dairy / COVID-19 interview round-up

Dairy farmers have been in the news lately, discussing the issue of, in some places, an oversupply of milk. Exports, restaurants, and schools are shut down and are no longer receiving regular shipments of dairy products. Unprocessed milk can't legally just be given away, and food pantries and food banks aren't set up to receive thousands of gallons of milk anyway. Cold storage is full. So, for some farmers, milk has simply had to go down the drain.

It's hard to get the full story in a brief news segment, but my farmer is doing his best to set the record straight about why it's happening, what people can do in the meantime, and -- the part that often gets left out -- that farmers have known hardship before, dug in, found a solution, and weathered the storm. And the good news? They'll do it again! 

Check out the links below from this past week to see/hear him chat about dairying during corona. (Not to be confused with dairying WITH a Corona, which is probably what most farmers would like to be doing right now.)

KMBC: "For a cow, once you stop milking her there is no restarting." Her milking, that is. Exports, restaurants, schools and the economy, for sure . . . and hopefully soon!

KFUO: You can listen to my farmer and me chat about the vocation of dairy farmer and how COVID-19 has impacted how we're taking care of our team, cows, and neighbors during this time.

FOX 4: "Eat that extra ice cream. Put that extra slice of cheese on your hamburger." Wise words from my husband for any day of the week, but now especially!

KCTV5: Rather than assume that farmers would rather dump milk than give it away, my farmer's encouraging people to learn the facts. "Just assume everyone is doing their best and working to beat this thing."

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

When Imaginations (Fail to) Run Wild

POLL!

Who here loves Lord of the Rings? Or Redwall? The Chronicles of Narnia? 

I'll wait while you leave your vote in the comments below.

True confession?

I don't love any of those -- or any of fantasy-esque books -- at all. Maybe I can give you A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle. Maybe . . . on a good day.

My husband, on the other hand, has always loved that genre of books. He gets lost in them more easily than I get lost without Google Maps in a big city.

And that is very easily.

We tried to figure this out the other day -- why it is that I'm an English major who wrote and edited words for 10 years but who can't get behind books that aren't "believable."

Trees don't walk. Beavers don't talk.

And there's no such thing as an elven language. (Please don't send me hate mail, LOTR people.)

I'm contending that my husband loves that style of book because it follows the quest genre of literature -- the hero who's been displaced and has to contend against hardships and difficulties to find his way back home -- and that that style of writing could potentially resonate better with men because they are problem solvers and fixers who overcome challenges and enjoy it.

The farmer says, "No dice."

Maybe it's because I've been writing for too long and I know the tricks too well. Or perhaps it's because I'm just too tightly wound and can't loosen up enough to let my imagination work in a book of that style. I've been reading biographies and autobiographies and history books since I graduated from college . . . because they are (mostly) factual enough to be believable.

My husband has too, but he also loves to read books that conjure up ideas and images and his imagination, and I'm over in the corner saying, "But it's not real. That's just a literary device meant to draw you in! And how does that split infinitive not drive you nuts? And he just used the same verb three sentences in a row! Mix it up, man!"

#killjoy

So I'm looking for help. How does an adult learn willful suspension of disbelief? I want to like that style. I'm just, well, failing at it.

Do I need to try the audio version of one of these books? Stop being so analytical? Hope that my enjoyment of this genre develops as I read these books to my kids?

Please advise, rebuke, encourage. Whatever it takes. I'm listening!

(And reading . . . just not the classics apparently. So please send help.)

thankful for farmers -- and especially mine

 

Pregnancy teaches you a lot about your husband. (It also teaches you a lot about donuts and why women hate scales, but that's neither here nor there.)

  

My husband is a busy farmer. He manages employees and cows and crops and machinery. He works at his desk at home before he goes to his desk at work. He works at his desk at night after he gets home from working at work. He tracks data and runs reports. He does research and recon. He works with nutritionists and dairy science professors and seed salesmen. He buys hay and heifers.  

 

And in the midst of it all, he takes care of me and our little girl and never, ever complains. He chases her while I put the supper dishes away and reads her books and helps her pick up her toys before she goes to bed. And she -- and I -- love every minute. 

I mean, on Valentine's Day, this guy bought me flowers . . . AND CHOCOLATE MILK . . . AND ICE CREAM because he is just that thoughtful. 

He tells me to put my feet up at night, and when I'm editing articles in the evenings and whining about contractions, he grabs his computer and sits next to me and keep refilling my water. 

He even sends me off to get pedicures and insists I get Panera mango smoothies and mac and cheese while I'm there. (Sir, yes, sir. No arguments from me!) 

 

I just keep his clothes clean, dinner on the table, his favorite book next to his chair, the toys picked up and a bottle of wine ready after an especially long day. 

It seems like a very small thank you in return for all he does for us. 

(But I did sneak him some chocolate in the form of his F-150 on Valentine's Day. That seemed like a farmer-appropriate gift. And this truck didn't even have two dogs in the back or manure on the tires!)

I try to tell him this on a routine basis, but I really, truly am thankful for all he does. From cows to chicken coops, from black and white Labs to black and white Holsteins, from soybeans to oats to corn, from planting to harvest, from Cat wheel loaders to Deere silage choppers, to taking care of my large pregnant self to reading to our daughter, he packs a lot of life into each day and he does it selflessly for us.

As wonderful as flowers are, my farmer's care for us -- at his own expense -- is at the top of my thank-you list. 

And I suspect at the top of the cows' list too. :) 

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.

the wrapping party that wasn't

Phooey on you, weather. 

I grew up in Iowa where blizzards on Halloween weren't abnormal. But now that I live farther south, I've gotten soft. I expect the roads to be passable, snow to be minimal, and Decembers to be barely chilly. 

Not so this weekend.

tillage radishes

I must forewarn you: My knowledge of radishes is vast. Wide. Deep. Unending. 

And by that I mean that I know that (1) I don't like the taste of radishes and (2) my dad loves to eat the little red ones sliced up and layered on a piece of white buttered bread. 

So there you have it: my wealth of information on radishes . . . in one sentence. 

thanksgiving 2016

I'll never forget the Thanksgiving that I woke up and realized my left eye was swollen to the size of a ping pong ball and people from church were coming over for the meal. 

Ahh. 

Memories. 

     

 This year, my farmer and I hosted Thanksgiving for the first time. We felt like grown-ups.

And none of our eyeballs were swollen.

I'd consider that a success.

As a child, I spent a fair amount of Thanksgivings watching my mom whip up delicious meals in her red kitchen or staying out of my grandma's way while she made dish after dish after dish. It was like the food never stopped coming when it came to either one of them. 

One of my grandma's staples, and a favorite of mine because we never had it at home, was creamed corn. I was convinced no one could make it like my grandma could. 

Until one Thanksgiving I saw her pouring creamed corn out of a can. 

OUT OF A CAN. My world was upended.

I had no idea such deliciousness could just be gotten at the grocery store. It changed everything. 

So what we've learned thus far is this . . . normal-sized eyes and creamed corn: It doesn't take much to keep me happy. 

Beforehand we had wine and a charcuterie board with salami and Vermont cheddar and olives and goat cheese.  

We also nibbled on a new tradition: the Thanksgiving pumpkin cheeseball.

And by "tradition," I mean this is the second year I've made it. Does that make it an annual cheeseball now?

And really, isn't the goal of any appetizer just to hold your guests over long enough so that you can finish the rest of the meal? 

Or try to salvage the turkey if you wrecked it?

Both maybe?

    

Thankfully, these appetizers were just for fun. Once we prayed, we started passing the good stuff.

We started with a spinach and pear and pomegranate salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, and creamed corn.

Not the can kind.

The kind that involved three sticks of butter and two cream cheeses.

Sorry, arteries.

My farmer did a bang-up job of cooking an Alton Brown-approved turkey, and our dogs though the neck and the carcass were the best Thanksgiving feast they'd ever had.

So everyone came away a winner on that front.

We also had butternut squash and cranberries with honey and cinnamon and feta . . . and some sweet potatoes from our garden thrown in for good measure. 

It was like farm to table . . . except we were still on the farm so . . . farm to farm?

Did I mention the turkey was super moist? Alton Brown's theory is to go high heat--as in, 500--for a short time to basically sear the skin and hold all the juice in. And it worked. 

We had a cranberry-walnut-apple salad, green beans wrapped in bacon, stuffing, rolls and pumpkin cornbread, deviled eggs, a heart attack. 

Whoops. How'd that last one sneak in there? 

And maybe don't ask me if I got juice from the cranberries and apples all over the front of my cupboards--the night before Thanksgiving--while I was grinding the two in my KitchenAid.

Because I totally didn't. Not at all. 

I didn't even contemplate sitting down on the floor and crying. Not even for a second. 

I'm also a really bad liar.  

We moved past the cranberry and apple juice incident by eating delicious desserts, because when you've eaten your allowable caloric intake by the time you get through the mashed potatoes and pumpkin cornbread, why not go for the gold?

We had a hot cocoa bar, even though we were basically all so stuffed at that point that the thought of more decadent calories made us want to . . . well . . . let's just say we were full. 

    

We also gorged ourselves on slices of pecan and pumpkin pie, chewy brownies with hunks of dark chocolate, and a salted caramel pumpkin cheesecake, which the recipe swore wouldn't develop a crack if I left the oven door closed for an hour and a half after baking. 

It promised. 

IT LIES. 

But better than all of that, we gave thanks for one another, learned more about our family traditions, and even managed to talk theology and the election . . . and no one slung mashed potatoes or flipped the table or tossed a glass of wine . . . or went home with a bugged out eyeball. 

Sometimes, even on Thanksgiving, it's the little things.

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.