Winter Farmers' Market

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For the past couple of months, my Bride and The Critter have been hatching a new scheme: cracking the Farmers' Market money pile. Our little village has a summer farmers' market from June right through October - it's how we got to know half the town, as we take the whole family and the dog there bright and shiny every Saturday morning. The produce is all locally grown, and you get to know the vendors you like, buying from them fresh each week. One vendor - we call her "The Tomato Lady" (though she does have a real name, Susan) - has a place over towards the Concord river. We got to know us so well that we ended up doing back-table deals for boxes of her 'not pretty' tomatoes at ridiculously low prices. I'd buy a few pounds of beautiful heirloom tomatoes, and she'd throw in a box of 20 or 25 lbs of split or blemished ones for cooking for pennies, if not free, just because she knew we loved to cook with her fantastic produce. We bring her canned tomato sauce or corn relish in trade, so she gets to try the end result. And then there's Clovis. I can't exactly tell where Clovis is from originally. I just know he's from someplace of warmer climate than Eastern Massachusetts. I'm thinking an island. I could ask, but I'm too busy talking to him about the fantastic vegetables that show up on his table and nobody else's. The first day I met Clovis, I was grinning at my finds, pawing through a big pile of dark green leafy collards piled on one side of his table. I separated out about half of them and asked him what he wanted for them. There was a pause. "What are you going to do with them?" Clovis didn't reach for his money box. He just stood there looking at me, waiting for my answer. I felt like I was being tested. "I... I'll probably cook them down with some leftover country ham, and maybe a half an onion, or some chopped ginger. It takes a little while, but that's how I grew up eating them." (This was only a slight stretch of the truth. You couldn't have paid me to put a collard green on my plate until I was in my late 20's, at which time, I discovered a love of bitter greens that I never knew I had). Clovis nodded solemnly, and reached for a large-ish garbage bag. I think he charged me about $3. (Like many greens, collards start out pretty voluminous before you cook them down. Don't underestimate how many you'll need). Now, when he sees me coming, he sets aside whatever particular crop he thinks we'll like. A bag of fingerling potatoes. A Guyanan version of a pumpkin, elongated and rosy pink. A hubbard squash the size of my neighbor's first grader. Each new treat is always amazing.
Through our farmers' market, I've also met other chicken people (what we call ourselves), cheese makers, and a half dozen children entrepreneurs. We occasionally trouble ourselves to schlep over to one of the neighboring town's farmers' markets, all of which seem to be much more professional affairs. Note: I do not mean this in a complimentary way. There are a growing number of lovely, organic, extra-smug-added farms in the New England area that are doing wonderful things to bring back all manner of crops, which is a neat trick to accomplish while standing on a self-constructed pedestal. Look, I'm all for freshness, and supporting my local farmer. Hell, I just bought an entire cow from the farmer down the road. But I do not need a lecture, stated or implied, on why the corn industry is destroying human kind, particularly from the guy busy selling me a dozen ears of just-picked-that-morning corn on the cob. I like food. You show up with a good product at a reasonable price, I'll buy your food. You throw in a little food conversation to the mix, and I'll almost certainly be back to buy more of your food tomorrow. You try and charge me six or seven bucks for a head of non-descript lettuce "to make a point" to the jack-booted thugs of the Agro-Industrial Complex, and I'm going to want to punch you in the neck. But the difference I didn't really notice until someone pointed it out is that none of the other markets really feature any kids selling stuff. Our market has a kid that sells garlic his dad planted last fall. 2 kids selling banana bread they baked to earn a couple of extra bucks. One kid taught herself to make duct tape wallets. And one kid has a sign hawking "free-range firewood" that makes me chuckle every time I see it.
As fall came this year, someone said they were going to have a 'Winters' market for the first time, hosting it inside the Union Hall off the town green. (How much do I love living someplace with a "town green," by the way?) The Critter had been itching to supplement her egg-selling money for a while, and pestering My Bride to make use of the Swiss sewing-robot she has, with all of its self-aware attachments. So the two of them signed up to be a vendor, and worked for several weeks putting together a collection of goodies for sale.
Blankets of various sizes (toddler, lap, baby). Burp cloths. Super-hero capes for little kids. Doll clothes. Embroidered monogram necklaces and hair tie doo-hickies. All put together and on display.
The deal was, the Critter could keep the cash from the necklaces, hair ties and doll clothes. My Bride keeps everything else. My contribution was building a blanket display rack, and keeping The Boy quiet and occupied during the 3 hours the market runs.
It's one Saturday morning a month during the winter months, and with a couple behind us, has become a fun event we look forward to. It's an early morning of coffee, hot cider and setup/preparation as a family affair. And then a few hours of greeting and chatting with friends and neighbors, occasionally tucking some cash into the box and handing over one of the fabric creations. We've gotten to know the vendors at the market a bit better on a different level. Several of them are the normal crew from the summer months. And there are still several enterprising kids (and my daughter's now proud to be in that club). With fewer market opportunities, there are also more farmers coming in from a little bit further afield, including a few of those 'professionals' I've bumped into elsewhere. Most of them really are lovely folks, who do it as much for the pleasure as for the income. But the first weekend, there were those 1 or 2 self-declared beacons of purity who took exception to the kids selling goods that might compete with their own wares. How are you going to compete selling hand crafted biscotti for $4 a smidge when the kid at the next table is selling "everything" cookies for fifty cents a bakers dozen? Admittedly, that's a tough one. On the other hand, that kid is my neighbor, and you I don't know. One thing's for sure. If you don't stop looking like you just ate a steaming turd every time you look at the cute little capitalist on your left, you're chances are not going to get any better.
But really, there was only one or two curmudgeonly foreign vendors, and they didn't bother showing up for the second time around. Which was certainly no great loss. In the meantime, the Critter made a killing, on an 8 year old scale, earning more discretionary income than I think I had until I enlisted in the Army. And several of the blankets and other fabric paraphernalia went home happily rolled into someone's re-usable go-to-market, I-used-to-be-a-Toyota-sedan collapsable sack.
I mostly just sat in the back with my book and a cup of whatever was warm, and tried to entertain the boy while the Grady girls sold things. I like listening to the conversations when my Bride humbly shows off some of her amazing handicrafts. Or the quiet glee that my daughter shows as she mentally counts up her loot. And some of the browsing customers provide their own amusement. One elderly grandmother type pawed through the blankets and other goods, and held up a monogrammed necklace in one spotted fist. "I'd buy this if it was pink." She somehow managed to make the statement into an accusation. Like there had been a conspiracy to change it from pink moments before she walked up, just to screw with her head. My Bride shrugged apologetically, and tried to show her some of the other pieces. "No. I want this one. Except it's not pink. So I won't buy it. I would buy it if it were pink." She tossed it back into the pile and stumped off. No doubt looking for something pink. Luckily, most people are a little less single minded. But we'll have more pink in the inventory, just in case she's back next month. Both times, we somehow got lucky enough to be right next to the couple of musicians that came to the market, lending it a fun old-timey air. A book, a cup of warm cider, a couple of hours of clawhammer banjo and fiddle tunes, and a chance to chat with my neighbors. Holy crap... I'm turning into Garrison Keillor.
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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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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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