Dedicated to the Dream

Well, if you are friends with either James or myself on Facebook you have already seen our news. If not, then you're in for a surprise! Here's a little hint: we have a lot of party planning to look forward to and this has been a long time coming (eight years to be exact, eternity if you believe in fate).

So, the purpose of this post is two-fold: first, to show and tell you just how amazing our Kentucky thoroughbred farms can be and second, to announce our engagement! 

Let me walk you through a glorious October day in Versailles, Kentucky. James had told me that he thought some of the thoroughbred farms had the availability to give tours and we had discussed getting a few of these scheduled so that we could continue to add to our Authentic Kentucky experiences (but if we keep opening up distilleries, at this rate we will never run out of blog fodder!). As it turns out, he has a friend who knows someone who was now the Maintenance Manager at one of the biggest and best race farms in Versailles. We had already planned to spend the day bettin' on the ponies at Keeneland Racetrack so it just made sense that we would stop by for a tour of their homes on the way! Throughout the week I kept asking James about the tour: Are you sure we can go? What time is it? Who's this guy again? The entire time I got the same vague answers. Finally, on Thursday, James let me know that his connection would be at the farm on Saturday and had obliged to let us come and take a little drive through on our way to the races. I was thrilled!

These are the kinds of "farms" that take your breath away. Imagine a postcard of Kentucky. They probably took that photo here. James explained to me that we may not even get to see any horses this day, because he didn't know what the "tour" consisted of. I didn't care, seeing the land alone left me in awe.

We started our day with some Heine Bros. coffees where I commented on a pumpkin sticker they had given me. "Look at that! Your first surprise of the day..." he quipped. I brushed it off without much thought because, to me, the tour alone was going to be full of surprises!

We sipped our lattes as we drove the long and winding back roads toward Lexington. We didn't know what we were looking for, but James told me "Charlie said we'd know it when we saw it". I kept my eyes open for a large farm with a green and white star and something that would let me "know". When we pulled up... we knew.

The view of the office as you pull up to the main gates of Winstar Farm.

When you arrive you pull through large gates adorned with stone pillars and topped with horse statuettes. From behind the gates you can see a massive stone and glass building perched atop a rolling hill, overlooking lakes and pastures - this is the office. The horses watch you as you drive past.

We parked and got out of the car to meet Gerry, who showed us the office first. Immediately when you walk in you notice the massive trophy case, and there, in front, is the large, gold, Kentucky Derby trophy (estimated worth over $90,000.00 in raw materials alone). It took me several minutes before I could break my gaze from the famous award, but when I did I was shocked.

I begged James to hand me his phone so I could start taking pictures and as he did.. he was shaking. It was quite chilly that day, so again... I brushed it off.

After my eyes adjusted to the light I could see a large open room with plush chairs, a massive stone fireplace, and gigantic paintings of horses. Gerry told us a little about each horse, pictured and walked us through. I could have stayed the entire day just asking about items on the walls and on display in these rooms, and I can only imagine the conversations that take place at the tables.

But, there was much more to see... We were whisked away in Gerry's truck as we drove through the 2,400 acre farm. There are over 26 miles of roadways winding from barn to barn, over 24 residences for owners, trainers, veterinarians, etc. and over 130 miles of the iconic black four board fencing.

The owner's home.

We drove past house after house, barn after barn. We learned about the original farmhouse built on the 200 year old farm, the birthing stables, the paddock routines, and everything else.

Finally, we arrived at the Stallion Barn. I peeked over the dashboard at another, equally as impressive stone and brick "barn". Gerry barely blinked when he told us we had to stay within arms length of the horses... because it isn't so much our worry about your fingers getting bitten off as much as we are worried about a horse choking. We pulled up in awe of the building, filled with 180 million dollars worth of horse (that's approximately 20, by the way).

I practically burst through the doors. James had told me we might not even get to see horses and here we were standing in the presence of some of the winning-est horses in the sport! We walked into the atrium, a large and open center room used to view the conformation of each horse. Then we slowly walked down the side aisles, stalls on either side, with horses poking their heads out of each opening to see who was coming. 

We passed some of the greats: Distorted Humor (daddy of 3 triple crown winners), Tiznow (the only horse in history to win the Breeder's Cup twice), Gemologist, Bodemeister, Paynter to name a few... and, the winner of the glorious Kentucky Derby garland and trophy: Super Saver.

Distorted Humor

Super Saver

After we gawked back and forth at each other (the horses and I) for quite a while we walked out of the barn together. There, in front of us, laid out like a quilt, were acres upon acres of rolling pasture. Horses lazily walked past, glancing up from their grass occasionally. The morning mist was just lifting from the fields and all you could see was everything you imagined a Kentucky Horse farm to be. It was picturesque. It was perfect.

So there, while we were posing for a photo, with the Stallion Barn behind us and Kentucky before us, James dropped down to own knee and pulled out the most beautiful ring I have ever seen in real life.

Of course I said yes... when I, eventually, could speak.

I wish I could give you more details, a play by play of the moment, but I was so surprised that I can't remember exactly what was said. Everything was spinning and I was giddy and thank goodness Gerry was there to take pictures or I would have a hard time remembering what happened at all! I can tell you that I honestly had not suspected a thing or even had an inkling of an idea that anything was going to happen remotely soon, which made it that much better.

I can tell you that as soon as he stood up we hugged, kissed, and he told me that this was not the first time he had been to the farm... He and Gerry had been in cahoots for over a year. And for the first time that day, I saw his accomplice smile.

We laughed and hugged and our secret audience in the barn came running out with congratulations all around. After I finally caught my breath we were bustled back into the truck to finish our tour. 

I'll be honest... the next few barns, the practice track, the fields: they were all a blur. A big beautiful blur. I remember discussing the state-of-the-art treatment facility and some of the resources the farm had available to the horses, such as a giant, horse-sized jacuzzi and water aerobics. Understandably, I was a little distracted.

After we left the farm James and I sat in the car. I ogled my ring and gushed over everything. I had a million questions! Did my mom know? Yes, she helped pick out your ring. Did you ask my dad? Yes, he's terrible at handling serious situations. Were you nervous? Of course. And the list goes on...

I could not even begin to show my gratitude to Gerry, Larry, Charlie and everyone who had a hand in the coordination of our visit. And I definitely need to thank everyone I know who was able to keep a secret! This was an amazing experience, something I never expected, and the tour alone was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

If I had written down, exactly what I imagined a perfect engagement to be... this would have surpassed in every aspect. Everything was so well planned, so thoughtful, and so perfectly "us". Much like our relationship in general, James never ceases to amaze me. 

Before we left, Gerry made sure to drive us past the "old stallion barn". They just so happened to be setting up for their own wedding...

Sugared Bees

I mentioned last time that fall is almost upon us - leaves are starting to drift off the trees and waft down around our boots, the air is just slightly crisp, the sky a touch bluer. When you sit out on the porch swing you hear the familiar *thump* of apples falling to the ground. Pumpkins are starting to show up everywhere you look, especially in my chai lattes.

This means a lot for me and you. Usually in fall, although deer season has already started and James sightings are scarce, we tend to venture out into the distilleries, wineries, fall festivals, and markets more. I'll be completely honest. I just like fall. I am totally prejudiced. And I am not even sorry, Summer.

Fall also means something for our little bumbles, too! They are packing up and waiting for winter. We had already harvested a few pounds of honey, but still stinging (pun absolutely intended) from last winter's loss, left most of the honey intact in hops to sustain our hive.

We went out to check on them this past weekend and they. were. buzzing. Our goal this visit was to check for hive mites (like bee fleas or ticks) and make sure they look stocked up enough to make it through the winter. They are still working on gathering pollen, and we saw some bees loaded down with pollen packed into their baskets. The bee's pollen baskets are on their back legs - and when they are that full they remind me of tiny little body builders with gross-weird bulgy legs.

The hive was moderately full of honey, but we will still need to supplement them over the season with sugar water and pollen patties. We'll worry about that later though. What we really wanted to do is see how badly stricken our bees were with mites.

So, one by one we pulled out frames and scanned for honey, baby bee cells, and mites. What's great about this is that in order to treat for the mites, you sprinkle the bees with powder sugar. Can you imagine? That's the equivalent of ice cream falling from the sky for us! This serves a dual purpose. The bees can't stand being dirty, so they immediately get to work grooming themselves and eachother. In this process they are pulling the mites off of each other and dropping them through the hive and onto the ground, where they die. The mites also have a terrible time trying to stick to the bees when they are coated in the powdered sugar so some of them will fall off on their own.

James and his mom pulled out drone larvae one at a time with tweezers. Which means we needed to comb through every frame of each hive. Which also means that every single bee in there was pissed off at us.

Regardless, the drones were removed which is a good thing for our hive. The mites live in the drone bee cells and that is how they build up their numbers. Unfortunately for the drone bees, they were required to sacrifice their lives for the good of the hive. How very altruistic. In reality, the hive kicks out all drone bees at the beginning of the winter anyways. We all know how much guys can eat and when colony starvation is a very real problem, who needs those extra mouths to feed anyways?

Good news for the boys is - if they make it through the winter, then their milkshake brings all the queens to the yard.

So our bees got sugared, we sacrificed some drones, visually inspected the hives, were chased all the way to the house twice by one particular angry bee, and nobody was stung! I'll write that off as a success.

My Moo Moos

Just in case you were wondering, my little moo-moos are growing up fast! James and I visited the farm over the long weekend to check on the bees and the cows.

The bees are just fine. They are super busy gathering up goldenrod pollen for their late honey harvest. We are planning on leaving this honey in the hive to over-winter them, and, in addition: we will be feeding sugar water and pollen patties just to make sure we don't go through a mass genocide like last year.

It was easily 98 degrees over the weekend and our cows were feeling it. We had to use the four-wheeler to search for them. We drove over the fields, around the pond and through the apple orchard. We finally found them in the woods, down by a creek, trying as best they could to escape the heat.

As soon as they spotted us they started climbing up through the weeds to greet us. Our cows are definitely not shy. We had brought them some apples from the orchard and started tossing them around the herd, letting the more timid cows grab a few. They were loving the apples, so James and I decided to drive back through the orchard and gather up as many as we could. The cows were so happy to see us that they followed the quad as far as they could, some of them even running, trying to keep up with us!

We quickly filled a five-gallon bucket and headed back to the pasture. By this time our cows had gathered near the fence, waiting for us to come back. We quickly got to work, smushing the apples on the ground, to make it easier for them to chew. Cows only have teech on the bottom, did you know? They use them to just smash everything against their hard palate, turning their food into mush.

We would stomp an apple and take a step, stomp an apple, and take a step, the herd following us around in a weird little dance. When they became impatient, though, they made their intentions clear. They would grab the apples right out of our hands and stick their big fat heads in our bucket. I tried in vain to push number 39 away from the bucket, but, now that he is a solid 500 pounds, he didn't budge.

Regardless, everyone got to eat some apples, and that means happy cows. Happy cows make a happy James, and a happy James makes a happy Bridgette!

You know what all those apples also mean? FALL is right around the corner!

Froggie Leggies

It's that glorious time of year when the hillbillies from every corner of the state crawl out of their cabins, march through the mountains, take their yearly bath and strap on their "good shoes" to make their way to Louisville. Yep, that's right! It's time for the Kentucky State Fair!

I'm sorry, I know I am just perpetuating stereotypes, but come on... you would laugh, too, if you were able to peak at the crowds swarming the fairgrounds all weekend. I promise everyone had shoes on.

James and I made our annual trek to the State Fair this past weekend and it was everything you could imagine: corn dogs, endless crap peddlers, funnel cakes, beer, crowds, giant vegetables, cake decorating contests, etc. I love every minute of the state fair. There is some grade A people watching if you ever wanted it.

We went with some of our friends who suggested we make our way to the Mike Lennig's tent for some friend fish and french fries. Mike Lennig's is also famous for their frog legs...

So as we sat amongst the hundreds of other people chowing down on fish parts, I asked James if he had ever had any frog legs. I had not. I remember my papaw ordering some at a restaurant in Florida one time, but I don't recall any of my family members actually consuming them.

James scoffed. Have I ever eaten frog legs? Well, yea! He acted as if this was one of the silliest questions he had ever heard. I was shocked. James isn't usually one to venture too far out of his meat and potatoes world. In fact, it is just in the past year or two that we both started eating fish. So I ventured further with my questioning.. When? How? What?

He scoffed at me some more... "Psshh... We used to go out back and gig 'em in the ponds behind the house and bring 'em in and dad would fry 'em up". Blegh. I churled a little in my mouth at the thought of baby James giggin' frogs right out of his back yard...

Side story: I actually used to have a "pet" fire bellied-toad. He had three legs and his name was Bojangles. One time all the crickets I bought for him to eat escaped in my room. Every night from then on it sounded like you were sleeping out in a field.

Anyway, I am still coming around to the idea of picking fruits and vegetables out of the yard and eating them, much less happening upon a defenseless frog and thinking "Hmm... I bet this would taste good battered up and deep fried!"  But then again, I am dating the man who, at around eight, was pictured with his first rifle, and a belt full of dead squirrels. (Picture to come soon.) ((Unfortunately.))

The couple who stare at goats

Last night James decided it would be a fun experience to take me to a cattle auction. Why not?

Now, He has done this before - we went to a livestock auction last year. A big one. One that had air conditioning, a full restaurant, and fully functional bathrooms. This wasn't too bad. But last night?

Last night we went to a down-home style backyard cattle auction. We were in good company. Out of the 30 or so people who sat around in the "reclaimed" wooden stadium seats, or up on the wooden rafter benches, I was easily the only person who had never had this experience before. I was so much cleaner than my counterparts that I practically glowed.

As soon as we sat down I cringed and curled away from my neighbor when he spit out so much dip spit that I thought at first he had actually thrown up on his own shoes. I watched as a steady drip leaked from the ceiling of the auction hall despite the rather dry conditions we have been experiencing. I dodged the awkward glances from farm-folks who had probably never seen someone with makeup before, other than when honey-boo-boo gets ready for her pageants, of course.

Then came the animals. Goats ran out into the auction ring, neighing and baying or whatever goats do - some of them screaming. It was a terrifying experience. They lifted the tails of the goats to determine whether it was a nanny or a billy, and I couldn't help but think that for at least one of the men here, this was the equivalent of speed dating. You know what I mean.

The animals shuffled in and out of the ring, sometimes ten at a time, and bids went left and right. We watched as someone paid over $30,000 for a small herd of cattle. Some of the cattle would ram into the gates, sending the men a few steps back, and some of them would simply stand there, wondering what was going on.

By the time James had finished the conversation with his new-found friend, my neighbor's lake of dipspit had turned into a creek was was rapidly approaching my boots. I was more than ready to head home and shower off the smell of cigarette smoke, manure, and my company.

So there you have it - I drag James around to musicals, wineries, and occasionally *gasp* the mall, so this is my debt. If he can sit through a few hours of people signing their feelings, I can sit through a few hours of country folk bidding on pissed off animals, in a dark and dingy, smoke filled auction hall, with mystery water falling from the ceiling, splatter from my seat-mate's bad habit, and creepy stares. Not that we're keeping score or anything...

How sweet it is!

We got a call over the weekend from James' parents. They had one of our bee expert friends come out and take a look at the hives, and she suggested we go ahead and pull some frames for extracting. Luckily, this lady has her own extractor and she gladly took them to her bee house and taught them how to work it.

Now, it's a little early to be harvesting, but the tools were there and none of us have ever used an extractor so it was great that they had the chance to learn before we get elbow deep in 100 pounds of honey.

Keep in mind... we just put the supers on our hives a few short weeks ago...

So they took the super over to her house, extracted some honey, and now what? I need to order some jars! They pulled over NINE POUNDS of honey from one super on one hive!

Come late August, when the honey is all ready to be gathered, we are expecting some major flows. I'll keep you posted!

Little bees climbing over a frame

Let me know if you would like a sample!

Springtime on the farm

James and I visited the farm last weekend, as we do many weekends, but, somehow, this weekend was different. As I trudged through the barn, dragging five-gallon buckets of ground up corn and grain, sweat dripped down the edge of my forehead. As I walked from one field to another, tall grasses brushed up against my bare legs. As I sprinted through the pasture, the warm breeze caught in my hair and my clothes...

Springtime has finally rolled into the hills of Kentucky.

Springtime in the Kentucky countryside is one of the most beautiful things a human being can experience, in my personal opinion. But then again, I'm partial.

We ride out to the farm with the windows down, sipping sweet tea as we drive. When we finally arrive, there is plenty of work to do. Springtime is synonymous with equipment breakdowns.

Tilling the garden.

Of course, being that this is usually the first weekend most of the farm equipment has been brought out of the barn since last year, malfunctions should be expected. They have had nothing to do but sit and stale for months. But when the grass starts to grow, something's gotta mow.

We spent the weekend tending to our hives, trimming around the apple orchard, towing broken equipment, moving the cows, and tilling the garden. One of our little moo-moos even escaped. Luckily, I am an expert cattle herder by now and we were able to coax him back into the field with his bovine brethren.

As I said, there is much to be done, and one weekend isn't going to take care of it all. We have strawberries already coming up, blueberries turning blue, and veggies beginning to sprout. I am already excited about the harvest though, and I couldn't help but pick one (or four) of the ripest strawberries on the vine and plop them into my mouth. Mmm... tastes like summer.

A swarm of wild stingers, part two

Glad you stayed posted. I know you are anxious to hear about what to do if you ever encounter a giant thriving swarm of wild honeybees.

As I said, our names were on the list. When James' mom got the call, she had to move quick! She grabbed our empty hive body and threw it into her trunk and ran out to the farm on which the swarm collector had told her to meet.

Let's take a quick minute to assess the scene... (I know all of this because this particular swarm collector documents every recovery minute by minute).

The two women arrive on the farm and knock on the door of the trailer which resides on this particular farm. They find the man who had called, drunk on whiskey, "trapped" inside his home. Now, I know before I became this involved with my little bee buddies I was hesitant of anything with a stinger, but don't get me wrong, I have never been barricaded inside my home by a bug.

They informed this gentleman that he would soon be relieved of his bees. The woman quickly nailed a few of the frames from our hive, over the swarm, and placed a box around them. These particular bees had swarmed inside a knot in a tree.

Maybe I need to explain a swarm a little better? Think Winnie the Pooh. Swarms are colonies of bees that have just decided they would like to move somewhere else for some reason - lack of food, lack of room, or - dare I say - mutiny? They all group up together and fly off, in search of greener pastures. Swarms can be wild bees or from someone's hive. It doesn't much matter so long as they make honey.

Once the box was placed over the hole in the tree where the swarm was living, she waited. 2 whole hours. When they came back most of the bees had crawled onto the frames. They smell like bee and they have some food and room, so why not?

The finished hive! My glorious paint job.

She quickly grabbed the frames, put them in our hive body, and duct taped it shut.

There you have it. Feel like you could do that? I should mention that James' mom wore her bee suit home, and it is a good thing she did, as some bees had escaped into the cabin of her car. Can you imagine driving down the interstate, peering into the car next to you, and it is a woman in a bee suit?

James moving the frames around and checking for baby bees.

So our swarm is home at last. They have been in the hive almost 3 weeks now, so it looks like they may decide to stay. James and I checked on them the other day and to say they are "busy bees" is an understatement. We were quickly reminded how different the separate lineages of bees can be.

Thats a very serious face.

I took a sting behind the ear and he took one in the finger. I deserved mine and he probably did too... but still. I have been keeping bees for 2 years now and I guess I am finally a legitimate beekeeper. My first sting. Ouch! I tried not to complain too much but now, 6 days later, I still feel like I took a line drive to the side of my head. But at least I didn't swell up and die. And neither did James. And for that, you still have this blog.

A swarm of wild stingers

Oh, yea? You were just wondering what was going on with the bees? Well, good. I have an update for you.

A while back I may have mentioned that we lost not only our first, hard working hive, but that we lost our second, honey-lovin' hippie hive as well. They both succumbed to hunger. So sad. Especially since there was so much honey in the hives. It would be like you or I dyeing of starvation when our fridge is full and in the next room... we just didn't really feel like going that far.

So, while all of this was happening, James' mom decided she would like to be an apiarist as well. She attended bee school of her own accord, went to the annual beekeeper's conference and bought her own hive. Her hive was decorated by a group of school children, and is partly the reason James and I decided to decorate our own hives. We couldn't very well have left our dingy old gray hives out next to her shiny new one!

A swarm bee checking out my painted flower.

She bought herself a nucleus to get her hive started. Already we could tell a difference. Her hive was a hummin and a buzzin from day 1. James and I are both under the assumption that she had more bees in her nuc box than we did in our entire hives, which would add to the starvation issue.

Just a side note: a nuc box is a set of already established frames with bees on them (about 5 frames) that you just drop into your empty hive. They are great starters because the bees don't have to work as hard to build out their comb and start storing. James and I had started last year with just 2 colonies. We know better now.

Luckily... we won't have to be purchasing any nucs or colonies. How's that, you ask? Did a swarm of wild bees just make their way into the neighborhood and pick our nice little hive? Realtors always say a fresh paint job sells a house...

The answer is... well, kinda.

James' mom met someone through her own bee contact who is a swarm collector. You gotta know a guy that knows a guy if ya get what I'm sayin... She reached out to this woman, who collects swarms in her free time, and delivers them free of charge to anyone on her list that is wanting one.

Now swarms are in high demand. Swarms are very ambitious bees looking for a permanent home. There are plenty of beekeepers wanting to get their hands on some of these bees and place them in their empty hives. So she added our names to the list...

Stay tuned for details!

Livin' off the land

On top of everything else we currently have going on in our lives, we are also responsible for the lives of 14 little baby cows. Well, some of them are not so much babies anymore. Some of them are full grown bad ass diesel steers. I still think they are cute, though, but don't say that in front of their girlfriends because they'll be all like, "Mooooooooooom! You're embarassing me!"

Happy moo-moo!

Anyways, we have been back and forth to the farm about every other weekend, if not more often, checking on the bee situation (more to come on that soon, some good and some bad news), checking on the cows, and working in the garden.  These cows, to me, are pretty high maintenance. James had me thoroughly convinced we would simply let them walk around in a field and make sure they had water every now and then. Not the case.

Our cows have needed several courses of vaccines so far, and just like toddlers, they don't like shots. We have to use a cattle chute. You should be super impressed that, after a few courses of each cow shuffling through the chute, I am a superior chute handler. We only have one problem - the chute operates on a basic premise: that cows are fearful of humans and will run from them. Our cows are not fearful. They walk right into the chute and stand there. We have to push them all the way to the front. When we open the gate to let them back out, they just stand there, perfectly content where they are. Once they have been turned back out in the field they huddle around us. One of them even reaches through the fence if I am nearby just to get a good grip of my shirt tail to chew on.

Blossoms on one of the apple trees.

We have also treated them for ringworm. Ugh. Gross. Makes me so itchy just thinking about it. Luckily, none of us have caught it (yet). 

In comparison to when we originally obtained our little baby moo-moos, they are doing fantastically. Even our little runt, Number 31, who we had to intubate when he was new to the farm, is romping around the pasture with his friends.

So, all in all, our new bovine buddies are doing great. They are growing up big, and soon it will probably be scary to have to usher them in and out of the chutes, but for now they are still super sweet and adorable.

Corn clobberer

Remember these guys? Ugh. I do. These are the feed sacks of corn that we had filled up after picking and shelling them. We have about 7 of them, all weighing in around one hundred pounds. Whew! We've been busy.

This past weekend we decided that we had enough to finally grind it up so that it can be used as feed for our little baby moo-cows. They like corn. It has a lot of protein in it and when it is ground up, it is easier for them to digest.

So James and his dad pulled out a piece of equipment I had never seen before. It was a strange contraption that attached to the rear of the tractor. They called me out to see it in action.

As the tractor ran a long pipe spun around, providing power to the rest of it. James and his dad would hoist the hundred pound bags up onto their shoulders and dump them into a funnel-type of thing. The corn would fall down towards a rotating blade, the thing of nightmares and it suddenly made sense why so many farmers are missing fingers.

The blades rotated around, feeding the corn down into the machine at a rapid rate. It was ground up and a long spiral inside of a pipe fed it up and out of a spout, which was placed over a steel drum, to catch the final product. The drum filled up fast. Corn dust flew everywhere and covered everything within feet of the machine. It was loud, but efficient. We went through all 700+ pounds of corn, two steel drums, in about 20 minutes. All of the hard work, out in the fields in the freezing cold, and in the basement working up a sweat hand cranking the sheller, over and done with in 20 minutes. Now I know they make machines to do that other stuff - the picking and shelling.

After we had everything ground up we tried it out! We mixed up our little baby cow's dinner for them. Some of our ground corn, a "pasture extender" feed, and distiller's grain - which we had picked up from a grinding, feed, store type of place. Lucky for us, the distiller's grain has a lot of protein and is a by-product of all the bourbon and beer making in the area. We stirred it all together to make a nice little calf casserole and Voila! Dinner was served!

Our little cows chowed down on their new feed. They approved. We had done all this work by hand, just for them. It definitely makes you appreciate the technology that has come to replace all of this freezing, cranking, picking, throwing, shelling, etc. All for the cows. They better 'preciate!

So there you have it, the beginning to end of how we have homegrown and hand made cow feed!

Death jam

As you are beginning to learn, little Bridgette on the farm is a means of free labor, particularly when it comes to the garden. I had never even seen a legitimate garden before I came out to the country with James. Where I am from we get our fruits and veggies from the grocery store. The thought of actually picking something up off of the ground, rinsing it off, and eating it for free was totally foreign. At my house, the only thing we planted were landscaping flowers, and unless it was a boxwood, it usually died.

When James and I started working on the garden at the farm it was like being in the second grade all over again. We would walk through the rows and I would point to different blobs of leaves and stems and ask, "What's that?"

"That's broccoli".

Weird. Have you ever seen broccoli growing? It doesn't look like something I would ever pick up and eat. I have learned so much since my first summer in the garden. One of the things I have learned is that broccolis are always home to special tiny little broccoli-colored worms. Awesome surprise. Anyway...

After a few summers I decided to give my input in the garden planning. I wanted strawberries. James had always talked about how they used to grow strawberries and he and his sister would pick them and sell them, and that would be their allowance. I love berries of all kinds. I wanted some strawberries. Like, now.

So we got to planting. Apparently it takes about three years for strawberry plants to really kick out some produce, not cool for my patience. So I waited. We watered the stupid little vines every year. We picked the one or two berries that sprouted out, if we got to it before the birds did.

Then, finally! Last year we had berries. About damn time, nature. The garden was exploding with strawberries that first weekend. There were TONS of them. We filled baskets and buckets and came back for more over and over again. It was berry heaven. They looked just like the ones at the grocery store but they tasted even better. I was even so bold as to start sneaking them as I picked them, naughty me. I would pick a few handfuls then if I found one that wasn't near any bugs and off the ground enough to not be dirty I would pop it into my mouth. I caught James doing the same thing... but he was a little more aggressive. He would pick one, eat two, pick one eat two... Regardless, we had plenty.

After one weekend picking and pruning and tilling the garden, his parents lose their steam. It is a lot to keep up with, and they only have so much time. So the garden became my project, "You wanted these things, now you take care of them", kind of project. I even used a rototiller for the first time.

So, every weekend we were out at the farm, while James would help his dad work on the tractor or bale hay, I would wander over to the garden and get to picking. I would pull a few peppers off the vine, dig up a few potatoes, and then start gathering the berries.

One weekend I went up there to get to work. I felt bad because James was out, with his friend and his dad, baling hay. It was over 100 degrees, again, that day. I felt like I needed to put in my time, too. Plus, it probably wouldn't hurt to sweat off a few pounds before I ate the inevitable pie we were going to have after dinner.

I headed to the garden with my buckets and got to work. I was all by myself and hunched over the strawberries. Picking and picking. I would eat one or two, but they were piping hot from sitting in the sun. I worked on the rows and rows of strawberries for probably over an hour. I would spend some time hunched over them, picking, before I would take a break and stand to straighten out my back.

Sweat was poring down over my face and arms, and even though I was only wearing gym shorts and a tank top, I was woozy from the heat. I was determined to get the garden taken care of, though. I still hadn't heard the tractor come in from the fields so I kept working.

At one point I stopped picking to stand and stretch my back out. I looked up, and there above me, circling, were ELEVEN buzzards. Seriously. I told you these damn things know I don't belong out there. They saw me standing in the garden and, anything stupid enough to be out in the heat for that long without water or a break will die soon enough.

I shouted at them and waved them off, only for them to come back again, swooping lower every time. Obviously they were trying to get a good look at my juicy little eyeballs. I wonder if blue eyes taste any different?

I needed to get the damn garden picked. I hunched back over and started picking, rapid-fire. Any glint of red I saw I grabbed. I was almost done when I heard, "Damn..."

James' dad had come up from the house. He took one look at me and threw me the bottle of water he had been carrying. I guzzled it immediately. Ugh. He couldn't believe I was standing there in the sun that whole time. I had close to a 5 gallon bucket full of berries by that time. He looked up and counted the vultures, teetering above me. Ok, it was time to go. He grabbed a few more berries to throw into the bucket and we headed back to the house.

Oh, thank God. Air conditioning. Sweet tea. Water. Ice.

James and his friend had come back in from the fields, just as worn and wet as I was. We sat around the table and sifted through the garden's surplus.

That night we ate a strawberry pie. The whole thing. Then we had strawberry jam. James' mom showed me how to make it with my pickings. We ate the jam for days. There was so much of it! It was a little disheartening to see all of my little berries ground up into a paste, but damn... it tasted so good. Don't they make some sort of farm machinery for this kind of work? I'll have to check for a strawberry picker this Valentine's Day.

The prodigal cat

Cat people are a very different kind of people. The rest of the world just doesn't understand. I am a cat person, and I automatically bond with other cat people. It's our thing. James' parents aren't cat people. However, somehow, when a smallish tabby striped cat showed up on their porch, something must have called to them. Perhaps it was the gaping rancid wound in his side.

Enter, Tiggers. Tigger was a stray. He is quite a fighter and has no concept of his own size, which is probably how he ended up with the wound. James' mom is a nurse, and I am pretty sure at some point in a nurse's career they are forced to take an oath to save lives. So Tigger had found the right porch to curl up and die on.

Much to their chagrin, they drug the dying cat into the house. James' mom pumped him full of antibiotics and started to take a look at the wound on his side. The puncture hole was so deep that the cat was literally shitting out of his side. An open wound is bad enough, but one that cuts through intestines and is constantly in contact with fecal matter is a whole new problem.

She kept the wound clean, kept him on antibiotics, and nursed him back to health. After he had finally started to heal, he had already earned his spot on their porch.

Once he was all better he was back out in the great outdoors. Tigger is a hunter. He constantly was leaving dead animals on the porch as gifts of thanks for them. There is not a day that I have come to the house without having to step over a small pile of guts left over from whatever poor creature fell victim to his claws.

His hunting won them over. The constant flow of decapitated birds and mice had stolen their hearts. Slowly, he was allowed into the house, but "just when it's cold outside" or "just when there's been coyotes in the yard"... you get the idea.

One day, James and I headed out to the farm. When we showed up we were in for a surprise. A petite little cat hovered around three tiny little kittens on the porch. Kittens are my kryptonite. I turn into mush and can no longer speak. My words just come out as tiny squeals and I just want to hold the kitten by my face and rub them, smell them, and kiss them.

There they were... the momma and babies. Turns out Tigger was leading a double life. He would sneak into the house at night and sleep with his human family, but during the day he was romancing his lady friend. We all know how kittens are made... naughty Tiggers.

James' mom couldn't just leave the little defenseless kittens outside every night. Their momma was doing a great job watching over them, but after one of them fell in the well, they were kept inside... "but only at nighttime".

Real men wear cats.

Slowly, the kittens grew. Tiggers had grown, too. He was hefty. Not a giant cat, like Marshall the toilet cat (I'll tell you about him another day), but probably a solid 20 pounds. He was an even greater hunter now. James and his dad had gone hunting turkeys one day. They crouched down around trees near a flock of the birds, quietly waiting for the time when they were close enough to take aim... Suddenly, out of the tree above the birds, the giant cat leaped down, almost directly on top of one of the huge birds. He attacked from above. I bet those stupid birds never even saw him coming.  Tiggers didn't catch his turkeys, and because of his failed attempt, neither did the men.

The dead animal presents keep coming, though, and "only at night" has turned into all the time. Tiggers runs the house, now. He comes and goes as he pleases. The momma and kittens keep the gifts coming now, and Tigger lays around. He has ditched hunting in turn for begging, as it has a much greater rate of return.

I personally believe all men are a lot
sexier when holding cats.

He will wait until everyone sits around the table and stretch his giant front paws up to the table and wail. I'll watch as he takes his turn working his way around the table to each person... as each person slyly slips him pieces of meat. He has learned to work it, for sure.

King of this castle.

Tigger will leave for days at a time, now. Off on an adventure, no doubt. But he always comes home. Sometimes with new scratches and cuts that need doctoring, and sometimes with whole dead woodpeckers.

He burps. His cat farts clear a room, and smell remarkably like I would imagine a 400 pound man who has just eaten Taco Bell smells. He lays around the house when he is home and waits for someone to feed him. He takes over the couch or chair, and will often kick Momma Cat or the kittens out of his spot, or out of their spot if it is warmer. He demands attention when you he enters the house and will scowl at you if you ignore him.

Ain't this the life?

The moral of the story, guys, is that if you aren't a cat person... watch out. You can always be converted. All it takes is a little stripey cat shitting out of his side and a few dead birds to transform you into the crazy cat person. One cat turns into two... two turns into three... three turns into "Oh my God, Mr. Whiskers has the hiccups!" Weeeee!

**Side note - all cats have been spayed/neutered, with special thanks given to the Snip Clinic!