. But lucky for me, both are thriving now. In one of the first few blogs I asked the question, “Do we REALLY learn from our lessons?” Something to think about.

This symbiotic theatre of nature and all our surroundings here on the farm have heightened the poetry of my life and, even more importantly, given me a deeper appreciation that compels me to continue to contribute to new frontiers.  If you follow the signposts of life they often lead you where you’re supposed to be.  With all that I’ve learned, the next part of my journey takes me to a new adventure where I will be designing my first farm for a Hollywood studio executive and client for 27 years.  After that I will venture into the field of soil micronutrients, working with business visionaries to unlock more mysteries of the world in order to take better care of it. I reflect on the irony that I will be learning ‘cutting edge’ techniques from an Amish farmer who will be my bridge in this venture that will benefit everyone from the back yard gardener to the business farmer.

So, with a tip of my hat to Lisa who so generously opened her farm doors to me and a huge applause to the RR Team, I thank you all. I will take with me all the jewels I mined from mother nature and all of you which include Isaac and the four months of his brilliant mentorship; the cooking adventures late into the night with Blair; Kevin’s insightful ways to navigate “the RR waters” literally and figuratively; Ron’s brilliance ranging from animal husbandry to identifying exotic edible volunteers; Lauren’s unforgettable laughter while working in minus fourteen degree weather making for great memories (I’ll work by your side any day); and  Karen’s kindness and her passion to teach; and to the audience of my family and friends and your unwavering support-Wow! I love you.

Signing off for now with deep thanks, as the adventure unfolds…

-Julie Brothers

A Different Lens . . . Fowl Play

Want a good laugh?  Try to imagine this.  Your friend Julie can officially say she caught a flying baby turkey.  In midair.  Yup, in the basement of the farmhouse.  How’s that for a visual?  I’ll tell you how it happened as I welcome you back to our Cineplex where comedy is a regular feature, particularly in this one wing of the farm complex. 

It all started when a couple of our high school volunteers were cleaning two of the cages that house 22 baby turkeys that hatched a little over three weeks ago.  It’s a bit of a chaotic assignment to begin with, meaning the turkeys aren’t always the most cooperative.   As the volunteers started the cleaning process, two of the birds escaped and kept escaping their grasp.  Instinctively, I raised my hands and grabbed the turbo-flying turkey like I was catching a perfectly thrown Tom Brady pass, only it wasn’t quite as graceful as it sounds.   Still, I caught the little guy and it surprised the hell out of all of us—me more than anyone, for sure.  We broke out into hysterics.  Turkeys are not the smartest of all farm animals, but they’re often a great source of humor.

Another humorous turkey incident occurred just before the babies were old enough to be transferred out of the basement.  While Ron was working in the turkey pen, a few of the adult turkeys broke into the peacock section of the bird “paddocks".  Talk about an odd juxtaposition of feathery friends—who knew turkeys and peacocks and their female counterparts would get along so well?  And because they get along so well, the new poults have their own pen to themselves while their elders live with the peacock and peahens!

This brings me to the grand ‘ol musical, another feature that pops up every now and then on the farm.  Genki (Japanese for Uber healthy, being the only survivor of her 3 other siblings) has recently been integrated with her own kind.  We originally thought she was a peacock; it took a couple months for her markings to come in.  To our collective surprise we discovered he was a she.  We had to keep her isolated from the other adults (another potential killing field “amongst their own kind”) until she was fully-grown. 

Blair and I kept her company on many a cold winter night, climbing into her pea hen house, preening and petting her while I would sing, “The Hills Are Alive With The Sound Of Music,” and Blair would do her very best Maria Callas by singing opera.

As a little side note—I missed my Royal Wedding photo op, with adult Genki adorning my head, making for a great headdress, hands down, and no competition on this one!

Not too long ago another wonderful discovery took place while I was milking a few of the nervous goats.  Turns out that my mellifluous singing relaxed them almost immediately.  There’s a theme here.  I found myself singing to Llulu the lama while on our walks (yes, like a dog on a leash), and also singing to the tomatoes while they were in their recovery.  Who knew singing show tunes from The Sound of Music for my eighth birthday would become so useful in my adult life on the farm?  It’s crossed my mind to invite Julie Andrews to Rainbeau Ridge.  I’m sure it would make her sing, too.   And I do believe Lisa will be naming one of the kids Julie.  So, Dear Julie Andrews, if you happen to read this blog . . . you’ll see these hills are definitely alive.

-Julie

A Different Lens . . . Now Playing

I bet you’re wondering what’s playing at the Rainbeau Ridge Cineplex this month.  Of course, we have our usual full range of comedy and drama, but if you like horror films we’re featuring a story about some fierce creatures making their presence felt with a vengeance. 

Grubs, mealy bugs and bean aphids are on the attack.  The title of their blockbuster smash is, “Seek and Destroy.” As spring unfolds these over-wintered alien monsters rear their ugly heads and zero in on almost everything that has been transplanted or direct seeded on the farm.   They’re on a mission from hell to decimate everything they land on.   These nasty little creatures are equal opportunity bullies -- they don’t care what plants they mess with.   They love the 6 varieties of cabbage we planted.  They’re obsessed with the Napa, broccoli, purple and cheddar cauliflower we’re growing.  And literally, right before my eyes, I witnessed a throng of beetles razing whole plant beds; it was like a David Copperfield disappearing act. 

Oh, and we got quite a scare from the potential reappearance of Late Blight.  As you may remember, when LB touched down on the East Coast 2 years ago, it took down all the tomatoes in the North East. Talk about having a freak out, we had over 300 tomato plants, 75 of which were to be transplanted and the rest made available for the farm’s annual plant sale.  It was the same fungus that brought down Ireland during the Great Potato Famine. That episode sent me into a full-on panic attack until we reached out to one of the legendary farmers I’ve been so lucky to be in contact because of Lisa’s wonderful connections.  The legend that is Annie Farrell (she co-designed a great deal of the farm for Lisa) suggested a remedy that saved all 22 tomato varieties just in the nick of time before they were to be transplanted into the pool garden (drilled holes and filled with soil when the farm was started), while the balance of tomatoes, tomatillos, peppers and eggplant were also rescued so they could be sold at the sale this week as well (I'm so proud that we had over 20 varieties of healthy tomato plants to offer, along with more than 13 peppers and tons of eggplants).  Good thing these horror films have happy endings.    

To be honest, I was struck by my obsession with all these creatures.  Where did it come from?  Why was I losing sleep thinking about bugs and their impact on everything we do here?   Then it hit me.   Under my adult peace/love and all things natural veneer I realized what a terror I was as a little girl.  I loved killing bugs with potions I created in the kitchen.  I took great pleasure in burning them to a crisp with micro-fine glass.  It’s the stuff therapy is made of and while I can’t change the past… it has fueled a different kind of obsession these days.  

As an adult, my interest in these creepy crawly characters demanded that I hit the farm library and read anything and everything I could find about bugs, fungus and diseases.  And if it wasn’t in the library I spent nights on the internet trying to Google as much information as possible.  The farm has made me a different person.  I’ve said on more than one occasion how what a wonderful opportunity this has been to date, but this was bugging me (sorry, I couldn’t resist).  I was reading everything I possibly could.  If there was something I didn’t know, I would call the organic insecticide companies and talk to their experts for further clarity and education.  If there’s such a thing as a healthy OCD, I had it now.   No joke. 

If I was still unclear about something I’d reach out to Jerry, my contact at the Cornell Garden Extension Program for our county.  I’ve been having bi-monthly phone conversations with him since Isaac left, and Jerry’s finally making it to the farm this week.  Upon Lisa’s suggestion we’ve invited him to join our weekly garden co-op meetings.   I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted Jerry to myself to answer my laundry list of questions, but that would take hours, if not days.   And my true egalitarian nature is to share, so I’ll abandon any selfish thoughts for the benefit of us all, because Jerry’s wealth of knowledge has to be shared.  

What we experience here is a Close Encounter of the Extraordinary Kind, where horror stories and alien visits morph into incredible learning experiences that help us all grow.   Yes, life here at Rainbeau Ridge can be other-worldly.  Just like the movies… only here we don’t have to suspend our disbelief… what happens in our farm Cineplex is real.  It’s visual.  Emotional.  Thrilling.  Scary.  Heartwarming.  Sustaining.  And just plain amazing!

-Julie

A Different Lens . . . Kidding on the Line

Among the countless eye-opening experiences I’ve had here at Rainbeau Ridge the Kidding Season certainly ranks among the most profound.   You just don’t forget all those incredible late nights out in the paddocks and the miraculous series of births.   The whole experience is permanently etched in my memory bank – flashlight in one hand, towel in the other, assisting Lisa in the freezing cold, 100% in the moment – it’s not possible to feel more alive.   With each birth I could feel my heart racing; it never, ever got old and was anything but routine.  But near the start of the season there was one night that truly set the tone of what was to come . . . so, naturally, I have to share it with you.

I had yet to witness a birth and it was my turn to be “on deck” to watch two of the expectant mothers do their thing.  Lisa had gone to Harlem for dinner, Blair was out with Lisa’s son, who was in town from Honduras, and Lauren, the farm director, had gone home after a very long twelve hours assisting two other goats who had given birth that day.  It was 7:30pm.  I figured it was going to be a long evening, so I settled in and got ready for the adventure.

I sat on a bail of hay in the aisle overlooking the two stalls, eyes fixed on the mothers.  I had no idea what the timeframe for any of this would be.  So, while I was in “wait and see” mode, I decided it was a good time to catch up on some phone calls.  I’m busy chatting up a storm with Wendye, and as we went about our global schmoozfest there was a cacophony of moans in the background from Judy, the dame who seemed closest to delivering her kid.   Neither mothers could seem to get comfortable.  Standing, lying, stretching, exaggerated expressions of pain, pawing at the hay, readying the beds for the arrival of their kids.  Gwen’s breathing was getting deeper and faster as I saw that the contractions started coming every 15 minutes.  I thought this was going to go on for hours, but I felt somewhat secure knowing I had Wendye on the line for whatever support I needed.   But there’s nothing like the moment when you first see a kid emerge.  I started to panic as Judy bellowed out her birthing screams.  I had to scream, too.  Holy s**t! 

It was happening.  I got off the phone and raced to call Lauren.  She immediately asked, “Do you see two feet?”  Honestly, I didn’t know what I was looking at.  This was totally surreal.   A part of the kid peeked out and immediately got sucked back into the canal after each contraction.   Talk about a “wow” moment.   Lauren said she would be right over; she lived 20 minutes away.  I’m thinking to myself… “I’m alone, twenty minutes is a lifetime.”  Now what?

After ten minutes, Judy’s screaming got louder.  She had maneuvered herself into a lying down position, exhausted, the kid still sliding back every time she relaxed.  I knew these were all natural birthing instincts, but it was difficult to watch and something didn’t seem right.   So I did what any thinking woman would do in a circumstance like this, I called my Dad, who just happens to be a veterinarian.  I needed guidance.  I needed support.  I needed my Dad to help guide this solo flight, at least until Lauren got here.

After a couple of deep breaths I described the situation to my father.   Judy was in trouble; she needed help and quickly.   He said “to scrub up and grab a towel.”  I assisted my dad during the summers while in high school, so I went right into action.   By the time I came back, I saw the kid’s nose surfacing and as the mother pushed, the head came out further and further.  As she relaxed it slipped back in.   I put my Dad on speaker phone and had him get on our BarnCam so he could see exactly what was going on.  In the calmest of voices he told me that the next time I saw the head, I had to grab it with the towel and pull with an out and downward motion.  The calm ended as Judy’s screams got louder.   My father and I were both shouting.  

He yelled, “Grab the towel!  The baby’s going to be slippery!”   I worried I was going to break the baby’s neck.  But he said I wouldn’t and told me to “just pull!”   It may have been 20 degrees outside, but I was sweating like a pig.  I threw my jacket off and just did what I had to do.   As she pushed, I pulled… and after three tries, the baby finally slid out.  It was HUGE!  It was the largest baby birthed so far this year.  No wonder she was having such problems.  I brought the kid to her mother immediately so she could start cleaning her.  I continued rubbing the kid to ensure she was breathing and made sure her throat was clear. 

After being so focused, my adrenalin was surging.  And that’s when I could hear screaming from the other stall. So I jumped from one to the other (literally, there is no door in between) to find Gwen had just delivered.  She was lying down and both mother and kid were lying still in opposite directions.  For a brief moment I thought the worst had happened. I yelled to my dad, who was still on speaker phone two stalls away.  “They’re just lying there!”  I described the condition of both mother and child.  Dad said to start rubbing the baby rapidly on the sides of her chest to get her breathing, and again, to make sure her throat was clear.  The baby finally started to cry (it seemed like time stood still) and I quickly brought her to her mother who was still lying down, absolutely exhausted.  I was concerned because mother Gwen seemed like she barely had the energy she needed to start cleaning her kid and making that mother/child bond.  Within a few seconds however, she had a surge of energy that brought her to her feet.   She was good to go.   She started cleaning her crying kid and all you could hear was a sonic humming that was truly music to my ears, the afterglow of a joyous birth.

   

Both of my parents were now on the line and we were elated. Of course, what seemed like an eternity was a just a mere 10 minutes.  Lauren came in and could see my rather stunned expression.  She knew I had just been part of a miracle, one that happens here every year . . . one that there is no iPhone App for . . . one that you just have to be here to experience firsthand (with a little help from my Dad, of course).

-Julie

A Different Lens . . . Walking Hoop House for Shameless Beauty

My forearms burn from non-stop shoveling of the hoop houses out from under all the snow.  The grandeur of the hoop houses is shrinking by the day under the ever-shifting white horizon line.  New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg announced that the city had experienced the snowiest January in its history, enduring 36 inches of snow since Jan. 1, breaking the old record of 27.4 inches in 1925.  This does not include the first Nor’easter during Christmas or the one that is currently rearing its apocalyptic head across much of the nation.  At the farm, we’ve taken in over 75 inches in 1.25 months!  If only we could fit the tractor between the two hoop houses to shovel out all the snow.  (Check out this picture of me on the tractor . . . I'm only sitting on it, leaving its use to the people who know how to do so!)

  

You may be asking why all the fuss over the hoop houses. The hoop house is where our brave little seedlings grow in the winter.  To date, we have started about seven thousand seedlings in what we call the garden studio, serving as my shared office space on one side and growing space on the other. We then moved them into these “magic” houses, a protected space, defying the winter elements of Mother Nature.  Layered by only two thick sheets of translucent plastic separated by a constant stream of pumped air (but not heated), they absorb sunrays and insulate from the cold.  On a sunny day, it could be six degrees outside and sixty degrees inside. 

Walking into this “spa” the air is moist and warm, infused with the sweet smell of fresh young growth.  I can feel my dry skin bouncing back from the burning cold outside.  The warm aromatherapy of a nutrient-rich soil and chlorophyll elixir defrosts my windpipe and fills my chilled lungs.  Invigorated, I’ve found another garden beauty secret, our own farm spa, equipped with oxygen bar!

Walking out the door at 7am to the tune of minus eleven degrees on a sunny day is . . . well, it can be exhilarating with the right frame of mind.  Oddly, it felt warm, considering how cold it was.  The only perceptible difference between the other days, with the temperature hovering in the single digits was the unusual feeling of an ultra-thin sheet of frost forming on the outer layer of my eyeballs.  The only way I knew it was happening was by the “crunching” sensation upon blinking.  It was a little bewildering and strange, but nevertheless a novelty just as long as it wasn’t doing any damage.

Speaking of exposure, the harsh weather and elements are not good for the seedlings and not good for my complexion either!  I was concerned by the potential damage it was causing.  During the fall, when we were still milking the goats, I started experimenting with the filters used for straining the milk straight from the milking parlor. When the milking season winds down, the milk is most concentrated in fat, which is rich in lactic acid. The fatty milk gets trapped in these filters. It was then that I had the ‘ah-ha’ moment of “harvesting” another fine beauty secret from the farm. Though difficult to secure these milk fat enriched filters to my cheeks (too vain to show you this picture), I assure you it can be done!

I recalled the stories of ancient Egyptians bathing in pools of fermented milk to beautify their skin.  So at the farm, I decided to slather some goat cheese on my face. The thick and smooth texture of the cheese reminded me of luxurious $100/1.5 oz facial creams found only at Neiman Marcus!  So before the cheese season was over, I dolloped (with permission) a scoop of a farm favorite salt-less cheese (salt can be drying) into a dozen miniature Ziploc baggies which I then placed in the freezer.  A three month’s supply will get me through the worst of winter. Upon defrosting an individual packet – voila!  I’ve scheduled in my weekly farmstead goat cheese facial! 

To further maximize the benefits of my facial, I place Saran Wrap over my face cutting out holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth to keep the cheese from drying. I found this also takes advantage of my own body heat to assist in the absorption of all those skin nurturing fatty acids. I may look like a walking hoop house but vanity has no shame and I still have my priorities. And what a world of a difference it makes! I’ve found a solution to combat the negative impact of exposure to the elements. It turns out that I can have my cheese and eat it too, maintaining beautiful skin while continuing down the internship path of a sustainable farmer.

Hmm, perhaps I’m onto something here!  I’ll keep you posted.

-Julie

A Different Lens . . . Snow to Seed

Earlier this week, as we made our late afternoon rounds feeding the goats, llamas, sheep, cows, chickens, peacocks and turkeys, the snow started to fall with a pace that reminded me of the Nor’easter storm that had passed through during Christmas time.

I thought back to a few weeks ago, when I had watched that first Nor’easter rage fast and furious from my bedroom windows: as hours passed, I pored over stacks of seed catalogues (haven’t picked up a Vogue or Vanity Fair in months) and relished the abundance of it all, and I was in seed heaven.  I realized at the rate the snow was falling, I might not have access to the farm studio where we store all of our seeds. The following day I had planned to start the laborious process (it took a week) of seed inventory so I could figure out what needed to be ordered for our 2011 master garden list (yet another week).  I threw on my coat over my pajamas and ran out into the storm to bring in the seeds.  And we are talking boxes!  By 3am the snow was falling faster and I was beginning to fear for the animals’ safety.  My imagination ran wild, and I was questioning if the snow could fall seven feet and seal them into their sheds.

I could barely sleep that night. The following morning I met a panicked Lisa at the front door.  From her house to the farmhouse is usually a seven-minute walk; thirty minutes of a hike through the deep snow had exhausted her.  Upon reaching the farm, Lisa B-lined for the tractor to gain quick access to the animals.  The engine wouldn’t start, heightening her concern.  We could barely get the front door opened to the farmhouse; the dunes of snow were like a desert of sand bearing its weight against it.  Lisa handed me a shovel to start digging.  I thought, “Dig where?” as I surveyed the endless snowscape before me. Although a newbie here, extra hands are an asset, especially in a crisis, and because work is endless on a farm. Though, as I looked out my heart sank and I felt helpless.

I thought, “Where’s Isaac?” and quickly placed a call.  He was already on the tractor moving tons of snow; it was a throttle starter thing that had thrown Lisa for a loop.  I thought in case of an emergency, I had to learn to drive the tractor!

But last week, as the second snowstorm of the season started to fall, the animals seemed calm and so was I, now seasoned after experiencing that Christmas snowstorm.  It was as if the Nor’easter had broken them in (or rather the storm broke me in!). Their peaceful state influenced mine.  The twilight sky reinforced this peace even more as voluminous snow continued to fall from the sky, so thick it muffled the usual forest sounds surrounding the farm, blanketing the earth with its silence.