Project Homestead

A wild and beautiful visitor

I was making pancakes, Michael was tidying up, and the boys were organizing toys, when Owen announced how sad it was that a bright red bird had flown into the window and fallen down into the garden. You could see his flaming red feathers as he laid there, looking all but dead.

Michael gently picked him up and brought him inside. We all stared in awe at this bold little songbird—a Scarlet Tanager. He'd flown here from South America, we learned. And his chip-churr song, which we also tracked down, is a lilting and a true sign of spring, Owen thought. We made him a little nest so he could rest. He closed his eyes often, a sign that he was tired, Caleb thought. We all thought he might have hurt a wing, or banged his head, before he fell.

But before long, he flapped out of his box and around the kitchen before perching himself on a stack of cereal bowls. He was restored. And we set him free.

And so it flows...

The snow is finally subsiding here, and I'm reappearing after a long respite. Such a busy and wonderful Winter has melted into a sweet Spring. Why? Well, because the balance of life seems to be finally tipping in the direction of ease. So much of the past couple of years has seemed, well, uphill. Between little ones, big projects and small budgets, it sometimes felt like I could never get ANYTHING done. I won't count my chickens yet (although we've ordered eight new chicks, due in early May). But I will count my blessings.

This, my friends, is one of them.
 

I have been dreaming of tapping our own maple trees to boil clear, drippy sap into golden, earthy maple syrup—for years. Visits to sugar houses, where hobbyists and seasoned families fire up their evaporators and serve sugar on snow, got me hooked. But the short sugaring season snuck up on me every March—until this year, when I finally got geared up in time. I felt giddy as we left Slattery's Maple Supply with a stack of used sap buckets and taps, and I listened to them rattle around in the way back on the bumpy backroads home.

The boys and I spent the next afternoon drilling and tapping 10 maples, to start. We soon figured out how to do it, drilling a slightly uphill hole into each with a 7/16 inch drill bit. And we picked trees that were close to the house and big enough to share some of their sap with us.

The boys hung the buckets and threaded the covers over the taps to keep out rain and debris. Fruit flies seem to find their way in, anyway, but we filtered them out later.

As soon as we hung the last bucket, we heard it: on cue, the bright "plink"..."plink" ... "plink" told us the sap was running. (The cold nights and warming days of late March get trees pumping.) I was so grateful. The fact is, so many  homesteading projects require well-planned effort and exacting efficiency. But everything about this was so uncomplicated that I could just concentrate on the fun.

A day or so later, we hauled a huge lobster pot out of the basement, built a fire in the belly of an old grill beneath it, and we started boiling. Between the spring sunshine warming our backs, a fire warming our hands, and the smell of woodsmoke mixed with moist, sweet maple in the air, Owen said what we were all thinking... "This is just plain pleasant, isn't it?"

We cleaned up gardens while it boiled. We fed the fire as it boiled. We ate supper outside as it boiled. We fetched more cool sap from waiting maples as it boiled. And, at the end of our first sugaring season, we'd made just about three quarts of gorgeous, golden, maple syrup to pour over everything. Without even tasting it, I feel all warm and happy inside. Spring is sweet. Muddy, but sweet.

How 'bout these melons?

Proud garden moment: Ambrosia melons. Two of them. It took months of care and tending to produce these beauties, in soil that had just become a garden this June. We planted them late. And we crossed our fingers.

They looked so beautiful that little hands couldn't help but feel them all day long (we were waiting for a quorum before slicing them open). I kept picturing them rolling off the counter and exploding their beautiful juiciness all over the kitchen floor. Then we'd have to lick the floor.

So we petted them, carefully.

When we finally sliced them, we gasped at their beauty.

And we ate them—sooo melony and floral, mildly sweet, and almost a bit savory. As it turned out, the juice dripped from our chins onto the table—and then onto the floor.

We licked the table.

Surrounded by blackberries.

For all of our growing pains this growing season—bigger gardens mean a lot less energy for tending the ones you already have—I'm always grateful for the blackberries. They were here when we came. We've lent a bit of care and weeding, a bit of seaweed and pruning here and there. But otherwise, even in hot, dry summers like this one (when they ripened a full two weeks earlier than in years' past), we handle them simply. We call it benign neglect.

The result: the richest, sweetest and plumpest berries we can remember eating from these rugged hills. And now that our little ones are getting bigger (and eating more berries), the harvesting goes faster than ever. Caleb is four, and eats at least as much as he picks. But he also picks. And every plump berry helps when you're collecting as much as you can for your family's supply of homemade jam, a crisp or two, and berries to grace your vanilla ice cream whenever you want them.

In past seasons, we'd pick berries whenever we could swing it. It's a big job, for which you have to cover yourself in long pants and heavy shirts to thwart thorns—in the heat of August. But I read recently that Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, my small-holding, sustainable food-rearing muse from River Cottage in Dorset, England, swears that the best flavor comes from picking at the end of a hot, dry day.  (He then puts up jam immediately thereafter.)

We've had plenty hot, dry days in these parts. This just meant feeding the troops early and heading out in the evening. We picked well into twilight. It was magic.

So were the berries—all 12 pounds of them (from this harvest). We always get two, or more. And you can see from these loaded canes that we have plenty coming on later.

After putting up our jam, following the beautifully simple recipe from the Smith & Hawken Gardener's Community Cookbook. It uses no pectin, as blackberries are especially high in natural pectin. Just a mix of ripe and slightly underripe berries. And plenty of sugar. Gentle, patient boiling. Then, suddenly, the next best thing since warm, home-baked bread.

The next flush of berries went into a quick crisp, which I adapted from our friend, Winnie's, otherworldly rhubarb crisp. (Recipe coming soon.) It's berries, sugar and a thick topping of oats, brown sugar, and a bit of flour. (The boys and I could, well, did, eat handfuls of the stuff.) Are you seeing a pattern here?

I love the spoils of summer. I hope you're enjoying them, too.

Picnics are magic.

A dreamy early evening picnic on an island off the coast of Maine last weekend reminded me how simple perfection can be. Here's what I learned...

First, let your youngest captains steer the ship. (And name your boat Little Buttercup.)

Take turns—and take your time. 

Make yourselves comfortable.

Collect ample firewood.

Light your campfire in a sheltered spot, with a view. Use driftwood for tables. Grill hot dogs wrapped in bacon (no kidding). Let others explore tide pools.

Celebrate a sweet birthday with a nod to tradition. (Yes, those are wedding rings around the candles).

Take time for yourself.

The Golden Rule applies: Roast marshmallows for others as you would roast them for yourself—charred, to molten perfection. Then share them freely with those you love.

Fairly full from Common Ground

I just returned from a glorious, enriching day of lapping up organic living and growing in Unity, Maine, home of the Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association. The group's annual Common Ground Fair is so full of information, friends and amazing food, I left feeling full to bursting. Here's what I can remember...

• Angora goats are “addictive.”
• Organic, locally grown fair food is VERY expensive.
• The Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association, a.k.a. MOFGA, is magic: Its fair is simultaneously down-home and ethereal.
• Young bulls are called bullocks.
• Who needs roller coasters, when kids can slide down a grassy hill, using only cardboard, for two hours and 17 minutes?

• Top-bar beehives give bees room to build honeycomb in the size they naturally need. Some beekeepers plant lavender and thyme beneath their hives to keep mites at bay.
• If you have a cordless drill, you can whip amendments into worked soil with the nifty Tilther from Johnny’s Selected Seeds. 
• I pine for Johnny’s Six Row Seeder.
• “Chestnut” crab apples are sweet, juicy and bright; the perfect size for little hands or a few big bites.
• Apples are the most interesting fruit I know.
• You can make fire by rubbing two sticks together … after tying a basic bow, carving a peg to rub in a whittled plank, and kneeling very carefully while rubbing furiously. Having a friendly Maine Guide nearby is a big help.

• Sheep are far easier to herd than goats. Sheepdogs have an easier time doing it than kiddos.
• Spinning wool is a quiet art; spinning "in the grease" works wonders on dry winter hands.
• “Fingers look like carrots” to livestock.
• Friendships made in the course of pursuing your passions are lasting and real.
• Forests selectively harvested and replanted with varying species are less stressed than single-species stands of timber.
• Hula hoops whirl around hips longer if you stand with one foot in front of the other, spread apart a bit. If you can manage it, your kids will cheer.
• You can live without cell phone service for an entire day.
• Garlic is easy to grow in fertile soil (6 inches apart on 12-inch rows). Hardneck varieties are easier to peel than softnecks. Curing bulbs in a dry place will help them store them well for months.
• Abundance is all around us.

It's time to harvest just about everywhere. Eat up, and enjoy.

Vote for Goats!

Goat heaven.

There comes a time in a homesteader's life when a dream (of raising friendly livestock) and chance (the possibility of winning a herd of goats!) overlap. That's just what happened when a dear friend forwarded me word of the amazing Goat Giveaway from Martha's Vineyard Fiber Farm and its uncommonly generous owner, Susan. Our essay is in—and we can use all the help we can get. In a hurry? VOTE for us here. If you've got a moment, read on...

Here's what I wrote:

When our young family settled in coastal Maine five years ago, we did so with an eye toward planting some deep roots—and tapping into a simple, grounded life we always wanted.

We feel blessed to have found a 7-acre property that flanks a sunny four-acre fresh water pond and a broad hill covered with shrubs, maples and white pines that shelter us long after other trees have turned in for the winter. Our log cabin overlooks our chicken coop, which we built ourselves near the house to make daily visits to our dozen “girls” easy. (Our two boys collect most of the eggs.) We also tend to a productive hillside berry and vegetable garden and small orchard. We plan to welcome our first batch of bees next spring. And I’m sewing a lot of my family’s clothes.

We couldn’t have imagined how quickly we’d take to it all. Now we can’t imagine living any other way.

That’s because we found a clutch of good friends here who build, bake, knit, sew, quilt, felt, grow and raise as much as they can themselves. Luckily, they are happy to share what they know with us. We buy raw milk from dairying friends. We all raise backyard chickens (and a few sheep). A few garden year-round in hoop-houses. And we stitch handmade birthday presents for all of our little ones. When I brought it up, the idea of this contest was so exciting that a handful of friends jumped at the chance to form a “village” that would help raise (shear, feed and pet) this wooly herd.

We’re not sure if it will be a cooperative, a collective, or a CSA like yours, but our goal is the same. We want to share with others the experience of raising and caring for animals that nourish us, our families and our crafts. We have the land and the animal know-how. Others have skills to help us erect the shed that will house the flock. Still others have spun and dyed yarn. Most are knitters, crafters and mothers.

The longer we’ve lived here, the more we feel empowered to see the possibilities of what we can do with what we have—and how rewarding those accomplishments can be. I even started a blog to keep track of it all. It’s called Project Homestead. (Not all of this is new to me, though. I grew up riding and caring for my family’s horses, and rising before the sun to milk our Nubian goats. My sisters and I loved everything about them—from bottle-feeding our first kid, to their velvet-soft ears and their winsome souls.) So when we added chickens to our family last year, we all knew we were onto something. Caring for animals who help care for us is a cycle that feels organic, in the deepest way.

That cycle is what grounds us and our boys to this place we love to call home. And we think your beautiful goats would feel happy and at home here, too. In fact, our young would-be shepherds have a few ideas of their own.

“I would like to give our goats leaves and carrots and peanut butter crackers,” explained three-year-old Caleb, who often upends his bike and pretends it’s a spinning wheel. After hearing this, Owen, who is 6, agreed (what’s not to love about peanut butter crackers?). He continued: “I’d like to have goats because they would be fun to be with. I would like to help take care of them. And feed them. And give them love.”

We all would, more than anything.

Thanks so much for considering us for your unbelievably generous gift.

Fondly,

Victoria, Michael, Owen and Caleb Stefanakos

Freeport, Maine

Of course, there are DOZENS of other knitters, spinners and animal lovers who also entered the contest. To help them choose, the grassroots Fiber Farm has asked its devoted readers and supporters to vote for their favorite essay. We'd love it if you'd take a minute to support us, The Stefanakos Family shepherds, by clicking on the star at the bottom of our essay. Please vote only ONCE, as folks clogging the works get disqualified.

Thanks SO much for your support. I'll keep you posted.

(really) handmade ice cream

I've been known to eat a fair bit of ice cream. So much, in fact, I was shocked to realize sometime in high school that a pint of coffee Häagen-Dazs was not created solely for me, to finish in one sitting. After all, it took a while for the solid mass to soften just enough that a spoon could slide into the creamy moat growing around the frozen edge. And by then, the container was nearly empty anyway...

This admission explains why I consider it my duty to help replenish the world's ice cream supply. And once Owen and I made this delicious, beautifully simple, vanilla version in 30 minutes, with nothing more than Ball jars, ice cubes, pickling salt, and a few stirs, I was convinced I could do it over and over again.

We got the idea from the brilliant River Cottage Family Cookbook (the recipe is below, with a few tiny tweaks). I recommend the book for anyone who likes to cook real, whole food and understand how fresh ingredients work together. It's instructive without being overly simple or, worse, condescending. And if you have kids, it's a no-brainer. Wander over to your local library and borrow it, or buy it at once.

This recipe is so fun because it's human powered and requires no cooking (that's a bonus on hot day). It's also a great excuse to use fresh cream skimmed from my friends' raw whole milk, good sugar and today's ripe berries. Then there's the chemistry: Ice isn't cold enough, long enough, to freeze cream solid. Toss in some salt, though, and voila! (By the ocean, we know firsthand that while fresh water freezes at 32 degrees F, saltwater freezes at much lower temperatures. So, by adding salt, the temperature of the ice drops quickly—and is happy to freeze jars of cream and sugar while it's at it.)

To get going, here's all you'll need:

• 2-3 Tbsp. well-chilled heavy cream (we used 4 or so Tbsp. with fine results)
• Flavoring, such as vanilla extract, 2 or 3 strawberries, 2 tsp. of your fave jam, a little melted chocolate
• 2 tsp. confectioner's sugar
• Clean half-pint Ball jar with lid, 5 cups ice cubes straight from the freezer, 1 cup of salt (we used plain, cheap pickling salt), and a heavy metal pan (we used an enameled cast iron stock pot) with a lid.

What you do:

1. Spoon the cream into the clean jar. Add your favorite flavoring: For vanilla ice cream, add a few drops of the vanilla extract; for strawberries, crush them until they're runny and stir them in, or mix in 2 tsp. of good jam; for chocolate, stir in melted chocolate. Add the sugar.

2. Screw the lid tightly. Place the jar in the fridge while you sort out the ice and salt.

3. Get the ice from the freezer. The ice should be as cold as possible. If that sounds a bit silly, remember that the temperature of ice can vary a lot. Straight from the freezer, it could be as low as 14 degrees F. Ice that's been sitting around in a bowl and is just beginning to melt will be only 30 or 28 degrees F. Put the ice and salt into the container and mix them together well. The temperature of the ice will fall rapidly.

4. Make a well in the ice mixture. Take the jam jar out of the fridge and stand it in the well. Put the lid on the container and let it stand somewhere cool. (I put our pot back in the freezer.)

5. After 10 minutes, take off both lids and carefully stir the cream mixture, making sure you don't get any of the salt in it. It will have turned very cold but it won't have started to freeze yet. Replace the lids. Repeat this stirring process at 10-minute intervals until the cream turns to ice cream. It will do this quite suddenly, so be ready.

6. This makes a small amount of ice cream, just right for a single cone or to sandwich between a couple of wafers. You could use a bigger pan and add more jam jars. Just keep the proportions of ice to salt the same. (Note: We made eight jars' worth in two pans, and I plan to experiment to see how full we can make each jar. See full explanation of my weakness above...)

Enjoy.

a fine day's rest

I tend to fill most free time with activity, like switching loads of laundry or planting neglected leek seedlings, or chicken tending or sewing (just one more seam!). But on my birthday, yesterday, I took a detour: I decided to simply recline. In every way. I let dear friends plan. I packed no lunches. I watched boys entertain themselves on the beach. And, I must say, it got me to thinking how restorative such rest days can be. DOING at all times takes doing. For those of us with unfinished gardens and dishes, not to mention conscientious lives to attend to—all of us, that is—being does, too.

After such a fine day, I remember now that doing nothing is worth the effort. Gazing, lazily, at trees jutting out of the endless blue makes the forest that much easier to see, once back home. Of course, bare feet, sand, and ample sunshine (following weeks of wool socks, mud and rain) may have improved my vision a bit.

Repeat after me: Take a load off... The weeds won't mind a bit.

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.