North Star Homestead Farms, LLC

Music and rural living have a long history.  Shepherds passed the time playing flutes out in the pastures; country folks came together, linked hands, and danced to fiddle tunes; and often there was singing in the fields.  This ancient view of music was integrated into everyday life and was the common property of all.  Music accompanied important cyclical ceremonies and helped occupy the mind during drudgeries.

Today, alas, music has been mostly consigned to either life on a pedestal through formal concerts (in designated buildings at designated times) or blared from our truck radios.  Music is made by “someone else” for us, and we are mere consumers.  The folk idea of making music together is, well, seen as a bit quaint and certainly old-fashioned.

But there are reasons for the folk music process.  Rhyme and meter are excellent ways to remember a story, facets of one’s task, or cultural values.  Songs like “Bringing in the Sheaves” reminds us of the joy in the harvest—the fruits of one’s labors coming to fruition through the helping hand of nature.  It comes from the collective experience of the people, not the market motivations of commercialism.

Bringing in the sheaves

Bringing in the sheaves

We will come rejoicing

Bringing in the sheaves

Music is also incredibly therapeutic and stimulating.  Studies recently reported on National Public Radio have shown that even one year of learning an instrument results in noticeable brain development resulting, over time, in the higher amounts of gray matter.  Music utilizes a variety of parts of the brain at the same time—even singing reaches across the hemispheres to areas other than the speech center.  Therapies that utilize singing have helped some brain trauma survivors (like Arizona senator Gabrielle Giffords) to reclaim their ability to speak.  Group music sessions have also gained remarkable results with Alzheimer’s patients.

Some agricultural studies have looked at the stimulus of music with livestock or plants.  Dairy parlors might play classical symphonies, while a greenhouse might prefer jazz.  Whether or not the particular type of music is preferable to the plants or animal (or really the caretakers) is a continued point of study, but our sheep don’t mind an occasional acapella song during chores.  It helps them know we’re coming, so they don’t spook when the barn door opens.

A particular ancient instrument that I play—the harp—has been closely linked with healing.  Mayo Clinic has a “therapy harp” program, where trained harpers visit hospital patients to share soothing music.  The particular wave frequencies of sound made by harps have a special calming and therapeutic affect for both the listener and performer. 

Here are a few stories to share about animals and harps.  Even during my first days of practicing this instrument, our small dog Sophie would stop whatever she was doing and try to sit as close as possible to me and the harp and promptly fall asleep.  Practicing classical guitar, hammer dulcimer, or other instruments does not produce the same affect.  No matter what corner of the house, Sophie has to come and sit next to the harp.

This last winter, we acquired a new household companion—a black and orange cat from the Humane Society named Pumpkin.  Sleek and intelligent, Pumpkin is fascinated by everything in our home, from the baby goat in the basement and the chickens outside the bedroom window to the back nooks of the root cellar.  Our various projects are also fascinating—the tumbling ball of yarn while Kara knits or the little wooden pieces on the “Nine Men’s Morris” game board.

Projects are everywhere in our house, but this is normal for us.  Since my sister and I embarked on a Montessori learning style from an early age, having a house full of creative and imaginative projects from building performance costumes to designing Farmstead Creamery & Café have been an integral part of our daily experience.  Currently, our living room and kitchen have been transformed into a recording studio as Tom Draughon of Ashland and I work on our acoustic Christmas album “Season of Delight.”  The tangle of microphone cables and speakers are not ingratiating for hosting company or cooking supper—but that’s what Farmstead Creamery is for.

The other day, I was practicing for our upcoming recording session of the Latin carol “Veni, Veni, Emmanuel” (O Come, O Come Emmanuel), which is paired with a delightful Shetland air traditional to Christmas morning called “Da Day Dawn.”  Sophie had taken up her position in a nearby recliner, fast asleep, when Pumpkin sidled into the room.  She sat there, just a few steps away, her green eyes wide and ears perked forward.  She watched my hands, looked at me, looked at the harp, looked at my hands.  This continued several minutes.  Then, convinced she had the whole thing figured out, she began purring loudly and rubbing on the base of the harp and my ankles until the practice session was complete.  I was itching with static electricity, but the cat was thoroughly enjoying herself.

A few days later, I was working through recording this same harp part, editing, and then laying down a vocal track over the harp accompaniment.  Pumpkin had lain content on the sofa during the harp recording and editing session, but during the singing (when the harp is muted through the speakers), she leapt over and began tussling with the headphone cable, batting at my leg until I would look at her, then reached over and batted the harp, as if to say “Hey, you, play more of THIS!” 

Pumpkin had her opinion, apparently.  Hopefully it was not a reflection on my singing!  When the CD is released later this year, you can take a listen and offer your own opinion.

At North Star Homestead Farms, we work to make music part of the agrarian experience.  From our winter season of harvest dinners and concerts, we will be expanding this year to offer a four-part outdoor Locally Grown Summer Music Series, which will feature local, acoustic talent at Farmstead Creamery & Café.  Held on Sunday afternoons and open to all to attend, here are the dates to save:  June 30^th, July 21^st, August 11^th, and September 1^st.  Updates and details can be found on our website and the “calendar” feature.

Make music part of your agrarian experience this year by joining us for one of these events or finding ways to encourage musicianship in your area.  Dust off your old instrument or learn a new tune this week, and maybe we’ll see you down on the farm sometime.

Laura Berlage is a co-owner of North Star Homestead Farms, LLC and Farmstead Creamery & Café. (715) 462-3453  northstarhomestead.com

Finally, the weather has been just about right:  warm, sunny days without a wind that causes the snow to melt in rings around the base of the trees, followed by clear, frosty nights that harden the snow to a stiff crust.  The birds seem to sing robustly and there are new voices—the Phoebe calls from the crest of the barn roof, proclaiming his territory.  And there is the subtle drip-drip of melting snow off the edge of the shed roof.

The maple trees are thinking of spring as well.  All winter, they have hoarded their sugary reserves deep in their roots, waiting for the warming sun to awaken the buds at the furthest tips of their branches.  Gray and angular, they have waited this long winter, and now they are primed and ready.  Up goes the sap in the warm daytime, then back down again to the roots when the night’s frost is too strong.

The same solar stimulus that excited the maple trees also awakens those hearty northerners who bundle up to trudge through the remaining snow with a bucket full of taps, a sled full of pails, a hammer, a crowbar (for the ones you didn’t put in right on the first try), and a trusty drill.  It’s time for the “sugaring” season in the Northwoods—time to crawl out of our winter hovels and spend some time in the woods snitching a bit of that tasty sap on its way up…or on its way down.

But syruping is a finicky business.  Some days, the sap will flow enough to pull the buckets right off the taps.  Other days, conditions will be grand but the buckets lie empty.  Tap too soon and the holes can heal over before the trees really get going.  Tap too late and you miss the leading edge of the run, which makes the lightest syrup.  Have a bit of a wind or too much rain, and who knows what will happen.  If the temperatures don’t get warm enough in the day or stay too warm at night, there’s little hope for a good crop.  After a bad drought, it’s best not to tap at all.

Harvesting sap is a bit like asking the maple trees for a blood donation.  Folks who know what they’re doing have an inkling for how many taps a tree can sustain, without asking too much.  Hearty, spreading grandfather trees might reverently be called “Old Nine-Buckets,” while a new initiate will start with just one bucket.  Over the summer, the holes from the taps heal closed, with little more of a scar than a visit from a woodpecker.

Learning how to make maple syrup is one of those processes that is best begun as an apprentice.  Our training-in process was with Jim and Jerry, two northwoods characters who couldn’t help but get an itch when spring was on the way.  Our tools were primitive in the beginning—a hand-crank antique drill, repurposed cooking oil jugs, a couple ice-cream buckets full of plastic T’s and taps, and some clear hosing.  A home-made boiling pan run with propane sent billows of steam into the crisp air from its tarp-enclosed shelter near the edge of the woods.  We lugged buckets across the yard and into the back of our van.  Those five-gallon buckets looked much bigger then…but I was a bit smaller, as well.

While Jerry was a close neighbor, Jim lived down the road apiece, on a spot overlooking two lakes.  His yard was a majestic stand of sugar maples, and we would go and help Jim tap the trees while he followed along on his put-put lawn tractor with the little cart behind full of supplies.  Jim would lean on the steering wheal, chuckling, and offering advice.

“You gonna tap that oak tree too?” he teased.

“What?” I stood up, all set to start cranking the creaky drill with the half-worn wooden handle.  I take a moment to look at the tree closer.  “Oh…” and we both laugh.

“Seems like you were gonna tap that tree last year too!  Not sure you’d get much, though.”

Every day, Jim would take the little put-put around with the trailer behind and pick up the day’s sap.  We could see his little blue car curving up the slushy driveway and quickly throw on some boots to come out and meet him. 

“Well girls,” he’d say, that gypsy twinkle in his eyes.  “Didn’t get much today, I think.”  Then he’d pop the latch to his trunk and there would be 10 buckets in there, full to the top.  We could hardly get them out! 

“Aw sure, Jim,” we’d tease right back.  And while Jim didn’t eat much syrup himself, he was always giving pints as gifts to nurses and neighbors and other folks who helped him out since his wife had passed.  You knew it was that time of year when the phone would ring and that Santa Claus voice on the other end would begin, “Well, girls…”

Jerry had his own particular ways of doing things, and they were very scientific too—about as scientific as watching the drip off a wooden spoon.  And not just any spoon would do, it had to be this special one, which had probably been in the maple syrup service since before my grandmother was born.

“Now, you see the curl on the end?” he’d insist, pointing at the spoon.

“On the end of what?”

“On the end of the drip—the drip that’s left hanging on the spoon.  It’s got to have that curl, or it isn’t ready yet.” 

I’d squint at it a bit while he gave the spoon a good stir in the fragrant, thick liquid. 

“No sense in wasting good jars on thin syrup.”

But syrup that is too thick won’t do you any service either—forget trying to match the consistency of the corn-based stuff in the store.  Too high a sugar content and it can’t stay in solution.  One batch of syrup we canned one spring years back made rock candy on the bottom of the jar.  Not that this was such a bad thing…except we couldn’t get the candy out without breaking the jars.

But there’s nothing quite like the smell of a boiling pan of clear sap, watching that curling steam weave its way out into the early spring air…or the taste of the year’s first syrup on a stack of multi-grain pancakes on a frosty morning.  While we haven’t made maple syrup on our farm in a few years (losing Jim to cancer rather took the wind out of the process), the early signs of spring bring back the fond memories of neighbors lending a hand in the sugaring process, the sound of the wind in the maple branches, and the taste of homemade maple syrup still hot from the vat.

Here’s a delicious way to enjoy maple syrup beyond pancakes and waffles.

Maple-Glazed Salmon

1 salmon fillet

¼ cup Wisconsin maple syrup

1 tsp. paprika

1 pinch cayenne, salt, and pepper

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.  Whisk together the glaze and brush over the fillet.  Place on a greased pan skin-side down and bake for 10 minutes.  Brush with more of the glaze and bake for a remaining 3 to 5 minutes or until done.  Serve on rice or couscous with fresh greens.  Enjoy!

As Jerry would say, “That will sweeten you up.”  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

Maybe you’ve heard a bit of the buzz or maybe you have even been a member of one, but CSAs are becoming an increasingly popular way to build connections with your local farmer and enjoy great, fresh, seasonal foods.  If you’re wondering what in tarnation is a CSA, read on to discover more about this exciting program.

CSA stands for “Community Supported Agriculture” and is organized like a membership in the farm’s produce.  Interested families purchase a “share” in the early part of the year (when farmers are shortest on revenue to kick-start the season), which ensures a certain quota of whatever the farm produces through the growing season.  This bounty is distributed in a weekly “box” (or bag or other clever vessel) to members either at the farm or at designated pickup locations.  Because CSA members have paid ahead for this service, picking and saving goods and produce for them comes ahead of other venues, such as farmer’s markets.

But unlike a farmer’s market (which operates like a micro grocery), CSA members typically do not pick and choose what they desire.  Instead, it’s more like receiving a Christmas box from the farm each week, with a mix of familiar and new goodies to discover.  A weekly newsletter with updates from the farm, a list of the week’s features, and recipes can be helpful for folks who are new to Swiss Chard or Broccoli Raab.  Sometimes, folks discover something they never knew they liked!

This process also involves trust—trust that the farmer will choose an appropriate mix of foods for the box each week.  Some folks have a hard time giving up the control of shopping off of their weekly list, and a CSA program is not the right fit for them.  We’ve found that these families try the program for one year and then say, “Well, we’ll just shop at the farmer’s market next year.”  Sadly, very few keep the promise.

Culinary flexibility can actually be exciting.  Learning to cook with the seasons is as easy as the recipe in the newsletter or a quick Google search.  And just about anything can be put together in a sauté pan with a little tortellini, bacon, or cheese for a great and quick lunch.  The ideal way to utilize a CSA share is to see what you get for the week and then plan the meals and any auxiliary shopping around it.   One year, a single fellow purchased a share for the summer season and found it an extremely economical way to eat great food far into the winter because he was able to freeze, dry, or store away extras.  He still had potatoes into March!

At North Star Homestead Farms, we’ve been offering CSA shares since 2007.  For many years, this has been in the very traditional form of full or half shares in the garden—veggies, fruits, and fresh herbs overflowed canvass totes each week from mid-June through the end of September.  But as with many of our endeavors, we wanted to take the CSA idea to the next level.  Some farms offer a “meat” CSA—a weekly mix of pork, lamb, poultry, or beef from their farm.  Others offer eggs in their CSA program.  There were many possibilities floating around in the world of sustainable agriculture.

To start, because of our new aquaponics greenhouse (where we raise tilapia and greens) we are now able to offer fresh produce year-round.  Our CSA members have often moaned at the end of the traditional growing season that facing the grocery produce after a summer of our fresh-off-the-farm veggies is a major letdown.  Expanding the CSA to a year-round process meant that local food could be an option, even in mid-winter.

The only trouble with offering a winter CSA program was that, while fresh lettuce, kale, chard, kohlrabi, herbs, endive, arugula, bok-choy, radishes, and more might be available, it still wasn’t possible to grow the other vegetables that help bulk out a week’s box—zucchinis, cucumbers, eggplants, carrots, green beans, and more.  What else, instead, could we offer? 

What developed is our “Winter Pantry CSA,” which utilizes many aspects of our farm’s value-added products, including:  bakery items (bread, cookies, bagels, muffins, etc.), pantry items (jams, honey, granola, mixes, etc.), eggs, and cuts of grass-fed meat.  We were also able to network with other area farms like Springbrook Organic Dairy and Crystal Ball Organic Dairy to feature milk, yogurt, and cheeses as well.  It was a basketful of delightful farm goodies, along with fresh produce from the greenhouse and storage produce from the root cellar, including winter squash, onions, garlic, and potatoes.

The new program received such a positive response that we decided to extend the option through the rest of the year.  But folks always like to have choices so they can find an option that works best for them.  Our present “omnivore share” includes all the items listed above.  The “vegetarian share” is the same, excepting the cut of meat.  Then there is also a “garden share” which is very similar to the traditional half share in the garden.

But some folks go away in the winter, and some leave on long vacations in the summer, so how would a year-long CSA program work for them?  In the past, a CSA share was for a whole growing season (typically 16 weeks in the Northland), and if you couldn’t make it to a pickup, you gave it away to a friend or neighbor.  But given our customer feedback, we structured a new system that allows members to pick the dates they want, as well as the style of share.  You can sign up just during the summertime, every other week, once a month, or whatever works best for you.  You could even choose to have the omnivore share some weeks and a garden share on others.  It’s entirely up to you!  The program caps off at the first 15 families that sign up for any particular date that is available (otherwise we might find ourselves filling 50 boxes on one day and 2 on the next).

It must be understood, however, that belonging to a CSA not only gives you the opportunity to share in the bounty of the farm but also in the risk.  Despite the best efforts of the farmer, surprises can always happen.  A hale storm can devastate a crop that was almost ready to harvest, high winds can break plants or blow away all the blossoms, or a freak frost can destroy the apple harvest.  It’s one of those everyday hazards of farming.  But being a member in a CSA gives you a chance to directly support a farming family of your choice, to learn their story and the rhythms of their work and harvest.

Even if you don’t live in this area, please explore CSA options through local farms.  Not sure where to look?  The website www.localharvest.org is a great place to start.  Type in your Zip Code anywhere in the U.S. to begin researching small farms, farmer’s markets, and more in your area.  If these farms offer CSA programs, this will be listed on their “bio” as well as other unique offerings they may have—you-pick berries, value-added products, or farm tours.

Early spring is a great time to sign up for CSA shares.  Remember that for every dollar that is given to a farmer, at least 90 cents stays in the community.  Your support makes a difference towards the future of sustainable agriculture and the families who are devoting their lives and efforts to make wholesome, local, and organic foods available to everyone right now. 

Do you know where your food comes from?  Do you know the story of the people who grew or raised it?  Joining a CSA is a unique and adventuresome way to say “yes!” to all of these.  Are you ready for a culinary adventure?  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

It’s that time of year, with lambs just around the corner.  The great wooly beasts are corralled in the corner of the barn, waiting for the approaching rumble of Chris’ truck to signal the beginning of shearing season.  The enormous sacks for the wool are hauled from the blue truck’s back end and set up on a stand, the cables are hooked securely out of sheep reach, and the whir of the double-bladed shears begins.

I’ve witnessed a variety of shearings over the years.  One involved a llama, which had to be tied with the two front legs stretched one direction and the back two stretched another.  One fellow’s sole responsibility was to hold to the head with a towel (apparently to retain the notorious llama spit).  But sheep have the unique characteristic of becoming amazingly docile when set back on their rump—at least most of the time.

There still is the occasional wriggler and squiggler and kicking of legs, but this doesn’t seem to faze Chris, who wields the shears with deftness only years of experience can bring.  First a long, blind cut right up the sheep’s neck with her head stretched back, and then the coat is gracefully pealed away to reveal a slightly pink and rather pregnant creature below.

The tradition of shearing sheep for their wool is probably older than recorded history.  Originally, this was accomplished using hand clippers with a curved handle that acts as a spring to bring the two teeth apart after each cut.  Some cultures continue to use this practice, which is valued by spinners for producing fibers without the dreaded “second cut”—e.g. short lengths of fibers created by the electric shears going back to clean up an area on the sheep.  The tedium of hand clipping a fleece maintains fibers of equal, long length, which are supposedly less likely to pill when made into garments.

Shearing sheep in the spring is also part of the animal’s health maintenance.  The wool grown all summer and autumn keeps them warm and dry through the winter.  But this same wool can become soiled during lambing and makes it difficult for the little lambs to find their mother’s udder when still wobbly and new to the world.  All clipped and pretty, the mothers are ready for proper care of their lambs and the warmth of the coming springtime.

Some ancient varieties of sheep would shed their coats (and there are a few heritage breeds that still do), which meant that harvesting the wool crop included copious amounts of walking to pick tufts from thorn and briar growing in the pastures.  Shearing meant that more of the crop stayed with the farmer (and less with the birds for nests)—a selection process not unlike the story behind early grains.  While wild grain seeds fall to the ground in autumn to replant, humans selected grains that held their seed heads tight because these were far easier to harvest methodically and therefore were the genetics planted in the spring.

There was a time when saving all that wool was vitally important.  During the Civil War, the Merino breed of sheep was favored for is extra layers of skin around the neck that folded and flopped over the brisket.  While it was not the most tidy-looking sheep, more skin meant more wool for soldiers’ uniforms.  And during medieval times, when the Bubonic Plague left Europe with a little more than half its previous population, the labor shortage was compensated by turning the land from grain production to pastures for sheep.  Not only did it require fewer farmers to tend a flock of sheep than fields of wheat or barley, but it was also a time when wool was king.

From long trailing gown to tapestries, most households spent more on fabrics yearly than any other commodity (including food!) in medieval times.  England had a bustling trade of exporting raw wool to Flanders (now present-day Belgium), where early mills turned the fibers into everything from sumptuous trappings for castle and hall to everyday cloth for those who worked.  It was a lord’s responsibility to give (as partial payment of services) a new set of clothes to each of his servants yearly.

Unfortunately, wool is not held in as nearly high esteem as it was in days past.  Synthetics, polar fleece, and other fibers entice us more than traditional and often itchy wool—even though wool can be saturated up to 30% with water and still be insulative.  It also seems a terrible paradox that farmers should receive pittance for their wool (some sheep raisers consider it a bother and an expense rather than a valued crop) and yet wool garments should be so expensive!  Someday, we’ll find a more creative way to use our fleece than to sell most of it to the shearer to pay for his services.  I even hear that in Australia, they have figured a way to make house insulation using wool that has a wonderful R-value.  It would also be a very green product!

In the meantime, our ewe Mascara is let back up onto her feet after having her beautiful 10-pound coat unceremoniously shorn from her back.  She staggers a moment, shakes herself, baas, and then runs back to her friends through the open gate.  Shearing is yet another sign on the farm that the year is turning towards spring.  Soon there will be frolicking lambs, baby chicks, little seedlings, and the world will break from the gray and white and once again be green.

Kara wraps her arms around Adelaide and Chris sets her down on her rump.  The shears buzz, and Mascara’s coat is hauled up the ladder and stuffed into the great burlap sack with the others.  It’s hard, rough work, and Chris is bent over near double most of the day.  Mom and Kara work quickly to catch sheep or lead sheep to the second pen, whisking freed coats to the side and out of the way.  Like many tasks in farming, it carries a rhythm and orchestration of movement and sound, with little need for talk.

In the end, two great bags filled with wool are stuffed into the back end of Chris’ blue truck, and everyone feels that sitting down is a marvelous idea.  The sheep, which look hilariously like goats at the moment, are happy the ordeal is over, and the humans are glad to come warm themselves by the wood stove.  The day-long affair is complete, marking a new phase in the shepherding season.  Spring is coming, the days are lengthening, the snow is dripping, and the sheep are shorn.  See you down at the farm sometime.

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

It might not be very green outside yet, but it’s the time of year for feeling green on the inside—Kelly Green or one of the million shades of emerald that remind us of Ireland.  With St. Patrick’s Day just around the corner, it’s that time of year when everyone can be a little bit Irish and celebrate the vibrant life of the underdog.

It’s hard being England’s second colony (Wales was the first) or a land attacked by blight and its people condemned to “The Starving Time.”  Those who decided to leave for foreign lands like America had a proportionately equal survival rate for making the sea voyage as they did facing the famine in Ireland.  In essence, the death rate equaled or rivaled the Bubonic Plague that had swept Europe (and Asia) 500 years earlier. 

The rotting blight condition that attacked the potato crops in the mid 19^th Century was in part due to intense monocroping of these starchy tubers, which had been imported from Central America.  The Irish had little choice—few other foods could feed the large population on such small acreage.  Interestingly, the potato blight has appeared more recently in crops grown in New England, so choose your seed potato stock with care!

Despite all this devastation, the Irish Diaspora somehow managed to hold onto its up-beat music, spunky sense of wit, and love of storytelling.  Here’s a version of a traditional Irish story just for you, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day.

The Wee Man Under the Stone

Not that long ago, there was a farmer’s son who was working for a landed lord in the stables.  Every morning, he’d take the horses out to pasture, passing along a hedge row once in the morning, and again in the evening as he brought the horses back in for the night.  He was a freckle-faced lad, tall and lanky, but not the best placed for wits.  If he had been, he’d have left the wee man under the stone.

Well, one day the lad was bringing in the horses for the evening, passing along the hedgerow, when he heard a terrible crying—moaning, wailing, sniveling, and all the rest.  Surely, it was the most pathetic sound you can imagine.  But the lad looked around and could see no-one at all.

The next evening, it happened again, and this time the lad let the horses go along and began to search through the hedges looking for what might be crying so.  Was it a child, lost in the woods?  Was it a lady in deep despair?  Searching both high and near, he finally settled the doleful sound on a large, flat stone.  But it baffled the lad that such a stone should cry, so he headed home after the horses.

On the third night, the crying and wailing was simply more than he could bear.  This time, he found the strangely flat stone, wiggled his fingers around the edges, and lifted it up.  Beneath it was what looked like a baby—only its face was certainly no baby at all.  It was rumpled and wrinkled and withered up like an old potato, with a long nose, scraggly white hair, and two beady black eyes like those of a shrew staring up at him.  The lad quickly replaced the stone and stepped back in shock.

The whimpering started right back up.  “Oh please…” said the little squeaking voice, more ancient than the lad’s great grandmother.  “Please let me out from under this stone.”

“Why should I?” the lad retorted, more than a little bit scared of the sight he’d seen under that stone.

“Set me free, and I will grant you a great gift!”  There was a pause, followed by more sniveling.  The lad thought a moment, then asked, “Like what?!”

“Whatever your heart desires most and I will always be there in times of need for you.”  The squeaky voice prattled on, complimenting the lad for this and that, if only he would help this poor creature in need.

The lad thought about the little wee man under the stone, small like a baby but shriveled and old.  He’d heard warning tales of the little people and their tricks.  But then he thought about having whatever his heart desires most, and almost before he could help himself, he lifted off that great flat stone and let the wee man free.

The little creature leapt up, its beady black eyes shining, and danced a jig upon the grass.  “Name your wish young man!” it squealed in delight, kicking its heels.  “But remember this:  never EVER curse me, or you’ll rue the day.”  The lad felt a bit dizzy, watching the wee little man dancing about, scraggly hair flying.  Finally, he said, “What I really hate is work.  I wish I never had to work a day again!”

“Done!” said the wee little man, and off he flew faster than a rabbit.  The lad thought he’d probably never see the wee little man from under the stone again…but he was wrong.  Walking along, he found the horses grazing on a tuft of turf and headed them on back to the stable.  The next morning, he rose to brush the horses, but their coats were already slick, shiny, and newly combed.  He went to grease the saddle and tack, but all the work was finished for him already.  Even the stalls had been mucked clean and laid with fresh new straw.  Well, the lad thought this was mighty fine and enjoyed himself the rest of the day under the shade tree.  The next morning, everything was the same.  All of his chores had miraculously been done for him and there was no work for him to do.

Well, this didn’t please any of the other servants none.   They saw this freckle-faced lad loafing about all day while they had to work, so they put a bad word in their master’s ear and soon the lad found that he was without a job.  On down the road he went, wondering how such a misfortune could happen to him.  Now he really had no work to do, but he didn’t have any home or any food either.  “Curse that wee little man!” he cried out.  But, of course, that was the wrong thing to do.

From out of the bushes came the wee little man, the size of a baby but all wrinkled and rumpled with those beady black eyes and scraggly white hair.  It was grinning from big ear to big ear, cackling and jumping up and down.  “Didn’t I tell you never to curse my help!?” he wailed.  “Now sure’s you’ll be wishing you’d left me under the stone—tee hee!”  And he pranced round the lad, kicking up his heels.  And to his dying day, instead of all his work being done for him, the tall gangly youth had nothing but briars in his shoes, food gone missing in the pot, and all his day’s work undone by morning.

…

So, if you’re not in a traditional Irish spirit yet, here’s a recipe for quintessential comfort food from the Emerald Isle.  This dish is a particular favorite for children.

Colcannon

3 waxy-fleshed potatoes, cut into small dice.

2 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 onions, chopped

A bunch of kale or half a Savoy cabbage, de-stemmed (or cored) and chopped

Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 400 degrees and warm a baking dish large enough to hold all the ingredients.  Boil potatoes (takes approximately 10 minutes).  Once cooked, drain the potatoes and place them in a large mixing bowl.  Set aside.

Heat half the butter with the olive oil in a large frying pan.  Fry the onions for 5 minutes, stirring to “keep them from catching.”  Add the kale or cabbage and fry until it wilts.  Remove pan from heat and add the contents to the potatoes in the mixing bowl.  “Give them a good stir” and season with salt and pepper.  Take the baking dish out of the oven and melt the rest of the butter in it.  Place potato mixture into the pan and bake for approximately 20 minutes.  The top of the Colcannon should be golden brown when cooked.  Serve topped with butter or your favorite gravy.

A Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you!  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

If ducks were people, there would be 17 extra obituaries in the paper this week:  Miss Puddle Duck.  Loved water sports, green leafy vegetables, and rainy days.  She will be remembered for her joyous attitude and comic antics.  She is survived by her friends Henny Penny and Madame Turkey.

But ducks are not people, so the story of their tragic demise will be related here instead.

Farming isn’t perfect, and it isn’t always pretty.  Despite the best stewardship or intentions, sometimes unexpected disasters still happen.  A juvenile eagle intimidates the chickens by sitting on top of their tractor (movable pen) and frightens them so badly that the birds pile atop one another and several are smothered.

An innocent lamb pokes its head into a neighboring pen to sniff a cousin.  The protective ewe takes offence and butts the lamb’s head, smashing it against the hard boards.  The lamb convulses and dies of brain trauma.

Grandpa’s black Labrador Meg runs alongside a pickup truck with joy, slips, and gets caught under the tire.  She ends up losing her tail but survives the incident.

Freak accidents can happen on a farm.  They’re terrible, heart-wrenching moments, but they are also a space to learn.  For instance, we now keep solid panels between lambing pens, so that lambs are kept safe from neighboring protective mothers, and we always call our dogs to sit next to us when vehicles approach.  I hope that, someday, I can look back on this week and see it as another time for growth and learning.

The hardest part of farm calamities is that they come without warning.  On this day, it was calm and sunny, and morning chores had progressed without any particular hiccups.  I had even brought a bag of lettuce scraps from our aquaponics greenhouse for the ducks, which they had attacked with vigor.  It is a morning now fraught with what-ifs in my memories.

Wintertime is always a dilemma for poultry housing.  In the summer, there are a variety of mobile pasturing units to keep everyone happy and an assortment of electric fencing to keep everyone safe.  Even though we slim the population down to just our breeding groups, there still is never enough space to go around for the overwintering crew.  Turkeys take over our original chicken coop, hens reside in the brooder coop and a greenhouse, and then there are the ducks…

Let’s be honest; ducks are messy.  In the summertime, when they can be outside and splash in a kiddy pool to their heart’s content and bore muddy holes for slug traps, it’s not so bad.  But in wintertime, these same traits make it very difficult to take care of ducks.  You can’t shelter them in a facility with a cement floor.  They splash so much water taking daily baths (very important for duck health) that the ice builds up and causes trouble not only for the farmer but for the ducks as well.  So they have to live in a shelter with either a dirt or gravel floor so that excess water can drain away through the hay bedding.

For several winters, we have been housing our breeder White Pekin ducks in our red pole-barn, which has a gravel floor.  This is a multi-purpose structure that stores hay and equipment, as well as shelters our rams during the winter months.  By late summer, the south end of the “Red Barn” is full of square hay bales.  As we begin feeding out the bales to the sheep in the fall, enough space is cleared on the east end to make room for the ducks.  It does not take much to keep in a duck, and since this is a temporary space that is expanded as the hay retreats, we have been corralling them by lashing upright wooden pallets together.  The ducks quack raucously with excitement every morning as we lug five-gallon buckets of water to them, drag out their pool and break up last night’s ice, and throw them some fresh hay.  The white birds burrow their bills in the dried grasses, in search of anything especially tasty, and splash wildly in the fresh water.

But last Wednesday night, it was not so pleasant a scene.  We had been held up by a meeting at the Creamery, so evening chores were on a late start.  I was trudging along the shoveled path to the chicken coop, ice-cream pail for collecting eggs in hand, when I saw before me a grayish-white object.  The yard was only dimly lit by the barnyard light, and the lump in my path was the same color as the snow and shadows.  As I approached, cautiously, it stood up.  It was one of my ducks.

“You silly,” I reprimanded her.  “Didn’t you think I brought you enough water this morning?  Why did you escape from your pen?”  I set down the bucket of eggs, scooped up the duck, and headed off towards the Red Barn.  As I continued, I encountered another duck, crouching against a snowbank.  “What, two?” I thought.  “The pen must have come apart.  There could be ducks everywhere.”

Carrying two ducks, I crossed the darkened back yard to the Red Barn, turned on the light, and found that the duck pen had not fallen apart.  It also appeared to be empty…almost empty.  There were two ducks in one corner, but they weren’t moving.  I bent closer and found that one of them was missing its head and the other one was barely breathing, its neck gnawed almost through.

“Help!” I screamed to my mother and sister who were up by the pigs as I ran with the two live ducks I was carrying.  “Help!”  Something had gotten into the barn.  I deposited the two ducks into the chicken coop (the nearest safe structure) and pelted back through the snow, searching for more ducks.  “Here Ducky, Ducky!”  I found another wounded duck huddled beside the fence of the turkey yard by the time the other ladies arrived.

We faced the Red Barn together, first looking for survivors.  It was then that my sister Kara saw the offender—the short-tailed rump of a bobcat scooting out of the barn and into the night from whence it had come.  We worked like a search-and-rescue team, crawling into every corner, pulling out the dead and assessing the wounded.

13 dead on the scene

4 critically wounded

4 minor injuries, with psychological trauma

The only blessing is that we did find all the ducks.  I don’t think I could have slept that night (though I’m not sure I did anyway), wondering if someone was still huddled in a snowbank, shivering, hurt, and scared.  Most of the ducks had been drug beneath the hay baler into an amorphous pile, their necks bloodied and torn.  The bobcat had not eaten a one—simply killed them and stashed them away.  It must have been a terrible, mad frenzy of murder and fear—like Sandy Hook for animals, only the killer had not taken himself out as well.

We have since lost the four critically wounded ducks.  The remainders (despite warm baths in the farmhouse bathtub and aloe-vera juice in their water) are still in shock.  They hardly eat or drink and still will not quack, despite several days of sheltering in a corner of the chicken coop.

In a way, it is our fault—as most farm accidents are, ultimately.  We should have made a better effort to protect the ducks.  We had thought that having them inside a building where any predators would have to pass the rams would be too intimidating.  Apparently, we were wrong.  After being able to examine tracks in the snow with the help of morning daylight, we found that there were bobcat footprints everywhere—likely because it was hunting in the nearby rabbit warren.  The predator might have even pursued a rabbit into the Red Barn, lost it amidst the hay, and then discovered the irresistible clutch of sitting ducks.  The rest led to the sad story I have endeavored to relate.

I wept for my ducks that day, and the days after as they continued to die.  I still don’t know if I will be able to save any of them, but I will keep trying.  And I will remember this lesson and continue to do better for my animals.  Yes, we do butcher some of our ducks for food, but it is a calm, reverent process.  I do not wish terror and pain on any animal, even if I am going to eat it. 

I am also hoping that the future will be without such intense tragedies on the homestead.  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

“Need a trellising cucumber that doesn’t get a waist in the middle and peas that harvest all at once,” is on our wish-list this year as we thumb through the colorful seed catalogues that start to fill the mailbox as early as December.

December?  Who is even ready to think about seeds yet!  But now that late February brings noticeably lengthened daylight, birds flit actively and sing, and the snow clumps tumble off the edge of the roof and land in wet plops below, it’s hard not to think of the oncoming spring. 

Now, granted, spring also brings with it a multitude of baby animals, a million projects needing attention all at once, plenty of mud and barn mucking…but the thought of eager little plants in the basement, popping their optimistic first leaves through the starting soil is as close to a visual of hope as any I can imagine at this moment.  Nature is reborn through a promise of summer glory and a delicious and bountiful harvest.

“Check out the heirloom tomatoes; any new cherry types?  Low acid strains are preferable.”

By the time February comes, even the store of home-canned tomatoes is dwindling.  The hard, pink rocks in the story are hardly worth the mention, and so we dream of the succulent, dripping red orbs that seem so tantalizingly far away.  The seed catalogue images of tomatoes seem especially glossy and succulent—almost unreal in this land of white and gray and barren branches.  Will summer really be as green as the photos I took last July?  Each winter I wonder, as if I am not yet ready to trust the truth of the images.

There is something irreplaceable about a homegrown tomato.  It might be lumpy, with a little sun scorch on the top or a little scab on the bottom, but inside is a treasure of juicy flavor ready to burst forth.  Oh, for some heirloom tomato bruschetta… 

But tomatoes come with their own trials.  They have to be started very early and transplanted many times.  They need compost tea, lots of sun, and a long hardening-off process.  Sometimes we spend months in the spring hauling teenaged tomato plants out to the high tunnel during the day and back into the house in the evening because we just can’t quite trust that it will stay warm enough out there.  The house can become so full of plants just before early summer’s transplanting that every surface (floor and table) throughout most of the house is turned into a virtual greenhouse of little cucumbers, squashes, and eggplants.  One farm visitor managed to find a vacant chair and looked around a bit bewildered, laughing, “Guess I’m sitting in the garden.” 

Invariably, it’s safe to transplant the tomatoes once they absolutely cannot wait any longer in their pots, and we’re out at 11:00 in the evening, desperate to save them, with headlamps and hand trowels and watering cans and…  To see a performance of a song by Stephanie Davis that is a perfect example of how the love of tomatoes can take over your life, visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-JCpoyNpJQ (or search “Veggie Serenade”).

“Peppers that turn colors (red, yellow, orange) without rotting in the field.”

Perhaps it’s our soil or our luck, but we have had a dickens of a time getting peppers to mature beyond the green phase without them turning into a mass of gooey slime.  A small darkened patch grows limp on the side of the pepper and soon the whole fruit is lost.  Not fair!  Every year, we try a new variety, hoping for better success.  Green peppers are delicious, yes, but most of our restaurant clients really want red (or preferably orange!) ones, so the challenge is on.

We have had some success with small round ones, long skinny ones, or ones that end up with a curl at the tip, but getting that big, blocky fruit this far north is tricky.  Each year, we scour through the new offerings for hopes of a short-season colorful-ripening pepper with great flavor that looks promising.  But dark purple peppers?  We haven’t had a request for that yet…maybe leave that for an experiment another year.

“Stock up on onions—seeds, sets, or plants?”

Back in the days when we first started gardening, the bag of onion sets was an integral part of the stocking-up for planting season process.  That’s how Grandma put in her garden.  But an onion set is actually a year-old plant, and at this point in its life cycle what the onion really wants to accomplish is making a seed head.  For an onion whose focus is making a large, delicious bulb, starting from seed is best.

But trying to convince onions from seed to have a hearty start has been an adventure unto itself.  We tried started them inside.  We tried starting them in the high tunnel.  Sometimes they grew, sometimes they withered, and sometimes they just simply gave up and died.  Starting onions from seed is tricky!  Perhaps it works best in warmer climates, which is where the baby onion plants we buy now get their start.

Wrapped up in bundles of 60 or so, these little intrepid members of the lily family come by the boxful, ready to plant.  Our onions get a great start and someone else has the joy of getting those impertinent seeds to grow!  Get out your trusty dibble, get down on your knees, and in they go.  This works well for leeks too.

“Find an eggplant that isn’t so darn self-satisfied.”

I didn’t always like eggplants.  One of my strong food memories as a kid was the days Mom would make eggplant parmesan.  Now, I knew that Mom was a busy professional and couldn’t always take time to cook for us, so this was a special treat…or at least it was supposed to be.  It didn’t help that the eggplant had come from the store and had sat on the shelf for who knows how long.  Perhaps the eggplant had forgotten what sunshine looked like or rain or wind at that point…those moments might have been a long time ago.  This might be why the eggplant in the dish was far from even a vegetable-loving child’s idea of food—it was gray, slimy, and not very tasty.  The cheese and the tomatoes were, by far, the best part of the dish, and that slab of eggplant stayed on the plate the longest…staring me in the face.  I knew I had to eat it; Mom had worked so hard to make dinner, but…

Today, I like eggplant.  That is, the eggplant I grow.  But the plants that produce those lovely, round, pendulous, purple orbs of the Italian variety have a bit of an attitude.  To be honest, we’ve been lucky to get two per plant in a good season.  After that, they sit on their laurels and smirk at you.  That’s hardly enough for the eggplant to earn its keep!  So we went looking for something new.

There are strains now through the Asian varieties (which grow longer, slender eggplants) that are much more prolific and will produce right until they freeze.  Delicious sautéed or breaded, these eggplants come with purple, white, or speckled skins for a variety of gourmet tastes.  They’re not easy to stuff, but they do slice up into uniform disks, which work great for even cooking.  So, sometimes being brave and trying something new in the catalogue can be rewarding.  No more fear of eggplant parmesan!

“Try growing a new fresh herb—Lemon Basil?”

There’s nothing quite like exchanging the convenience of a bottle of dried herbs for the adventuresome and flavorful journey of learning to cook with fresh herbs right out of the garden.  Sometimes, in the summer months, I’ll just grab an assortment of vegetables (yellow zucchini, tomatoes, eggplant, peppers, green beans) and throw them into a sauté pan with olive oil, garlic, and a handful of fresh herbs (basil, oregano, parsley, thyme).  It’s easy and delicious, especially when augmented with a little cheese or tortellini.

This year, as you page through the glossy seed catalogue, try something new.  It might be a bean that ends up growing higher than your trellis and waves around wondering what to do next, or it might be a new pepper with a unique shape and flavor from Hungary, but having a garden is always an adventure.  You just might surprise yourself with something you never knew you liked.  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

This morning, the chicken watering vessels were torn apart and scattered across the floor, with extension cords barely attached.  The feeders were flipped over, feathers and dust lay everywhere, and on each little red face was a perfect expression of exasperation.  My chickens are in the grips of late winter Cabin Fever!

The turkeys with their long, scaly legs smash down the fresh snow each morning without a care, while the chickens glare at the rising snowdrift just outside their little door with their beady orange-rimmed eyes.  It’s just not fair.  Chickens weren’t made with long enough legs, and they’re not as immune to the cold as their knobby-necked neighbors.

The days are growing longer—but the progress is not fast enough for the chickens.  Each morning, they wait for me to open their door, hoping…hoping…hoping…  Nope, it’s still white out there.  Buggers.  These descendents of subtropical birds huff in disgust and fly up to their roots to grumble amongst themselves over their lot.

Meanwhile, I have those disassembled waterers to pick up, thaw under hot water, reassemble, and return filled with only a little grudging thanks as my reward.  Oh, well, the other reward might be a half frozen egg in the corner (if I’m lucky) or a clutch of warm ones beneath an armed and dangerous lady who puffs up three times her size as I draw near (if I dare). 

Being so cooped up with such fuss and feathers means the notorious dust produced by chickens has collected in the corners, on the cobwebs, and along fencing partitions in the coop until it dangles like Spanish Moss from the limbs of live oak trees.  So, to keep the ladies from thinking that they live in little more than a pig sty, today I brought out the shop-vac.

Yes, you know you’re on a farm run by women when they vacuum out the chicken coop!  Up on the ladder and armed with the black and red nozzled device, I was determined to conquer the dust, but the sudden varooooom sent the whole flock into convulsions of fear—pelting into corners or nesting boxes and staring with wide-eyed terror, their tails smashed flat against the back wall.  It’s a monster!  It’s going to pull off all my feathers!  The sky is falling!

But no, only the dust was falling, and after a while the ladies calmed their fears and watched my shop-vac antics with half amusement.  At least it was a bit of entertainment for the day, which was more than they had to occupy themselves with most wintery afternoons.  These days, even a chunk of suet gets boring.

Sometimes, as I approach the chicken coop in the morning, I can hear a tap-a-tap sound like an army of miniature hammers at the walls of the chicken coop.  Now in unison, now tapping askew of each other.  Are the chickens trying to escape—breaking down the walls of the Bastille?  I open the creaky door to find fluffy golden hens all in a row pecking heartily at the frost that has built up on the insides of the walls from the cold—frozen condensed chicken breath.  Only, to them, it seems more like chicken ice-cream.  Eventually, the peck indentations will circumference the coop, reaching as high as the feathery neck can stretch.

We have too many laying hens to house them all in one coop for the winter, so part of the crew holds over in our smaller hoop house, which stands close behind our home.  During the day, the solar energy keeps them warm as they luxuriate in their sauna dust baths—leaving the floor a virtual moonscape of miniature craters filled with lazy-eyed featherballs.  But the greenhouse has trouble staying warm at night, so I run a few heat lamps to give the ladies a break from the chill.

Dusk falls, and the high tunnel glows a soft golden-orange.  But wait, it’s now the chicken shadow show!  Our cat Pumpkin perches by the window, watching gargantuan black chicken shadows strut across the screen like an exotic paper puppet show.  Do the chickens know they are on parade?  Do the chickens notice their own shadows as well? 

And then the Silver-laced Wyandotte rooster starts crowing at 2:00 in the morning, and we wonder why we thought it was such a grand idea to keep the chickens so close to the house…

Admittedly, it was in part to help ease the burden of chores during the dark phase of the year.  While there are not as many chores to accomplish during the winter months as there is in the summertime, what chores are still necessary are often made harder by winter’s temperament.  The ground heaves and doors no longer want to shut or stay shut.  Water faucets freeze.  Paths must be either trounces or shoveled across the barnyard.  Door knobs and locks are coated with ice and won’t turn or unlock.  And a sudden thaw sends a chicken coop from being a nice, frozen pack of bedding to a veritable swamp in need of immediate cleaning.

But the ice is the worst.  I recall one day of slipping and sliding about with feed and water, chipping away ice from door sills and thawing out of the unplugged turkey waterer.  My hands were freezing, and my feet were numb.  The chickens huddled on their roosts as puffy balls of fluff without any toes to be seen.  Finally, I had my ice-cream bucket full of eggs, and I was heading back to the house!  Enough of this cold, I was ready to curl up by the wood stove and thaw myself out!  As I went teetering along the path down the gentle slope to our house, the ice had the last laugh. 

Falling can be something you don’t notice until it’s too late.  I remember looking up as my arms flew skyward, and there was the bucket going up…and up…and up…  The eggs were spreading outward like a multi-colored firework display in slow motions.  And then I hit the ice with a great bump on my rump and tried desperately to cover myself as the sounds of percussive splat-splat-splat pelted down all around me.

The poor ladies.  They would have surely read me the poultry riot act if they had known the fate of their day’s labors.  We took out our scoop shovels and cleaned up as much of the runny yellow mess as we could, much to the delight of the pigs (and the dogs, who cleaned up the rest quite happily).  It was a sore moment, in more ways than one.

But there was no falling on the ice today as I wrapped up the cord on the shop-vac and climbed down from the ladder.  A black-and-white rooster pranced for a hen, with one wing fanned and tail plumed.  A lady from her nest crooned softly and re-arranged the pile of eggs beneath her, while a second looked impatient for her turn to have a nesting spot.  Still, despite the return of normal chicken routine, I could sense the chicken cabin fever lurking beneath the surface.  I can only imagine that at night they dream of grass and slugs and the deliciousness of summer…for a chicken.

I just hope that they haven’t knocked over all their waterers again by morning.  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

All in the merry month of May

When the green buds they were swellin’…

Well, we’re not quite there yet, but the days are lengthening and the birds sing their songs from the barren branches more lustily than before.  Slowly, the decorations of Christmastime come down—packed away for another year.  Even though winter still holds its icy grip on the land, we take a moment to warm our hearts with thoughts of Valentine’s Day.

Now, some folks can be rather cynical about this holiday, deeming bunches of red roses and flickering candlelight a frivolity of the Victorian era.  The farm animals certainly don’t notice—the breeding season is a faded memory, with the birthing season not yet arrived.  The snow piles high against the barn (or the barn door), and everyone seems pretty well ready for spring.  But groundhog shadow or not, we still find ourselves facing six more weeks of winter.  It’s not a wonder few are in the mood for a celebration.

But the old songs and stories cut through the dismal chill.

As I roved out one winter’s night

A-drinkin’ of sweet wine,

Conversing with that pretty little girl

Who stole this heart of mine.

Who will shoe your pretty little feet

Who will glove your hand?

And who will kiss your ruby red lips

And who will be your man?

And it’s just like the old ballads to respond:

Papa will shoe my pretty little feet

Mama will glove my hand,

You never will kiss my ruby red lips

‘Cause I don’t need no man…

Song snippets like these are a good place to chuckle at the nature of courtship—birds put on tremendous displays, other animals sing or preen or dance.  My Tom turkeys strut and puff most of the day, prancing about their ladies, who merely seem to sigh and say, “Ho-hum.” 

Humans might attempt gallant feats or graceful gestures, but in the end we are left to resort to the use of words—pitifully constraining things made up by somebody else.  In many cultures, a variety of words abound for affection, with different meanings for the bond between mother and child, a child and her toy, or a young man and a woman.  In English, we find ourselves with the word love, which is profoundly simple, complex, deep, and shallow all at once.

Do you love an apple

Do you love a pear,

Do you love a laddie with curly brown hair?

In researching the history of the celebration of love, I found only inconclusive evidence regarding the life of St. Valentine, who appears to have been an ancient Greek who was martyred for his beliefs.  It was not until the Late Middle Ages that renowned author Geoffrey Chaucer penned an association with the feast day of St. Valentine and the practices of courtly love.  The connection has stuck ever since.

The discovery of the tomato by Spanish explorers on the American continents brought new symbolism to the celebration.  Known originally as the “love apple,” its outline was gradually transformed by artistic interpretation into the heart shape we know so well today.  At the time, “love apples” were considered an aphrodisiac and therefore appropriate for Valentine’s Day symbolism, even though February is (quite admittedly) not tomato season in northern climes.

I’ll give to you a dress of red

All bound around with golden thread,

If you will marry me, me, me

If you will marry me…

Even if you’re not particularly fond of blind Cupid and his arrows, you can still find some enjoyment during the Valentine season.  For instance, it’s hard not to like chocolate (especially considering its anti-cancer properties), fine music, or the good company of those we hold dear.  At Farmstead Creamery & Café, we’re holding an authentic made-from-scratch Italian-style harvest dinner (completed with home-grown tomatoes!) on the evening of the 14^th in honor of the occasion, accompanied by acoustic music performance.  There may still be some seats left by the time you read this, so feel free to call us for reservations (715-462-3453).

As Willie and Mary met by the seaside

A long farewell for to take

Said Mary to Willie, “If you go away

I’m afraid my poor heart it might break.”

“Oh don’t be afraid, dearest Mary,” he said

As he clasp his fond maid at his side

“In my absence don’t morn, for when I return

I will make ye sweet Mary my bride.”

In the end, Valentine’s Day is about making space for special moments with those we hold close to our hearts.  The roses and the chocolates and the lace-embroidered cards are all nice tokens, but offering our time and personal attention (true recognition) is the greatest gift we can give each other in honor of the season of love.  Warm Valentine wishes to you and yours, and maybe we’ll 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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Remember visiting Grandma’s farm as a child, helping feed the chickens, or watching her make an apple pie from scratch?  Remember helping haul firewood for the cook stove or climbing down into the earthen root cellar for potatoes or carrots?  Remember the smell of fresh-pressed garlic or the joy of a roast turkey that was raised right on the farm by Grandpa’s loving hands?  While many of these memories are part of our collective past—often many generations removed—these are experiences contemporary food enthusiasts (today called “foodies”) savor as part of a regenerative interest in bringing the eater closer to the rich experience of food production and preparation. 

As part of what has been called “the foodie generation,” I take a special delight in sharing our farm’s unique story, history, and values with the wide variety of folks who visit us—whether this is through a farm tour, a wholesome and homemade meal at Farmstead Creamery & Café, or most recently through educational courses.

The idea that “Those who can—do and those who can’t—teach” is a far cry from our philosophies at North Star Homestead Farms.  So often, the best learning opportunities happens “in the doing”—or what is otherwise called experiential learning.  Most recently, our farm organized a course titled “Sustainable Foodie:  Making a Meal, Making a Life” through Northland College’s Wellness Program, which seeks to round out the liberal arts experience for their students by fostering meaningful life skills beyond the classroom.

“Sustainable Foodie” focuses especially on building traditional food skills, appreciating the value of local foods and knowing your farmer, and exploring the vocational potential for young folks interested in sustainable food’s many facets.  Conceived as a mix of critical theory and hands-on experience that culminates each session by preparing and sharing a meal together, “Sustainable Foodie” is capped at 10 students.  Held three consecutive Sunday afternoons, it fills the requirements for three of the eight wellness criteria required by the college.  Add that statistic to the idea of making and eating food, and it’s not surprising that enrollment filled within the first 10 minutes.

Last Sunday, the dark blue Northland van pulled into the Farmstead Creamery parking lot, and a unique and creative assortment of students from freshmen through seniors piled out and stepped into the transportive world that is our family’s homestead. 

With an in-depth farm tour, cheese tastings, and discussions on finding your local farmer, the conundrum of food miles, and the value of eating regionally and seasonally, we were off to an exciting and poignant start.  But the hands-on learning aspects focused primarily on comparisons to bring the discussion points to full reality.  Along the way, we snapped some photos to document the process. 

The poster child of comparison projects was making salads.  Splitting the group in half, the first five worked in the kitchen downstairs with my mother and sister, while I led group discussion and cheese tasting in the loft upstairs.  The first salad team approached the prep tables to discover their potential ingredients:  a head of iceberg lettuce; two hard, pink tomatoes; an aging cucumber with a withering issue at one end; and a bag of “baby” carrots.  The long carrot is to show that those little carrots don’t grow that way—they’re cut and rounded to size.

After reading the list of ingredients off the bag of carrots, my sister Kara asked the crew, “Now, why do you think these carrots don’t spoil?”  The students looked at one another, shrugging.  Kara smiled.  “Notice that the carrots are wet.  That’s because they’ve been dipped in a chlorine bath as a sanitizer.  Yum, yum.”

The students opted to use the long carrot and did not even bother to open the bag of baby carrots.

After preparing their salads, one student offered.  “Hmm…looks like a nice, em, restaurant type salad.”  Everyone chuckled knowingly.

The groups switched and the second team came down to the kitchen for the salad project.  All traces of the first salad had been hidden away and a new tray lay ready.  This time, all of the ingredients were harvested that day from our aquaponics greenhouse and included butterhead lettuce, mixed leaf lettuce, elegance micro greens (a mix of baby bok choy, mustard, kale, and Chinese cabbage leaves), broccoli raab, and fresh radishes.

The students marveled at the mix of colors, textures, and flavors, filling a bowl with a medley of purple, red, and dark green.  “Yum!” one student exclaimed.  “Can I eat this now?”

Later that afternoon, we shared how to make homemade applesauce from local apples and created individualized locavore pizzas (being a locavore means that you choose to eat locally).  All the toppings, from the tomato sauce or pesto to the sausage, onions, garlic, and cheese, were grown and prepared here or from area farms.  As we enjoyed our handmade meal together, each group introduced their salad before passing it around.

I encouraged the group to try some of each salad, but the community opinion (despite the best verbal marketing efforts of each salad team) was quite apparent as we cleared the table.  This is what remained of the iceberg salad AFTER supper was finished.  Did anyone even try this?

And this, good friends, is what was left of the aquaponics salad.

Need I say more?  Remember that our individual choices, based on our learning experiences, can make a difference.  This week, I hope all these students are making new and critical choices about their food, which is an important cornerstone in everyone’s wellbeing. 

Feeling hungry for a salad?  We’ve got some!  (And I promise not to serve the pale stuff.)  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

Have a passion for animals and plants?  Wondering if local and sustainable agriculture might be an ideal lifestyle for you?  Looking to stay active and be outdoors this summer?  Want to build skills in the farm-to-table movement?  If these ideas appeal to you, then a summer internship at North Star Homestead Farms, LLC might be an exciting opportunity for you.

Tucked in the boundaries of the Chequamegon National Forest in northern Wisconsin, North Star Homestead Farms is a model representative of small-scale, intensive, sustainable, humane, and wholesome agricultural practices.  Our pursuits include pasture raised poultry, sheep, and hogs, as well as a large market garden for CSA and Farmer’s Markets, honeybees, fruit production, herbs, aquaponics tilapia and produce, and a fully-licensed Farmstead Creamery & Café (which includes food processing, bakery, grocery, and dairy plant).  Because this is the Café’s second season, we have an internship position available this summer for an enterprising person who wants to focus on food preparation and customer relation skills related to local, sustainable foods, as well as our farm-oriented positions.

Our focus is on building community, connecting people with the land, maintaining transparency, and giving great service.  Owned and operated by three enterprising women, North Star Homestead Farms, LLC offers a constructive environment for personal growth, learning, teamwork, and humor in the everyday rigor of farm living.

2013 is going to be a busy season at the farm, and we are in search of eager hands and positive attitudes to help make this season successful.  While previous farm or garden experience isn’t necessary, we’d love to hear your story and why you may be interested in being a part of our farm’s enterprise.  We are looking for interns who are available for four months (approx. mid May through mid September), though we are flexible for extenuating circumstances, such as beginning or ending college semesters.  Due to changing labor laws, applicants must be 18 years of age or older.  A modest stipend is available to interns, but the real value you will receive from this experience is learning-by-doing—building real knowledge and skills in this exciting food and cultural movement.

Accommodating rooms are available in our renovated farm house, and most meals will be shared with the Berlage women.  Wi-Fi is available on the farm campus, as well as unlimited long distance phone service (within reason, of course).  Our goal is to help you have a fully integrated experience of homestead living.  In return, we expect our interns to work eagerly alongside us, to listen to our council and advice, and to practice responsibility and self motivation.  Small scale, localized food production offers an environment to gain personal skills that can serve you in any field, including problem solving, public interface, teamwork, leadership, work ethic, and meaningful goals.

We hope that the opportunities available to summer interns at North Star Homestead Farms, LLC are exciting for you, and we would love to talk with you further and introduce you to life on the farm.  Please contact us at the above information to receive an internship application, and we are of course happy to take any questions you may have.

Hope to hear from you soon!

Laura, Kara, and Ann Berlage, North Star Homestead Farms, LLC

Kara, Laura, and Ann Berlage

11117N Fullington Rd.

Hayward, WI 54843

(715) 462-3453

yourfarmer@northstarhomestead.com

northstarhomestead.com 

On these blustery cold days and shivery cold nights, sometimes we can feel a bit cooped up in our homes, huddling by the wood stove with a dog or two close at hand for added warmth.  Chores begin by encasing oneself with copious amounts of wooly or downy armor against the frigid winds—leaving only one’s peering eyes with frost-edged lashes open to the elements.  Even the chickens huddle as puffed-up balls in the coops, their taloned toes firmly tucked inside their down. 

Winter can create its own sense of isolation, as if everything outside stops, hunkers down, and waits for the warmth of springtime to reawaken.  I think the “settling in” of winter happens to everyone up here in the Northland, burst open at times by the overwhelming sense of “cabin fever” needing release. 

Things have been quiet on the farm and at Farmstead Creamery & Café as well.  This allows the luxury of leisurely chats with the brave clients who do venture forth amidst the ice or wind.  Except, that is, for the days when cabin fever reigns and the Creamery is unexpectedly packed by community member who simply cannot stay inside any longer.

Back in the day, cabin fever was tempered by the knowledge that winter was the time for “visiting.”  Farm families would finish up the morning chores, hitch the team to a sleigh, and go off to spend the day with neighbors—share a hearty meal, play games, tell stories, or bring over a favorite portable instrument and dance together.

Grab your fiddle and grab your bow

Circle round and Do-si-do

First to the right and then to the left

Then to the one that you love best.

Get outa the way for old Dan Tucker

He’s too late to get his supper

Supper’s over and dinner is a cookin’

Old Dan Tucker just a-stands there lookin’.

Having something to do together was helpful as well—maple sugaring in the early spring, splitting wood in late autumn, quilting bees in between.  And even if a particular project wasn’t apparent, bringing over a fresh pie or needing to borrow a cup of sugar could make an excellent excuse for spending the rest of the afternoon in good company.

Today, as I drive home from an evening event, I can’t help but notice that the glowing rectangle of wide-screen TVs appears to be the company we keep in wintertime.  No wonder cabin fever abounds!  Turn off that chatterbox and get neighborly again.  Here are a few practical ideas to get you started.

Invite a friend on a snowshoe hike in the woods (or other quiet recreational activity).  Few people like going out alone in the winter, but with a friend there’s plenty of thoughts, hopes, memories, and dreams to share as you enjoy the outdoors together.

Find a way to swap work.  Everyone has a project they’ve been meaning to get to but it just works better with a helper or two.  Whether this is painting a room, finishing a quilt, cleaning out the garage, or hanging new curtains, offer to help a neighbor with a project if they’ll help you with one as well.  You’ll both be active, have company, and feel good about making progress on the “to do” list.

Offer to help an elderly neighbor.  Winter is tough for everyone, but it’s hardest for our elders.  If you can, lend a hand with shoveling walkways, pick up a few extra things for them in town, or just stop by to give them company.  If you are an elder, invite folks over for a hot drink and “a little something” while they help make the winter a little easier for you.  Remind folks that it’s good to have a break from the normal business of their lives.

And, of course, there is the tried-and-true method of stopping by with a freshly baked homemade pie.  In farm country, you can’t hope to go visiting without either bringing or receiving something to eat (if not both).  Sharing nourishment is part of sharing the camaraderie and trust that is part of neighborliness.

Not convinced?  Well, you’re certainly welcome to improvise your own methods for breaking cabin fever with the folks who live near you.  Throw a party, host a house concert, pick a day each week to meet at the kitchen table with tea and a deck of cards—whatever appeals to you as good, old-fashioned fun together.  If you find yourself wondering who some of your neighbors are, winter might be an opportune time to find out.  Remember, hot pies or cookies with a smile open doors.

Sometimes we get to know our neighbors by accident.  Recently, friends of ours whom live down the road a bit were heading in to town for a live performance.  There were four tickets but three attendants (the fourth was ill), so they called us up to see if we’d like to come along.  On the dark and wintry ride into town, they recollected their first adventure on the farm.

“We like driving down the back roads.  We knew this had a “dead end” sign on it, but we thought, why not?  So here we were on this gravel road, and we meet this tall, elderly gentleman walking a little white dog.  We waved and he waved and we kept on going.

“When we got to the corner, we could see that the road ended in a farm and didn’t go any farther, so we turned around and came back.  But along the way, we met your Grandpa with the little white dog again.  We apologized for bothering their place, but he said, “Oh no, not at all, come on down and see my farm.”  So we turned around again and learned more about what was going on back here—we had no idea.  Who knew there were folks still farming out here?”

So turn off the TV, kick up your heels, and shake off those winter-time blues with folks who are just as shut inside with this cold and wind as you.  Maybe you don’t know them yet, and maybe you do, but being neighborly certainly doesn’t hurt one’s spirits during the dark time of year.  We can each create greater cheer together as we muster on until the warming days of spring.  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 farmer asks a small child, “Where does milk come from?”  The child responds, honestly enough, “From the store.”

It’s hard to blame the child, who has probably never stepped foot into a dairy barn or seen the milk from an ample udder stream into the pail all frothy and warm.  But the question of where food comes from is still just as relevant to the learning of that child as it is for each of us today.  That educational process can be both enlightening and disturbing.

In the child’s perception, the movement of milk is from the grocery store to Mom’s refrigerator.  But before it reached the grocery store, it spend time with a distributor, which received the product from the processing facility, which pasteurized, homogenized, and bottled the milk that was shipped in from a variety of dairy farms.  All of this moving around of food from one place to another tallies up to what is called “food miles.”

On our farm, it could be called “food yards” because very little has to travel far from field to kitchen to plate, but this is an exceptional situation.  Tropical fruits, out-of-season vegetables, or farm-raised meats might be shipped in from Chile, New Zealand, or China.  Sometimes local growers find that their market is in a distant city rather than in their hometown.  At other times, companies find that fewer regulations make it more economical to fly American grown apples to South Africa to be waxed and then fly them back to be sold at American supermarkets.  Economics drives these decisions—cheaper labor, subsidized fossil fuels, and even subsidized agricultural practices swaying decisions. 

A study published through www.postcarbon.org cites statistics illustrating that 15% of US energy is spent on feeding Americans, which includes growing, shipping, displaying, and preparing.  Pair this with the fact that nearly 50% of all the food that is grown in this country is wasted, and the environmental impact is quite disconcerting.   Most of the wasted food comes from the methods of mass-production.  Not everything matured in the field at the same time, so part of the crop was lost during mechanized harvesting.  Not all the tomatoes or apples were the same size, so they did not crate up evenly and were discarded.  Produce rotted during shipment or in a warehouse.  Half of the lettuce had to be thrown away by the restaurant because it was too old or unfit to serve.  I know because I have received those frantic calls from chefs when the box of green beans from their commercial purveyor arrives white and fuzzy.

Processed foods or foods with a high fat or high sugar content are the greatest offenders in the food mile problem.  A recent study in Sweden quoted on www.thedailygreen.org traced the components of a traditional Swedish breakfast—apple, bread, butter, cheese, coffee, cream, orange juice, and sugar.  When combining all the miles traveled by each breakfast component, it was startling for the researchers to discover that this breakfast had trekked 24,901 miles, approximately the circumference of the earth!

In America, the traditional quote for food miles (be it for a steak, a tomato, or a cake) is 1,500 miles.  This is in accordance with a study conducted in Chicago.  More recently, the study was similarly repeated and found that the number had jumped to 2,500 miles.  This figure is for an individual product, not even a whole meal!  The trip from the grocery store to your home is but one small piece of your food’s story.  Find yourself a local farmer and cut out most of those miles—the farmer and the environment will thank you!

So, in light of these alarming statistics, I tried my own food mile experiment, focusing on local.  Try it and see what you discover!  Be empowered to know where your food comes from.  In the meantime, you’ll enjoy this delicious recipe.

French Bistro Frisee Salad

1 head frisee endive (from our aquaponics greenhouse, 1/100^th of a mile)

2 Tbs. olive oil (4,300 miles from Italy to New York distributor, then another 1,430 miles)

2 tsp. red wine vinegar (Same Italy number as above, plus 1,400 miles from New Jersey plant)

1 shallot (from our garden, 1/10^th of a mile)

½ to 1 tsp. Dijon mustard (at least 2,330 miles from California distributer, miles for individual sub ingredients unknown)

Salt and Pepper (620 miles from the packing company)

2 slices bacon (from our pigs, to the butcher and back, 75 miles)

2 to 4 farm fresh eggs, one per person (from our chickens, 1/10^th of a mile)

Tear or cut endive into bite-sized pieces.  In a small bowl, mix oil, vinegar, shallot, and mustard.  Add salt and pepper to taste.  Set dressing aside.  Fry the bacon in a skillet over medium heat until brown and crispy (about 5 minutes).  Set aside on paper towel to cool.

Simmer a medium-sized pot or deep skillet of water to poach the eggs.  A tiny scoash of vinegar helps hold the egg together.  Crack eggs into simmering water (don’t let it get to a rolling boil) and poach until desired doneness.  Meanwhile, toss endive in dressing until evenly coated.  Plate up endive, crumble bacon over it, and top with poached eggs.  Serve immediately.

***

For the food mile calculation, the bulk of ingredients were sourced locally (frisee endive, shallot, bacon, and eggs), with a total of 75.21 miles, most of which went to the butcher for the pig.  Considering that this makes approximately 99% of the dish, this is an exciting achievement!  For this category, the average food mile for each item is 18.8.

Consider these same items purchased from the grocery store in town (20 miles away from my home, so that will add 80 miles to the figure).  The eggs could be from a caged egg factory in Nebraska (509 miles), the pigs from a confinement feeding operation in Iowa (340 miles), the endive from a mono-cropped farm in California (2,165 miles), and the shallots from a field in Ohio (863 miles).  That comes to a total of 3,957 miles for the meal or 989.25 miles per item.  That is one exhausted endive!  By choosing local, I saved 3,881.79 food miles.  The average tractor-trailer uses a gallon of fuel every 5 to 7 miles, so theoretically that would be the equivalent of 647 gallons of diesel.

The tricky part comes with the remaining 1% of the meal.  For the accent items (olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt, pepper, and Dijon mustard), my score was around 14,380 miles—a good portion of which went to Italian imports.  Understandably, it would take quite a few batches of this recipe to use a full bottle of red wine vinegar or a package of pepper, compared with a whole head of endive or a third of a carton of eggs.  While it is unlikely I’ll be growing my own olives on the farm, this meal is still significantly greener than the Swedish breakfast. 

Even though my food mile count is not perfect, I am choosing to make a difference by eating foods close to home.  As we all learn more about our environmental impact and make changes in our daily habits towards smaller carbon footprints, together we can begin meaningful change on a greater scale.  Vote with your fork.  Vote local.  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

Being asked the question, “How do you have time to do all these things?!” is not an uncommon occurrence on our farm.  From livestock to gardens, farmer’s market to making gelato, balancing the many layers of endeavors at North Star Homestead can be an adventure in itself.

“But when do you have time for making art?” they ask, noticing the busy lunch hour, the coming and goings of summer interns, and the rigors of growing produce and fresh fish year-round.  “Do you ever sleep?”

In the summer I would laugh and reply, “That’s what winter is for,” pick up the dishes and offer descriptions of the day’s desserts.  For generations, winter on the farmstead has been the time for mending, planning, and all those projects that just don’t fit into the hectic summer schedule.

In the days of the one-room school houses, school sessions were originally in winter and summer, allowing students to help on the farm during the rigorous spring plantings and autumn harvest seasons.  On our farm, the time to “catch a little breath” doesn’t start until November, when the ground freezes solid and there is no more to be done for the gardens until spring.  The animals are snug in their winter quarters, and most of the area summer residents have headed to warmer climates.

But in true thrifty farm tradition, winter does not become a time to languish sleepily in front of the fire all day.  Heavens, there are so many things to do!  So many skills we love to use that we simply can’t make time for in the summer.  Yes, there still is the mending and the planning and pouring over the seed catalogue, but the luxury of the slow season allows waiting creativity to curl out of hiding and find expression in a variety of projects, whether it is working on one of my tapestries, crocheting a hat, knitting a sweater, or finishing a quilt.

The work of women’s hands to create functional form (clothing) out of string (and, likewise, string out of fluff) is an ancient tradition stretching back roughly 20,000 years.  Pick-it-up, put-it-down projects that did not endanger children naturally leant themselves to women’s occupations, including spinning, weaving, and sewing.  Laura Ingalls Wilder tells of her mother working on patchwork quilts during long winter nights, while her father played beloved folk tunes on the violin.  Not only were these quilts functional but they also held their own aesthetic appeal.

Working on fiber-related projects in the winter is also a great time for socializing in a season when ice, snow, and freezing temperatures can keep us cooped up in our homes.  Quilting B’s were once an excellent way to bring women (and sometimes men) together for a meaningful project embroidered with friendly discussion.  Today, knitting groups often serve a similar purpose, bringing friends together over clicking needles—attendants helping each other troubleshoot difficult patterns or learn a new stitch.

Sometimes the demands of winter, however, can push against the yearnings for time with a crochet hook or embroidery needle.  The bag of yarn may nestle in the closet for years, piled high with “I’ll get to that later.”  Making community time each week for folks to get together and dust off those projects is one way to reconnect with the ancient rhythms of our agrarian past.  To facilitate this, at Farmstead Creamery & Café we’ll be staying open late on Thursdays, from 5:00 pm to 8:00 pm, for “Fiber Nights.”  Feel free to bring your knitting, crocheting, weaving, spinning, tatting, quilting, sewing, or any type of fiber-related handwork you enjoy.  Come when it works for you, share stories with friends, and enjoy having time to do what you love.

“When you do what you love, you can do a lot of it,” is one of my mantras when faced with the ever-present question of how we do all that we do on the farm.  But doing it all doesn’t necessarily mean doing it all at once.  It reminds me of a conversation at Goddard College, in Vermont, where I did my graduate studies in interdisciplinary arts.

We were discussing the meaning of “rigor.”  Some students and a few advisors were vehement that rigor was distinctly tied into daily practice.  If one was not working on a tapestry loom every day, then hers was not a rigorous weaving practice.  My argument was different, and I based it on the lived experience of farming.  Yes, rigor does involve a concerted effort and a dedication of considerable time over a prolonged period, but it doesn’t need to be each and every day.

For instance, maple syruping is a rigorous pursuit.  It takes concerted effort—trudging into the woods with taps and buckets, trudging out with pails of sap, boiling for hours, and finally bottling with care.  It also takes considerable time over a prolonged period (if it’s a good season, especially).  But I can’t make maple syrup in October, even if I wanted too.  It has its season, just as one’s art practice can.   Attempting to syrup out of season would be about as productive as hosting a quilting intensive in the middle of lambing time.  To everything there is a season.

There is something rhythmic and relaxing to drawing weft through warp or looping a stitch one row at a time that is in harmony with the quiet of wintertime.  It leaves the mind open to reflection or peaceful meditation.  Working with fibers is part of the magic of creating something from almost nothing—a comfy sweater from a ball of yarn—which is not unlike the magic of agricultural life—a thriving tomato plant from a tiny seed or a lamb born from its attendant mother.  Each is uniquely creative, and each is valued on the homestead.

Maybe it’s been a long time since you last made a scarf for a friend, or perhaps you are in the midst of finishing an afghan—either way, I hope this winter will bring you joy through relaxing, creative work.  Maybe it’s time to pick up something new and learn a craft that has been close to the hearthside for many ages.  It’s better than sitting with idle hands, waiting for the snow to melt (or fall).  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

We are seekers of light.  From the ancient days of setting bonfires atop hills in the darkness of winter to the contemporary fashion of LED Christmas lights turning humble homes into nocturnal gingerbread illuminations, the lure of light in dark times has never faded.  Specialists encourage synthetic daylight lamps on our desks to brighten mid-winter moods, while others simply move away during the winter in search of sun and warmth.

A winter exodus is often not an option for farmers, especially those who raise animals, so we must satisfy our need for light through other means.  There’s the good, old-fashioned book by the comforting glow of the wood stove as a place to start or the tradition of leaving all the holiday lighting up until the end of January to prolong the enjoyment.  There is something about the flickering embers of a fire that connects us with the ancestors or the colorful glint of illuminated home decorations that brings back magical memories for this time of year.

While humans are creatures of light by psychological preference, plants depend on light at a much more visceral level.  As the daylight slackened past the equinox, leafy crops in our aquaponic system (a specialized greenhouse where crops grow year-round, powered by nutrient rich water from our tilapia fish) began growing sluggishly, if at all.  It was something of an “I give up!” in the plant world, as most of their outdoor compatriots either succumbed to the cold or retreated to the root level with hopes for a new start in the spring.  In order for our indoor vegetable friends to have a chance, it was time to order grow lights.

We had hoped to be able to take advantage of new LED technology for grow lights, but this alternative was frightfully cost inhibitive compared with traditional models—it takes a massive pack of little lights to emit enough spectrum to stimulate plant growth.  The traditional models waste some energy as heat, but since we would only be using the lights in the wintertime, when the greenhouse required auxiliary heat if the sun was not shining, this could prove a bonus rather than a problem.  To best utilize this new resource, we added a timer and light-sensing system that would only turn on the grow lights when not enough sunlight was present to mimic day lengths similar to equinox levels.

Each light services an eight-by-eight foot region, so calculations showed that we would need 10 lights, which arrived through our trusty delivery driver who must often wonder what sort of odd bit of equipment we have ordered this time!  It was also tricky installing the lights because they had to be hung over the grow beds, which were already full of plants!  But tricky or not, the lights were up and running before Christmas.  The first time all 10 were turned on for inspection, the shine was surprisingly intense. 

“You could start a tanning spa in here,” Dave our electrician laughed.  “Might make more money than with lettuce.”

That first evening was filled with a misty fog, sending the warm, yellowish glow emanating from the greenhouse up into a dome of light above the trees.  Surely, the neighbors must be wondering what form of strange spacecraft has landed at that three-crazy-ladies’ farm.  What on earth are they up to now?

Jon, our contractor, was driving home that night.  As he made his way down Moose Lake Road, he noticed the glowing dome of yellowish light coming from the farm.  “I thought for sure the greenhouse was on fire!” he laughed with us after pulling up to the house to chat.  “I came around the corner in a great hurry and went, oh, well thank goodness.  Looks like Dave got the lights working.”

The plants were the happiest participants of all.  Within days, the Napa cabbages began to double in size, while the lettuces perked up their growth in response to the added day length.  As seekers of light, these leafy greens and fresh herbs rejoiced at the bounty of energy and have been filling our display cooler and many a salad plate since.

Other appreciators of supplemental light in wintertime are the chickens.  While in the summertime we raise chickens for the table as well as for the egg basket, the laying hens are the only chickens that overwinter on our farm.  This perky crew of Buff Orpingtons, Silver Laced Wyandottes, colored egg-laying Aruacanas, and feather-footed Light Brahmas transition from their summer quarters of mobile pasturing structures to the barnyard broodering coops or greenhouses.  Here, they are protected from the winds and nearby electricity can power heated water buckets.

But the hens, like the lettuce plants, stop producing during the winter months if left to nature’s allotment of sunlight.  Hens would spend more time sleeping and less time making your breakfast.  Chickens, like people, have a structure in their brain called the pineal body, which is stimulated by sunlight.  Take the sunlight away, and we naturally become sleepy.  In pioneer days, when lamp oil or candles were expensive, farmers woke with the sunrise and often retired to bed soon after sunset.

It does not require full spectrum sunlight—as needed by the plants—to fool the pineal body in humans or birds, however.  Simply adding more light can keep us and hens going long into the night…though not enough dark time and rest can leave both of us cranky and dissatisfied.  Adding supplemental light to chicken coops (in tandem with facing coop windows in a southerly bank to catch the most daylight) has long been known to aid winter laying.  Mix this with hearty heavy breed chickens, with plenty of bulk and thick feathering, as well as nutritional boosts like chopped liver, pork suet, kitchen scraps, or smashed pumpkins to replace those long-missed insects and green grass, and the ladies rebound from their autumn molt with vigor.

Tending the hens or the lettuce in the evening also gives me a boost of superficial sunshine, a glimpse of healthy, green growth, and a surrounding of contented, clucking hens.  We seekers of light find ways to make the most of winter, even with a bit of electrical foolery, to keep going through these long nights.  But as we embark into January, we know that the days are beginning to lengthen, if only by a minute or two each day.  Still, there is hope that spring will come again, with sunlight, warmth, and a new season of growth.  Savor those little moments, for each moment is all we ever have.  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