Autumn == Meat

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When the air grows crisp and cool, and we're having fires in the fireplace more evenings than not, I know that it's about time to re-stock the freezer. Mind you: it's a big freezer. This takes some planning. Last year, we bought two whole pigs. The process went like this: - I called a dairy farmer in our village that I had met and done some earlier business with. - I asked him if he knew anybody that was selling meat wholesale. You know, since he's in the farm community. - He mentioned that he just happened to be raising two pigs. - Awesome. Lemme have some of that pig action, my friend. - I never once fed the pigs, washed the pigs, or cleaned up pig poop. - The pigs were transported to the slaughter house without my participation, where I first met their clean, fresh carcasses, and started the whole processing, um, well, process. It was a beautiful arrangement, with the all-in price of about 2 and a half bucks/pound. We did, however, end up with a hell of a lot of pork. Pork chops. Pork ribs. Bacon. Ham. Pancetta. Sausage. Pulled Pork. You name it. That's a lot of pig, even spaced out over the course of a year. So this year, when it came time to call my farmer buddy, I told him that even though I was going to buy and handle both pigs again, I was only going to keep one (another friend down the road wanted the other one). I was in the market for something different to fill out my freezer. Lamb. Beef. Something. "Well! I just happened to buy some beef-steers this year, to round out my dairy herd!" Holy crap. Everybody needs to make friends with a farmer. Sign me up, farmer-buddy. Once again, I never met any of the animals alive. Don't get me wrong, I'm not terribly squeamish about it at this point. I just didn't see the need to make a special trip to pet my dinner. It would probably have upset some of the parents who were bringing their toddlers by the farm to pet the cute little animals if I happened to mention it while I was there. Still, I do want to offer a shout out to the amazing family that's running Great Brook dairy farm (my meat dealer, as it were). It's a beautiful place and an amazing resource just a couple of miles down the road. In addition to meat-on-the-hoof, they also make some pretty kick-ass ice cream. Stop by if you get the chance.
Last year, the arrangement of all the necessary logistics was a pretty major headache. I had never done this before and needed to look everything up from scratch, with a lot of asking questions of people involved. Who the hell slaughters whole animals? Turns out: not many are allowed to. You need to be registered by the state. And most of those that are only deal in furry creatures bound for plastic wrap in your neighborhood Shops-A-Lot. This year, I learned from my previous exercise, and had everything arranged well in advance. Our slaughterhouse is a quaint little place that is named after the family that's owned it for several generations. I couldn't make this place up if I tried.
In what's become a bit of a tradition and something to look forward to, I planned the time and day of the pick-up such that I could take the Critter got to join me.
With more in the queue this year, I called ahead to ask if two pigs and a steer (which ends up in quarters) would fit in the back of my pick up truck. These animals weighed in at between 250-300 pounds apiece (the hogs) and a shocking 1,174 pounds (the steer) while 'on the hoof' (i.e. still oinking and mooing). Ok, I know that they lose some parts along the way, but I kept trying to picture fitting a bull and two hogs in the back of my truck, and coming up with some pretty scary mental images of the state of my old pick up at the end. Turns out, I needn't have worried. The sum of the parts is less than the sum of the whole(s). In other words: meat parts stack better than you'd think. Somehow, in my excitement to see the steer, I managed to completely miss taking pictures of the pigs. Oh well. I give you last year's picture, just so you know what I missed.
Even better, though, look at the beautiful cuts of beef that had been grazing just a day or two before that I did manage to capture as they came out.
And look! Here the Critter holding the steer's heart and tongue! (they're shockingly heavy). Note: I figure one of my roles as a parent is to ensure that when she's in group therapy, she's got the best stories of the bunch.
Best of all, perhaps, is that this year I had asked our butcher, Mike if I could, you know, maybe participate a little bit more in the processing of our animal? I really wanted to get to know more about where some of my favorite cuts (ribeye, hanger steak, flank steak) sit in relation to other cuts, and how the whole thing was broken down. Mike's a stud, and readily agreed. Here's Mike getting things ready.
And then Mike got us all down to business. Laying out the seams, tugging out the suet, finding the good cuts that we could handle without turning into (really expensive) hamburger. Mike showed a tremendous amount of both patience with all my questions, and passion for what he does. Truly, there is artistry in anything done well with skill. And Mike is an artist.
Look! One on my own! (a very rare moment)
Where was the Critter, and how was she handling all of this meaty fun, you ask? Not at all squeamish, I answer. She was operating the camera for those last few shots. But she was just as ready to pitch in.
Soon, Mike had her hands on and a full participant. This was her final test - prepping a flank steak. Check out that grip. And that smile of real pleasure at being a part of the day. We hung two quarters in the cooler, where they'll mature and dry age for a further two weeks and then be broken down in a similar fashion. Only aged. And, you know, beefier. Dry-aged beef is the stuff they have in the special case in the back of Whole Foods that the rookies aren't allowed near. And we've got a half-cow worth of our own!
At the end of the evening, I ended up bringing a few choice cuts home with me. (the rest will be finished up and packed by Mike, the professional, who'll no doubt be a heck of a lot more efficient when he's not trying to explain each step as he goes, and keep me from cutting one of my own appendages off). I was practically dancing as I pulled the bits out to much "ooh-ing" and "ah-ing" from my Bride and the Boy, as if I was presenting a few bits of ruby treasure that I had stumbled upon. I quickly seared the inside skirt steak and served it with some simple fried potatoes and chanterelle mushrooms reduced in butter, as a sort of, "This is our cow. Let us savor the final introduction in all its loveliness."
Three days ago, this steer was still chewing his cud. Tonight, he was on our plate. That's fresh, delicious, circle of life, baby. Respect your meat. Hug your butcher.
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October

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The past month has flown by, full of ups, downs and in-betweens. October is always a special month for me. Number one, it's my birthday month. (If you didn't sing, feel free to do so now.) It also marks the beginning of my favorite season, when the long hot days turn crisp and chill, and I wake up one day and the leaves have turned a million shades of red and gold. This was one of the things that I really missed when we lived in California, where there are only four kinds of trees (palm, redwood, oak, and that other one), none of which really turn colors due to the broken thermostat that is San Francisco weather. It feels like New England has been working overtime to make up for all those lost autumns, and have put a class-full of kindergartners a fistful of oil paint and a twelve pack of Jolt cola, and told them that they were in charge of the leaves this year. In short: it's beautiful. And you're never getting me to move back to California. It was our second annual Bring-Your-Own-Jug cider pressing party. I took lots of brilliant photos of the kids helping press cider, on a not-snowy day (unlike last October), unfortunately, I forgot to have a disk in the camera. So no pictures. Silly me. There are, however, more than 30 lovely gallons now fermenting away in my basement for hard cider. About twice as much as last year, and another successful friends & neighbor event. It's also the anniversary of my father, the surgeon's death. This year marks nineteen years. It would also have been his ninety-third birthday this month. I found myself looking through old photograph albums given to me by my mother, and picking out pictures of he and I together, trying to see what I will look like in a not so very distant future.
I think I was about 4 in that picture. And man, if I could find that kickin' suit my dad was wearing, I think I could totally pull that off. This year, it was also the month that my grandmother, the Critter's namesake, passed away. We also were no relation to each other.
Eleanor T. White was a remarkable woman. A librarian and elementary school teacher. A story teller and an independent woman who buried two husbands, one an alcoholic, and remained upbeat and optimistic throughout. She taught me both the love of reading and the love of animals. I never knew her not to have at least a couple of pets until she conceded to the fact that she could no longer live on her own. Even then, she convinced the nursing home that the cat outside her garden door was 'just visiting on a regular basis'. And I never saw her house in a state other than stacked high with books on every flat surface, spilling out of the shelves, and holding up a chair or two with a wobbly tendency. We made each others' acquaintance when I was about 6 years old. Nanny (we called both my grandmothers 'Nanny') was my mother's first husband's mother. (get that? I'll wait here while you go back and read it again. OK, good.). This made her my (half-)brother and (half-)sister's grandmother, but technically, not really related to me. And while we started out kind of eyeing each other across the breakfast table, quietly sizing one another up, we figured out that we had found a kindred spirit in one another well before the end of the day. And we never let the messiness of our familial ties stand in the way. Nanny W. was, in many ways, the polar opposite of everything that Nanny P. was. My mother's mother was a consummate cook, who taught me what a beautiful work of art a fried pork chop could be. Nanny W. could burn water. Nanny P. kept a quiet, old fashioned housekeeping in the same house for 50 years. Nanny W. moved every few years, and her house was piled to the rafters with clutter. Nanny P. was content to move from her garden to the grocery store to the kitchen to the garden again. Nanny W. would shuffle me into the car, where we'd drive over to pick up one of her other octogenarian church companions, and the we'd to tootling over the Blue Ridge mountains, just a 4th grade and two old ladies, "exploring" until we stumbled across the Dahlonega, Georgia gold mine, or the Etowah indian mounds. Growing up, I'd spend half my summer with Nanny P, and be surrounded by love and comfort and all I could eat biscuits and gravy. I'd spend the other half with Nanny W., and be laughing from the time we got up (not too early) to the time we dropped of Ms. Callahan, Ms. Lela, or one of the other adventuring companions in their driveways in the last drippings of north Georgia dusk. Usually only so late because we gotten lost on the way home. It was with these memories, and a thousand more, that I would later ask my bride if we could name our daughter after my grandmother. (in a truth-is-stranger-than-fiction story, it wasn't until several years later, and after I introduced our son to Nanny that she reminded me that her little brother was named Sam, the same as our new son. She was free-spirited in a gentle, perversely stubborn and kind-hearted way. She taught me that the way to capture someone's attention was to tell them a story. I still have the "little pig that wouldn't go over the fence and I shan't get home tonight" story mostly memorized. And she was pragmatic in a way that does not grow often outside of pre-War Appalachia. Over the last few years, I'd swing through Tennessee on my way to and from California. (Or pretty much to and from anywhere that put me vaguely over that part of the globe). I'd bring her a couple of salty country ham biscuits to provide some relief from the nursing home food. She was 90 years old, and when I met her doctor on one of my visits, he and I just shrugged together, and agreed that a little flavor couldn't do any harm at this point. I'd bring my banjo, and play badly for her. The last time I did so, she smiled and told me that I "played badly better than you used to," - perhaps the best compliment I've ever received about my musical efforts. And then we'd sit and talk for hours about most anything. Her mind remained sharp well after her body started deteriorating, and she'd still make me laugh until my sides hurt. In the last five years, her knees had crumpled to the point that walking was difficult. For the last two years, her eyesight had gone to the point that the only way she could still read was to get books on tape. She had the satisfaction of seeing a Democrat re-take the White House, and being able to laugh at her grandson's forlorn expression at the fact. She told me she was pretty much ready to die. Others seemed to have a harder time with that than I did. But at 90 years, she had seen, done, and lived more than most anyone I know. I figured I should trust her judgement. She was always a hell of a lot wiser than I was. She was content with what she had accomplished, satisfied with the choices she had made, and happy with the love that she had passed on. That's a pretty hard record to beat. I can only hope that our little Eleanor grow up to be as classy and strong, with as much hope and patience, and that I can show her just a little bit of the adventure in life that you showed me, Nanny. We love you.
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It doesn't have plumbing, but it can pick up the wi-fi

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For about a year, the people I live with had been bugging me about a treehouse. It didn't start out that way. It started as a "we should think about one of those play structure things." I was quick to stomp on that idea. Look, I know I'm about to offend all of my friends who own them, but I have never in my life seen an attractive play structure. No, not even yours. In fact, especially not yours. They're just not very pretty. And as much as I get the whole "but the kids love to play on them" aspect, I'm the one who's got to sit on my porch and look out at the damned thing. So no. I'm not getting a play structure. Of course, trying to Put My Foot Down once my Bride has an idea in her head is about like telling the Iceland volcano that shut down air traffic this summer to get over the whole "ash" idea. A force of nature will not be denied. I tried enlisting my neighbors in my coercion (they have twin 5 year olds, and have so far resisted the play structure menace as well). I like my lawn. I like my yard. It goes with the house. Let's not mess with that, m'kay? But then my Bride played the "hey ass, you're not the one who's stuck with the kids all day through the summer. Easy for you to say no," card. Which, you've got to admit, is a pretty low blow. True, maybe, but wicked. And in a moment of weakness, I gave an inch. "What about a treehouse, instead?" Holy appeasement, Batman, what the hell were you thinking? This then became, "But Daddy, you promised." Which then led to slippery slope. Which then led to a set of plans being drafted and put on my desk, and appropriate trees picked out.
I tried to find a quick way out of something a little less grand and arboreal, and offered up a tire swing. Who doesn't love a tire swing? And tires - they're free! (go to your local tire shop and just ask. Mine even helped me pick out the ones with the softest sidewalls - "better for sitting" the guy said. Didn't bat an eye, like people showed up every day to ask for these things.) "Oh! Great idea! We'll have a tire swing next to the tree house!" Wha- ? Next to? No.. instead of.. oh hell. Never mind.
Allright, fine. I'll give in. I will build a treehouse. But only if I have complete creative control. I want to build something that doesn't stick out like a sore thumb, and keep me up nights with the sheer unattractiveness of the whole thing. "No problem, Ken. Here are all of the feature requirements that must be included... Did we mention the climbing wall yet?" ... Sigh.
This is about half a treehouse. I had a sort of vague idea of what I wanted to do, and jotted down a scanty parts list before heading to Lowe's. Part of how I take my vengeance on my Bride for coming up with all of these lovely project ideas is by never writing anything down or drawing up plans. It drives her highly detailed, scientific brain absolutely crazy. It also means that I am guaranteed to make at least half a dozen trips back to the hardware store before I'm done. I consider this a small price to pay to wreak my petty vengeance. Also. What's not to love about a trip to the hardware store? Having picked out the spot, I had our buddy Tom come over one lovely Saturday morning to help me put up the first set of stringers. Notice please what my lovely Bride is doing here while we plot our first bit of heavy lifting:
She calls that "supervising." In a pretty good morning's effort, though, we soon had the basic shape up. In my teenage years, I often would work weekends and summers with my step-father, the Carpenter (amongst other skills). I was always a fairly slow learner, but eventually, I figured out which end of the hammer to point at the nail, and after a few weeks of this, he'd set me to building those little stoop-porch things off the back doors in this one sub-division we were working in. Nothing fancy. Just a basic little raised square with rails. They were constructed like little 4' x 6' decks. I think he gave me thirty or forty bucks for each one I completed. Which was pretty good money back in the day, and turned out to be one of many pretty good skills he passed on that I'd find handier than I could've imagined years later. (My step-father occasionally reads this 'blog as well, when I call him up and tell him I've put something up on The Internet that he might like to read. Last time I talked to him, he pointed out the flaw in the coffee table I built recently. And damn him, he was right, too. [hint: I mis-used the biscuits]. If I had to guess, that's why Norm hasn't stopped by yet.) Turns out, a treehouse is remarkably like a deck in basic construction.
As we finished putting this up, though, it soon became apparent that I was only partially succeeding in my quest to make the whole thing blend. I sat down and sat on it for a while over lunch (and while Tom headed off a little more sore for his morning's effort but seriously appreciated) to give it a good think. Hey. Those trees that surround our property. Hmm.
I have a chainsaw I bought about a year or two ago that's been gathering dust. I knew it would come in handy one day. I began thinking about how I could integrate more "tree" into the treehouse. Just to keep with the motif, you see. So I took the rest of the day and wandered through the woods, cutting down likely looking trees, which would start to be shaped into further support posts, rails and spindles.
Oh yeah. Did I mention the whole thing was going to be two levels high? And not a dinky set of levels, either. If I'm building the treehouse, I expect to be able to walk upright on both levels. Of course, when I added up what this would mean, I realized that the floor of the second level had to be about 15+ feet off the ground (accommodating the width of the joists, my 6' tall frame, etc. etc.) Hmm. It's pretty high up there.
Ah well. The kids are bouncy. We should be fine, right? I soon figured out that the problem with insisting on creating each spindle and rail from hardwood trees cut out of the forest (anywhere from 1.5 to 3 inches in diameter) meant that I needed to cut a lot of little saplings. But they're hardwood, and I didn't want to de-forest any particular spot. So there was a lot of hiking around the perimeter of our property involved, finding, cutting and then hauling likely looking trees (and then disposing of the scraps and spindly, un-usable tops). And then, I had to measure and cut each spindle individually to accommodate the curves and "naturalness" of the shape in the rails and spindles.
In other words, this whole process took for-freaking-ever. (Or about 4 full weekends of effort.) Plus a whole lot of scratches, cuts, soreness and bitching on my part. Also: do not wear Tevas while wielding a chainsaw. I'm not going to tell you how I know this, because my kids might read this one day, but I'm just saying: you will frighten the hell out of yourself.
I did cave in and mail-order a slide from some internet store or another to add to the tree-house. Have you ever tried to by just the slidey-bit? Without the whole play-structure? Yeah, I had never thought of that either. Turns out, you can buy them at Lowe's, too, just like that, on their own. Of course, I didn't figure this out until after I had paid shipping and handling on one to be hand delivered to the house. Um. Well. Oops. However, I did get the bright idea that I would actually hand cut both the ladders (one to the first level, and then one up through the trap door in the second level), by splitting one of my larger saplings (6-8") lengthwise down the middle.
Somehow, randomly, I managed to choose oak trees for both of them. Oak, for those not as familiar with it, is about the hardest of the hardwoods that I could have chosen out of the nearby forest. It took me two saws and about an hour and a half to split the first 9' sapling. Did I mention we've been experiencing a record hot summer of well over 90 degrees and 90 percent humidity? It was at about this point that I decided all treehouses were stupid. And the people that build them are noble heros who deserve all the cocktails they can drink. Fortunately, my cheering section would come by to check on me and see how things were going every once in a while. And to pick up the occasional screws I would drop from two stories up along the way, or give the cordless drill a quick test, just to see if his father was paying attention. Notice how grubby he is in this picture. This pretty much sums up The Boy's state of being for the entire summer.
Eventually, however, the whole thing was done, more or less. We didn't hold an official ribbon-cutting ceremony, mostly because I had dulled every sharp blade we owned in trimming down all those trees to finish the tree before the winter set in.
I had been convinced that this thing was going to be my never-ending opus for a while, and that I was destined to cut and schlep branches and stumps every weekend for the rest of my natural life. (things really slowed down when I hit the rails on the second level - having to cart and carry them up and down two separate ladders tends to bring you to a bit of a crawl).
OK, so there's no climbing wall yet. (That'll go on the back, as soon as I figure out what kind of wood I'm going to use to create it). But there is a trap door. And a bucket and pulley for hauling things up to the second level.
Overall, I'm pretty happy with it. It's not completely camouflaged, but it doesn't stick out as bad as it might. And as much as I grumbled during the making of it, I have to admit, it was kind of fun to tackle as a problem to be solved. And of course, seeing the first bunch of kids come over and scramble up and down the ladders into their brand new, not-so-secret clubhouse did make the whole effort seem pretty worthwhile.
It's all becoming part of what has turned out to be one of the most magical summers on record, with weather, holidays and general family together-time adding up to the perfect recipe for a childhood, young or old.
See? Fairly blendy. For a glorified play structure. Now: Bring on the Autumn. I've got another project or two in mind.
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