Christmas trees and snow

We cut our Christmas trees Friday night. Here are Pat and Nancy helping Terry cut their tree.

Pat and Nancy hold their tree while Terry cuts

And here is our tree.

Cutting our tree

More friends arrived by 5:00, and we drove to Lake Geneva in three cars to see the lights at the Grand Geneva Inn.

After that, we went to Sharon to see the horse carriage parade. We didn’t arrive until 6:45. By the time we had something to eat, we had to proceed to the end of the block (Sharon truly is four corners) for the parade. The horses got a late start. We passed the time naming the tunes of the Christmas music that was playing. Nancy was very good at it, being both a musician and a church pianist. One that puzzled me was “For the Beauty of the Earth.” Nancy and Hilda sang the words they could remember. Such a beautiful song. I recognized one that Nancy didn’t. I finally placed it as “The Boar’s Head,” a song that always reminds me fondly of my days at Reed, where the boar’s head is traditionally carried around the holiday feast while singing this very song. In fact, I recently got an email invitation to this year’s festivities, which I deleted.

Since last year’s pictures of the parade were so bad, I will spare you. There were more miniature horses and fewer standard horses this year. The Percheron team was in the parade again. They are large, noble animals. Nancy told me that her father started farming with Percherons.

We are getting lots of pullet eggs now, both brown and blue.

Blue eggs, brown eggs, and double-yolked eggs (the big ones)

Most are tiny; a few are extra-large. Most of these have double yolks. Here are the two eggs I fried for Saturday breakfast. Getting an egg with a double yolk makes you feel like it’s going to be your lucky day.

Double-yolked egg in the pan with another pullet egg

Terry and I decorated our tree last night. Unpacking the ornaments brings back a flood of memories, some happy, some sad. Still, it is good to remember everyone who has given us ornaments over the years. The hand-made ones are particularly precious to me. Here is the picture with the flash.

And here it is without the flash.

We had our first snowfall today.

The backyard at 10:00 this morning

I’ll post more pictures soon showing the accumulation by the end of the day.

I had another double yolk egg this morning, this time hard boiled with my bran muffin.

The hard-boiled version of a double-yolked egg with a bran muffin

The snow should be stopping soon. Terry and I are about to go out and shovel in the dark. That should be an adventure. 

A Turkey Tale, Part 2

I got up early Thanksgiving morning to make the dressing and bake the pumpkin pie.

I put the neck and gizzard into my small slow cooker with some water to make a stock for the gravy. By this time, I’d decided to just cut the turkey in half from head to tail and freeze one side. Figuring from the recipe I was using, I calculated that a 16-pound turkey was supposed to be done in 2.25 hours. If dinner was at 6:00, and the turkey needed a half hour rest, plus some extra time for the extra thickness, I thought that starting at 2:00 would give me enough time.

Before Terry went out for the morning to putter in his shop, we agreed that we would cut the turkey at 10:00. I went up to check on the turkey after breakfast. The ice had melted, as I expected. What I hadn’t considered is that the volume would also decrease. The breast meat was above the brine. Why had I thought it was more important for the back to be brine than the breast? Feeling stupid, I flipped the turkey over so the breast could sit in the brine for a few hours.

The turkey, wrong side up in the cooler

At 9:45, I moved my parents’ car out of the garage and set up a table. I went back downstairs to get a tray, a cutting board, my butcher knife, and the kitchen shears. When I returned, Terry was draining the brine into two 5-gallon buckets.

Terry draining the brine

I was pretty sure Terry would have to get out the reciprocating saw that he uses when we cut up half a pig. But he just said, “Gimme the knife.”

He put the tip of the knife into the breast bone and used it as a fulcrum to hack through the ribs. The pelvis took more effort, but he managed to rend it asunder. I held the two halves apart while he cut through the ventral side.

Terry whacks his way through the ribs while I hold the two halves apart

Half the turkey in a tray

Hilda and I wrapped one half up to the best of our ability and put it in a garbage bag (the only bag big enough for it). I cleared out a space for it in the freezer. I put the other half on the roasting rack that I had prepared by covering with non-stick foil. Thanksgiving is not a good time to think about sustainability. The turkey didn’t quite fit in my largest roasting pan. I would have to put a half sheet pan underneath to catch drips. I put the turkey in the spare refrigerator to develop a pellicle until it was time to put it in the oven.

Half the turkey crammed onto my largest roasting pan

I gave the turkey a butter massage at 1:30 and left it at room temperature while the oven came up to temperature. Once the turkey was in the oven, I had some time to relax. Terry and I watched football. The temperature probe beeped at 4:30, right on schedule. I pulled the turkey out and checked the position of the probe. Almost immediately, I found a spot closer to the bone where the temperature dropped 20 degrees. I’ve never really believed in “carry over cooking,” and even if I did, 20 degrees would be stretching it. Back into the oven.

Jane arrived at 5:00 to make the gravy. The turkey still wasn’t done. We decided it was close enough at 5:15. I moved it to the cutting board and covered it with foil. 

The cooked turkey on the cutting board

Jane got to work making the flour and water slurry and stirring it into the pan drippings. When the roux was complete, I began ladling in the hot stock. We ended up with 6 cups of gravy. Well, you can’t have too much gravy, right? There’s always the leftovers.

Jane stirring the gravy

Upstairs, Hilda made mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts braised in cream and topped with bread crumbs, Parmesan cheese, and red pepper flakes. She also baked the dressing.

I carved the turkey, leaving the less-than-completely-cooked meat on the bone. It would cook when I made the stock later. Right at 6:00, we were ready to sit down at table. Terry poured champagne all around.

The carved turkey

Plates and glasses full, ready to eat

Was the turkey better than usual? It seemed like it. It was very moist and flavorful, but that might have been because we earned it. In any case, we all thoroughly enjoyed it. Hilda had a little remorse. I was just mad at Jake for being so impossibly large.

We needed a rest before dessert. We discussed watching a video or playing a game, but in the end, we opened a bottle of wine and just talked. I got to thinking about the mess in my kitchen and excused myself. I pulled the cooked meat off the carcass and put it in the refrigerator. The rest went into the big slow cooker. I’d let that cook all day Friday. I washed everything that would come clean and set the roasting pan to soak. I went back upstairs and finished my wine.

We had the pie with real whipped cream. So decadent, so delicious.

Pumpkin pie

We divided up the leftovers. There was lots of just shoving things in refrigerators. Tomorrow was another day. Call me Scarlett.

Friday afternoon, we went to pick up the frozen hens. They weighed in at 20.5 and 22 pounds.

The jennies--22 and 20.5 pounds

I rearranged freezers and shoved things aside so that the two hens and the remains of Jake were stacked in one column. I could tell that the second half of Jake would have to be cooked sooner rather than later. I will soon tire of it being in my way every time I need something out of the freezer.

Hilda and I cleaned out Coop 2 Saturday morning, the nicest day of the weekend. Even so, I didn’t expect to work up a sweat while I was scrubbing. It was in the 40’s, and we were spraying water everywhere. Nevertheless, I got quite warm in the process and wished I hadn’t worn my (newly washed) winter work coat. With this, the very last act of fall, we were done with our outside work for the year. The harvest was over. We will hunker down now and eat what we have stored.

That afternoon, I took the fat off the top of the stock and divided it and leftover meat into three containers for soup. I made two dinner portions of turkey and gravy and split the dressing into three parts. Somehow, I found room in the freezers.

Tonight we had spaghetti marinara for supper. I just couldn’t look at meat.

A Turkey Tale, Part 1

Before I fill you in on our Thanksgiving turkey adventure, I have an epilogue on the weekend that we lost Pearl. Hilda and I consoled ourselves by making a cast iron skillet calzone from a recipe from America’s Test Kitchen. I had to buy a new 12” skillet for the occasion, since the largest either of us had was 10”. I’m pleased to report that Lodge now sells them seasoned, an innovation that was LONG overdue, in my opinion. I never could get my cast iron skillet seasoned properly after 30 years of intermittent use. I suspect to really make it work, you have to cook bacon in your skillet every morning. It worked out all right when everyone was working the farm all day long. Not so good with a desk job.

In any case, here is my half of the calzone. 

Cast Iron Skillet Calzone

Terry was unimpressed. “Calzone is not my favorite,” were his exact words. What is not to like? Some things I will never understand. More lunches for me, I say.

Tuesday was the turkey round-up. Hilda and I were openly worried about. Terry talked like he was unconcerned, but when I got home Tuesday afternoon, he had a plan written out on the back of a page from my Dilbert desk calendar (which Terry routinely uses as note paper). He had made a large hook from heavy wire. He would snag the legs with the hook. I would hold the wings down until he could get a good grab to carry the bird to the kennel on the back of his pickup. He scribbled on the diagonal at the bottom, “Remove glasses.”

“Remove glasses?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he explained. “If they start kicking and flapping, they could knock our glasses off.” He has seen guys struggle with wounded wild turkeys while hunting. Turkeys are not to be taken lightly.

I put my glasses on a table in the greenhouse. We walked into the turkey run. The first jenny was an easy grab. I walked up to her slowly, petted her back, and held her shoulders. Terry came up from behind, reached around her sides, and got a firm grip on her legs. I opened the door to the green house, and he carried her to the truck, where Hilda was waiting to open the kennel door.

The other two now knew that something was up. They started in with alarm calls (answered by the jenny in the cage) and became skittish. Terry and I got on either side of the second jenny and cornered her between us at the fence. I again held her wings while Terry got her legs. Two down.

And then there was Jake, who was now fully puffed up and hissing with aggravation at being separated from his girls. Terry suggested we try to corner him by the fence also, and that worked well. But he was much bigger. Terry could barely reach around him to get his legs. With the legs secured, Terry could hardly lift him. “He’s at least 40 pounds,” Terry said. “I know what 40 pounds feels like.”

Forty pounds is not that much to lift when it’s an inert bag of chicken feed. Forty pounds that’s fighting back is a different thing altogether. But Terry managed. As soon as all three turkeys were in the kennel, they calmed right down. Turkeys, apparently, can face anything as long as they’re together.

Here is Terry tying down the cage for the trip to the butcher.

Getting ready for the fateful trip to the butcher

Todd (the butcher) took the turkeys from the truck to a cage inside his shop. Terry opened the shop door while I held the door to the kennel closed between trips. The jennies when first. As before, once they were separated, they became anxious so that the second jenny was more difficult to move than the first, and Jake was the worst of all. On the trip over, quite a lot of poop had accumulated in the bottom of the cage. A lesson learned from raising turkeys was “big bird, big poops.” One of the turkeys had had runny poop for his or her entire life, and there was a puddle of that, too. While Jake and Todd struggled, one of Jake’s kicks spattered poop all the way down my right arm. Good thing I wore my work coat.

I was very careful with the seat belt for the ride home so as to not get poop on it. When we got home, I wiped off what I could, and Terry started a load of work clothes right away.

After much discussion with Hilda, we had decided on a wet brine. Terry, based on previous experience dressing geese, figured that Jake would come back at about 22 pounds. That was 10 pounds heavier than any turkey I’d cooked before. I was nervous. Following a recipe Hilda found online, I mixed up three gallons of brine in the largest stock pot I own. The recipe said two gallons was enough for most birds, but really large birds might take three. “Really large” was defined as 22 pounds, so I figured we’d be good. I wanted the brine to spend the night in the refrigerator so it would be good and cold when I got home with the turkey the next day.

Jane and I had a fun shopping trip to Kenosha Wednesday. I hoped it would not be crowded because it was still a workday for most folks. The cold, gray, drizzly day may also have kept people at home. In any case, the outlet mall was fairly deserted. Woodman’s grocery was insanely busy, and it seemed like it was all amateurs. Shoppers left carts in the middle of the aisle and wandered aimlessly. While my list was short, it was hard to imagine another assemblage of items that could have been farther apart—celery in produce, chocolate syrup over by the ice cream, milk in the far back corner.

We were still on schedule to get our Hershey Almond Fudge Flavor of the Day custard at the Lake Geneva Culver’s by 2:30 so I could pick up Jake from Todd at 3:00.

Todd was in the house when I pulled in. He walked stiffly out to the shop, explaining that he’d had a couple of monster turkeys, way bigger than ours, to process. One had been 44 pounds dressed! It had about killed him to process that one.

Todd got Jake out of the walk-in cooler. “I’ll weigh it for you,” he said, “so you know how long you’ll have to cook it.” He put it on scale and told me it was 32 pounds and some ounces. I was so shocked at the first number that the second one didn’t even register. Thirty-two pounds?! Jesus God. And by the way, I’m serving 5 people for dinner. Will 6.5 pounds per person be enough?

“Dale said they’d be 12 pounds by Thanksgiving,” I told Todd, who knows Dale. “He’s a big fat liar.”

Todd laughed. “Be sure you tell Dale that next time you see him.”

Todd carried Jake to my car and put it in the cooler. It was as wide as the cooler and about 2/3 as long. Suddenly it occurred to me that I could brine it in the cooler. The garage should be cold enough overnight. It would have to be. That damned thing wasn’t going to fit in the refrigerator, that was certain.

This is what a 32-pound turkey looks like

Terry and I carried the cooler and turkey downstairs so I could get the bag off and take the giblets out. The liver probably weighed a pound right there. While I did that, Terry washed out the cooler. We put Jake in the cooler and took it up to the garage, where Terry cleared off a spot on one of the shelves. I went downstairs for my three gallons of brine. Which filled the cooler about halfway.

I made three more gallons of brine, including a gallon of ice cubes, since the water wasn’t as cold as I would have liked. The brine barely covered the turkey. I slept fitfully that night, mulling over how I was going to cook this giant bird.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Jake came back from the butcher at 32+ pounds. This will be a new adventure, possibly involving power tools. There's no way to cook a turkey that large in one piece without overcooking the white meat. Come back for the details later this weekend!

Pearl, we hardly knew ye

It is with great sadness that I must report the death of Pearl. She didn’t look good yesterday morning when I went out to do the chores. She was lying in a nest box with her neck stretched out straight, her chin (do chickens have chins?) resting on the floor. She squawked at me when I stroked her feathers and asked her if she was okay. There was a glimmer of hope in the afternoon when Hilda saw that she was not in the nest box anymore. When it was time for bed, however, Hilda discovered her stiff body under the feeder.

Pearl was always shy. I don’t even have a good picture of her. It seemed like she was getting out more and socializing with the other pullets better. And Saturday, she just gave it up.

Shy Pearl peeking out of the coop--the only picture I have with her head in focus

It is disconcerting to lose a chicken. We know it happens. We know that we will never know why. We’ve had chicks die and hens die. This is the first pullet we’ve lost before she started laying. We don’t have the panic that we had when Ellie died in the middle of winter during our first year of having chickens. Still, there is a nagging worry that whatever put Pearl down is contagious, and tomorrow morning, everyone will be gone. Additionally, I’m sad because Pearl was the perfect name for an off-white chicken. I thought it was so clever of Hilda to have thought of it. I loved that name.

We have mixed feelings about the turkeys. They are huge, messy, and expensive. It isn’t easy to get them where they do not care to go. But they are also sweet, funny, and curious. I gave them all the carrot peels and celery scraps today instead of dividing them between the turkeys and chickens like I usually do. It is the turkeys’ last chance.

I went out this morning to take pictures of the turkeys with Hilda. This is the morning parade of turkeys coming out of the coop.

The Turkey Parade. Always the gentleman, Jake brings up the rear.

As luck would have it, the turkeys were more interested in me than Hilda.

Turkeys come over to investigate me while Hilda starts the coop chores in the back

I gave the camera to Hilda and tried to keep the turkeys’ attention by letting them peck at my glove.

The jennies peck at my glove

Really, what they wanted to do most was play with the camera strap. They are rather endearing.

Jenny pulling on my camera strap

They will also be delicious. The relief of not having to take care of them every morning will mitigate our grief and guilt at having them butchered. We will thank them and say goodbye. And, as always, they will come back looking like food, which helps. We have given them a better life than the turkeys in the grocery store had, and we can feel good about that.  We are also in agreement that this was a fun experiment, but not one that we are going to do again. 

Frosty morning

It was somewhere between 23° and 27° this morning, depending on which thermometer you want to believe. I knew it was going to be cold, and I didn’t want to make the same mistake I made last year when I let the two most beautiful Brussels sprouts freeze in the garden because I tried to save them too long. Last weekend the spare refrigerator was filled with apples. This weekend it is filled with Brussels sprouts. I’ll freeze some and give some away.

Brussels sprouts in the refrigerator

I brought in the last two cabbages also. The garden is now officially empty except for the garlic for next year and some volunteer dill that took advantage of the prolonged warm temperatures. I hope there is still enough seed for next summer. Usually, you only need to plant dill once.

This was the first really chilly morning for our new chickens. They ran around when I first let them out, but after a few minutes some of them decided the ground was just too darned cold. Here they are sitting on the windbreak trying to keep their feet warm until the sun comes around.

Bella, Layla, Rose, and Angelica keeping their feet out of the frosty grass

We’ve gotten four pullet eggs so far, all brown and all laid on the floor of the coop. We are hoping that they will learn to use the nest boxes soon. Perhaps the Americauna will have stronger instincts and teach the Barred Rock where the eggs belong. On the plus side, however, there wasn’t any poop in the nest boxes this morning, and that has been a big problem. They aren’t supposed to poop in the nest boxes. At first Opal, Gracie, and Nadia were spending a lot of time in there to escape the other pullets. They seem to be integrating into the rest of the flock better these days.

Here is a comparison of a pullet egg and a store-bought large egg in the shell.

Pullet egg and large store-bought egg in the shell

And in the frying pan.

Pullet egg and store-bought egg in the skillet

The local farmers are making use of a good stretch of dry days to get the rest of the harvest in. While I’m writing this, I am watching the harvest on the other side of the road. The combine drives alone going east, harvesting 8 (or 9?) rows of corn at a time. When he turns around, he starts offloading into the grain wagon, shown here.

Corn harvesting across the road

At the end of the westbound pass, the grain wagon unloads into a semi parked in the middle of the field while the combine goes up the east side. The wagon driver then positions himself facing west for the next load.  There seem to be two semis involved in this operation, and the second one left before the first one got back. It takes surprisingly little time to fill a semi, like 25 minutes. It is no wonder that it takes the first truck longer than that to deliver the grain to the elevator. It was only a few minutes before the first truck got back, just in time for the grain truck to be ready to unload again. The field is probably 100 acres. I expect they’ll be done by supper.

Finally!

We finally got two pullet eggs, probably from our Barred Rocks, Rose and Dorothy as they are the only two pullets we have seen do the Squat of Maturity.

Our first two eggs from the new pullets