A Merry Band of Bloggers

My sister lives in Colorado, where the sun always shines and the air is always fresh and the temperature is always just right. So when she visited recently and stepped out of her car, she about fell into a small heap in our driveway because breathing humid Missouri summer air is not for the faint of heart.

Or the faint of hair.

So let's hear it for all the food bloggers and dietitians who willingly volunteered to visit the dairy on a hot, humid Saturday morning, knowing full well what it would do to their hair. I mean, hearts. I mean, heat. It was hot.

Ok. C'mon, guys. Just clap.



(And while you're at it, please give a gentle, quiet "Hooray!" -- we don't want to startle them after all -- for the cows, who start feeling heat stress in about January and don't get a break from it until the following December. Well, not quite. But let's just say they love water misters and fans in the summer as much as kids love a good water park. More maybe.)

Thanks to our friends at Midwest Dairy,  we were able to host these brave blogging souls on a warm day in June, giving them a chance to see where their food comes from up close and personal. Like, so personal a calf could suck on their fingers personal. (Sorry for my white legs. My spiritual gift is getting sunburned without tanning. Clearly.)



Our merry band of bloggers got to see baby calves, only a couple of hours old, and hear from my farmer how we care for the littlest animals on the farm. Between the calves and our multitude of kittens, everybody would have been fine being done at that point.

BUT WE PERSEVERED.

And by that I mean that we kindly nudged them on to meet some of the older heifers and the mama cows who took time out of their lunch to pose for photographs.

#2780 showing off her best side.

(Let's face it: Every girl has a best side.)

 

We rounded out the tour with a trip through the commodity shed to see what our cows eat, explain how our nutritionist tweaks the ration, talk about what silage is and discover why it's an important part of a cow's diet.

After that, we headed back to the shop to guzzle a bathtub full of water (Did you know that's about how much water a cow drinks in a day? Almost 35 gallons! And here you thought your eight glasses of water were good . . . ) and enjoy a meal together, surrounded by silage choppers and wrenches and flies because that's what life is like on a real dairy.

Lauren Lane, one of our favorite food bloggers, even made us brownies for dessert, and I'm not saying that I maybe basically skipped lunch and just went straight for the chocolate, but I CAN say that there was one extra pulled pork wrap left over because, well, I maybe basically skipped lunch and just went straight for the chocolate.

Side note: Brownies taste even more fudgy when enjoyed with milk. And because milk is healthy and so wonderfully good for you, you can even have a second brownie if you want. They basically balance each other out.

This is why you need farmers in your life. We can be helpful when you're trying to make important life choices like this. 

 

We're thankful for our social media influencer friends -- whether they're Instagrammers or bloggers or Facebookers or all of the above -- not just because they took time to come to the farm and see how their food is made, but because as farmers, we're busy . . . you know . . . FARMING. And that means we don't always have a lot of free time to chat with every person in the grocery store or on the street about why dairy is such an affordable, healthy food option.

But people like Cara of Streetsmart Nutrition and Lauren of Lauren Lane Culinarian do. They have the gift of story telling, photography, research and knowing their followers so that they can share information with them in a helpful and winsome way.

 So when a Lauren or a Cara or a Steph of KC Cheeses or Shanna from Wellness for the Win want to know or be reminded of see for themselves where their food comes from, and when, seeing how we care for our animals and land and each other, they believe as strongly as we do about milk and butter and cream and eggs, they help us tell our story in really fun ways.

And we are -- and remain -- grateful for that.


Photos courtesy Wheat Photography

A set of mule deer in aisle 3, please.

Does anyone have a pair of tigers? Maybe a set of lemurs? Because if it doesn't stop raining, I am full-on prepared for the Lord to start encouraging us to build arks and start rounding up animals.

It rains a day. It's dry a day. It rains. It's dry. It's a farmer's nightmare. Too wet to get the rye silage out. Can't get crops planted.

WHERE ARE THE MATCHING BABOONS, LORD, BECAUSE WE ARE READY!

Last year it was a drought. This year it's a flood.

It's just that at least with droughts you get some sunshine now and then. And dust. Usually a lot of dust. But whatever. SUNSHINE.

My farmer -- the optimist -- and I -- the pessimist realist -- saw each other for a few moments in passing last week. "I got a guy mowing and one is merging and I'm chopping and he's tilling and that guy's planting and another's spraying, and there's stuff going on at church, and there's stuff with employees, and the vet's coming tomorrow and the forecast says rain again tomorrow but if we can miss a shower this afternoon, we can at least keep working into the night," he said while chugging down an iced coffee.

Or as I say, "IT'S ALL THE THINGS."

And then he ran back out the door and jumped in his pick-up and the kids and I waved white hankies in his direction like ladies standing at the dock when ocean liners would take off for the other side of the world with their husbands and sons aboard.

Actually, it was a napkin and that's just because someone spilled yogurt on the floor, but the idea was there.

I could tell he was . . . well, we don't use the word "stressed" in our house. We just say we're busy . . . or our plates are full . . . or we're juggling a lot of balls. Because if one thing stresses us out, then it's easy to say something else does, and pretty soon making dinner is stressful or deciding what book to read next is stressful and then basically just doing life is stressful and that's lame.

So let's just say I could tell all the plates available were spinning.

Now, a nicer me would have texted him and said, "You can do this! You didn't get to where you are by letting 87,000 inches of rain and a forecast sent from the underworld itself get you down! I believe in you!"

And there are days for that.

But today he needed his BFF Jocko Willink. Jocko says that there's a two-step process to dealing with stress: (1) detach and (2) don't worry about things you can't control.

You detach yourself from the situation. Is it raining like you're in the midst of a hurricane? Yes. But are you freezing at the Battle of the Bulge? Are you walking with your feet tied in rags like men in the Revolutionary War? No. So stop whining. You don't have it so bad.

And stop fretting about things you can't change. Can you stop the rain? No. So use it to your good. Turn it on itself. Make it your ally.

So like any kind, thoughtful wife, I MPed my farmer and said, "You think you have it bad? You don't. You're not getting your legs blown off. You're not in a foxhole. You're not starving in a concentration camp. Rain has nothing on you!"

I'm helpful like that.

And you know what? By the end of the day, he was happy to report that he had turned the rain into an ally, made some decisions about the future that would make spring time easier in seasons of endless cruddy weather, and had a beer to celebrate his success.

Now, the point of all of this is not to gripe about the rain (ok, but seriously, it can stop any day now) or to claim that Jocko and I made any difference on my farmer's day, but it is to say that the Lord really can use difficult situations for good. I mean, so what if the kids can't play outside again until they're 45? We can still learn from this! And grow! And become more resilient!

There are times for empathy and understanding. And there are times for pushing and prodding and tough encouragement. I'm thankful for a farmer who doesn't let me wallow and who shows me that -- even when all the balls are in the air and someone tosses ten more in -- we don't freeze up or melt down. We embrace the suck. We just lean in and push even harder.

Which is good for him especially, considering he'll need all those muscles to build a house boat for our family to live on until the ground dries out again . . . in roughly 2025.

So here's to soldiering on, chins up, shoulders straight through the tough stuff. It can't last. The sun does come out again. It has to. In fact, it always does.*



*Or so I'm told. 

rye silage

Amy Grant may think that Christmas it the most wonderful time of the year, but at the dairy, we think silage chopping time is actually the best!

Or maybe just the most high energy. 

Ok, fine, Amy. You were right all along. But silage is still a pretty sweet time of year, no matter how many CDs you sold!

Where was I? Oh! What is silage? you're wondering. 

It's ok. I was too the first year. Turns out I have this handsome farmer who is happy to explain. Have a read!

Me: What is silage?

Chris: Silage is harvesting and ensiling a forage. 

Me: Wait. What's a forage? Isn't that what dogs do behind dumpsters?

Agriculture Grows Families

A couple of months ago, Chris had the opportunity to speak at the Missouri Governor's Conference as a representative of the dairy industry. In honor of National Ag Week, I'm sharing his comments here, as one dairy farmer just telling his story. 

 Hi, I’m Chris. I'm a dairy farmer in Missouri.  My wife and I farm together with my parents.  We milk Holstein cows, farm acres of row crops, in addition to raising about  replacement heifers on local pastures.   Now, my wife, she grew up on a hog farm in northwest Iowa.  So, naturally we never, ever argue about which animal is better…about which animal smells better, looks better, tastes better…

As I was thinking about what I wanted to say here today, my thoughts were drawn to my little 11 month old daughter crawling around and to my wife who is carrying our next child due in March.  And I thought about my great grandfather who lost everything in the Great Depression and about my grandpa who started all over again with nothing.  I thought about the five generations before me who have dairy-ed in Missouri; about the challenges they faced, the opportunities they made, the families they built.  

By nature, agriculture draws families; or better put, agriculture grows families.  As a result, many of us in agriculture have been here in Missouri for generations; perhaps one generation, or three generations or six or more.  And each of those generations have seen their fair share of challenges.  They’ve seen droughts and floods; humid, oppressive summers and icy, bone-chilling winters; blights and insects; weeds and failed crops; and a financial or farm crisis or too.  And yet somehow, here we are today.  

Imagine the challenges that those early settlers of Missouri saw as they came up the river or through the forests.  And yet, they saw the potential, the rough forms, the uncut gems that could be someday.  And in the fields, in the forests, in the pastures, in the barns, they sweated and they bled and they dreamed and they seized the opportunities they were given.  Heck, sometimes they made their own opportunities where there were none and built a rich heritage of agriculture in the process.

 

Those are the stories I think about when I think the challenges and opportunities that face my farm and my family and my dairy.  Are there challenges in the dairy industry?  You bet.  Missouri summers are tough, prices have been low, few members of the workforce have dairy experience, and we don’t have the extent of infrastructure that we used to.   

 But we are not without opportunities.  We have plentiful, high quality feed that’s readily available and affordable:  corn silage, soybean-meal, soybean hulls, distiller’s grains, brewer’s grains, corn gluten, cottonseed, alfalfa, and plentiful pasture land.  We have micro-creameries popping up across the state, reintroducing people to specialty dairy products.   We have a good water supply supported by plentiful rainfall.  In the end, though, it’s not about those physical challenges and opportunities; it’s about how we react to them.  

 

The opportunities afforded us go beyond the physical necessities of dairying.  I find that we have a tremendous opportunity to connect with consumers and to help build consumer confidence.  We have the opportunity to strengthen our social license to operate.  People love dairy cows; they love seeing a calf running through a pasture; they love seeing the care and concern that we have for our animals.  People love the story we have to tell, and they love the way our families are interwoven with our farms.  I strongly believe that this is one opportunity that will have a  positive impact upon our industry for decades to come.

Similarly, we have the opportunity to impact our communities through those employees who work on our farms.  Not only does capital flow back into the local community, but so does character.  I strongly believe dairy farming is character-building work…trust me, I grew up scraping manure and chasing calves.  The character that our employees develop…well, they carry that character and work ethic back into their communities, into their churches, into their families.  As I said before, at its core, agriculture grows families.

 

So both opportunities and real challenges are present.  But if our forebears who settled this state could overcome the mammoth challenges, we can too.  I believe the future can be very bright for Missouri dairy, for those who have the eyes to see the opportunities and the fortitude to capitalize on them.  To quote President-Elect Trump: “If you’re going to think, you might as well start thinking big.”

Each of us up here represents a different industry with different opportunities and different challenges. It’s a pleasure to be a part of that agricultural community here in Missouri, and a pleasure to be with all of you here today. 

adopting a calf

Mrs. Miller's kindergarten class adopted one of our calves for the year. They wanted to adopt one through another program, but it turns out that dairy was fresh out of calves.

Taran Killam believes "rural = so stupid"

 

I'm apparently stupid because (a) I'm rural and (b) I have no idea who Taran Killam is, other than that he's a former SNL actor who got flack on election night because he tweeted "rural = so stupid" and then clarified his remark by later tweeting that voting for Donald Trump meant a person was stupid.

Now, Taran.

 Buddy.

I know it was just a little tweet, but I want to clarify something too.

I have two degrees. I use polysyllabic words. I even read The Wall Street Journal every day.

I don't wear bib overalls. I haven't driven around with a dog in the bed of my rusty pick-up, and I've never had Bud Light under a bridge in Daisy Dukes while fishing in the dark.

Or ever actually.

But neither of these sets of characteristics have much to do with being stupid. Just because a person has lots of letters behind his name or an impressive title doesn't mean he's the brightest.

Just because a person has a flashy TV job or a big Twitter following doesn't mean he's the smartest either.

Living in a big city doesn't actually make you a genuis, nor does being progressive or rich or well-traveled.

Plenty of pretty bright people were rural.

Say - oh, I don't know -- George Washington.

Stupidity doesn't come from living in the country. It's a result of failing to engage life or know history, failing to learn from the greats before us or rejecting truth.

Stupidity isn't the result of believing in the Second Amendment, going to church on Sunday and taking walks on gravel roads. Doing loads of my husband's manure-y laundry and owning as many pairs of boots as I do high heels doesn't mean I'm a moron.

Stupidity's a result of thinking small. 

And assuming that because a person lives in a small town or rural setting he's automatically stupid is a pretty myopic view.

I'm not offended by your tweet, Taran. (People use that term way too much in my opinion.)

But I do think you'd be wise to pack up your hatchback and head out of town. Start driving toward Kansas or Iowa or Nebraska. Stop at a farmstead with hog sheds. Pull into a dairy and watch the activity. Con a farmer into giving you a ride in a combine if he's finishing up harvest.

Ask questions. Be inquisitive. Allow curiosity to do its work.

If you do, I'll legit bet the farm you'll discover rural folks aren't stupid just because they're different from you.

And you may -- you just may -- find that you're not as smart as you think either.

Turns out . . . we all have a lot of growing we could do.

Now THAT'S something worth tweeting.

fall weather

The poor weather around here can't make up its mind if it's August or November. 

One day it's 80. The next it's 60. 

My immune system doesn't know if it should ramp up or give up. 

Our Great Pyrenees comes out from the shade of the deck only to turn around and go right back under. 

Not that we're complaining. 

Warm days mean walks on our gravel road and windows open at night to let the cool breeze in. 

It means happy cows and the chance to finish extra projects outside before the snow flies. 

It means a lovely combination of cold peach tea and hot cocoa . . . all in the same day! 

It means trips back to Iowa and to the pumpkin patch, 

sunrises and earlier sunsets, 

fat pumpkins and warm soups and big salads. 

Before we know it, Jack Frost will decorate the windows and farmers will be wearing flannels and vests. 

So for now, we're enjoying the dust whipping up on the gravel roads, planning Thanksgiving meals, pureeing pumpkin from the garden, and the crisp, sweet snap of the first of the pomegranates from the grocery store. 

How are you enjoying this beautiful fall weather? 

good fences make good neighbors

My summertime job in Iowa consisted of working for two widowed sisters who lived in two separate houses on one big farm. I trimmed hedges and painted fences and mowed and pulled weeds. And before my sisters and I would start work each morning, one of the sisters would read poetry to us. (She was a teacher after all.) 

One of her favorites was Robert Frost's "The Mending Wall." 

"He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. 

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder 
If I could put a notion in his head: 
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it 
Where there are cows? 
But here there are no cows. 
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know 
What I was walling in or walling out."

I never understood what "good fences make good neighbors" meant until marrying a dairy farmer.  Good fences keep animals in -- where they're supposed to be -- just as they keep animals out of places where they're NOT supposed to be. 

Animals break through fences now and then. They duck under them and run straight through them. And if they do, everyone stops what they're doing and focuses solely on the lost being found. 

So when I saw black cows -- and not black and white cows -- trotting along our bean field fence line, I called my husband, figuring the farmer they belong to would like them back as quickly as possible before they made lunch out of another neighbor's corn field. 

After leaving the field, the beef mamas and their babies turned back toward home and started trotting down the road, stopping to sniff and listen and look and nudge the calves along. 

It was like the rural version of Rawhide. 

You can sing along. 

You know you want to.

Move 'em on - Head 'em up! - Head 'em up - Move 'em on! - Move 'em on - Head 'em up!

RAWHIDE!

Cut 'em out - Ride 'em in! - Ride 'em in - Cut 'em out! - Cut 'em out - Ride 'em in!

RAWHIDE! 

Ahem. 

Sorry. 

I might have gotten a little carried away here. This is excitement for us rural folk, mmkay?

Right about the time they were trying to decide if they should make a break for it through the corn field or keep on trudging down the road, help arrived! 

It wasn't quite Roy Rogers on Trigger, but it was my farmer and brother-in-law in a red pickup and that's pretty close. 

Using his truck -- and horn -- Chris moved them on down the road (where they tried to rush our house and I hopped up on the deck like a big weeny before getting plowed over), using his truck like a big red gate to keep them from getting too far into the ditch or the field . . . or our lawn. 

I, on the other hand, was trying valiantly to keep my two pups from pretending they were cattle dogs who were trying singlehandedly to cause a stampede with all their barking and darting. Let's just say I didn't really succeed.

Keep movin', movin', movin' - Though they're disapprovin' - Keep them doggies movin'- RAWHIDE!

Gah. I can't help myself. 

Off they toodled down the road, moving at a galatial pace . . . until our dairy cows in our pasture caught wind that their neighbors had vacated the premises. 

Then it because an all out Olympic sprint to the finish. Dairy cows were running. Beef cows were running. Chris's dogs were barking. The neighbor's dogs were barking. The neighbor's horses were whinnying. It was a small circus. Err . . . rodeo?

With others along to help and the gate swung wide open in preparation for their return, the cows made it safely home, back inside their fence. 

"Why do fences make good neighbors? Isn't it where there are cows? But here there are no cows!"

Good fences make good neighbors. But when fences fail, neighbors step in, rounding up livestock, turning them toward home, urging them down the road, and making sure the same number that left arrive back home. 

Aaaaaand maybe signing a chorus or two of Rawhide along the way. 

dads

I'm a firm believer that children need a mom and a dad. 

Certainly there are cases where the mom is left on her own, or where the dad shirks his duty and takes off, or where the dad has passed away. 

But I'm not talking the exceptions. 

I'm talking the rule. 

I know how much I need my dad . . . and I'm 31. 

And I know that Georgia already recognizes her dad and responds to him with smiles and toots and big eyes.

She knows her dad because he's here.  

Because he sings to her. 

He reads to her. 

He prays over and for her. 

He tickles her. 

He smooches her. 

He takes her to church. 

He keeps her safe. 

He comforts her. 

He snuggles her. 

He explains things to her. 

He tells her about her future. 

He describes the puppies and the cows and the chickens to her. 

He works long, hard hours so that her mom can stay home with her. 

He tells her about Jesus and politics and land prices and farm markets and how to build fence and dig tile and why Lent matters. 

And he always has a smile and a kiss for her when he comes in, even after working a 21-hour day. 

I can feed her and change her diaper. 

But she needs her dad. 

And I'm glad the Lord blessed her with this one. 


PHOTO COURTESY KATIE LOCKHART PHOTOGRAPHY 

what we've been up to

January was here and now it's gone. But on the farm, we're still doing what we were doing last month. 

We're kissing a baby, smooching a baby, smiling at a baby, snuggling a baby, staring at a baby . . . all the baby things. 

Meanwhile, the heifers are doing what they were doing in January too: staring down the dogs . . . eating . . . digging the cooler weather . . . 

 . . . running just to run, bellowing at coyotes, behaving themselves for the most part . . . 

but most of all, they're looking forward to spring. And so are we. 

So . . . who's with them?  

I mean, with us?  

paula teen's green tomato chutney

Our garden wasn't much of a garden last year. The rain washed out half the stuff I planted and the leaves on most of the other plants were yellow from . . . you guessed it . . . too much rain.

We had a few tomatoes, some sad-looking corn, a lot of sweet potatoes, a handful of zucchini and about four cucumbers. 

And a lot of grass. 

As we said last summer, "It'll be better next year."

Riiiiight. 

So before the bugs got the tomatoes or the rain washed them away in yet another toad strangler, I whipped up a batch of Paula Deen's green tomato chutney. 

 

Because Missouri is the farthest South I've ever lived, I feel like green tomatoes should be a thing, but frying sort of terrifies me so this is the closest I get. 

Ok, so it wasn't close at all. 

This chutney pairs well with meat, which comes in handy because between our families raising cows and chickens and hogs, we're pretty much set in the meat department around here. 

You can also scoop it up on biscuits or crackers, and pour yourself a glass of wine for a little mid-afternoon snack or pre-supper appetizer. 

Or mid-morning snack, I guess, if it's a really rough day.

It also goes pretty dang well with squash or sweet potatoes, and we love us some sweet potatoes. My farmer usually grows enough to get us through the winter. Just pop a couple of those bad boys in the steamer while you make supper, slather on some chutney and pat your belly in satisfaction. 

Or you can pat your baby. Babies are usually cuter than bellies anyway. Although to be fair, baby bellies are even cuter than regular bellies. 

I'm betting this would even taste pretty good on grilled cheese. And I'm not just saying that because my husband's a dairy farmer. 

But seriously . . . who doesn't love grilled cheese? 

The days are getting longer. The weather will eventually get warmer. Gardeners will start to plan their gardens. And if you're one of them, add an extra tomato plant or two so you can nab the green tomatoes for this chutney. Your squash . . . and even your sandwiches . . . will thank you.