Cowasaurus

Sometimes the farm feels more like Jurassic Park. Not the actual park, but the island from the second and third movie instead, where everything roamed around a little more wild. Everywhere I walk there is always some animal rustling around and groaning in the bushes. I keep expecting the little dinosaur that looks like it has a vibrating boa on its neck to jump out and spit in my face.  I guess when the pigs cough and project shit five feet out their ass it’s kind of like the same thing.

 The workload on the farm has been a bit heavier than usual since one of the apprentices got "sick" a few days ago. (He may actually be sick but the skepticism comes from my bitterness, but I digress.) And in what seems to be a rather consistent phenomenon, whenever you start the day knowing it's going to be a long one something always goes wrong in order to make it even longer. 

 After finishing up the daily duties of cheese making about an hour later than usual I walked up the hill and into the farm house carrying a 30 lb pot of pitted apricots soon to become jam, and found the farmer sitting in the living room. I should have just ditched the fruit and ran but feeling a bit winded I stopped for some water. That’s when the farmer made his way over with the, “guess what the cows did and we now have to fix” look on his face. Which is just about the same face a parent makes when their two year old spills a bowl of cheerios over their head but it’s so darn cute you can’t actually be mad. Yet every time he makes the face and explains what the cows actually did, I just stand there and think “frickin Cows.”

 What seems to have happened was that one of the yearlings (year old cows, aka dumb teenager) broke out of the dry herds field and when breaking back in seems to have ripped the hose to their water trough which caused the pump to continue running so long, that it used up all the energy in the battery that powers it, faster than the solar panel that recharges the battery could replace it.

 Frickin Cows

 Again the face didn’t seem to help. I asked how many things we actually needed to fix, and it ended up that the battery in the solar panel had to be replaced, the broken water hose mended and the dead battery recharged. What I forgot to mention was that getting to the dry herd required walking across two fields, through the river, and over the train tracks.

 The farmer wanted to use the tractor to carry the battery over and I thought “A battery? How heavy can a battery be?”

Pretty fucking heavy actually! After I told the farmer I could just carry the battery over myself I lifted the car battery and learned it weighs about 50 pounds. (And for anyone who is reading this and thinking, “oh 50 lbs. that’s nothing, Shut up, it’s heavy)

 The Farmer got a call and left me to trek away off into the wild. (FWI the little fabric strap they attach to car batteries to carry them is merely added as a nice thought but serves no functional purpose.) I made my awkward way through the first field carrying the battery over my shoulder dodging cow flops and got to the river to find that the milking herd decided to have a little afternoon dip. Daisy “The one eyed dwarf cow wonder” stood in the middle of the river by herself, her head following me with her good eye, she refused to move out of the way. Brunhilda “The beast” assumed I was there to attack her knew calf and made it clear I was not welcome to reach shore anywhere near her. I ended up wading up stream through paranoid cows with one arm protecting the cell phone in my pocket and the other balancing a 50 lb block over my shoulder.

 I got to shore shoeless and much damper than I had hoped. I ditched the battery and went back to dig my shows out of the clay. By now the entire herd had erupted into an obnoxious monotonous medley of mooing. The only time they really see us is when we are opening another paddock for them or bringing them in for milking and since they all have the brain of an Obsessive-compulsive preschooler they began to follow me like Moses through the dessert to what they thought would be a new fertile pasture. Unfortunately when they realized I wasn’t there to offer some new grass they got pissed and the moos took on a new tone. 

 Eventually I scratched my way through the thistle and over to the solar Panel, completing the first half of my adventure. The farmer arrived shortly after with the tools and equipment. We ditched the battery and crossed the tracks to the dry herd to fix the hose.

 Suddenly we were back in Jurassic Park. We walked through waste high grass, down a small slope, and through the non-“hot” electric fence. The trough was leveled in the clearing of a wooded area of the pasture set at the bottom of a hill. All around we heard the grumbling and bellowing moans of the bulls, but no sign of them other than muddied hoof prints threw thick ferns and horn punched logs. There are a lot more bulls in the dry herd than the milking herd for obvious reasons. The Farmer worked with a sense of urgency that seemed to make the snap of each branch and the rustle of every leaf trigger a spike in my blood pressure. It really felt like at any moment something was going to jump from behind a tree or out from the grass. After a bit of fine tuned work the hose was mended and I was left to ensure it worked while the farmer replaced the battery and turned on the pump.

 Now I was alone in Jurassic Park, shouting back and forth to the farmer “working…not working.” The surroundings seemed to be getting louder: The leaves, the branches, and the moans. I could half make out fragments of black hair and horns crossing behind trees. The creaking pop of the wood being crushed under their steps grew louder and closer. Then I turned to find one of the bulls approaching me closely making gestures that I’m sure translated to “Bitch, get the fuck off my turf”

 I panicked. I thought maybe if I stand still he won’t see me, like in the movie. I now know that doesn’t work with bulls. He just kept getting closer with no urgent sense of aggression but I seemed to get the idea he wasn’t going to just walk around me. He heard fresh water pouring and saw me in its way. It was pretty clear to me that it was time to move out. I two stepped my way around the trough and bull and hopped between the fence. After clearing through the grass again I got to open up a new paddock for the milking herd so they’d stop bitching and had to then carry the dead battery back through the river and fields. By the end of the day I think my arms grew about and inch in diameter and validated that my purchase of a case of beer WAS a good idea. 

Qauzi and I

I'm learning how to upload pics I promised they would come.

The cow-tipping point

 I’m still alive! It seems that I’ve become so immersed in my topic that I lost track of my writing. Or in other words I’m exhausted as hell everyday and a beer and bed seem  mush more appealing than typing.  But, I promised myself I would stick to my blog, and people are actually reading this so I gotsta represent and bring it.  So tonight It’s beer, bed, and lap-top time.

 Since my last entry I’ve started reading a book titled “The Tipping Point” by Malcom Gladwell . He discusses how several small occurrences can lead to drastic events such as new trends or widespread viruses.  How different variables keep building upon one another until one more causes a tip and can lead to drastic results. I Believe I have reached my personal tipping point. I’m not exactly sure when it occurred but somewhere between slaughtering and cooking a pig and slaughtering and cooking a groundhog, I tipped, and I don’t think I can ever go back.

 

When I started I assumed eventually I would just get acclimated to farm life and it turns out instead that farm life has just become my life. I have seen and done things I would have never imagined. I start my day inspecting the poop stains on my clothes to decide which are least dirty to wear.  After my first load of laundry on the farm I realized that since the cows are entirely grass fed, their buts are basically super soakers full of liquid grass stain.  It’s like a mid 90’s nickelodeon game show in the barn. I just sit around waiting to get slimed every day. And there is nothing more bone chilling than hearing that “plopp” of the first dollop hitting the ground, not knowing where it came from or how far away from the splash zone you are. At first I ran away like it was D-day and now I have succumbed to the plop, I turn my head and accept the inevitable.  It’s sorta like getting on a plane and telling yourself it’s gonna crash, it just makes it less of a shock when it does.  And so I wake everyday and prepare myself to be shit on.

 

I’m not really sure how I feel about it though. I accept it and in a way it fills the void of testosterone and butchness I’ve lacked for many years, just walking around dirty and sweaty face to face with horned beasts. But, on the other hand I think “What the fuck!” I need a whole new wardrobe.  The farmer actually informed me the other day that I have the most milking outfits he’s ever seen from any apprentice. He especially liked my green t-shirt with the cowboy on it and green gargo’s rolled up like lederhosen ensemble I put together.  It hides the stains most and provides adequate air circulation.  He also offered to pick me up a straw hat of my very own at the hardware store.  YeehaAA!

 

I really feel like I have impressed him. I feel it was the groundhog that set me apart from the others. I don’t think he actually meant it when I asked what we do with the groundhog’s we trap on the farm and he said, “well you can always cook em.” But I jumped on that faster than a pig on slop and am proud to say I turned would be road kill into haute cuisine! 

 

We caught the groundhog in a cage trap with bread bait.  It seemed a bit dramatic to use a 22 rifle to shoot the 5-pound animal in the head but it sure as hell killed it quick. I took over again to do the dirty throat cutting and gutting.  It’s so much easier to just skin an animal than to have to scald and scrape one. The fur came off beautifully and I managed to keep the ears and whiskers on its face. I have read about using a pureed pig brain concoction to tan the hide but I have yet to make the brain smoothie to try it. The gutting required a bit more delicacy than the pig and I managed to avoid any delayed bowel movements. It’s stomach smelt like salad actually, was a little weird.

 

 After you skin and gut them groundhogs look very similar in size and structure to a rabbit just with a bit of a different head.  Examining how lean the meat was I decided it was best to cook it either very hot and quick or long and low. Though, they build up a considerable amount of fat inbetween their skin and flesh, the amount of intramuscular fat (marbeling), that helps keep meat moist as it cooks, was barely existent.  So I found some inspiration in a bistro cookbook and substituted coq for mormotte au vin.  I seared the meat and simmered it in pig stock, made from quazimoto, and Paul Mason’s finest burgundy.  The flesh was tender and moist with a soft almost sweet gamey flavor. Everyone seemed to enjoy it and our Peruvian farm apprentice said it was better than guinea pig. I think that’s a compliment. My plan for the next groundhog carcass, I currently have stored in the freezer, is to try deep-frying it like chicken wings! With all the fur I’m hopping to make either a really fucking awesome hat or some cute little fur shorts. But first I need to acquire a pig brain.  I think there is one in the freezer too. 

Like I said, there is no going back.