serenadefarm_05

The new chickens were moved, in small batches of five or six, from the rabbit barn, where they had been running amok, into the henhouse with the older Rhode Island Red hens a few weeks back. It was an interesting process to watch.

As each batch of new chicks was introduced to the henhouse, the old hens fussed around a little, chased a new chick, just to show that they could, and then the two groups settled into their separate-but-equal accommodations. The new chicks (not really chicks any more, almost as big as the Rhode Island hens) huddled up in any corner of the henhouse that didn't happen to contain a Red. The Reds mostly went wherever they wanted, but for the most part, they ignored the Black Stars.

This continued as, each day, we introduced another five or six Black Stars into the henhouse. Black Stars huddling together, peeping, Reds roaming, occasionally chasing, mostly ignoring. During the day, the Reds liked roaming outside throughout the chicken yard, pecking for bugs, taking dust baths, sitting in the shade of the henhouse. Most of the Black Stars stayed inside all day.

Except for the adventurous. And the adventurous, this time, was Fuzzyfeet, our odd chick, and his pal, one of the Black Stars. (We don't know the identity or the sex of the odd chick yet, but since chances are it's a rooster, we're calling Fuzzylegs a "him" for now.) Fuzzylegs is always accompanied by this pal, this accomplice, although I have no way of knowing whether the sidekick is always the same chick, or whether it's a random thing.

Anyway, Fuzzylegs and buddy decided, the first day in the new digs, to go out the chicken door and explore the big wide world. This was all well and good. In principle, any or all of the Black Stars could go outside. Most of them, though, just stayed in, in typical flocking behavior. But these two threw caution and generations of genetic flocking disposition to the winds, and ventured outside. And as long as daylight shone, all was well. But chickens do "come home to roost," and as the sun sank in the west, the Reds started to file up the little chicken ramp into the henhouse to settle in for the night.

Fuzzylegs and his pal, though, didn't get the whole "go up the chicken ramp into the henhouse for the night" thing. So George and I went out to herd them in, let them get the idea.

Well, herding chickens is definitely not herding cats, but still, when it's two clueless youngsters, it's quite a task. And the task was not made any easier by the stunning ignorance of said chicks. I've known carrots with more sense. We herded one of them right up to the edge of the ramp, and it hunkered down and tried to crawl under the henhouse. The other one let itself be herded to the walk-in door, which was closed, and stood there, looking up at the closed door, in helpless confusion.

After running around the henhouse several times, George caught the Black Star and heaved it in through the door, while I herded Fuzzylegs up the ramp. Mercifully, the next night, they both had a clue, and went in like normal chickens.

Once all twenty-seven of the new chicks--26 Black Stars and one Whatever--were in the henhouse, the seventeen Reds were beginning to feel a bit outnumbered.

They still keep mostly to their separated corners, the Reds to the right of the door...

...the Black Stars to the left:

Here's Fuzzylegs with one of his sidekicks. You can see, on his back, that he's been picked on, but whether it's the Reds or his fellows doing the picking, I can't say. It's hard to be the outsider, I guess.

In this picture, you can also see the iridescence of his feathers. The Black Stars, too, are not truly black, but a dark iridescent bluish-purple, with a few dark red feathers down the breast. More beautiful than I would have expected when they were what our son called "Goth chickens" as gangly youths.

As these pictures show, the "chicks" are now pretty much as big as the older Reds, but when I commented the other day to George that I was surprised that the Black Stars were still peeping like chicks, in spite of their size, he laughed.

"Oh, they cackle!" he assured me. "They cackle when the Reds are all outside and they are alone in the henhouse. Every morning I shut the Reds outside to be sure the Black Stars get their feed, and those chicks set up quite a cackle! But as soon as I open the door and let the old hens back in to lay their eggs, the Black Stars start in peeping."

Chicken-talk for "We're just babies, we mean no harm, you're supposed to take care of us..."

Maybe. This seems like a rather advanced level of reasoning for creatures that couldn't figure out how to walk through a door.

I pulled the last of the onions this morning, and we have quite a nice crop this year, even though they were not planted in the raised beds, but in the heavy clay soil of our Blackland Prairie farm. Still, most of them climbed out of the cement-hard soil, and sat, lightly tethered to the dirt by their cluster of roots, until the tops fell over. I only had to dig a couple of them out of the clay's viselike grip.

Newly pulled onions are still-life beautiful:

I spread them out on the table in the shade of the side porch to cure. And of course, we started eating them. First, a nice big mess of collard greens and onions, cooked up with some bacon.

Then I caramelized some with some of last year's summer squash and zucchini; time to clean out last year's crop from the freezer to make room for the harvest that's coming.

But the very best use of onions was the onion tart.

I did some online research into onion tart recipes. Most were custard-based pies, with caramelized onions mixed into an egg-and-cream base and then baked in a pie shell, sometimes with bacon. I confess, this sounded very good. I mean, it has bacon in it! But I was looking for something a little simpler, and a little more rustic.

Then I found it: onion tart recipe from Alice Waters.

Now, if you've never heard of Alice Waters, or her Berkeley, California, restaurant, Chez Panisse, then you are not a foodie. Waters is a long-time advocate for organic and simple food, and a leader in the Slow Food movement; one of her cookbooks is called The Art of Simple Food.

So I had an idea this was just what I was looking for: simple, organic, and slow.

I was making this recipe to take to a potluck book club supper, so, as usual, I did a trial run on my faithful and patient cooking-experiment subject, George.

The recipe is so simple, it doesn't even need to be written in the form of a tradition recipe. It's a narrative.

You need about 2 pounds of sliced onions. Now, at this point in the narrative, I must report that I made three tries at slicing 2 pounds of onions. The knife method: too many tears, and too difficult to make even, thin slices. The mandolin method: cheap mandolin, that made about three slices at a time, then clogged up. Solution: the Cuisinart method! Although it doesn't make what I would call thin slices, it was certainly quick, and uniform, and they cooked up just fine.

Put two tablespoons of butter and two tablespoons of olive oil into a skillet. I like my cast-iron skillet for this. Heat the oil, then add a bunch of thyme, stems and all, then add the onions. Cook slowly for at least a half an hour, until the onions are soft and juicy, and the leaves have cooked off the thyme. Toss in some salt. Take the onions out of the skillet into a bowl and let them cool off.

For the test run, I used a packaged pie crust. I love those things; I have a half-dozen recipes for them, in addition to pies! I wanted to make a tart, so I rolled out one crust and turned the edges up just a little, to hold the filling and make a tart-like edge.

Then I removed the thyme stems and spread the onions out over the tart surface. I brushed the tart edge with a little egg-and-water wash, and put it into the oven at 370 for 50 minutes. The recipe says it's best served at room temperature, so when I took it out, I cooked up some chard with diced sweet potato and sliced bratwurst. Then we sat down to try it.

There's no picture of this tart to share, because we scarfed half of it down before I even thought about taking a photo.

Well, it was delicious. But I thought it needed a little tweaking. For one thing, the crust was a little too sweet for my taste. The onions were so sweet, I wanted a little more of a salty crust. And I thought it needed lots more thyme.

So for the supper tarts, I made my own crusts.

Since I'm basically a lazy cook, I used the pastry recipe that came with my Cuisinart, made two crusts, put them in the fridge to chill, and made the filling. Again the faithful Cuisinart to the rescue! I cleaned it out, then sliced the onions. (You might think by now that I was about out of onions. Not so. Not by a long shot)

I doubled the bunches of thyme I tossed in with the onions, and saved back a few sprigs for fancying up the tart crust. In addition to the salt, I added a little finely ground pepper, and a dash of Herbs de Provence. Just because.

While the onions cooled, I rolled out the two crusts, working some thyme leaves into the crust as I went, then laid them out side-by-side on parchment paper on a cookie sheet.

Instead of the rather prim look of the first tart, I decided to go for a rustic tart, so I put the onions into the center of each crust, then folded the out edges partly over the filling. I brushed the edges again with an egg wash and sprinkled a few of the thyme leaves on top.

An hour later, this is what came out:

At the supper, everyone wanted to know what was in it. "Onions. And thyme."

When life gives you onions, make onion tart.

They had been around so much that I began to take them for granted.

The white-crowned sparrows, I mean. Our first sighting of them was back in the winter. They showed up at the feeders during cold snaps and shared the thistle feeder with the goldfinches. WHen the goldfinches scattered nyjer seeds on the porch under the feeder, the sparrows were right there, cleaning up. Then the goldfinches headed north. I didn't take down the thistle feeders, because, now that the goldfinches were gone, the white-crowned sparrows took over.

Then they told their friends, then more white-crowned sparrows showed up. They took up residence in the out-of-control rosemary bush, hopping in and out along the ground, through the herb garden, on the porch, in the jessamine vine. As the winter (such as it was) began to turn into spring, they seemed to move in. Every time we opened the kitchen door, or walked onto the porch from the garden, a noisy fluttering of wings, and birds flew out of the rosemary bush, out of the jessamine vine, out of the herbs. I enjoyed sitting at the kitchen table and watching them, framed in the kitchen door, as they scavenged for dropped seeds or the occasional bread crumbs I scattered for them or drank from the little pools in the herb garden.

They were pretty, and entertaining, and it was nice, stepping out the kitchen door into a bird sanctuary of sorts.

Then they began to sing.

White-crowned sparrows don't have the most tuneful of birdsongs, but they don't disappoint, either. It's a clear, piping long note, followed by a swift triplet and a little buzzy conclusion. Pretty, if repetitive, and quite sweet. Sometimes one would settle himself in the jessamine vine and sing his little song, while the others hopped in and out of the rosemary bush, and I listened, enchanted by this little concert.

They spent so much time inside the rosemary bush, I began to wonder whether someone was building a nest in there. I don't know why I didn't pick up one of my bird books and check on their nesting habits. Like I said, I had begun to take their presence for granted.

Then, I don't know, we got busy. And then we went off to High Island, birding for neotropical migrants, birds that were making the long journey from Central America to point north for summer breeding grounds.

And then I noticed that I didn't notice the flapping of wings out of the rosemary bush, or the sipping of water at the little dish, or the sweet high repeated notes from the jessamine vine. Then I noticed that the white-crowned sparrows were gone.

I pulled out my bird book, and looked at the map for the white-crowned sparrow. Migratory. Winter in the southern half of the United States and into Mexico. Summer in British Columbia, Alaska, and all across the northern edge of Canada: the Yukon, the Northwest Territory, the northern edge of Quebec, Newfoundland, Labrador, Nunavut.

Amazing. I showed George the map of their summer breeding grounds, and he said, "Well, they had to get going, didn't they?"

Indeed. That's quite a trek, and it's intriguing to think about these little birds, who spent the winter and into spring eating our nyjer seeds, sipping at our water pool, hiding in our rosemary bush, singing from our jessamine vine, now busy building nests and incubating eggs and feeding chicks somewhere in the remotest reaches of northern North America.

I hope they all made it. And I hope they--and their offspring--return next winter to eat our seeds and sip our water and startle us by flying out of the rosemary bush and sing to us from the jessamine vine.

Fare well.

When the invitation came to go to High Island to see the spring bird migration with a couple of birding friends, we didn't even hesitate. High Island is legendary among birders as THE place to be to see the spring migration of birds known as neotropical migrants. These are birds that winter in Mexico and Latin America, then fly across the Gulf of Mexico on to their summer nesting grounds. It's a chance to see lots and lots of birds that are only passing through. It's particularly famous when an event called "fall out" occurs. A strong north wind will cause the migrating birds, who fly non-stop across the Gulf of Mexico in about 18 hours, drop into the High Island bird sanctuaries, often too exhausted to pay the least attention to the crowds of humans pointing various optical devices at them, even at close range.

The weather last weekend was mild and with a strong south wind, which was not too much to our purpose, since it pushes the birds beyond High Island and farther north. Still, we were excited to go and see what we could see, aided by our able and experienced friends and birding coaches.

A brief explanatory word about High Island. It is a town of maybe 500 souls at the northern end of the Bolivar Peninsula on the Gulf coast of Texas. Although it is kind of high (32 feet above the surrounding marshy area), it is not really and island. What it is, is a salt dome. This occurs where a deep ancient salt bed has been squeezed to the surface, creating a dome on the surface. The point of this geological history for migrating birds is that it creates an ideal bird habitat, combining marshland, pools, coastal prairie land, and hardwood forest. If you were a migrating bird, and you had spent the last 18 hours pumping your wings and using every last drop of your carefully stored energy, this spot would look better than a Holiday Inn.

So we set off for our High Island adventure. This was a new experience for us Serenade Farmers, since we are more the "let the birds come to us" kind of birders than the "let's go track down some birds" kind of birders. But we were game.

Our first stop on the way to High Island was Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge, which is a series of bayous, marshes, and prairies. Shore birds were here in astonishing numbers, paddling and fishing in the marshes and ponds. We were glad we had our excellent field glasses along, since most of these birds were out of range of my camera. Nevertheless, we stopped at a small pond identified as "The Willows," which was entirely innocent of any willows. Our guides explained that the old and massive trees that had surrounded this pond had been torn out by the last hurricanes to come through the area. Nevertheless, as we rounded the boardwalk path that circled the pond, we saw a female green heron on a nest built in one of the trees downed by the hurricanes. She watched us warily, but stayed near her nest, a sky-blue egg at her feet.

While we watched, snapping pictures like tourists spotting a movie star, she moved away from the nest for a few minutes, and I shot this picture of her beautiful egg.

When I downloaded this photo and cropped it, I began to look more closely at the egg. Is it broken open on one end? Is the chick in the very process of hatching? We don't know. It's fascinating to think about, though.

On a nearby dead log in the water of the pool, two enormous turtles sunned themselves. Here's one of them.

As we entered the Audubon park at High Island (run by the fine folks of Houston Audubon Society), we met a couple of birders leaving the park, one of whom suggested, somewhat grimly, "Bring birds." Not exactly an encouraging word. Still, we hoped to see some of the neotropical migrants who make this place so famous, so we headed down the boardwalks into the woods. A cardinal here. A catbird there. Nothing terribly exciting, and I confess I never saw the catbird. Still, we soldiered on. "The Rookery will have some good sights," one of our friends promised, and she didn't lie.

The Rookery is a couple of small islands set in the middle of a large pond, and to say the birds probably need to book ahead for nesting room is no exaggeration. This was my first sight of the first of the two islands:

There were birds nesting on every available inch of this island, and making a noise that had to be heard to be believed. I saw at least four different species nesting here, elbow to elbow. The dark cormorants (there are at least six in this photo, and three nests):

...the tropical looking Roseate spoonbills:

...and Great egrets and snowy egrets. Here, a Great egret assumes a ballet-dancer pose, its magnificent plumes flowing out like tulle, while a cormorant creates a shadowed echo behind it:

As we began our return hike down the boardwalk trails, we started to meet up with groups of other birders, standing in the pathway, staring at the same remote spot in the trees. This, we learned, was a sure sign that something interesting had been sighted.

And then, it started, almost more bird sightings than we could absorb (and all, sadly, beyond the scope of my camera): yellow warbler (male and female); orchard oriole; scarlet tanager (well-named bird; it DEFINES the color scarlet!), Baltimore oriole (George's favorite sighting), and on they came. We made repeated attempts to return to the parking lot, but kept getting waylaid by another knot of intent birders and the need to know what they were seeing, and could we see it too? We discovered that birders are amazingly courteous and helpful, and unfailingly willing to tell what they had spotted and where it might be seen. When we heard that a Tennessee warbler had been spotted, I lifted my field glasses and said, to no one in particular, "What am I looking for, exactly?", the pleasant fellow standing next to me helpfully pointed to the Audubon Society patch he wore on his vest: a needlework image of a Tennessee warbler. Ah.

I shall not moan about the effects of the drought on the prairie grasses, or the poor wildflower showing so far this spring. Perhaps in another post. Now I sing the praises of butterflies, which give every indication of taking over our homestead. In the past two weeks alone, I have photographed seven different butterfly species, with multiple sightings of most of them.

Oddly, they seem to love to hang around the porch, so much so that some days every time we open the back door or the kitchen door, a butterfly or two flutters away, even brushing against our faces or hands. One day a couple of weeks ago, George had a dentist appointment, and when he headed down the road to town, he saw that a Red Admiral had joined him inside the car. When they got to the dentist's office, the butterfly got out. Teeth cleaning, maybe?

Indeed, Red Admirals (Vanessa atalanta, one of the better Latin names, in my opinion!) have been pretty much everywhere this month. Here, one settled on my garden glove, and I snapped it with my phone:

And again, the Admiral, nectaring on a lantana bloom in the front flower bed:

And one of my favorites, a frequent visitor, is the interestingly named Question Mark (Polygonia interrogationis), a very dramatic looking creature with a very elegant shape to its wings, sitting on the back porch:

Here is a Common Buckeye, showing off his eye spots, sitting on one of George's muck boots:

This one was new to me this spring, the Hackberry Enperor (Asterocampa celtis). I don't know why it is the emperor of Hackberries, which does not seem to me to be a very exalted position, but it's a nice looking butterfly, nonetheless. We had these around in great numbers. On the window screen frame:

On a spirea flower by the back porch:

And, most amusingly, on a banana peel I was getting ready to take out to add to the worm bed:

In fact, within a few minutes, this happy feeder was joined by four additional Hackberry Emperors, all dining on the tasty banana peel. It was quite entertaining.

Surely the most beautiful butterfly to appear this April is the Pipevine swallowtail (Battus philenor), showing off at an Indian paintbrush flower just at the edge of the mowed back yard.

The inside of its wings a splendid, dark iridescent blue-purple, so dark it almost looks black from a distance, with a lacy white trim on the edges:

And the underside of the wings, the same dark blue, but with dramatic spots, yellow, and white, its dark dotted body arched over the bloom:

The Pipevine swallowtail was a new species to me, as was this true black butterfly with yellow bands and trim blue dots along its wings:

I finally had to submit this sighting without an identification to the county database on Butterflies and Moths of North America, BAMONA (http://www.butterfliesandmoths.org/) for identification. It's a Mourning Cloak (Nymphalis antiopa). I honestly cannot imagine why the common name of this lovely butterfly is Mourning Cloak. While its wings are black, the brilliant yellow band does not suggest mourning. But I learned from the website cited that it overwinters, and in spring the males perch "in a sunny opening during the afternoon to wait for a receptive female." This one caught a receptive female with a camera!

We started pulling radishes from the garden last weekend, and every day there are more climbing out of the rich dirt to lie on the top of the soil and call, "Me! Pick me!"

Digression: One of my favorite fantasy fiction writers is Sheri Tepper, and in one of her novels (I confess I forget which one, exactly) she includes a gang of garrulous, noisy, and frankly erotic radishes who are able to pull themselves out of the dirt and wander around getting into trouble. I thought of that as I started pulling up the radishes lying on the top of the garden dirt, leaves waving engagingly in the spring air.

As I say, we are now pulling radishes daily. George picked the seeds, and he chose a wonderful "Easter egg mix" of red, pink, purple, white, and red-and-white radishes that make a pretty bouquet in the kitchen sink:

We've been nibbling on them all weekend, dipped in a little salt, or just crunched up, peppery and crisp.

Tonight, after we put the tomato cages on the burgeoning tomato plants, the burgeoning rainbow chard caught my eye, and dinner began to call to me. Dinner from the spring garden. Yes.

So I picked a big bunch of chard and pulled another big bunch of multicolored radishes and headed for the kitchen. Here's what I came up with: Eggs in Nest and Radishes on Toast.

Eggs in Nest

Bunch of chard, rinsed and de-ribbed and chopped up
Half an onion, chopped
One garlic clove, chopped
Three slices of bacon
Three fresh eggs

Cook the bacon in a cast iron skillet until crisp. Remove it to drain on paper towel. Add onions and garlic to hot bacon grease, cook until the onion is translucent. Pile the chopped chard on top, and toss lightly with tongs until it cooks down. Make three "nests" in the greens and break one fresh egg into each open space. Cook until the eggs set as desired. Sprinkle with crumbled bacon, and eat.

Radishes on Toast

Bunch of radishes, rinsed and slices thinly
Thin slices of bread, whatever you have on hand, toasted
Butter

Spread butter on warm toast, and top with slices of radish. This is really remarkably delectable.

Simple, fresh, and pretty much as local as you can get. Tasted like spring.

Chickens supply eggs. And, properly processed, chickens also provide enchiladas, noodle soup, chicken pot pie, and so forth.

But here's my ongoing discovery about chickens: they also provide entertainment.

First, the chicks, now growing rapidly out of the chickhood state into a kind of chicken adolescence. What this means is that, like all adolescents, they are gangly and kind of ugly, clumsy, easily agitated, and defiant of boundaries of all kinds. From day one, the chicks had a snug little coop inside the rabbit barn, complete with warming light, ample water, and steady food supply. They dashed aimlessly around, napped frequently, ate and pooped quite a lot, and, of course, cheeped. Constantly. But soon they began to stretch those increasingly gangly wings, and discovered that they could hop up and balance on the wire surrounding their coop. From that discovery, it was a short hop to finding that they could jump out of the pen into the barn. At first, this discovery filled them with equal parts excitement and terror, and occasioned frantic cheeping until they figured out they could jump back in and join the rest of the flock.

But now, all that's in the past. They have, not to put too fine a point on it, the run of the barn. I go in to feed the rabbits in the morning, and there are chickens everywhere: chasing each other up and down the aisles between the rabbit cages, picking through the worm beds under the cages, hopping on and off the (now pretty useless) wire fence, and generally rocketing around in there like they own the place.

While I walk along the aisles feeding rabbits, I have to watch my step, since there are chickens running underfoot constantly. Because we have black rabbits in the barn, the sight of a black chicken dashing by at the edge of my vision at first caused me no end of distraction as I tried to find out which rabbit had got loose. Now I just watch where I step as they chase each other around my feet.

The odd chick, by the way (not that ALL these chicks aren't a little bit odd, raised as they are in a rabbit barn), gets odder every day. It has acquired a reddish layer of feathers on its head and neck, and its legs are getting feathery. Looks a little like it's wearing furry trousers. But what the heck is it? No idea. But I'd bet money it turns out to be a rooster. With trousers.

Meanwhile, the adult hens in the chicken yard offer their own version of entertainment. Pretty much every day I eat an apple for lunch. I save the core for the chickens. Now, chickens love treats of all kinds: stale bread, leftover rice, vegetable trimmings, fruit peels, and the occasional meat scrap are all welcomed. When the garden is really going good, they get the overgrown and spoiled produce.

But they have a special fondness for the apple core, since it forms the basis for a brisk game of apple core soccer. They are accustomed to getting it when I go out in the early evening to collect the eggs. They meet me eagerly at the gate:

I enter the yard and give the apple core a good toss, and the game is on. One hen grabs it and dashes away, the others in hot pursuit.

You can see the apple in the frontmost chicken's beak.

Now, here's the thing about chicken apple-core soccer: the object is to eat the apple core, but, chickens, lacking hands, must put the apple on the ground to eat it. Thus the sport of the thing. All the rest of the hens watch for just this moment to dash in and grab the apple, and race away, until they in turn put it down, and so it goes. Generally, the game ends with such frequent passing of the apple core that it breaks into several pieces, thereby removing the competitive value of the game.

Once, when I had tossed the apple core and then gone into the henhouse to gather the eggs, one of the hens, apple core securely in beak, rushed into the henhouse through the chicken door, pursued by half a dozen other hens. A mad dash around the henhouse and under my feet ensued, until I chased them back through the chicken door. Children, take your game outside, please.

If the Genesis story of the first family in the first garden carries within it a seed of truth, then the world is beginning again, in our spring gardens.

Back in the middle of March, we spent a week, with much able-bodied assistance from family (especially Daughter-in-Law) and friends of family (especially D-i-L's parents and nephew), putting in new raised beds. To say this is a massive amount of labor is not to say too much. We sweated, we hauled blocks, and bags of dirt, and bags of soil amendments, and barrows of worm castings. With claws and spades and forks and bare hands we mixed and turned soil. We bent over new beds and tucked tomato plants and carrot seeds and radish seeds and beans into the new, rich soil. And we sweated some more.

But at last the new beds were completed, and planted, and the result, now plain to see, is wonderful.

Bush beans along the edges of the bed, and radishes in little bunches in the middle:

The radishes are already climbing out of the dirt under the umbrella of their bright leaves:

We'll be eating some of these very soon! And at the far end of that bed, tucked in among the radishes, a single strawberry plant, bearing:

We'll be eating that berry soon, too!

Meanwhile, the experimental potatoes-in-the-tire planting, after a long wait, is looking good:

When the smaller shoots get taller, we'll add more straw and the second tire. Looks like we might have some potatoes to harvest!

The big garden has, so far, only one raised bed (we just ran out of steam, frankly, and decided to save the addition of more raised beds for another year), with cucumbers just coming up (and you can see how well the magical elephant garlic is growing, too):

The rest of the bed includes some beautiful chard, planted back in the fall, and three rows each of tomatoes and peppers:

eOn the far back trellises, pole beans and lemon cucumbers. Only the zucchini and yellow squash and the cantaloupes remain to be planted.

The weather has been kind, bestowing regular and gentle rain so frequently that we have had little need to water by hand. And I'm thinking those radishes might be very nice to eat this weekend. With a strawberry for dessert. The world in my mouth.

Few events characterize the pleasures of small town life than the annual youth livestock show. Around here it's called Youth Expo, and pretty much everything else comes to a halt for the week that it runs. It is far more than a livestock show, though. It includes food competition (cakes, cookies, canned goods, relishes, salsas), creative arts (quilts, needlework, woodworking, metal work), and (my favorite!) Ag Tech, which includes shop-built stock trailors, hunting blinds, farm gates, barbecue grills, and, one of this year's winners, a Mobile Lab for wildlife and conservation work! And, then, the livestock: heifers, steers, lambs, goats, hogs, llamas (?), chickens, and rabbits. The winners of every class of every entry are reported in the local paper, and grand champion winners make the front page every day during the week of the show.

Since the past two years have been bad ones for trapping wild hogs, we decided that this year we would buy a hog at the Expo. So, earlier this week, off we went to watch the swine show, and see if we could pick out some nice pork chops on the foot, as it were. We got to the fairgrounds in what we thought was plenty of time, only to find that the parking lot was packed full, as well as the roadside. We finally wedged our car in among the row of pickup trucks along the highway and hiked back to the barn.

The first person we saw was a friend from our rabbit club whose son shows rabbits, steers, and hogs. We had been talking to him about getting a hog, and the first thing he said was that his son's hog didn't make weight for the show, so they would sell it to us if we wanted. Deal done. Now, backing up a bit, "not making weight" for a swine show means the hog didn't weigh enough. Turns out there is a minimum weight but no maximum, and in spite of a regular diet of cake mix and pancake syrup (really!), this one didn't pack on enough pounds. So we had our hog before the show started. But, heck, there we were, there were the kids and the hogs, so we found seats in the bleachers and took in the show. Just because we could, and because everybody from anywhere in the county seemed to be here, and who doesn't love a swine show?

First impression of a swine show is barely controlled chaos. Kids in neatly pressed jeans and crisp cowboy shirts used whippy little sticks to herd their hogs hither and yon, entering the arena through a chute one at a time, then circling and circling, keeping the hogs in constant motion while a guy in a vest watched every one, and a bunch of other guys kept an eye out for escapees.

Mercifully, the friend who had just sold us his son's hog helped us interpret what we were seeing. Seems the guy in the vest was the judge. As each hog came down the chute, he did some preliminary sorting, pointing at the ones he sent to separate pens for later consideration. These, it seems, were the ones he liked, and the process of being chosen to go to a pen (called "penning") was cause for minor jubilation, since it meant that that hog (and the kid attached to it, and of course the parents, friends and teachers attached to that kid) was in the running for a blue ribbon.

But first the remaining hogs had to be gone over, and for this, once the class was assembled, meant a moving circus of hogs, kids, and sticks. The idea, for the kid show the hog, is to keep the hog moving (to show off its flexibility and so forth), and to keep the hog between you and the judge so the judge gets a good look at your hog. The picture above was taken of the Class 1 hogs, the smallest. Hogs are sorted by weight and compete against hogs of similar weight, we also learned. One by one the judge sent kids and hogs out of the arena with a consolation ribbon, until he had the number down to three or four, then brought out the penned hogs. More hog circling and stick tapping ensued.

I should add that the purpose of the whippy stick is to tap the hog on the side of the head or the shoulder to keep it moving and directing its movement. No hogs were harmed in the showing of these swine. I should also add that while the kids moved their hogs around with these skinny little sticks, when it came time to move a hog out of the arena, three or four big guys with big red plastic shields crowded around each hog to, um, urge it down the exit chute. I was amused that the kids had little sticks, the big guys had big shields.

Occasionally, a hog would take a notion to romp, and take off at a dead run across the arena, skidding in the shavings and sending their kid in hot pursuit. I have no idea whether these antics counted against them, but it was entertaining to watch.

When the judge got down the final five or six hogs, the excitement in the barn was palpable. Well, it was audible, too, as parents and friends urged their kids on: "Watch it! Move, move! Work that hog!" and so forth. And the naming of the winner was suitably dramatic, as the judge, silent observer up to this point, took microphone in hand to make some comments (unintelligible to us) about the hogs' qualities, then naming off the third place winner, the second place winner, and (cheers and applause and whistles from the crowd) the blue ribbon winner! Just like a Miss America pageant.

The Serenade Farmers watched a few more classes (they go up to Class Six, and those were some BIG hogs!), took a supper break for some delicious home-made chicken tortas from the concession stand, watched another friend's kid win second place in the Class Six hogs (little girl, big hog!), then made our tired and happy way home.

Next week, we hope, we will pick up our pork chops, pork loin, and ground pork sausage from the local butcher.

It's spring, and Serenade Farmers' fancies light turn to thoughts of vegetable gardening!

So here's where we are, to date.

Back in the fall, we planted garlic, two kinds.

Elephant garlic (not a true garlic, but a member of the leek family), looking very good:

And a row of true garlic, both soft neck and hard neck, also looking robust:

Not pictured, three rows of onions, put in back in January. We were late getting the onions in (we usually try for October), although it's hard to remember why we were so busy, couple of retired folks like us...

Also back in January, we planted some rainbow chard, which did not do so well, in part due to the persistent nibbling of tender tops by roaming deer. We supplemented the chard with some collards from the feed store. The chard is reviving, a little bit, so we'll see. We've had phenomenal success in the past with both chard and collards.

Those are the winter crops. For the spring crops, we're trying a couple of new things. "It's all an experiment," we regularly remind ourselves, not only about our gardening adventures, but about the whole Serenade Farm venture. Keeps our expectations reasonable and flexible.

So one new adventure is raised beds. Our estimable Daughter-In-Law, herself an accomplished organic gardener, has been recommending this to us for some time. Finally, we get a clue.

The first bed is built and filled with worm castings/rabbit manure from the rabbit barn, and store-bought organic gardening soil. The plan is to keep adding these beds all the way down the long vegetable bed next to the barn. Here's the first bed, ready to receive bean seeds in another week or two:

We're hoping these beds will give us better drainage than our heavy clay soil. The next beds will be for tomatoes (which are growing nicely in the window of the sun room right now).

And just today, our latest experiment is planting potatoes. After considerable review of the varying opinions on the best way to plant potatoes, we decided on the tire-and-straw method. The tires we already had, taking up space in the feed shed. Good to get some use out of them! Add seed potatoes (reds and Yukon Golds) and a bale of straw from the feed store, and we're all set.

The tire is to keep the straw mulch from blowing away in the constant wind out here on the prairie. The chicken wire cover is to discourage (one dares not say "prevent") possums and raccoons from digging up the potatoes. We'll see. The theory is that as the plants get taller, you add more straw and a second tire. When the green tops flower and die back, the potatoes are ready. Then we just remove the tires, and (theoretically) there they are.

It's all an experiment, and a fine adventure!