The Fruit Wars Episode Deux

It’s a war. Regular readers might remember the tale of the grape harvest last fall. Every year we face off the birds at the cherry harvest, too. Some years it goes one way, some years the other. Last year we wound up with no cherries. Not one. In about 2 hours while our backs were turned the birds had them all. We had thought the cherries weren’t quite ready yet. Apparently the birds thought they were.

This year… I happened to glance out the window just as the dinner biscuits were about to go in the oven, and I saw a flutter of wings in the branches of the cherry tree. “Oh,” said I, “there’s a bird in the cherry tree.”

We set aside the biscuit mix, took up a branch hook, and went a-cherry-ing, right then. Our competition was so intent on the opportunity we were swooped a couple of times by robins who, on their way to the party, neglected to notice two humans at work until they were so close they made emergency maneuvers to avoid us.

An hour later the biscuits were probably a bit worse for the time passed, but we had a good taking of fruits, more than it seemed we could make use of in the short term. And a short term it is, because fresh cherries do not keep for long on the kitchen table.

Out came one of our favorite tools, the old mechanical cherry pitter, a tool so simple and satisfying you just have to admire it.

Hand powered and efficient, the pitter takes care in minutes of a job that would take hours with a knife.

Go on, eat some while you’re working.

We had more or less enough cherries in our tummies by the time we finished pitting. Most of the haul went into freezer bags with a scoop of sugar and will be available for use later on.

Ha! We beat them this time! I looked out this morning and saw a cherry tree without a single fruit left. The birds had finished up what little we left behind on the upper branches.

History can be decided by a matter of moments.

Published in: on July 26, 2008 at 3:59 pm Comments (3)

Evening Time in the Studio

The steel arch building has good acoustics. We may lose some of that once it’s insulated, but for the moment it’s excellent. I was so absorbed in listening to myself the other evening, Richard was able to catch a sneak photo of me playing. We haven’t had much time yet to discover the peculiarities of the new building, but we’re enjoying them as they reveal themselves.

Published in: on July 23, 2008 at 4:25 pm Leave a Comment

Peek Inside

At last the studio is beginning to look like a place where work and life take place!

Some warts still, but getting there...

Some warts still, but getting there...

Here’s a shot Richard took, showing the interior of the new studio with some of its final attributes in place. The picture will get a little bigger if you click it. You can see there is some painting still to be done. The cabinets do not match in style (later they will be painted to match in color, though) because some of them have come out of the old house, and some were purchased at Rebuilders Center, that dangerous place in Portland where you can buy recycled and salvaged house parts. The ones from the house have utterly plain fronts, so it shouldn’t be much of a conflict. I’m told mis-matched dinnerware is all the thing these days, so why not mis-matched cabinets?

The Kohler double-basin porcelain sink came from the RC, too, as well as the high-rise faucet. Richard priced the sink the other day at $1,100 new, without the fixture. I blush to say we paid $125 for this one, and it’s just fine.

Behind the large painting of sheep before a barn (maybe you can’t see that so well, but it’s a charming original work that came from the Goodwill a couple of years ago) is the bathroom with shower. The bathroom window will eventually host a stained-glass design that Richard made for me many years ago and that we took out of the old house in Portland when we moved out here. That sweet little table with matching chairs came from Goodwill, too. It fits the space along the wall as if it were planned for it.

Above the bathroom wall you can see the loft which, for a while, will be mostly storage. What doesn’t show in this photo is the pull-down ladder to the loft. Very handy, and it disappears into the ceiling when we’re not using it.

The woodstove still needs to be installed. Some things here and there need to be addressed by the contractors. But it’s beginning to look like a studio to use.

Yellowcat gave it her inspection and seemed to find it suitable.

Published in: on July 20, 2008 at 6:35 pm Comments (3)

Barcodes and Anarchists, or, Knowing About Chickens

I will be the first to stand up and say I don’t know much about the finer points of poultry breeding. I know the value of a backyard flock of hens, a value that seems to have slipped away much in recent years. When we lived in town and had a little flock of layers out in the back garden, we were exceptional in the neighborhood. It was an old neighborhood, and you just know those little houses built in the 1920s all had chickens in their yards once. It seemed too bad, to know that a practice so wholesome and easy as keeping your own hens had become something to remark upon. We brought our hens with us when we moved out to the hills, and though those birds have passed on several times by now, we continue to keep a mixed flock of egg layers. They are a diverse group of ladies, and the occasional gentleman, who qualify as “multi-purpose birds.” They must grow well, lay well, eat well, and weigh in at a satisfying 6 or 7 pounds when they are culled as stewing hens later in life.

I fear, however, I am only carelessly aware of the points poultry breeders would consider when evaluating hens. I can shop for a sheep, all right. Chickens, I buy them by the carton more or less and must trust the breeder to deliver to me what I have ordered. Give me a dozen Barred Plymouth Rocks. Barcodes we call them around here, for the obvious reason.

A group of young Plymouth Barred Rocks partying with a canteloupe.

A group of young Barred Plymouth Rocks partying with a cantaloupe.

I love their fancy skirts and old-lady roundness.

Another year, give me a dozen Hampshire Reds. They’re a smaller hen, more urgent somehow, but with a nice temperament, and they lay lovely warm pale brown eggs like the Barcodes do.

Give me robust, healthy chickens that make a nice chuckling sound in the barnyard and lay a pretty carton of eggs. Our customers are not looking for uniformly sized, white-shelled, graded and labeled eggs. They come to us because the eggs they buy here are as fresh as ever an egg was. When you break that egg into a pan, its yolk will stand up half an inch from the sizzle, and it will be as yellow as a summer dawn sun. And that box of eggs, when opened, is a treat to the eye. The dozen eggs is made up of variations of color from palest brown to darker brown to freckled brown.

One year someone gave us some young hens that had lost their charm as a diversion for the children. Among them were a couple of Easter Egg layers, unidentified chickens who gave pale blue-green eggs. My customers were delighted with the addition of green eggs to the boxes of brown so, next time I was ordering chicks, I looked out for some to increase the color flock.

And here is where I became confused.

Aracaunas are what you want,” wrote one friend. “Araucanas,” advised another, modifying the spelling. “No,” said someone else, “they are Americanas.” And then once more: Ameraucana. “Easter Egg Chickens!” I was told then. Tomato, tomahto, potato, potahto… Richard solved the whole thing by calling them Anarchists and suggesting we just get some.

I ordered what the hatchery listed as “Araucanas (Ameraucanas), the “Easter Egg” chicken.” That figured to take care of it.

But I really did want to know, you know? Because, it seems I am not the only one confused about this, and it does seem a person should know what kind of birds are running in the flock.

The American Livestock Breeds Conservancy is my first line of inquiry on livestock breeds. I was surprised, when I looked up Araucana in their list, to see a bird that did not look much like the hens growing up in my flock. And, further, it is listed under the “study” heading which, in ALBC talk means “Breeds that are of interest but either lack definition or lack genetic or historical documentation.” And more, “Note 1: Araucanas and Ameraucanas are often confused [...yes...] with each other, and may be sold interchangeably.

So I clicked on over to Wikipedia, my next source of quickly found information:

The Araucana, also known as a South American Rumpless, is a breed of chicken originating in Chile. The Araucana is often confused with other fowl, especially the Ameraucana and Easter Egger chickens, but has several unusual characteristics which distinguish it. They lay blue eggs, have feather tufts near their ears, and are rumpless.

There’s that confusion again. But ear tufts and rumplessness are two things my hens do not have.

Here is the Araucana Club of America logo, showing the rumpless condition of Araucanas.

and here’s a Wikipedia photo of a white Araucana with ear tufts:

Then further, I read:

When the Araucana was first introduced to breeders worldwide, in the mid-20th century, it was quickly realized that the genetics that produced tufts also caused chick mortality.[note] As it turns out, two copies of the gene causes nearly 100% mortality shortly before hatching. One copy causes about 20% mortality. The tufted gene is dominant however. Because no living araucana possesses two copies of the tufted gene, breeding any two tufted birds leads to half of the resulting brood being tufted with one copy of the gene, a quarter being clean faced with no copy of the gene, and a quarter of the brood dead in the shell having received two copies of the gene.

This sounds very difficult to me. I do not wish to offend breeders or denigrate the Araucana chicken. But the kind of breeding care required to produce a stable henyard of natural Araucanas is something I can only admire from a distance. It’s completely beyond me to attempt this kind of record-keeping and control of matings. No matter how much I loved a breed, I would learn to un-love it for being impossible.

So, I moved on, and consulted the Ameraucana Breeders Club. Here at last I see photos of hens that look like mine (that is, to my unrefined eye, they look like mine), and here I read:

“Ameraucanas” are first and foremost BLUE EGG layers. They MUST have “pea combs”, and be bearded and muffed and tailed, and CANNOT have any tufts. They also MUST have slate blue legs, and red ear lobes (females pale). There has been a definite relationship established between the “Pea Comb” gene and the “Blue Egg” gene. Both these genes have been shown to be carried on the same chromosome, and thus closely related.

The site contains a long piece on the history of Ameraucanas and Araucanas, (as long, almost, as this post is becoming) and I’ll let you all go there if you want more detailed information.

Regarding tufts versus muffs and beards: above you saw ear tufts. And quite decorative they are! Here below is a bearded lady from our flock:

Ameraucana pullet

Bearded Lady: Ameraucana pullet

Click the photo to see it a little larger. Note she has blue-gray legs, a pea-comb (short little thing, not the floppy kind), an upright tail, and a distinct beard. The beard is quite different from the ear tufts of the Araucana hen. This hen is still young. I’m not sure where the beard ends and “muffs” start, but I’m expecting her facial foliage will increase some as she grows up. Someone who knows the breed better than I could clarify the description.

After reading several additional articles and looking at some more photos, I am now clear in my mind that Ameraucanas weren’t bred from Araucanas, nor were Araucanas bred from Ameraucanas. Both are the result of independent breeding from types of blue-egg layers that were at one time non-standardized but have now been accepted by the American Poultry Association as established breeds. The Ameraucana was officially accepted as standard in 1984.

And this brings us back to the Easter Eggers. Returning to Wikipedia:

An Easter Egger or Easter Egg chicken is any chicken that possesses the “blue egg” gene, but doesn’t fully meet any breed description as defined in the American Poultry Association(APA) and/or the American Bantam Association (ABA) standards. Further, even if a bird meets an APA or ABA Standard breed description, but doesn’t meet a variety description or breed true at least 50% of the time it is considered an Easter Egger.

In short:

USA & Canada Araucana – Tufts (lethal allele), rumpless, blue eggs, green legs and yellow skin (with exceptions).

US Ameraucana – Beards and muffs (NO lethal gene), with tail feathers, blue eggs, blue legs and white skin.

Easter Egger – Whatever. Blue-green eggs, though.

Table 1. Araucana versus Ameraucana.
Characteristic Araucana Ameraucana
Tail no yes
Ear-tufts yes no
Beard no yes
Muffs no yes
Blue eggs yes yes

[This table is reproduced courtesy of the University of Florida, Institute of Food and Agricultural Sciences (UF/IFAS), available on the website The Araucana Chicken.]

Heads up! (No, that's a tail.)

Heads up! (No, that's a tail.)

Published in: on July 12, 2008 at 10:39 pm Comments (4)

Exploding Vegetables, Canned Sheep, and Rose Petal Delight

This week we have a miscellany of treasures.

I was in North Portland earlier in the week, far from my usual haunts, on a trip to Kaiser Permanente where I am part of a clinical trial. By good luck my appointment fell on Wednesday afternoon and I stopped at the pretty little Farmers’ Market Kaiser sponsors once a week by providing space for vendors and car parkers. It’s part of their “Live Long and Thrive” campaign, and a nod to the growing movement in favor of local produce.

Food at an open-air market almost sells itself. You have to be insensate not to be persuaded by the colors and scents. And, especially, let me share this display:

Carrots!

Carrots!

Why, they are practically erupting, those carrots.

Consider these nestled onions, turnips and beets:

Onions and turnips and beets, oh my!

Onions and turnips and beets, oh my!

See those tiny white turnips over there between the onions and the beets? Pulled from the ground when they are scarcely bigger than radishes, they are the tenderest, sweetest turnips you will ever eat. Cut off the greens but do not throw them away! Slice the turnips, at most in half, and cook them briefly in a skillet with a half inch of water on the boil. I mean briefly! These are babies, and babies cook fast. Pay no attention to how long the cookbook says to cook them. Poke them with a fork and find them still just firm and they are ready. Serve them steaming with some butter. They’ll melt on your tongue. Next to some carrots for color, they will melt your eyeballs, too.

You can prepare the greens as well, and serve them for the next evening’s supper. Again, disregard the Joy of Cooking instruction that would have you cook them 20 minutes (!), pour off the water (!), and cook them another 10 minutes, upon which you will have a pot of green mush appealing only to Popeye. Why do they always tell you to discard the cooking water, laden as it is with color, vitamins and flavor? What better stock for a quick soup than the cooking water from vegetables? Pshaw! Shame! Oh, but I was preparing turnip greens: take up your skillet again, put in a little water and a bit of butter, lay in the washed greens, and cook them almost as your would a stir-fry, except you don’t really need to stir them. That quickly, though. Five minutes. Maybe seven. They are done and tender. Maybe add a sprinkle of sesame seeds on top.

This is fast food, people! It would take you longer to defrost the Skinny Cuisine dinner in a box.

Next, by special request, I’ve retrieved a photo from the farm archives wherein are portrayed the wages of sin.

Perl was one of our first sheep, a small old ewe with what is called a “lilac” fleece, meaning her dark spots were grey not black. Her pale spots faded almost completely in the sun. She was primitive in type, had a quite sparse and greasy fleece, was instinctual in behavior, and was the matron of the flock during her tenure. Covetousness and gluttony were Perl’s faults of nature. One year we housed the young pullets in one of the lambing pens in the sheep shed. It seemed a good way to get the growing young hens out of the basement, along with their dust and smell. We lined the pen with chicken wire to keep them in and the sheep out. It worked for a while. But Perl was a smart sheep. I want no disparaging remarks about the stupidity of sheep. Jacob sheep are not your usual sheep of popular tale. They are wily and intelligent and highly likely to figure out a way to get what they desire.

Perl desired the grain of the young chickens. One day she succeeded in opening the gate to the pen where they were housed, and must have gone right to work on the chicken feeder. But, lacking a beak, she didn’t eat from the bottom of the feeder the way hens do. She ate from the top. She probably lifted the whole feeder with her head then, and the wire carry-handle of the can slipped neatly over her two horns, and she was trapped. In the afternoon I went out to feed sheep, and found the flock standing on one side of the paddock regarding Perl with distant care, and Perl herself:

Perl in a can

Perl in a can

“I don’t want the cheese. I just want out of the trap.”

And last, a nice pleasure of the season: We have an old rambling rose, the best of its kind, which is to say unnamed, unruly, and divinely scented. It grew in the garden of my old house in Portland where it did battle with the fence and, in time, might have won if the new owners of the place had not taken the fence down altogether. I think the rose is gone now, too. But we dug up a goodly chunk of the root back then and brought it with us to the farm. Neither half of the ramble seemed to notice the surgery and the rose now grows right up through the nearby crab apple tree in front of the house here. Early summer brings the best air from this old bloom, and the flowers though they come but once in a season are profuse. I pluck whole fully opened heads willy-nilly as high as I can reach, and set the petals to dry. As the flower diminishes, the perfume remains. One year we made rosary beads from them, a messy but so-aromatic undertaking. We nearly swooned by the time we finished with that one. One year we made scented bath and body oil. It seemed such a simple, ancient thing to do, with a result so lasting and pleasant. This year, dried rose petal sachets, I think. Christmas presents, maybe?

“Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses,” wrote the poet James Oppenheim.