North Star Homestead Farms, LLC

  (Hayward, Wisconsin)
Know your Farmer, Love your Food!
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First Snow

There is something magical about the first snow of winter.  The grays and browns of November disappear beneath a blanket of clean, white, freshness.  The late autumn rains have been transformed into tiny, lacy crystals that fall in soft heaps about the farmhouse, catching on tree limbs and rooftops as they make their lazy dance from the clouded skies.  The earth looks refreshed, the nights are brightened by the added gleam, and the morning’s frosty crystals clinging to every surface sparkle like precious stones.

The first snows are welcomed on the farm, covering fall’s muddy season and insulating perennial crops.  The snow also helps to hold down exposed topsoil against fierce wintry winds.  I can remember one Christmas years back when there was very little snow.  A farmer down the road had plowed his fields late in autumn, and the land lay bereft of any cover.  Blown by strong winds, some of that topsoil spread over our own fields and yard.  The incident is still known in our family as “The Brown Christmas.”

This year, the Thanksgiving snow pounced upon us.  We were out in the farmyard all day, cleaning barns, sorting sheep, and mulching asparagus beds.  The warm weather was prime opportunity to squeeze in as many of the last-minute autumn projects as possible before winter settled in.  But come evening, the winds changed directions and began to blow cold, bringing first sleet and then snow.

However, there was one project we hadn’t been able to finish that day.  While the chickens and turkeys had been moved into winter quarters earlier, the ducks were still in their mobile unit on the edge of the field.  By morning, they were fairly snowed in, and we trudged out to rescue them, bundled up in Carharts, scarves, and insulated gloves.  The white Pekin ducks were huddled, snug in a blanket of downy feathers and quite unappreciative of our heroic efforts in the biting wind and driving snow.  As they quacked and wriggled, we tucked a duck under each arm and trudged off to the barn, where a safe pen full of fluffy hay awaited them, corralled by wooden pallets.  As soon as the first two ducks were released into the pen, they immediately stuck their long necks through the pallets, hoping to return to their friends in the snow.  But they needn’t have fussed because those ducky friends were coming soon, one armload at a time, until all were secure and warm in their new winter home.

After this parade of quacking, we hurried back to open the Creamery in time for the morning’s first clients.  Still a little out of breath and scrambling to ready the coffee, I apologized for not being as ready as usual.

“Were you out playing in the snow?” the client asked, chuckling.

“No, well, actually I was carrying ducks.”

The story then unfolded with much mirth at the thought of ungrateful ducks amidst a snowdrift being rescued by hearty farmers.

Snowdrifts often carry their own stories.  At least on our farm, they seem to appear in more or less the same places each year—right in front of the garage doors or along the road by the north field, for example.  While this can become irksome for the shovel-wielding adult, such piles of snow are play havens for children—especially when they are enhanced by the efforts of the snow plow.

I was eleven, and Kara was eight, when our family spent a year in Arizona.  Down in the Phoenix valley, there was hardly any sense of autumn, and Christmas lights on the saguaro cactus just did not compared with winters in the North.  So when we took the long trek back to the farm for the holidays, the snow seemed piled even higher than usual. Perhaps it was, or perhaps our imaginations embroidered our perceptions.  Either way, those great piles of snow were irresistible!

Mother had always warned us to be careful when digging tunnels into the snow-banks.  There was no digging at all, of course, when the snow plow was at work.  And there were precautions against chipping too far into the walls, making them thin and causing the top to collapse and bury us alive!  But while it mitigated our efforts, such advice did not deter the eagerness with which we attacked those snow piles with large spoons or small shovels, hacking and chipping, pushing the remnants out and away from the hole until our suits and mittens were sopping wet.

Such hard work calls for a good mug of cocoa and time to sit by the warm wood fire on the fieldstone hearth.  Beyond the expansive snow forts, there were snow angels to make if it was soft and powdery, or we could trounce big words one letter at a time into the snow, hoping they could be seen by the small aircraft that sometimes flew overhead.  But if the snow was soft and sticky, the yard would soon be adorned with slithery snow dragons, imposing snow lions, or handsome snowmen with their accompanying snow dogs.  And, of course, there was sledding!

As one grows older, sometimes the snow can become wearisome.  An incident still fresh in my mind occurred last winter, when we were building the aquaponics greenhouse.  The great metal rafters reached high into the sky, and we had recently finished the polycarbonate side walls and end panels.  We were hoping to have the double-plastic roof in place, but winds had delayed that project, when it snowed.  It was more than a little snow, wet, and heavy.  After five hours straight of shoveling out the inside of the greenhouse, we were ready for that roof to go up!

But when the first snows of November come, I am always touched by the magical beauty and transformative nature of this crystallized water.  There is a certain hush when it snows those large, lacy flakes.  Looking out the window is like looking out from the inside of those shakable balls full of white flakes.  The sun peaks from behind the clouds, and all is turned to shimmering patterns of light.  All this has a way of bringing out the wonder of the inner child, the little voice inside that still has the urge to write big words in the snow or plop down and leave an angel in the whiteness.

Maybe that inner child will find you in these early snows this week.  Drive safely, laugh often, and fix a steaming cup of cocoa by the fireside.  See you down on the farm sometime.

Laura Berlage is a co-owner of North Star Homestead Farms, LLC and Farmstead Creamery & Café.  northstarhomestead.com

 

They Came from the East

On camels, bearing gifts?  Well, this is true in the first Christmas story, but for life on the homestead in Wisconsin’s Northwoods, the wintry gifts from the east are usually in the form of snow—in copious amounts.  Being able to read the weather through observation has been an important skill for farmers throughout the ages at any time of the year.

In the summer, our eyes watch the clouds to the west as they climb over the towering red pines behind the barn.  Puffy cumulus clouds (what Grandma calls “God’s sheep”) ho-hum by, hoping for enough warmth and moisture to grow into something grander.  The towering cumulonimbus, with its gargantuan anvil shape and lightening-illuminated bulges are the culprits of summertime scurrying to cover and bring the animals into the farm for safety.  I have spent my fare share of being outside in the worst of storms to save turkeys from drowning or greenhouse doors from being blown off their hinges.

But in wintertime, the storms come more subtly.  There might be little forewarning by a leading edge of high, wispy cirrus clouds (wintry skies are often filled with them, without too much meaning regarding storms), or the preceding flock of little cumulus collections.  There is no visible tower of nimbus-ness to warn of impending snow, and no rush of sudden wind from the west.  A light dusting or minor snowfall may be blown from this direction, but the real worry lies in the storms that that blow from the east.

Winter is full of mystery.  Sometimes, in the midst of chores on a cloudless, sunny morning, I’ll look up to see lacy, glittering flakes dancing down from nothing—literally “thin air.”  At other times, moisture-laden clouds will hover for days, dropping nothing.  My Uncle Jon, who is a naturalist, always says that he can tell the wintry weather by the size of the snowflakes.  Large, lacy flakes indicate that the snowfall will not last long, whereas tiny flakes suggest a greater likelihood of a longer snow and more accumulation.  This larger-is-less and littler-is-more theory is not unlike the farm saying about rain—if the chickens dash for the coop, it’s only a passing shower.  If the chickens stay out in it, it’s going to rain for a while.

What kind of snowfall and how much is no light matter for farmers.  Just a few winters ago, the snow fell so fast, deep, and heavy, that it collapsed barns in Minnesota.  The winds blew the drifting snow to the lea side of the barn, causing a great imbalance of weight on the roof.  Farmers raced in to try to save their cattle, but many were injured or lost, including some of the farmers.  One dairyman remembered the terrifying sound of the nails popping out of the rafters as the roof gave way.  Still others were lost from falling off roofs as they tried to remove the snow before structures collapsed.

The worst types of winter snows on farms are preceded by ice.  Sticking to every surface, it fills latches and freezes doors shut and creates a layer on which the snow can securely stick instead of sliding off.  It is the same type of weather that downs trees and power lines, making roads particularly hazardous.  Add to this a boisterous wind, and now there is lowered visibility and gathering drifts to complicate the situation.

But the chores still need to be done!  In pioneer days, ropes were tied from the house to the barn, so farmers could hang on as they made their way through blinding snow.  In Vermont, some farms solved the problem by connecting all the buildings together.  This way, in winter, there was no need to go outside at all!  The oldest methods for livestock housing in Scandinavia put the human living quarters right above those of the animals—conserving heat and need for care, as well as providing watchful eyes against cattle thieves.

Of course, years ago, the snows were quite spectacular compared to what we commonly experience today.  Grandpa remembers coming up to the farm in the 1960’s for hunting season.  He made the mistake of stepping off a trail and found himself swallowed in a snowbank.  After considerable struggling, Grandpa managed to rescue himself, but he never made that mistake again.  Other stories tell of tying brightly colored objects to the radio antennas of cars to alert other vehicles of approaching traffic at intersections—the snow was so high that it was difficult to see the actual car!

But why should the recipe for such heavy snowfalls come from easterly winds?  This is because the “backside” of winter storms hold the most moisture.  Just when it seems that all has passed, the snowload arrives.  Such a glut of frozen water crystals arrived during one of my March residencies at college in Vermont.  Grandma and Grandpa were helping hold down the farm, and they sent pictures of the two-and-a-half feet that had fallen overnight.  It took our friend Jon several hours of laboring with his snowplow to make a path back to the farm and our house.  We even had to shovel trails to the chicken coops, just to get through.  The snow slowly curled off the southern wing of the barn roof, like a tidal wave in extremely slow motion with little foamy ice formations at its tip.  The sight was both magical and alarming—I did not want to be standing beneath that ice wave when it finally broke free from the edge of the roof!  If you hear a rumble, run!!!

Today, as we prepare for the weekend’s threat of “winter weather alerts,” the beehives are snuggly wrapped beneath their insulation and tar paper, the last of the panels of hog fencing are drug into the shed, and the stashes of firewood are heartily restocked.  The shovels await, and the sleds still listing in the rafters dream of frosty piles that announce the transition from wheelbarrows to skids for hauling this and that across the barnyard. 

And as the storm approaches, our eyes and thoughts will be turned to the east, in expectation.  Is that a big snowflake or a little one?  Which way has the wind sock atop the barn turned?  How gray grows the afternoon sky?  It’s time to hunker down, stay warm, and make certain the animals are comfortable and well-fed before a long winter’s night.  It’s also a good time to sit by the fire with a good book or play music with friends and family.

As the snows settle in around us this winter, imagine the days when tunnels were carved in the drifts to access Main Street businesses or when country folks had to climb from their second story windows for a bit of fresh air.  Maybe someone in your family has memorable snowstorm stories—the day Mom made it to class only to find the campus was closed and hazard the long walk back home or the time the snow blew so hard no-one could open the back door onto the porch for days.  Winter is a wonderful time for such tales as well as for making new memories amidst the blustery winds from the east.  See you down on the farm sometime.

Laura Berlage is a co-owner of North Star Homestead Farms, LLC and Farmstead Creamery & Café.  northstarhomestead.com

 

 
 

A Good Pot of Soup

There is something to be said for the practice of using every part of the animal.  Native American tribes found value in pelts, bones, sinew, or feathers, as well as meat.  Historically, farmers have also been thrifty with harvested livestock—especially in the days when most small-scale husbandmen (and women) were primarily self sufficient.  A good way to extend this respectful and resourceful tradition lies right at our fingertips—in the kitchen.

I remember being horrified as a child to learn that some of my friends’ parents never saved the carcass of a roasted chicken.  Throw it all in the garbage!  No!  It seemed so wasteful.  Why not save it all and make soup!

Perhaps you already know the age-old story “Stone Soup,” but it is worth retelling this time of year.  A soldier coming home from war finds that no-one will give him food, under the excuse that everyone here is poor and has no food to spare.  Interestingly, this does not seem to surprise the fellow, who proceeds to build a goodly fire beneath a large pot in the middle of town.  He fills the cauldron with water and begins to heat it.  Curious, the townsfolk gather around the fire, wondering what the old soldier has in mind.  As they gossip and quibble behind his back, they see the fellow reach deep into his pockets and pull out a well-polished stone.

“What are you doing?” the village people ask him.

“I am going to make soup,” the soldier replies.  “This magic stone will help us.  Since no-one in this village has any food in their homes, we will make soup from a stone.” 

He ceremoniously places the stone into the water and makes a great show of smelling the steam from the pot.  “Already, the soup is beginning!” the soldier remarks.  “Now, if only we had some carrots…”

“We have carrots in our house!” a little village girl cries in excitement.

“Then bring us some,” the fellow replies, reassuringly, and the girls rushes off towards home.  In a moment, she returns with a hearty handful, scrubbed and ready.  These are added to the boiling pot and thoughtfully stirred.

“Ah yes,” says the soldier.  “Now, if only there were a few potatoes…”  And so on it goes as the villagers forget their differences and their poverty, and bit by bit the pot is filled with vegetables, pork bones, savory herbs and many wonderful things.  Then a feast is shared with all the villagers and everyone is warmed and glad.

When the soldier prepares to depart, the villagers ask if they might keep the magical stone that made such wonderful soup.  “Of course,” the soldier smiles.  “But you don’t need it anymore.  The magic is inside all of your to give and to share.  This is but an ordinary stone from the side of the road,” and he chuckles happily as we continues on his way home.

Today, the chicken (or turkey) carcass, with all the little scraps of meat and flavorful bones, or the remnants of a boned pork roast can serve as that magical stone to your own homemade soup.  There is nothing quite like a kitchen full of family, chopping onions and celery, carrots and potatoes for a sumptuous pot of soup, especially as the days grow chilly and chase us from the out-of-doors.

If this is your first time preparing a soup entirely from scratch (and are consciously trying to resist tossing the remnants of the beast into the rubbish bin), fear not.  The best place to start is with a good old-fashioned crock pot.  It would be hard to think of a traditionally-minded farm kitchen without one!  Break the carcass into manageable pieces and stuff them into the crock pot, including any uneaten wings or legs, but especially be sure to save the back and neck.  Add enough water to fill approximately two-thirds of the pot, then set it on low overnight. 

In the morning, turn off the crock pot and let it cool until the chicken is a temperature that is comfortable to handle.  Next comes the part our dogs love best.  With the waste basket handy, use a slotted spoon to remove all the chicken parts and place them into a separate bowl.  Then, with patience, use your fingers to separate bones from meat, returning any of the latter to the crock pot with the broth.  Discard the bones; they’ve already worked their magic.

This is where our two dogs come in when we make soup at home.  As soon as the lid from the crock pot is lifted, they materialize from any corner of the house—sitting patiently and staring with their enormous dark eyes, hoping for a bit of skin or a wayward tidbit to fall on the floor.  (No cooked bones for the dogs, though, because bones become brittle after heating and can splinter easily).  Even the house pets look forward to soup-making day on the farm!

Now you are ready to turn that meaty, infused broth into a beautiful homemade soup.  Here is a recipe we recently used at Farmstead Creamery & Café you can try:

Herbed Chicken and Barley Soup

2 hearty quarts of broth with chicken

1 Tbs. olive oil

2 stalks celery, chopped

Half a medium onion, chopped

2 carrots, chopped

1 leek, chopped (can substitute shallot or more onion)

½ cup pearl barley

Coarse black pepper, to taste

1 Tbs. chopped fresh thyme (1 tsp. dried)

1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley (5 tsp. dried)

2 Tbs. chopped fresh sweet marjoram (2 tsp. dried)

Heat olive oil in a large soup pot and sauté onions, celery, and leeks until soft.  Add carrots and herbs and continue to sauté.  Add remaining ingredients (chicken, broth, and barley) and return to a simmer.  Cook, stirring occasionally, until the barley is finished.  Serve steaming hot with your favorite bread or salad.  A little snow on the ground makes it all taste even better.

There is nothing quite like a good pot of chicken soup to remind one of the comforts of home, especially when the practice connects us with methods our grandmothers, or great-grandmothers knew quite well.  Here’s to a steaming bowl, beautiful snows, and fond memories.  See you down on the farm sometime.

Laura Berlage is a co-owner of North Star Homestead Farms, LLC and Farmstead Creamery & Café.  northstarhomestead.com

 
 
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