This one reminds me of how important it is to dream, and then how important it is to realize when those dreams have come true.
I am awash in milk. I suppose somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that goats were capable of producing a lot of milk, but it didn’t really hit me until I looked at several days’ worth of milk in the fridge and realized Dulcinea was giving me nearly a gallon of milk a day. That’s a lot when you think that your average dairy goat is about the size of a Springer Spaniel. This milkmaid had better get her apron on and learn to use goat milk for worthy causes.
Three days’ worth of milk
I ordered cheesemaking starter cultures from Ricki Carrol’s New England Cheesemaking Supply Company. www.cheesemaking.com. This is a great site to look at even if you have no plans on making cheese. If you’re interested in how cheese is made, watch the videos on Carrol’s web site, which is really cute and fun. It is really amazing what good bacteria can do for us. I also ordered a yogotherm, which is a giant thermos for making soft cheeses, kefir and yogurt, some cheese molds. While I waited for the goods to get here I read Ricki Carrol’s book Home Cheese Making, which is considered to be the bible of home cheesemaking. I’ve made mozzarella before, but never anything with goat milk. So when the stuff finally arrived I tackled Fromage Blanc first. Fromage Blanc is a fresh cheese that can be easily made in 12 to 24 hours in the yogotherm. Once you strain the whey off, the final product looks and tastes a bit like cream cheese. You can flavor it savory or sweet. Use it for dips, spreads, pasta toppings or desserts. You can put it in omelets or gratins or cheesecakes. Best of all you use it to make this lovely French dessert called Coeur a La Creme, which is drained in a heart-shaped mold (I bought one of the molds online in anticipation of making this). I made honey and orange zest fromage blanc to put on pancakes.
Here is my Orange and Honey Fromage Blanc
I have since made a mother culture for chevre goat cheese. No time yet to make it (thankfully goat milk freezes well for cheesemaking) but hope to this week.
The other thing I made was a Mexican caramel sauce called cajeta. Cajeta is to Mexico what Nutella is to the French. It’s goat milk, sugar, a little bit of corn starch and baking soda. You dump it all in a big pot and stir over heat for about…oh, say, three hours. Yeah, it took a long time. Pull up a stool and sit by the stove, kind of a deal. The water evaporates and the milk solids cook down to caramalize. The result is the very tasty cajeta. You can pour it over ice cream or waffles, stir it into coffee, or just eat it out of the jar with spoon (highly recommend this last method). I processed the jars in my canning kettle because one gallon of milk made a lot!
I also made butter, which felt a lot like alchemy. I skimmed off the cream from the milk, let it “ripen” on the counter for a few hours, and then shook it for about ten minutes in a plastic storage bowl. It’s really fun because it sloshes first, then goes silent (when the cream is whipped) and then you hear the water sloshing again as the buttermilk separates from the fat, then a plopping noise as the butter comes together. After that happens you pour off the buttermilk (yum!) and then rinse the fat with ice water and press it with a spoon. You do this stage again and again and again until you have a lump of butter left. You mix in some cheese salt and form it into balls or whatever you like. I felt like a real magician after I made this batch of butter:
This is the last stage after I pushed out all the buttermilk
The finished product!
I have also made two kinds of goat milk ice cream: strawberry honey, and wild bramble berry and fromage blanc. I forgot to take a picture.
It never ceases to amaze me that I can make food for myself and my family by taking care of my animals and my crops. Cheesemaking seemed like an impossible thing to do but Ricki Carrol has this quote hanging at her cheesemaking school. It’s from Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll (Ha! Didn’t think I’d get a literary reference in here, did you?):
Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said: “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
As you can possibly surmise by the heading of this blog post that something is going on. Well, it is. Hobby farming has become a constant challenge. I find that lately, nearly every day, it’s another case of “on the job training.” Learning on the job can be a great thing if you have a good instructor, but if you’re winging it solo…well, I have to say it can be a little bit daunting.
Last week I went to inspect my bees on a very hot day to check all was well. The week before I had added another box to the hive, which is important to do to create enough space for a healthy, growing bee hive. Trouble is I waited a little too long…and the bees did not like that. So they did what all bees do when there is no more elbow room. They reproduce a new queen, take the old queen, and swarm. Yes, swarm. I don’t know about you but the word swarm (italics seem appropriate at this moment) freaks me out just a wee bit. So all seemed well when I inspected my hive until my husband pointed out the huge watermelon-sized object clinging to the trunk in a nearby cherry tree that looked a LOT like a whole bunch of bees. Upon further inspection, we realized it was. Dimly in my memory, I remembered reading in my book, Beekeeping for Dummies, that swarming was an awesome sight–if the bees weren’t yours doing the swarming. The book basically pointed out that poor you, if they do swarm, poor, poor you. I called the local bee guy (whose number was on a jar of honey I bought from him at the farmer’s market) and, trying to keep from screeching out loud, asked him the following: um, what-do-you-do-if-there-is-a-big-ball-of-bees-in-a-tree-are-they-mine-or-what-will-they-go-back-in-the-hive? He replied: those are your bees. Go get them. I paused, cleared my throat and squeaked out…”But I’m scared.” After a little pause, this guy I never met in my life delivered some sage advice. He said: ” Get a grip. Experienced beekeepers wouldn’t even put a bee suit OR a veil on because the bees will not sting you. You took up beekeeping because you like bees, so man up and go out there and get your bees.!”
These are not my bees. I was too freaked out to take a picture. But basically this is what I was dealing with. They looked just like this.
The upshot was, If I didn’t get the bees then they’d be gone to greener pastures in the morning or within the hour, depending upon how quickly the scout bees found a new home. Not being an “experienced beekeeper” I put everything bee-related on that I owned, “manned up” and went out to “get my bees.” As per the bee guy’s advice, I took a box out with me to catch the bees and then used my bee brush to knock them out of the trees. Bees filled the air, humming and buzzing. I dumped what I had caught on a bed sheet in front of my hive, and just as he predicted, they started to go back into the hive. The other four thousand or so bees I didn’t catch went back into the tree. So I called the bee guy again. He said, “HIT the tree really hard the whole ball will fall out of the tree and into the box. Don’t be wimpy about it.” So after dinner I went back out and all the bees had left the tree for the hive apart from a small ball in the box, which I dumped in front of the hive. Crisis over. They have stayed in the hive and not swarmed again. Even though I was scared I was really proud of myself. For crying out loud, I captured and rehived a swarm of bees! The fact that my knees were knocking and I was scared beyond scared made it so much better. I did it myself despite the fear. And of course I learned my lesson and got prepared. My father built me another hive just in case they swarm again I will put them in their new digs.
My second major challenge has involved milking my doe, Dulcinea. My vet’s wife, Donna, told me I had to wean the kids from her. She was getting to skinny and the kids were draining her of all her nutrition. So I had to start milking, which I am not that good at. First fresheners (meaning does new to the milking scene) can be tricky. So green goat and green milkmaid probably isn’t the best combination. And it turns out that Dulcinea is every milkmaid’s nightmare–she is a kicker. She kicks like a mule. She turned over several milk buckets and nearly took my head off once. A tearful milkmaid is not a pretty sight. I wondered whether this milking lark was for me. Maybe I found my Nemesis at last. Then the stubborn part of me reared up and gave me the bee guy’s lecture–“oh, really? Millions of people can milk a goat/cow. Do you think you missed the milkmaid gene or something? Now man up and go milk your goat!”
This time I consulted the internet where I discovered a nifty invention called goat hobbles. Basically goat handcuffs. $10, thank you. Ordered and done. Until they arrived I made my own handcuffs out of bed sheets and they worked great. Let me say that I don’t blame the goat for kicking one bit. She didn’t ask to be milked, but we all have a job to do and that job is hers to do. But it’s up to me to make her happy to be milked. I make sure when I milk her that she has plenty of grain to eat, I keep my nails short so I don’t accidentally poke her, I turn on the fan to keep her cool and flies away, and I give her a treat at the end. Most of all, I make sure to keep my mind completely on the job. I stay calm and quiet. And I noticed in the past few days she’s been pretty good. But I don’t think I’ll take the handcuffs off yet.
Goat hobbles with my handmade “guy wires” to keep her legs where they belong. Aww, bless her.
Hobby farming is a lot like writing. Both pursuits force you to come up against yourself, to challenge you to step outside your comfort zone a little bit and do something you’ve never done before. Sometimes you fail and sometimes you don’t, but you always learn something that makes you a better farmer or writer the next time the problem comes around. So I will try never to feel defeated. There is always a solution, help at hand, or…even…goat hobbles to be had!
I think this passage from Winnie-the-Pooh is very fitting:
One day when he was out walking, Winnie-the-Pooh came to an open place in the forest and in the middle was a large oak-tree, and, from it came a loud buzzing noise.
Winnie-the-Pooh sat down, put his head between his paws and began to think.
First of all he said to himself: “That buzzing noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. The only reason for making a buzzing noise that I know if is because you’re a bee.”
I agree with you, Mr. Pooh. Now bear up and go get your bees!
The Oregon Trail Museum: Campsite
No, we are not moving to the Northwest. I just thought the title of the blog post was quite apt in light of the past two weeks here on Comfort Farm. We went out west on a tour in early June and we went to the Oregon Trail Museum in Wyoming. They had one of those interactive exhibits where you get a little taste of what it felt like to “ride” a wagon pulled by oxen over rough and tumbly ground to arrive at a campground where one of the wagon train members ‘busted.’ Busted meant exactly that. Their wagon broke and someone was injured. Bad luck. Very bad luck, indeed.
The Oregon Trail was a 2,000 mile east-west wagon route that went from the Mississippi valleys to Oregon. It took four to six months on foot to get to the end of the trail. In 1843 there was a migration to claim free government land out west. Back in those days there were no hardware stores or general stores to speak of to buy new supplies if something should go awry en route. There were several forts sprinkled along the trail where you could find help, but largely you had to swallow hard, gather what things you had left, rely on the generosity of the rest of your group and try to make it the rest of the way as best you can. Oh, and there was a large cholera outbreak back then too. Thousands died and were buried in unmarked graves along the way. It was truly a tough and emotional journey.
So how does that relate to us? When we got home we found a beautifully cared for farm, everything humming away nicely, a wonderful job done by my niece, her boyfriend, and my brother. But the next day it all went to pot. Everything broke. Everything. Sump pump, electric fence (goats frolicking to carefree abandon), lawn mower (twice), a few small electronic items broke, the basement flooded during a torrential rainstorm…! And it went on. Of course, we bought replacement parts at the farm store and the hardware store, called on our friends and family to help and muddled through. But during all of this I couldn’t help but think of those pioneers on the Oregon Trail trying desperately to make it in one piece. I had nothing on them. My farm is for fun and enjoyment. Not for survival. If my equipment breaks we can fix it. If my blueberries get eaten by crows or my squash crops fail, well, my family isn’t going to starve. I can go to any orchard, farmers market or grocery store in my car and buy what I need. Sure it won’t be mine, and yeah, it stinks that all that hard work came to nothing, but honestly, we’ll be just fine.
It’s busted, but it’s only temporary!
So this summer if the racoons get all your sweet corn or if your lawn tractor breaks, pause for a moment to honor those early Americans who were hoping for a better life along the Oregon Trail.
Jumping off! Here we go! (Love that poke bonnet!)
Here’s a great site about the oregon trail if you want to learn more: http://www.isu.edu/~trinmich/Oregontrail.html
When I took up beekeeping this spring several of my friends looked at me like I had decided to take up snake charming. But really, the honeybee is a gentle creature (if unprovoked and you don’t do anything stupid to provoke them) away from the hive and will go to great lengths to avoid people and animals. They only get aggressive if they feel they need to protect the hive (story about this on another post so watch this space!). I have one Warre hive, which is a hive created for natural beekeeping. Basically the hive is similar to a hollowed-out log (although it is a beautiful thing and a work of art. Mine was handmade by my father, who is a luthier) so the bees draw their own comb. The idea is that bees have been doing their thing for thousands of years and they really don’t need a body coming along, taking their hive apart to check they are doing their job. Each time you open the hive the bees have to clean it up and regulate the temperature again, which puts a lot of pressure on them. The only thing you need to do is feed them sugar syrup until the flowers are in bloom and then leave them alone until the fall when you “harvest” one or two boxes for yourself.
For me, the honey is really a bonus. My reason for beekeeping was to help the bees. As many people know, Colony Collapse Disorder (CCD) is threatening the bee population throughout the world. Beekeeping, in particular natural beekeeping, can help bring populations back.
If you’re interested in the Warre hive and natural beekeeping, you can download Emile Warre’s guide on natural beekeeping called Beekeeping for All at www.thewarrestore.com. Warre was a French monk and was very passionate about the bees. He says that beekeeping is good for the soul and keeps a man’s mind where it out to be instead of in the taverns! Good advice, I guess.
Warre and his “People’s Hive” See how lovely it is? Mine is in the orchard and it looks beautiful there.
My friend Russell, who produced my book trailer, wrote the following “facts” about bees.
So why do I have goats? A little backstory first. I have fourLaMancha Dairy goats, which are earless goats that developed in the United States from Spanish stock. I started with two (which my husband, Mark bought me for Valentine’s Day and my birthday): Dulcinea and Valentine. Dulcinea was bred last October and gave birth to two bucks in April, on Mark’s birthday. Now, the idea of this venture was to have dairy goats to provide milk for our house. Only girls would be allowed into our little dairy club because they give milk, but once I set eyes on D’s sons there was no way I was going to sell them. No way, no how. Don’t tell anyone but I love them. I love them so much, and it made me wonder where all this was coming from so, like writers are wont to do, I sat and thought about it for a bit and realized that my love for goats stretched back to when I was ten or so and my mother bought me the book Heidi by Johanna Spyri. One Saturday night while my mom hosted the monthly Bunco group and my brothers and sister were in our rooms (hoping that in the morning some of those fancy buttermints might be left) keeping busy, I began to read Heidi. Amid the gleeful shouts of Bunco! I was swept away to the Swiss Alps where Heidi went to live with grandfather, called the Alm Uncle by the villagers. That first night Grandfather fed Heidi toasted cheese and milk. I had no idea that goats made milk and I had no idea of what goat cheese was, but I was there next to Heidi eating the toasted cheese and drinking the goat milk from the bowl. Spyri’s description was so real that I could almost taste the sweetness of the milk, and I knew one day I would have a goat of my own.
Heidi’s grandfather’s goats were named Barli (little bear) and Schwanli (little Swan). In honor of Heidi’s Barli I named the first goat born on our farm Barley.
This is the passage from Heidi I read so long ago:
The Grandfather brought her a large slice of bread and a piece of the golden cheese, and told her to eat. Heidi lifted the bowl with both hands and drank without pause till it was empty. The she drew a deep breath and put down the bowl.
“Was the milk nice?” asked her grandfather.
“I never drank any so good before,” answered Heidi.
“Then you must have some more,” and the old man filled her bowl again to the brim and set it before the child, who was now hungrily beginning her bread having first spread it with the cheese, which was as soft as butter; the two together tasted deliciously, and the child looked the picture of content as she sat eating, and at intervals taking further draughts of milk.
I haven’t started milking Dulcinea yet, although I have had a try a few times (another story!), because I don’t have a milking stand yet, but hopefully I will have one in the next week or so and I will be able to recreate Heidi’s first meal with grandfather on the Alm…finally!
Little Barley, five minutes old.
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Hi, I’m Sharon Biggs Waller!
Welcome to the online home for my young adult contemporary and historical fiction, and for my equine non-fiction. Have a look around and read a first chapter or two by going here.
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