Farmer’s Wife (se voet)

Yesterday being Mother’s Day here in South Africa, coffee in bed is the rule. We also had Herman’s mother, sister, very pregnant niece and her 18 month old son here for the weekend. A hell of a lot of mother’s around and four generations in one room—interesting and entertaining all at the same time!  It was lovely to have them all here and of course the inevitable too much food and good red wine was consumed.

Nikki — the new horse–decided to give me a present . When I gave him his food one of my lovely little Boschvelder hens tried to sneek a bit of lucerne, he gets a bit agitated around his food and was putting his ears flat at her and stamping his back foot around. Of course a chicken doesn’t understand horse communication and had no idea that she was threatening his very precious supper. I was climbing through the fence to shoo her away when his back foot came down  swiftly on her neck—no more chicken bothering him and he quietly carried on eating.

I kinda stood there not really sure of what I had just seen (I think the pre-dinner brandy hepled “take the edge” of watching the final death rattle). I gingerly went to pick her up — by her feet and well away from any horses back feet–yup she was well and truly dead. So–as my new farmer self I immediately thought I can’t waste this lovely hen I must pluck and clean her now–before supper. My old city self argued back that I should feed her  to the otters or bury her–much easier, less mess and simple. Farmer’s Wife responded–what a waste, be resourceful, honour this life by processing the physical. City Slicker is horrified–dump it, tell no-one–chuck it quick!!! There is no worker on the farm to help you –it’s Sunday, quick!  Throw it into the reeds!

Now I don’t know who drank that Brandy–I suspect it was Farmer’s Wife because she won. Walking nonchalantly to the house swinging my dead chicken by it’s legs–ready to pluck . Secretly knowing my mother-in-law and sister-in-law all talk about the good old days when they were on the farm and all the farm produce they ate, I hoped they would all jump on my bad wagon and help me do the neccessary. Fat chance!  Herman was busy making chicken on the Weber for supper and said he would boil the water but really the smell would put him off his very delicious Weber braaied chicken that he had spent all afternoon preparing. Mom-in-law wasn’t forthcoming and neither sis–all exclaiming that the maids used to do it on their farm—hmm farming in Africa!!!!

So there I was all alone with my dead hen, a pair of surgical gloves, a sharp knife and a pot of boiling water—doing my thing. While Herman prepared an awesome Mother’s Day meal I plucked, cut and disembowled my first chicken by myself. (Thank god for Wellingtons!–Brandy not boots).

So–farmer’s wife huh?  Have you slaughtered and processed your own chickens? Or did your Ousie do it for you? (To be fair–Nikki did do the slaughtering.) But I still feel smug and slightly superior knowing my path to self-sufficiency and self-reliance has been cleared of a few more shrubs that were crowding the oh so sandy track.

Muscovey update

Our first hatching of Muscovey Ducks are now almost three months old and seven out of the ten survived. They have started growing their feathers and a few of them are already almost the size of the mother. They are completely addicted to water and love pushing their beaks into mud, coming up black and happy. Six of them are white with a little black comb on their head, the seventh one is black with a bit of white and is taking a lot longer to get to size (about half the size of the biggest one) and hasn’t grown any feathers yet, still covered in down–I am quite suprised that in one hatching one can get such a difference in growth and developing rate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The little Macou/Muscovey on the right has already started developing it’s mature “bump” on the top edge of the beak.

On the left you can see the little black and white Muscovey that is taking it’s time in growing up.

Silly Goose

Some really good friends of ours are coming to visit this weekend and I have promised them a goose to cook. Paul is a trained Savoy chef and Pam is a great foodie and comfort cook. We always spend our weekends together cooking delicious meals. Paul arrives with his chef’s knives and box of fresh ingredients strapped onto the back of the Landie, a gin and tonic in one hand and a good recipe in the other.

Now after all the finger wagging and threatening at these really badly behaved geese I am getting cold feet. The geese have been quite a task to have in the poultry camp. They squabble and fight, shout and swear and bash their wings at each other. They chase the children, wings out, sending them screaming over the fence. They peck my legs when I feed them, knowing exactly that soft spot above my Wellingtons, behind my knee. Giving me purple bruises as they hang on with their beaks and do a grinding motion with their jaws. They also quietly swear at you behind your back  ”shhhhhit”   and  “gaaaaaat!”  as you clean out their water bowl.  And this is in the non-laying season. If a female is sitting on eggs you can’t get within 3 meters of the nest without the male attacking you. So what was I getting cold feet for?

Well, geese mate for life , and I ended up with exactly 4 pairs (excluding my 2 goslings). So if I slaughtered one then I thought I must slaughter two–one pair. I have even decided which two I should slaughter. Unfortunately my geese all look completely different and I have come to know all their bad behaviours and quirks individually. It is not like the ducks which are all white so just take your pick–any two!! And now this morning the female due for the oven, caught my eye–and I lost my nerve.

I also read up about how to kill a goose (humanely of course) and you can’t just break their necks like chickens–you have to pin them to the ground and something about a broom and another person which I won’t go into—too much stress for the bird and me. Perhaps one can just shoot it?

But it seems like the geese are safe for now—this ex-city/farm girl has chickened out!!

Sorry Pam and Paul–maybe I can offer you some steak?

First Muscovey Hatching

We have two white Muscovey (Macou) ducks called Elvis and Priscilla. The male was called Elvis because of his comb of hair that stands up whenever he is excited (the kids one day just popped out that he looks like Elvis). Obviously his mate had to be Priscilla. I have also told the kids that we will not harvest any pets and in their minds it means if they have a name they are a bit safer (they did spend a day trying to name all the braai hoenders/broilers).

Priscilla has been sitting quietly in her own little teepee for a while now on eleven eggs. Everyday washing herself and wetting her breast feathers to keep the humidity right for the eggs.

Muscovey ducks sit for thirty-five days on their eggs, longer than the geese and a whole fourteen days longer than chickens who sit for a mere twenty-one days.

Yesterday she stood up in the morning and I was so excited to see a wet, yellow bundle amongst her eggs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By yesterday evening there were ten little ducklings around her. Mostly yellow, some with a little black and pink beaks. One egg hasn’t hatched out and the last one to hatch out wasn’t able to move under Priscilla to keep warm. Waterfowl seem to be quite strict in the sense that the chick must move to the mother if she moves and keep up. Possibly in nature it is a way of ensuring the strongest survive. Anyway, we cheated a bit as we saw it was very cold and put it under the infra-red light for the night–it was a lot stronger this morning and I replaced it with Priscilla, hoping it will be able to keep up with her.

From Vegetarism to Self-sufficiency

For the past 20 years I have been one of those  ”on and off”  vegetarians,  having grown up in suburbia,  meat was something that was bought wrapped in clingwrap on the supermarket shelf and an animal was something that lived and breathed and needed to be loved and cared for. (ie. a dog or a cat ) Therefore there was no connection between an animal and actual meat on my plate — I couldn’t marry the two and therefore decided it was best not to eat meat. How could I buy into killing something that needed to be cared for?  Therefore how could I eat an animal?  

However my decision was not based on true experience but rather projected human emotions, I found myself feeling quilty about enjoying meat when my resolve lapsed in the face of a crisp oven roasted chicken or a tender lamb chop straight from the braai.

Moving to the farm I continued this frame of being–only having chickens for eggs and when the roosters became too many I  pointed the offending ones out to Polina (a local lady that works on the farm and lives from the land) and disappeared for the day to the closest “big” town. Returning to a quieter yard and a slightly more stocked freezer. Most of the time I let Polina have them all.

Living out here — the fresh air and natural rythms of nature — seems to change one. Death becomes more acceptable and just part of life. Having experienced spring lambs been stillborn, chickens been eaten by various wildlife, cows dying of botulism  and losing a dog suddenly to tickbite fever all helps to put death in perspective. There is no doubt that it is sombering– as new life is elating, death is sombering.

I have recently decided it is senseless for me to try be a vegetarian out here on the farm,  the real honesty of being out here is eating our produce–meat included. The strangest thing is that connecting the animal to what is on your plate makes more sense and funny enough easier. Knowing that this animal has had a good life and that it was cared for and fed well. Processing the meat ourselves allows us to honour the animal and give it the place of respect it deserves. Something I could never understand until we did it–and now it feels ok (and honest). Living from the land.

That being said I decided I needed to step up to the plate and be part of the next “harvesting”  of two of our roosters. Herman did the deed very humanely while they were calm and stroked lovingly, swiftly breaking their necks. Then Polina set to work showing this city girl how to pluck and clean — quite an empowering moment and fascinating!

I am feeling quite pious about  this new turn in the journey to be self-sufficient.

On the left is me being shown the ropes by Polina–notice the ever hopeful Jack Russel at our feet—his favourite past time is finding ways into the poultry camp for a free meal—luckily the geese seem to have sorted that out!

Quacker Ducks

Just wanted everyone to know that after a LOT of searching I eventually got some Quacker Ducks-in fact I got 12 of them. They are happily installed with the chickens and geese, delighted with their little dam.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Notice how happy they look–their little beaks curve upwards!!