Project Homestead

Buying, selling and broody hens

I've been weighing for a while now a decision I have not taken lightly. (Yes, I tend to over think things.) I like bucking consumer culture. I admire others who do, too. But I have been inspired lately by my friend, Jules, who founded the site Daily Grommet as a way to support what she calls "citizen commerce." We are going to spend money; we should make what we do spend, count.

In that spirit, I'm pleased to say that I will begin reviewing books and tools and even sharing good deals from suppliers of goods I really dig.

The fact is that as much as we strive to make do with what we have and enjoy what we can make (eggs, check; honey, check; vegetables and fruit, check; some of our clothes, check), there is plenty I will never do myself. And there's plenty more to learn. Good tools help make big jobs much faster, more efficient, and, most of all, fun.

Naturally, I'll only write about gear and suppliers I love—and I think you would, too. And if you buy something I recommend and link to here, I get a teeny, tiny cut of the sale. Every little bit helps. So thank you.

I already run a handful of advertisements, but I'll dive deeper with an outfit called OpenSky. These friendly folks will help me run my Project Homestead Store, featuring some of my favorite things (cue Julie Andrews). The doors will open here early next month, so stay tuned!

As I wade into these uncharted waters, it seemed fitting to first recommend a book that I can't live without. I keep it on my desk and smile whenever I (or the boys) open it.
 

It is Minnie Rose Lovgreen's Recipe for Raising Chickens, and it is the most charming little book I've seen—maybe ever. Minnie Rose was supposed to sail across the Atlantic on the Titanic, but she got restless and hopped on another boat. She made it, and moved to Bainbridge Island, Washington, in the 1920s. For the next three decades, she and her husband, Leo, raised a family and chickens on their thriving dairy farm.

Minnie Rose's old friend and neighbor, Nancy Rekow, taped Minnie Rose's stories some 35 years ago and hand-lettered her advice on 36 pages. (It has just been reprinted.) Most are neatly written text. But a few feature wonderful illustrations by another neighbor, Elizabeth Hutchison Zwick, like this one.

The observations are so folksy and commonsensical, you feel like you're hearing advice straight from your chicken-loving Nana (she doesn't miss much)—all while she's filling the hens' pail of oyster shells. Simple truth No. 1: "The main thing is to keep them happy." Minnie Rose herself wrote ...

 

I love Mrs. Lovgreen. She makes me love my chickens even more than I already do.

Getting our goats. Someday.

 

Well, dear friends and family, despite your overwhelming support, kindness, and more than 300 votes, I have some disappointing news: We did not win a starter flock of angora goats. Thanks to you, our essay  earned the 11th largest number of votes among 49 worthy contest entries in Martha's Vineyard Fiber Farm's great Goat Giveaway. We can't thank you enough.

Truth be told, I'm actually OK with it. There's plenty of fall gardening yet to do. We're keeping a watchful eye on this year's chicks (now four months old), who just moved into the henhouse with our big girls. A few pecks aside, they seem to be getting along well. Besides, it's apple pressing time here. I'm itching to try my hand at making apple cider vinegar and, if I'm feeling really oatsy, a foray into hard cider. Both make good use of the fruit from our solid but less than scrumptious old apples trees.

Possibility is a heady thing. Word was still spreading about our goat project while we buzzed around the Common Ground Fair late last month. With each friend we ran into who told us, "I voted for you and asked my friends to, too!,"  I couldn't help but feel like we'd already won—with the warm wishes from all of you behind us.

We were quizzing everyone we could about goats in general and mohair in particular, when we met possibly the most entertaining breeder/lover/dealer of angora goats in Maine. Pogo of Friends' Folly Farm, whose own hair curls a lot like the little one's above, assured us how delightful angoras are to have around. Who knows, maybe we'll become shepherds yet one day.

It's a cozy comfort indeed to know just who to call when we're ready to dive in, head first.

Chicks, round two

They arrived this week, the six of them. Downy, soft, frail. Within days, they're hopping up to a small roosting bar, settling into a quiet boy's loose shirtsleeves, even managing to cover their galvanized tub home with poop. All is well. These new babes—two more buff orpingtons (to replace the pair we lost) and four gorgeous barred rocks) in our midst remind us how fast it all goes.

It's fast, because these tinies will be LAYING EGGS with their big sisters from the nearby coop in about five months. (Hard to believe, looking at them now.) It also seems like just yesterday that we were entering the world of hen rearing. But, a year later, we feel like old pros. Friends seek our advice (hmm...). Michael's marvelous "Poulet Chalet" (so-named by our friend Melissa) is an engineering marvel for a small flock like ours. And the hens follow me around the garden like nosey girlfriends. The fact is, our eggs are so plentiful, I practically take them for granted.

I shouldn't, though. A bold fox visiting the flatland down near the pond one morning this week made off with a rather large Canada goose gosling, leaving the family of seven we've watched grow, swim, and explore all spring ... missing one. The mother hen in me felt sick as I watched them swim off to safety. The parents looked back, hoping a straggler would catch up from the cattails. But it never did.

I remind myself several times a day (when boys are flying through the air on rope swings, say) that we watch them as closely as we can. And we have to relax and enjoy their unfurling. Like the chicks who can ALL roost on a calm arm now, the boys' hands are so much more nimble than a year ago that they can cradle them without choking (usually). That's not to say they don't leave a chick wandering around the mudroom, unattended, now and then. They do. They just help wipe up the floor afterwards.

spring creeps in (under cover of snow)

Despite the snow that still surrounds us and looms large in sad plow piles in driveways everywhere, Spring is here. The sap is rising in the maples* (and the kiddos). The first red-winged black birds just broke into song. And everyone from happy hens to little boys can't wait to stretch out their toes and scratch a bit in the FINALLY thawing ground. 

While soaking up the balmy 40-degree sunshine, I spent a few minutes taking pictures of my various hillsides and sleepy garden plots to help me site future cold frames, bulb and fruit tree sites and micro-climates that might best nurture cold-hardy greens. It surprises me to no end how the complex patterns of sunshine, snowfall and tree cover can influence the ground below. Our land has several aspects, all of which are waking up at different rates.

I observed one clear constant: The chance to dig a bit, if only with chicken claws and Tonka trucks, is a fine, welcome start. There's life under there. And we've all got a primal urge to find it.

* Stay tuned for a first-hand report of the tastiest holiday in these parts: Maine Maple Sunday. Y-u-m. 

which came first?

The chickens, of course (they arrived five months ago, to be exact). But, lo and behold, those dear girls gave us our very FIRST HOMGROWN, ORGANIC EGG this week! Like most things worth waiting for, our sense of pride is significantly greater than the grocery store value for, say, eggs, would indicate. We find ourselves blurting out the news to anyone we think might occasionally eat eggs. As if this news will make them swoon like we have. For days.

When I told our raw milk dairy farmer, Kate, our big news, she asked, "are the yolks bright orange?" As I considered my answer, I had to admit that, in fact, they were a mild yellow—nowhere near as bright golden orange as the eggs Kate's silver-laced Wyandottes (a.k.a. "peeps") provide us every week. From what I've learned, that has to do with the fact that they're not eating freely of grass and bugs and anything else they can scrounge. (We lost two to the wild this summer; since then, they've taken supervised furloughs to a chicken "tractor" in our backyard. They get to scratch the earth and take dirt baths every day, but they aren't out foraging for their food. If a worm peeks its head up beneath the oak leaves, I suspect it's a very good day.

Even so, the omelet our first home-grown egg made, split four ways, was the most tender morsel I've ever consumed. The girls have left us one egg—nestled in their straw-filled nesting box, no less!—every morning for the past four mornings. By the time they're all up to speed, I think we can expect between 3 and 5 eggs for our six hens EVERY DAY. 

While the ground is preparing for it's long winter's sleep, a glaze of ice has appeared across the pond, and life outside feels slowed, this new burst of energy, life and productivity is so very welcomed.

behold: the coop!

Our most ambitious building project to date is finally finished. Michael decided to design it himself, and we put it together using free time on evenings and weekends—with two little ones "helping." (Good thing we started it in September.) The chickens seem to be settling in well; they're warm and dry and enjoy lovely views of the pond from the roosting spots we never imagined them using up in the rafters. Until yesterday, the coop was cloaked with a tarp to prevent rain from entering at the peak, until Michael installed the tricky metal roof cap. Lo and behold, it went on without a hitch. The gleaming galvanized roof brings a smile to my face whenever it catches my eye. And, as the rain pours down today, we breathe a sigh of proud relief.

Now, on to the next project...

buffs: beware.

One day this spring, a friend and seasoned chicken owner mentioned that our wooded property would be heaven for chickens. "They're really foragers, like pheasants," he told us. We could raise something (other than white pine) on this mountaintop, after all.

On his advice, we bought four Buff Orphingtons and four Rhode Island Reds. These blond beauties (that's "little buff" with Owen) are winter hardy up in these parts because of their downy parkas of fluffy feathers. They're also billed as being winningly docile and calm, so they're great with kids. A cuddly chicken? Perhaps.

After we'd picked up the chicks from the farm store and incubated them under a heat lamp in our basement for weeks, our friend stopped by and observed something else: The four-acre pond we overlook attracts every wild hunter—from bald eagles and osprey to foxes and badgers—that has ever migrated through Maine. On second thought, maybe letting tasty chickens roam free here wasn't such a good idea, after all. Foraging in the woodlands, it seemed, was out.

I'd describe our two fair-feathered chicks as skittish. I can't really blame them, since two of the four got carried off in broad daylight and silence while we worked in the garden nearby a month or so back. (As we searched for feathery evidence, Owen comforted me by saying, "foxes have got to eat, too, mama.") My theory: These blondes are easy to pick out and pick off by predators soaring above or prowling on foot. Meantime, our four lovely auburn Rhode Island Reds practically disappear in the pine straw forest floor all around them. Naturally, they are all roosting happily in their coop right now.

After more than a year of peaceful poultry ownership and a constant surplus of fresh eggs, our friend's family has lost six of their 12 chickens while vacationing this summer. (It seems that foxes who find an easy meal keep coming back for more.) And nearly all of the chickens they've lost to the wild were beautiful, blond Buffs.