Agriculture

Broccoli heading for a new garden bed Photo by Eric Rouleau Tuning in this morning to Ici Musique, the Montréal radio station, we were immediately reminded that it's Earth Day. The theme of Eric's favorite program was songs involving gardens. Appropriately, I had scheduled this weekend to be a full weekend of working in the vegetable garden. Rather than plain old Earth Day, though, I'd call it Earth Moving Day. The garden this year is, at least at the initial stages, something of a back breaker. Spring garden preparation is always strenuous. It inevitably requires digging to prepare planting beds and hauling compost. This year, I've made the compost distribution an add-on to daily chores. After I unload the muck from the barn floor on the still decomposing part of the my compost mountain, I wheel the cart down the other side and fill it with already cured compost. I then wheel that to the vegetable garden (Doodle of course tagging along), dump the compost on a planting bed, and bring the cart back t

When it became apparent that my sister and brother-in-law would be traveling through the Hudson Valley at the end of this week, I decided that it would make sense to move the ritual Passover seder meal to Good Friday, midway between the first night of Passover and Easter Sunday. Because of the co-occurrence of the holidays, Eric and I discussed possibly having a fusion seder/Easter feast, in which coquilles Saint-Jacques would take the place of gefilte fish and a roast ham would substitute for the brisket. But the challenge of melding a holiday meal built around bread that didn't have time to rise with one symbolized by bread that has risen is confounding. Two different stories, matzoh and hot cross buns. Sometimes you simply have to recognize real differences. Matt takes a lamb appreciation break Photo by Mark Scherzer So we proceeded with a traditional seder on Friday (albeit with the Christians outnumbering the Jews), and will proceed with a traditional Easter dinner today (with the Jews, conversel

Spring, the season of rebirth and regrowth, is almost upon us. Winter's last full official day is Sunday, March 19. But Spring is an insistent force, and will be restrained neither by the calendar nor by cold wintry weather. If I needed any proof of this proposition, I found it yesterday evening. As Eric and I drove east east from Germantown, where the little snow we had this week has largely melted away, to the higher elevations of Northwestern Connecticut, where my friend George spent part of the week snowed in without power, we saw in the middle of a lawn in Lakeville, surrounded by deep snow, what appeared to be a large forsythia bush in bloom. Here in Germantown, it's easier for the season to show itself in full force. The little white snowdrop flowers that have been blooming for the last couple of weeks have been joined by six inch tall daffodil leaves, with buds that seem on the verge of opening. I even saw a couple of phlox leaves emerging near the house this afternoon. And fuki buds are popping ou

Another small March snowfall this morning frustrated my outdoor work but served to remind me of how much I need to do for spring. Each time it snows, the branches and berry canes etched in white loom all the larger, shouting "we need pruning." I felt a bit overwhelmed walking by the blackberry patch. The feeling intensified as I pitchforked a wheelbarrow full of muck from the barn floor and saw again how much remains to do. It feels like I might just as well have thrown the hay bales directly on the floor, and skipped the intermediate stage where the sheep tear it out of the manger to eat. And the hay supply is running low. In the fall of 2021 I over-bought, and ended up with hay left in the barn when spring arrived. As a result, in the fall of 2022, with a fairly constant number of sheep, I adjusted my buying down, and now it seems I have only about two weeks supply left. With at least six weeks before the pasture can serve as the main food source for the sheep, I'm going to have to bring in more hay in t

By Mark Scherzer I know you are all accustomed to my ruminations on the state of the world taking primary place in this bulletin, and the sales pitch for the farm being distinctly secondary. I'm turning that approach on its head this week, because I want to make sure I'm clearly conveying a message. This farm is getting back in business. After the death of my partner, Peter, I figured I had to pare things back to what I could manage entirely on my own, all while spending time to reconstitute a personal life and run my law business in the City. The farm's production contracted considerably as a result. I think the reconstitution process has reached a point of maturity and stability. I've built a life centered here rather than the City and moved the law practice here in that effort. I'm finding how to integrate the farm work into the work day so that it gives me needed breaks from my desk work rather than interfering with it. I have a group of friends and regular visitors who bring me great joy;

Part of my chore-time ritual, twice a day, is to muck a wheelbarrow full of accumulated waste hay and sheep poop from the barn floor and trundle it out to the compost heap. Even with this effort, the stuff builds up. It's anywhere from 6 inches to a foot deep in the part of the barn closest to the hay manger. This morning, as I was doing the mucking, I felt my fingers go a bit numb. I was wearing inner gloves and outer gloves, but it was pretty cold to be working in the barn. It was the sort of cold you feel when the air hits your face walking into a freezer storage room. My reaction, to my surprise, was to echo my late great-uncle Max when he entered the lake at our Catskills bungalow colony on a hot summer day. In my memory, he bellowed out "L'Chaim" as he splashed himself with the cold water, which you all know from Fiddler on the Roof means "to life," a toast.  As my cousin Al, who actually speaks Yiddish, has corrected me, he actually was calling out "mechaya," "a pleasure." This morning, I

Hi All, Mark here. It’s a balmy winter Saturday. The sun is ever higher in the sky. The breeze is mild. About half the pastures and lawns are bare; only a thin layer of slushy, melted, refrozen, and remelted snow covers the rest. The ground is soft. It’s the sort of day that says “Look for the crocuses to pop.” Yesterday was almost as nice. These are the kinds of days that generally send my spirits soaring. So why did I wake at 5 this morning with a feverish anxiety dream about the farm? Why were my sheep giving birth to rabbits? Why was a new dance venue opening across the street with, I was assured, highly amplified music all night, which would not only make my home unlivable but also deprive the farm, my biggest asset, of any value? Why was the order of everything unraveling, leaving me no safety net? Maybe because these balmy days are occurring in late January, not early March. Had this weather come after a deep polar vortex, or weeks of consistent cold, it would be a welcome reminder that wint

The "Waste Not Want Not" bulletin of last week, which included news of the death of my elderly sow, Possum, elicited a range of responses, including valuable kitchen composting tips to help me replace my living, breathing consumer of food scraps. But virtually everyone added condolences. By far the most touching and beautiful tribute came from my next door neighbor Emily, a gifted designer, who delivered a card of her own creation. On the front was an illustration of my great big pig gazing through the chain link fence from her mugwort filled pasture. On the back, she wrote, "I will miss visiting Possum through the fence." And then there was the message from my frequent farm sitter, soon-to-be (I hope) housemate, and always attentive reader Steve: "You had to dig a grave for a 400-pound pig and didn't think that was interesting enough to be your main topic?!" Truth be told, Steve was not the only one curious about Possum's burial. Others asked. And the issue rather preoccupied me too, from the moment

In the flurry of big news stories at new year -- Ukraine, of course, the deaths of Pope Benedict and Barbara Walters, and more -- this was an easy story to miss in the New York Times on New Year's Day: How Central Ohio Got People to Eat Their Leftovers. It was an important piece of reporting, though, once again reminding us that each of our individual actions contribute to carbon emissions and global warming. The story focused on how the Solid Waste Authority of Central Ohio (SWACO) was trying to change behaviors in its region to reduce food waste coming to its landfills. Why? It turns out that one third of the food Americans buy is thrown away. Households throw more food away than restaurants, grocery stores or farms. All of the rotting food in landfills emits about double the carbon that commercial aviation emits. Cutting this waste stream could not only save precious space in landfills but also contribute significantly to minimizing climate change. SWACO is effectively swaying behavior through v

Virtually every morning, when I open the gate to descend to the path around the pond, on my way to feed Possum the sow, I cause a stir of sorts. Possum hears the sound of the latch opening and the gate squeaking and stirs herself to come out for breakfast. The other domestic livestock react similarly. The chickens run toward me for the cracked corn I spread in their yard as soon as they hear the door slide open. The sheep, if they perceive my movement toward the barn, return from grazing in the pasture to gather at the barn door and ready themselves for the “charge of the light brigade” – the race to their morning grain treat. The wild cohabitants of my space are similarly attentive to my movements, but respond differently. When I open that same gate to head toward Possum, rabbits and squirrels dash for cover. Frogs on the margin of the pond jump in the water. And most mornings for months, I’ve gotten to witness the elegant take off of a great blue heron that seems to spend every morning hunting for the fi

Perry, the son of my late partner Peter, arrived to our delight Thanksgiving morning. We hadn't much warning that he'd be in New York; he flew in to do a job installing whatever it is he installs in buildings. But once we learned he'd be in the vicinity we made sure he would get to the farm for the ritual turkey meal, because after all he's an important part of my family. After about an hour here, Perry remarked at the pop music with French lyrics playing in the kitchen, which he found refreshing. "This is great. The only things you ever played before were NPR and all Dad's Turkish folk music." Slightly exaggerated, but fundamentally true. Life with Eric very much comes with its own sound track, one I have come to love. It very much has been a changing of the channel. Changing of the channel is not just a figure of speech in this case. Among the dominant sounds in the house these days is the programming of Ici Musique, the Montréal based public radio station. Streaming the station is one of the ways t

With temperatures forecast to plunge well below freezing imminently, I realize the days of covering my fall plantings at night to extend my growing season are over. In preparation for the inevitable, I harvested all the daikon radishes of harvestable size I could find earlier this week. Yesterday, I brought in a large bunch of sorrel that I transformed into sorrel soup; I will bring in the rest, wilt it and freeze it, by tomorrow. This morning, I pulled virtually all the oasis turnips. During this little frenzy of activity, I have occasionally recalled Martin Luther King, Jr.’s expression, “the fierce urgency of now”. But to be honest, that expression has been lurking in my consciousness for reasons that far transcend the garden. It has far more to do with world events of this week, both historical and current. This week marks the anniversary of Kristallnacht (the night of broken glass), the organized violence against Jews, Jewish communal institutions and businesses in Germany and Austria that occurred

A week ago I was down about the state of the world. One and a half million Ukrainians were facing electricity interruptions as Russia's brutal imperialist war took an ugly turn in tactics. Yet Kevin McCarthy, the prospective Speaker of the House should the congressional balance of power shift, was complaining about our giving a "blank check" to Ukraine. This week I feel so much better. Vladimir Putin has assured us that Russia does not intend to turn its war nuclear and has called for unity with those in the west who embrace what he calls his Christian values. Even nicer, Kevin McCarthy solicitously called Nancy Pelosi to inquire after her family's welfare after a right wing extremist attacked her husband with a hammer, clearly heralding a new era in bipartisan warm feelings and cooperation. OK, I'm being sarcastic. The same Vladimir Putin has continued Russia's barbaric attacks on infrastructure, now depriving four million Ukrainians of life sustaining utilities. The same Kevin McCarthy is still intent

I am savoring this Columbus Day weekend as a time of reprieve. Nuclear war has not yet begun. We can continue to live in the hope that perhaps it will not. Maybe the Russians who are threatening it will realize that the consequences for them would be even worse than defeat in their war to annex some mineral-rich and agriculturally productive provinces in Ukraine. "I hope the Russians like their children too," said Eric, recalling one of Sting's songs ("Russians") that was quite popular in the 80's; it resonates today and echoes that dreary time. The feeling of reprieve derives also from less cataclysmic matters. After predictions of November-like cold earlier in the week, Columbus Day weekend in this part of the Hudson Valley has passed without frost. Cool and crisp, but lovely. This reprieve, however, we are sure is just temporary. Frost is an axe that we know is going to fall some day. Regardless of its inevitably, the delay in frost has been a great source of joy to me. It increases the likelihood th

Serenity descended on the farm this weekend. Partly from the stillness of the air after high winds brought in a cool front. Possibly because Saturday’s very dry air subdued the cacophonous insect chorus of high summer into just a single, high-pitched tone from just one species — the last to complete its mating process, I imagine. The concluding note of summer's symphony. Or perhaps it was just the aftermath of a lively night with good friends — lubricated by what some might view as an excessive four bottles of wine — that kicked the weekend off. Eric decided to mark the change in season by making a “bouilli,” a traditional Québecois pot au feu of beef and salt pork slow cooked with savory spices for four hours, with end-of-summer vegetables — rutabaga, green and yellow string beans, cabbages, potato — added about halfway through the process. I fetched a large chuck roast, the traditional cut used for bouilli, from Hover Farm, whose herds graze our land, as the central ingredient. Because it was far to

How quickly they grow up. Those of you who followed the early tribulations of Doodle, the rejected lamb, will undoubtedly be pleased to learn that he has, at nearly two months old, grown into a feisty, vigorous little fellow. No longer does he need gentle encouragement to drink his bottle. The minute he sees me he pulls at my pants leg, insistently seeking the sources of milk he knows I bring him. He can drain three bottles in just a few minutes. Only now, he’s been cut back to two bottles. The weaning process, transitioning him from milk replacer to a normal sheep diet of hay and grain, has begun. Weaning generally happens earlier in bottle fed lambs than in those raised by their mothers. It can proceed because the rumen, the adjunct chamber to the stomach where grass or hay ferment and become digestible, has developed. Accordingly, Doodle has joined the herd in grazing the pasture, which they do for ever more extended periods now that the punishing sun of the summer has abated. When the sheep get their

The forces, including my friends, encouraging me to scale things back as I age are strong. My friend Steve, hearing of my fall garden planting plans, told me not to be too ambitious. "Put 'manageable' as the adjective in front of every farm activity before doing it. Let it be your touchstone adjective." Think "manageable" spinach; "manageable" collard greens. Keep just a "manageable" herd of sheep. You get the picture. He has a compelling logic on his side. Older guys like me simply can't do as much as we could when we were younger. We can't move as fast, can't lift as much, are less sure of our footing, and have less stamina. I have a full time law business to run and it seems endless house-guests to entertain. Can I really maintain a full farm operation on my own too? Indeed, Steve helpfully sends suggestions for how to achieve manageability. Recently, he suggested that I tear down the old, dilapidated, 100 foot long chicken coop, which one might justifiably find an eyesore, and buy a small portable c

It was Mae West who famously said "Too much of a good thing can be wonderful." Her aphorism came to mind this last week as I was confronted by an abundance of good things. It has become a cherished annual tradition that my best friend George and I spend several days at the end of August in reunion with our California based college roommate, Susie. She and her husband, John, install themselves at George's house in nearby Connecticut and we see each other repeatedly. This year, I decided that it would make great sense to lure my sister and her husband from Pittsburgh to join this event, as they befriended Susie and John when they all lived in Houston in the 1980s and the four had not seen each other in 23 years. An additional benefit would be to introduce Eric to my family, as he had introduced me to his the month before in Quebec. Coupledom, after all, requires that we know each other's families. A group of seven congregating day after day over five days is a bit overwhelming and easily risks being "too

A neighbor was late for his tour of the farm. And he seemed like such a responsible fellow! We had arranged the meeting a month earlier. Doodle’s formula was in bottles and all my various equipment for a demonstration of chores was prepared. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang and he apologetically explained. The reason? He had snagged a last-minute appointment in Brooklyn to get the monkeypox vaccine. He assumed I would be understanding, and I most certainly was. Most of the gay men I know are desperate for these shots. Friends are refreshing their phone screens dozens of times on end trying to score a scarce vaccination slot. People who wouldn't be caught dead in Staten Island consider crossing the Narrows for an appointment. One friend told me he had had just two sexual encounters in the entire past year — both with the same ex-boyfriend (“And he’s crazy safe!” he assured me). Yet this friend was still considering attesting to multiple or anonymous sexual partners in the past two weeks to get the jab