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?

the eggs and I

Remember last APRIL when we got our chicks in the mail? Like, you know, FOREVER AGO?

Also, I'm using caps lock a lot in this post because of the fact that it's ELEVEN MONTHS LATER and we FINALLY got ONE egg. 

Ok, I'll stop. 

NOT. 

Turns out all that clucking going on actually produces results. Really pretty results!

Also, I may have just done a happy dance when I found the first egg.

Literally.

In a chicken coop. 

Don't judge. 

I don't think you people realize how I was pretty much giving up all hope that these birds would ever lay an egg.

We started out with five hens and a rooster and now we're down to three hens and no rooster. 

It's a long story. 

A long, painful story. 

As in, remind me to tell you about the time I almost ran over a chicken with my car. Gah. The memory is still painful. But honestly, how did she NOT SEE ME COMING?

There I go with the caps lock again. 

Let's just rejoice that the lost has been found, shall we?

So bring on the omelettes and made-from-scratch cakes. WE HAVE EGGS!

Caps lock . . . signing off. 

the puppies are here! the puppies are here!

Some states call it Super Tuesday because of politics. Here on the farm, it was Super Tuesday too. But not because of Donald Trump's inability to articulate a thought or Hillary's angry rants. Our Tuesday was super because . . . Petunia had puppies!

Last year, Chris found me another Great Pyrenees. We took an afternoon road trip to pick Petunia up, and she curled up in a little ball on my lap and slept the whole way home. That sealed the deal. 

See how cute she was? So tiny. So happy. So little! 

Now she's the size of a small horse. 

See the two puppies in the back? The one on the right is Winchester, and he's half Great Pyrenees. He's now a proud papa. 

Colt, on the left, is Petunia's faithful sidekick Colt, half Shar Pei. But bless his heart, he'll never be a dad. Let the reader understand.

You can see more pictures of their adorable puppy cuteness here. 

So with Blackjack the lab and Winchester running around the farm, Petunia was basically destined to be a mom. And from the looks and sounds of things a couple of months ago, there was no way she couldn't be. 

Doesn't she look like pretty much any mom who has just given birth? Exhausted. Bleary eyed. Hungry. And yet still pretty magnificent!

Chris took a look at Petunia a few days ago and pronounced that it would happen any day. And he wasn't kidding. 

One moment she was shuffling along the deck, dropping treats out of her mouth and then slobbering on them, as is her custom. 

And the next minute, she was nosing at a pile of little puppies that were busy making itty bitty kitty sounds. 

For now, they are tucked up under the deck, sleeping, eating and snuggling. Mama Petunia growls at any dog who gets close and is grateful for any head scratches we have to offer. 

Donald Trump may be busy building walls and Hillary can pant suit with the best of them, but over here, with six puppies, three chickens, 650 cows, a pasture full of heifers and four dogs, pretty much every day is Super Tuesday. And, as with most of farm life, we vote yes.

My name is Adriane and I approve of this message. 

pioneer woman's chicken pot pie

I can't function in chaos. I can't leave dirty dishes in the sink at night. I can't leave laundry unfolded before going to bed. The counter has to be cleaned off. The coffee maker has to be set to go on the next morning at 5:30 a.m. I have to clean my desk off at the end of the day, even if it's just to stack papers in a pile. I just reeeeeeally can't handle chaos . . . or disorder . . . at all. 

So when it was getting close for Baby Heins to arrive, I decided to do myself a favor and eliminate the chaos before it started by putting some meals in the freezer. Double a meal. Freeze one in a disposable pan. Voila. Disorder averted. Or at least reduced.

Pioneer Woman's Chicken Pot Pie was just the ticket. 

Upside: I cooked one of our chickens for this recipe and got to feel all Ma Ingalls-ish.

Downside: We actually ate one of the pot pies before it made it to the freezer. 

Oops. 

Thus the part where you have to double the meal in order to have some to eat later. 

Chris grilled hamburgers to freeze. I made soup and some fettucini and a couple of casseroles and taco meat, some bread, even a pound cake because who doesn't need some dessert now and then after they've just spent all day smooching baby cheeks?

The pot pie, however, has been the big hit. A half a stick of butter. White wine. Heavy cream. I think you understand. Heck, you can even buy yourself a pie crust from the grocery store if you don't want to make your own. 

{Don't worry. Making pie crusts terrifies me too.}

So if you're like me and can't stand chaos, or if you're just hungry for chicken and veggies, or if you like cream and wine, or if you just want to whip up a meal and freeze that thing like nobody's business, this is your recipe. 

No disorder necessary!   

winner, winner, chicken . . . ?

We had a little . . . incident . . . over the weekend. It involved a chicken . . . and a dog . . . and lots and lots of feathers. 

Our chickens apparently find their coop completely and utterly LAME because they like to fly out and free range it on a routine basis. Their new favorite is to roost on top of the grain bin. Turns out those birds can get some serious flight. And height.

What one couldn't get, though, was a break. She wandered across the lawn, over the lane, up the yard and near the deck, pecking the ground along the way. 

And then it happened. Or so I assume. I just heard clucking. Lots of clucking. 

I looked out the window and saw one dog come around the corner and trot right toward the chicken, who took it upon herself to fly down the stairs, which would have been a perfectly good escape route if  . . . another dog hadn't been waiting at the bottom of the stairs. 

This dog. This sweet little half Great Pyrenees, half Lab right here. This one. Winchester. 

The chicken might have had a chance had the two dogs not been so strategically positioned. But as it stands, she didn't. Have a chance, that is. It's like they planned it.

Well, I'm sure you can imagine how this turned out. 

And if you can't, let's just say: Dogs are dogs. And farm dogs are most definitely farm dogs. 

I proceeded to chase Winchester through the yard -- as much as a pregnant lady can chase a dog -- yelling, "Drop!" as though he would (a) know what that command meant since I've never used it before because he's never nabbed a chicken before and (b) actually listen. 

To no avail. 

And then there were four. 

Well, almost three. One of the Black Stars decided to take her chances and walked right into the pile of three dogs lounging in the yard. 

Not the brightest. 

She lived to see another day, but only after barricading herself behind a feed bag and then probably passing out due to fright. 

That whole free-range thing? Not so much for us. Or the chickens. 

But I'll tell you one thing: The dogs loved it! 

day 20 of farmacology: our chickens are cray cray

One of the things you may not know about farm folks is that

we have crazy chickens.  

We have five chickens: three Red Stars and two Black Stars. They haven't started laying yet, but we're banking on them producing any day now.

Ok, so we've been saying that for a month. 

But this time we mean it. 

And they apparently do too, because in the last week, they've discovered that their pen can't contain them anymore. 

First, one Black Star learned she could quite literally fly the coop. 

Then, just as quickly, she learned that puppies find wandering chickens a lot of fun to chase. 

Then she learned that if she darted under the electric fence into the pasture, the puppies would leave her alone. 

Now she pretty much fancies herself a heifer. 

And two of her friends aren't far behind. I looked outside yesterday to see three newly free-range, cage-free chickens and . . . 

one snoozing Great Pyrenees. Some livestock guardian SHE is.

This morning, the three chickens were back out again and darting in and out between puppies and heifers. The heifers chase the chickens out of the pasture. The dogs chase them back in. No wonder they don't have any time to lay eggs. 

Crazy chickens. 

day 16 of farmacology: life by the seasons

One of the things you may not know about farm folks is that

we are all about the seasons. 

Farmers' lives revolve around the seasons. Spring. Planting. Fall. Harvesting. Winter. Snow Removal. Summer. Sweat. 

Nobody knows the weather -- and thus the seasons -- better than a farmer. 

Except maybe the farmer's wife, who keeps just as close an eye on the weather radar to know when to deliver lunch or when rain might keep him home for an afternoon or two. 

So while some people might say that these two pictures were taken two years apart, one in 2013 and one in 2015, we'd say they were taken three corn silages, 1800 calves, one oat silage, three new dogs, one big mustache, two rye silages and a rooster later. 

And either way, we'd all be right. 

Want to read more of my 31 day farmacology writing challenge? Click here. 

day 9 of farmacology: naming animals

  

One of the things you may not know about farm folks is that

sometimes we name our animals; sometimes we don't.

I was homeschooled for a couple of years before I headed off to school. Whenever any kid found out my dad was a hog farmer, he inevitably asked, "Do you name your pigs?" 

I always thought that was a weird question. It wasn't because giving names to animals was awkward. It was because, well, how did people expect me to tell the difference between all those identical-looking pink pigs?

A few did have names. One sick pig got the distinct pleasure of hearing 8- or 9-year-old me read Charlotte's Web outloud. I perched on a footstool next to her while she recovered, thinking I was a pretty good nurse, although perhaps my literary selection could have been slightly more helpful. Her name was Princess. 

We don't name all our cows today, but sometimes we do. There's Snout, Lucy, Snowflake, Snickers, Reba, Ruby, Queen Mother, Talulah, Clementine, Gandalf, the General, Dorothy Lynch . . . Some also have numbers, and my farmer can recall many of those digits just as quickly as he can a name. 

We have a whopping six chickens at our house right now. Our rooster's name is Horace, but the five hens have no names. We've had well-named cats too, like . . . Truck Kitty and . . . Little Kitty. (Ok, so we struggle in the cat moniker department.)

And that's not even mentioning the four canines who keep all coyotes, mailmen, falling leaves and raccoons at bay. 

Some farmers name all their animals. Some don't. Some, like us, go for the combo approach.

But if you come to the farm, and you spot a calf that you think is just downright adorable, tell us her number and give us her name. 

We'll remember both. We promise. 

Want to read more of my 31 day farmacology writing challenge? Click here. 

day 4 of farmacology: what do farmers eat?

One of the things you may not know about farm folks is that

we don't just eat meat and potatoes. 

I mean, I'd be fine eating steak and cheesy, buttery, herby mashed potatoes all week long, but we don't. Usually. 

A farmer's day usually entails a lot of physical labor, so it's not surprising that meat and potatoes are staples. Carb up and protein on! 

But we also actually also like wine and cheese, and BBQ and sweet potato fries, and butternut squash and alfredo-stuffed shells, and chicken enchiladas and homemade salsa (which I may or may not generally make just a shade too hot). 

We eat casseroles. We eat jello. We drink milk with our supper. 

But we also like jambalaya, and beet galettes with thyme and gorgonzola, and tangy sauces in chicken wraps, and edamame a hint of garlic and just a bit of salt and pepper. 

We're not foodies, but we do pay attention to what people are eating. After all, we produce food, and we're not going to sell a product we don't love ourselves. 

So don't be surprised when you come over for supper if we dish you up some Iowa corn chowder -- complete with a cup or two of cream -- or some steaks from cows we've raised, or Cowboy Caviar with corn from our garden. 

We like the staples, but we like our spinach tortellini soup too. So what if we have to eat an entire pot in one sitting to get us through the rest of the afternoon's work? There's always meat and potatoes for supper.  

Want to read more of my 31 day farmacology writing challenge? Click here. 

  

this week (Sept. 14, 2015}

This week, we are learning that Doris is actually Horace. 

Unless, of course, hens are known for crowing at 5:30 a.m. every morning. 

Then there's really nothing to report. 

living in the south and eating jambalaya

Every few months, my farmer and I like to have this discussion where I try to convince him that living in Missouri = living in the South and then he tries to tell me that living in Missouri = living in the Midwest. 

Then I point out that people here have accents and drink sweet tea and it's basically case closed. 

In my mind anyway. 

It seemed fitting then that the last time we visited a used second-hand bookstore, I came home with a Paula Deen cookbook and immediately started stocking up on butter. 

I mean, we're dairy farmers, after all.

My goal this summer has been to use up food in our pantry and our freezer, and with smoked sausage patiently waiting to be thawed, Paula's jambalaya just had to be. 

I will confess that I didn't add the shrimp the recipe called for, namely because (1) we didn't have it and (2) ewww. Chicken would be  a perfectly lovely substitute, but I didn't take the time to cook one and shred it because I'm a bum like that.

Speaking of shredding chicken: You know the trick about cooking chicken breasts in your crock pot and then putting them in the mixer and letting the mixer shred them, right? Works like a dream. Better, even. 

So between some spicy jambalaya and some non-existent chicken, while I'm out of town this week, my farmer will be eating his fair share of Paula's classic dish, some lemon-garlic tilapia with asparagus risotto and . . . 

salads. Because sometimes when you've worked outside all day in abnormally warm September weather, a big class of lemonade and a taco salad hit the spot. 

And you know why? 

Because WE LIVE IN THE SOUTH. 

Of course. 

I'm glad we can agree. 

What are you chowing down on this week?

Paula Deen's Jambalaya 

1 cup long-grain white rice

3 T dried minced onion

1 T dried parsley flakes

1 T beef bouillon granules

1/2 tsp. dried thyme

1/2 tsp. garlic powder

1/2 tsp. black pepper

1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper

1/4 tsp. salt

1 bay leaf

1 can diced tomatoes

1 can tomato sauce

1/2 pound fully cookie smoked sausage, cut into 1/4-inch slices

3/4 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined

1. In a medium bowl, combine the rice, onion, parsley flakes, bouillon, thyme, garlic powder, black pepper, cayenne pepper, salt and bay leaf. 

2. IN a Dutch oven, combine the rice mixture, 2 1/2 cups water, tomatoes, tomato sauce and sausage. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce to a simmer and cook, stirring occasionally until the rice is tender, about 20 minutes. 

Add the shrimp (or chicken) and cook until just opaque, 5-7 minutes; discard the bay leaf. Dish it up while it's hot! 

from farm to freezer

 These are the faces of a husband and wife who have vowed not to raise broilers again until they have children old enough and in need of chores. 

layers vs. broilers

While our little Red Star and Black Star layers are busy learning how to roost on top of pretty much everything they can get their wings on, 

 

our Cornish X Rocks are getting huuuuuge. They eat a pound. They gain a pound. They eat another pound. They gain a pound. Basically, they're me on vacation.

outdoor chickens

I will never be one of those Instagram ladies who put diapers on their chickens and then lets them crawl on their shoulders and sleep on beautiful vintage quilts in their bedrooms. 

People do that. To chickens. 

chicken and veggies and more chicken

It could be that I have chicken on the brain. 

Or that the garden is finally producing some fresh veggies. 

Or that we eat a lot of beef as dairy people and mixing it up never hurts. 

Or that I just want a reason to sit out on the patio and look out over the fields and eat and eat and eat. 

Because I like chicken . . . and eating. 

awkward teenage chickens

Remember those cute, yellow, fluffy, little balls of chickens that we picked up at the post office just a couple of weeks ago? They've now successfully entered their awkward teenage phase of life where their legs are too long, their feathers aren't full and they want to fly but can't really figure out how.

puppypalooza 2015

Here on the farm, our motto is, "If one puppy is good, three are better."

That's actually not our motto at all. But when we lost our Great Pyrenees Wally a few weeks ago, we were pretty convinced that a farm couldn't be a farm if there wasn't a dog the size of a small horse roaming around. 

And so, on Saturday, we got little Petunia. 

when chickens come in the mail

My uncles recently reminded me that when my grandpa was raising turkeys, he'd keep three flocks of 5,000 birds a piece.  

I'm an English major who can barely count, but I'm pretty sure that still equals about 15,000 birds. 

EVERY YEAR. 

ordering chickens

When I was six, I slipped in a pile of wet chicken poop, and my middle sister Lauren laughed at me.

It was raining, and our seventy-five chickens were in their fenced-in little yard, pecking around in the dirt outside the chicken house. “Get outside,” Mom ordered us. “Run those chickens in.” 

Nobody wants to deal with muddy, wet, sad birds. Nobody. It’s just downright pitiful.