My Milkshake Brings All The Cows To The Barn

If dealing with hormonal cows is anything like dealing with women I am so thankful for whatever genetic blend popped me out of the oven gayer thank a Christmas cookie. It’s like the “Bad Girl’s Club” in this milk barn.  They fight, spit, and I swear they actually plot against each other. And I’m in the middle playing peer mediator and matador while dodging horns and doing the dairy dive between their legs. Yesterday I was centimeters away from a hoof to the head.

 In an act of desperation and shear genius I developed some techniques to ease the tension of their turf. My inspiration is to turn the milk barn into a cow beauty parlor. The ladies come in, go to their stantions, and I get to work on them pampering and plunging. So far I’m the only one gossiping.  But I have seen a definite increase in yield, I would like to assume as result of my special touches.

 I learned the art of udder massage when working on one of our larger ladies. Betty is a lovely and very cooperative cow. She never fusses about where she stands or how long it takes to finish her up and her larger disposition generally keeps the other cows a bit less rambunctious around her.  Betty recently came down with a bit of an issue in her right udders. Her new calf was separated from her and we think she got a bit backed up. She started swelling and blew up to the size of a watermelon down there.  We treated her with some antibiotics (something we only do as a last resort) and have been bucket milking her and feeding it to the pigs.  But the swelling, other than I’m sure hurting like a bitch, (imagine big swollen stinging nipples that a calf keeps biting on) the swelling left the skin on her udders itchy flakey and red. They felt like unripe cantaloupe and she understandably was having a hard time letting down her milk.

 A few days ago I decided Betty deserved a little lube job down there.  Now I have absolutely no experience with the rubbing of mammary glands, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it’s one of those things that even when it’s bad it’s probably still kinda good. We keep a gallon bottle of mineral oil in the barn incase any of the cows get chapped udders (a thought that even makes me cringe). So I grabbed the jug lubed up my hands and went to town. I started out tenderly just wanting to moisturize her and then I figured I’d improvise. I worked my way from shiatsu to deep tissue without a single melancholy moo.

By the time I was done her teats were tender as a sun ripe peach and I was half expecting her to milk out like a ready whip can. She let down about three liters of milk, one third more than the day before.

 I have since used the technique on most of our leathery ladies and I feel it really has improved both their skin tone and confidence. Some of our heifers have seen quite their share of milking and are in desperate need of some form of cow support bra.  They sag so low we have to hold their udders up to get the milk to work it’s way down.  I try to compensate for the extra man handling with belly scratches.  

 Hoof manicures are a new addition to my daily duty as well. I only offer these when necessary. Cows have two big toes that make up their hooves and a lot of crap (literally and figuratively) gets stuck up there. Mostly I just find twine, twigs and rocks, but sometimes these girls come in with near full bouquets or wild flowers and flowering grasses. Cleaning them reminds me of that story of the lion with the thorn in its paw and the mouse. They put up a lot of fuss and then will pretty much just let you milk in peace once treated.

 Next week is going to be follicle frenzy! I came across what turns out is a cow comb. It needs a bit of polishing and “de-cob webbing “ but I can’t wait to get to work with it.  I don’t have a lot of hair to work with but I know once the bulls see my runway ready couture cows we are gonna need a much bigger milk barn.  

Pig From Pen to Plate

Quasimoto was a pig with a bad back. He was born with a mutated spine that looked like the track of a what would be a really fun roller coaster, but what left him with little hope to live a long life. He wee-zed with each breath and it was clear allowing him to put on more weight would only stress his back and cause further trouble far beyond respiratory. And so, it came to be that Quasi was scheduled to join us for dinner. 

In Meat Fabrication class at school we were assigned to watch a video our instructor slaughtering, dressing (gutting), and fabricating a calf and a pig. What I remember most from the videos is watching the 6 foot something German man say to the camera "nou aaaa let's make aaaa the pig aaaaa more comfort-bul" he then took out a pistol and shot it in the head. From that point on I did my best to never appear uncomfortable in his class. I suppose starting out with a bang (I had too) was the best way of easing the tension. Keeping it quick and emotionless was important. If the video first showed the tall German scratching piggy's whiskers and patting him on the belly while he oinked and wiggled his tail the 22 to the head would have come across a bit too Old Yeller meets Charlotte's web. 

This lesson seemed relative to a lot of instanced on the farm. It was hard at first to look at cute little creatures and see grilled steaks, bacon, and fried wings, but the truth is inevitable and nature must take its course. Ignorance is blissful but I'd much rather have a full stomach. So when the farmer started to hint that Quazi's days were numbered, I took the opportunity to sing for my supper and experience a slaughter of my own. 

The date was set for tuesday, my day off. This allowed ample time for attention to detail and respect to be given. The course of events would be that the farmer, a couple farm assistants, and I would round up Qauzi and take him from pen and away from the other pigs . It's best to shoot them away from the other because, unlike most other livestock animals, pigs can tell that they or another is going to die. I was forewarned that since Quazi was still a fairly young pig his cries were going to sound uncomfortably similar to a screeching child. As if a screeching "tween" pig wasn't bad enough. After we got him away from the others The farmer was going to shoot him in the head, at which piont I would take over and slit his throat in order to bleed him. Then I'd be left to scald, shave, gut and cut.  

The night before I sharpened my knives for both practical and symbolic reasons. It seemed respectful to ensure that my knives would be ready to make a clean fast cut. I had been by the pen earlier in the day to feed the pigs and took the opportunity to walk by and pet Quazi. This sort of went against my emotionless lesson, but I felt it was the right thing to do. If I was going to be slaughtered I'd at least like to know by who. I fell asleep that night reading an outline of the methods and procedures and awoke to a text from the farmer asking "so you wanna slaughter a pig today?"

I'm not sure how this is going to sound but I woke up with a sense of excitement. I felt like completing this slaughter would be another right of passage. Another reassurance of my sense of belonging and another step in understanding the sources of my food. I woke up ready to slaughter Quazi and prepare with him a meal. 

I threw on my grungiest pair of jeans and a sleeveless shirt knowing it would be a messy job. Well that, and the sleeveless Tee made me feel a bit more matcho. We met by the pig-pen, the farmer with his gun, I with my boning knife. I rounded up Qauzi and carried him out of the pen. He knew the moment I grabbed him what was going to happen and started to scream. I knew there was nothing I could do to make this easier for him other than to do it fast. We couldn't get a rope around his legs to keep him still enough for a clear shot. We had to place him in a cage that kept him straight. Once Quazi realized he couldn't get out of the cage he seem to accept his fait and seised to resist. He lowered his head and the farmer fired a single perfect shot just off center of the head. 

The deafening of the shot seemed to freeze time for a moment. I had never actually seen a real gun fired before, let alone into an animals head. Reality quickly picked up it's pace and with it instinct took control. I don't even remember pulling the pig from the cage. All I recall next is asking for someone to hold down his head from spasming  then finding the breast bone and pushing my knife down against it. I undershot my initial cut and had to do another deeper. Both quick and clean cuts. 

The blood began to pool around his head as we pumped his front leg. It did not take long to drain him.  The spasms and pouring stopped; life had left his body. The moment is still surreal. The instant, where looking at him, he changed from a dyeing pig to a carcass of pork. I'm not really sure how many emotions hit me at that moment, pride, respect, guilt, humility. Every emotion reached a peek instantly with no real time to react to any. I was only getting started.

I was determined to give justice to Quazimoto's death by utilizing absolutely as much as I could of what life he had had left behind.

Cleaning a pig carcass is unique to other animals because pig skin is left on. This is means YAY! you don't have to skin him, but you do have to shave him. A process that is much more tedious than I expected and which lead to the occurrence of the single most repulsive moment of my life (And I've been pooped on by cows, A LOT). 

Ideally there are special and unique equipment used for shaving a pig, but I have yet to live in an ideal world. Instead I had a sharp knife and some innovation. In order to shave the pig you must first scald the body, and why is this? Because, I realized, that you actually are shaving off an outer layer of skin and hair, which the hot water softens and causes to peel off easily. Or at least in theory. 

So I filled a pot with water and heated it over a grill, proceeded to dunk half the pig carcass head first in the vat of steaming water, and then hauled the steaming corpse over to the picnic table to start exfoliating. Very little by litter the fibers and wrinkles cleared away to reveal a smooth baby soft under layer of skin. But after about an hour of playing dunk dunk shave with a steaming pig I began to get a little anxious, and the weather began to get a little impending. After hearing the second boom of thunder I realized I had to up my game. So I threw in a bit more elbow grease and increased my speed. Hairs were flying and I was just finishing up the hard to get areas like the inner thighs and well... the area I had seem to put off as long as possible. 

Quazi was a boy and being able to relate with him in that sense it was a bit unsettling to man-scape his pubes with a boning knife. There is something about circumcising a pig that hits a level of irony not often achieved. It had to be done. I went at it with a force I soon would regret. I started from between his legs and scraped my way up his belly to the tip. When suddenly, I felt a splash of something warm and wet hit me in the face. I looked up and assumed the rain had made it's way over only to find a strip of blue sky still. And then I inhaled and smelt the putrid, PUTRID, stench of what I quickly realized was scalded dead pig piss. Apparently Quazi passed on with a full bladder and the force of my scraping against his groin was enough to help nature take its course and Quazi give me a post mortal golden shower. 

It was everywhere. My arms, neck, cheek, lips, and yes, my mouth. The last thing I expected was anything to shoot out of the dead pig, and standing there thrusting my knife for over an hour left me a bit fatigued and panting a for air. I now know it's best to breath through my nose when occupied in such situations.  I had to run for relief. I almost lost it, and I mean all of "IT". I gagged trying to find any breath of air untainted of pig taint. I ran to the kitchen sink and scalded myself thinking it best to loose a layer of skin myself. 

I returned to Quazi and much more cautiously finished the job. He was now ready to be dressed. I called in some assistance to hold his legs up while I made the very shallow incision down his belly. This is where everything can turn for the worse very easily. Quazi was young and his belly very thin. If I cut too deep I punctured his gut and spilled "you know what" all over the place. I started at what would literally be the end by cutting around his "Bung" (but hole) and holding it up and closed while I peeled the rest of the digestion system working from back to front down and out. It really is incredible how closed of a system it is from the body. A few cuts of connective tissue and his entire digestive track, from tung to bung was removed. 

I picked out the tastiest edible parts (heart, liver, tung, kidneys) and left the rest to turn into fertilizer. Now I was in familiar territory. Quazi was cleaned inside out and ready to break down into choice cuts. I wanted to do something special with him, both out of respect and prestige. I figured boning him out completely would be the best way of highlighting his tenderness and testing my skillfulness. It took me a lot longer than I'm sure it should take most but I deboned him completely leaving his spine and ribs intact all the way from head to tail. 

For lunch I fried up his kidneys in butter and ate them with toast. For dinner I roasted one of his rear legs with a garlic and Dijon crust. The meat was perfect, moist and tender. I took my time with it and, I have to say, it is one of the best meals I've ever prepared. I served the leg with sauteed napa cabbage with rendered bacon and a little vinegar,  roasted peaches with  brandy and of course bread and cheese. 

The meal reminded me of why I'm here. To experience and learn about the sources of my food and the importance of ensuring their safe, humane, and sustainable practices. If Quazi had been born in any Industrial CAFO (Concentrated Animal Feeding Operation) he most likely would have been killed earlier on due to his spine. A fait that would unfortunately have been in his best interest. If not he would have lived a life in a confined feeding pen, his tail removed to prevent other pigs, improperly weened from their mothers , from biting at it. He would have been fed a diet of genetically altered corn and soy, growth hormones and antibiotics, to prevent infection from the waist water and sewage he lived in. He would be killed in a production line then sliced, diced and wrapped up for delivery to a supermarket near you.  

Here, Qauzi lived a good life. He lived off fresh whey, artisan cheese scraps, and day old wood fired bread. He lived free to roam and play with other pigs and enjoy all the pleasures of life a pig could ever ask for. 

The Courtship of Cows

I have discovered the source of my tendency to over pack. My mother put together a little care package of things I left behind and things she "thought I would need on the farm." I was just expecting my new John Dear designer glasses with the automatic sunglass UV changing technology and my blankies. But apparently things my Mom thought I would need on the farm included a pair of white terri-cloth draw string shorts and Ralph lauren and French Connection Polo's. You know for all the cabana parties we have. Clearly I was nurtured into this condition.   

I've also discovered more clearly that there is never a dull moment on the farm, especially in spring. It seems love is in the barnyard air; Or at least the scent of ovulating cows is. 

On the farm the cows are split into two groups: the milking herd and the dry herd. I was unaware of this until I arrived here, but cows only produce milk when they have recently had a calf. Makes sense when you think about it. They are fellow mammals and it's not like my mom is still pumping it out. But with this in mind it means that in order to run a productive dairy operation we have to also make sure the cows are running their own reproductive operation. This means that even in the milking herds the ladies are kept in the company of perspective baby Daddys so when the time is right they can hop right back on the preggers band waggon. 

The two bulls currently residing with the milkers go by the names Bongo (the alpha-male) and Ozzy (the beta-male). The best way to describe them is to imagine "Jaws" but with legs and horns. They are about a half ton in weight and take pride in always being in the way. But in all honesty these boys are experienced connoisseurs of the female pheromones. They stroll around all day doing what the farmer refers to as the sommelier's whiff. This is the way the bulls detect the readiness of the ladies to mount, by smelling and, more disturbingly, tasting their, how do I put this nicely... "fluid excrement" (That's Pee). Apparently they love the stuff. It's like bull viagra, and I must say the bulls take the whole process very seriously. 

When sampling, they make their way over to whichever lady is in progress, and since the progress last about two and a half minutes they generally don't have to rush. Once in place the first step is to raise the nasal cavity and take a long and exuberant whiff followed by a delicate taste, it kinda looks like their lapping up water from a garden hose. The next step is the most entertaining and totally worth watching a bull drink cow piss for. The bulls then extend their necks and roll back their lips to make a face that resembles a surprised Mr. Ed and while chattering their teeth exhale in an expression that is a mix between "Jolly fine chardonnay" and "FUUUUUUCCCCKKKK YEAHHHHHH" Based off this examinations they determine if the lady is ready to go steady and worthy of the 5 seconds of pure back breaking ecstasy the bulls have to offer. Unfortunately for the girls the exam is the only kinda foreplay they get. 

Although, apparently the boys aren't the only ones who enjoy the heat of "Heat." When a cow is in her ovular prime she's fair game for all. There have been accounts of girl on girl action in the barnyard. And we're still not really sure why, but in early May there were some labia biting incidents. (Side note: I forgot exactly what those were, and take my word for it that is something you don't want to google). We're assuming the genital biting was some form of sabotage between the cows. Sorta like "eww who wants her nasty junk." Regardless of cause thankfully it stopped. 

In other news, todays was beautiful. We started early and all the cows were incredibly cooperative. I really hope it doesn't convince the others to start early now every day. Though getting done with work by three was rather nice. With all the free time I got to make one on my favorite and most self expressive desserts. A Fruit Tart! I used wild foraged berries and made fresh pastry cream and tart dough. It was described as "perfect." I really hope it doesn't convince the others to start early now every day. 

An Udder Achievement!

I have officially survived my first full week on the farm. All in all I think i've only lost a few ounces of blood and a couple grams of flesh.  But I have gained one hell of a farmers tan and quite the butch beard, if I do say so myself. More importantly I feel at home here. I've got this sense of belonging not only with the other workers and the family but the entire farm the animals and the area. I saw a giant beetle on my window the other day and just let it be, let it live it's little beetle life amongst me. Two weeks ago that beetles last memory would have been a very high pitched scream and a rolled up newspaper.  

The cows seem to have become more familiar with me as well. I get the feeling they no longer mind me tinkering with their teats. I've learned that a good scratch behind the theirs ears helps the process along. Some have caught on to my coaxing a little too quickly and now kick the milker off if I stop scratching. 

The entire milking process is quite incredible. I can't really describe the feeling of accomplishment that comes from milking a cow. I think it must be something similar to how the first man to rub two sticks together and end up with fire must have felt. The hard work definitely pays off. 

My proudest moment so far happened when I was milking. I'm not sure what the correct term for milking without the suction machine pipe thing is, it's probably not bareback but that seems fitting. Just me my hands a bucket and some cow teats. 

One of our new mothers was being a bit of a pest to get across the farm to join the milking herd so after 30 minutes of pushing and 20 feet of movement we just gave up, tied her off to a tree and got to business with her on the front lawn. Honestly, I was thrilled it was happening. Ever since I got to the farm I was determined to milk the old fashioned way. It's like a farm right of passage. I new I would feel completely different once I got a good squirt. 

The farmer asked if I had ever done this before, I told him "No, but I think I can get the hang of it." Luckily the cow was fairly experienced and well adjusted so she just let it happen. I had done some research on the technique. It's not as simple as you would expect. It's not all squeezing and tugging down there. It's much more of a gradual squeeze and roll. You first have to apply pressure around where the teat meets the udder by wrapping your thumb and index finger around it. Sort of forming the international hand signal for "OK". This prevents the milk from being squeezed up into the udder.  Then fold in the rest of your fingers in succession, as if they are doing the wave, while applying pressure and aiming for a bucket. This forces the milk to the bottom and out. 

I was nervous and excited If I pinch too hard I could get a clear kick and the face and shame myself in front of my boss. I reached down and went over the methods a few times in my head and then let instinct do the rest. "OK, finger wave, squeeze and... SQUIRT! My first squeeze and I got it!!! After that I was like a rock-star. Within minutes I was double fisting. One of the other farm assistance even asked me "Are you sure you've never done this before?" It was then that I truly knew I belonged here.