Visiting Farmers

A convergence of my worlds and values. It is the rare visitor who truly connects with my artisans on the level of equal. But I had a couple the other day who were in this rank. They've an organic farm on the border of New York and Vermont. They raise pigs and chickens for meat, vegetables, fruit and bees. They are creative and concerned, devoted to their space and to working organically. They are hard-working and focused, curious and open. They came to learn and to share. They came bearing gifts -- home-made maple syrup.

And so we did a leisurely and extremely informative tour together. Sunday morning through lunch saw us with my friends at Long Mai, an organic farming cooperative and home to anywhere from 25 to 50 people from numerous European countries. Hannes, one of the founders in 1990 of this farm and deeply concerned and active in environmental politics since the 1970s, welcomed us warmly and patiently.


Over a very powerful cup of coffee and blown about by the even more powerful Mistral winds we took the time to share history, tales, ideas, and truly get a sense of each other. Passion was shared and conveyed. Respect was offered and received.

We toured the property, inspected the fields, met the animals, observed the projects coming up, passed by the chickens and the geese, strolled through the vegetable patches, admired the handmade bread oven, and were duly impressed by the conservatory of rare seeds.


Longo Mai is a place where any might go and see if it works for him/her. It is a way of life, and a life-choice. It is a community brought together to care for each other, work alongside each other, with the common goal of not polluting the world, and of maybe finding a better way to be. You come with what you have, and contribute what you are able. There are many jobs to be shared around and for each who is committed, a place can be found. All ages are welcome. The community feeds itself and strives to create a source of income from their activities to go further, build, create and plan for the future. The wool from their sheep, spun and knitted into finished sweaters is one such source, but also many delicious recipes for sauces and dips prepared and canned on-site. And, they orchestrate the preparing and delivering of farm crates with a rich array of products from neighboring organic farms.


In keeping with his never-ending projects Hannes just sent me a short translation concerning uranium mines in Mali. You never know what will come back after a visit!

From Longo Mai I took my visiting farmers to see Aurelie at the goat farm, then Sophie in her beehives.

It's very special for me to meet the people who are transforming the world back in the US along these lines. People who understand my own intensity and desire to nourish my children as well as possible. People who are committed to organic, who are going back to the earth, who are choosing to produce a maximum of their own food, and to collaborate with neighbors. Apparently the movement is as much a mother's/women's movement as a family affair. I suppose we are all readers of Michael Pollan, concerned and curious, over-educated, making choices about quality of life that jeopardize finances, but enrich differently.

And just the other day I had another client who's spent a life as a photographer, and is now training to be a veterinary technician at the age of 50! He too had a very personal and powerful moment at the goat cheese farm. This world is the one he is aiming towards.

Come my friends. I and my artisans will share with you what we may.

Happy chickens lay lovely eggs.

Life and Death in the world of farm animals

All excited, I followed a mother from school to her house 45 minutes from school to pick out chickens for the Mas. JP had been with me two weeks' earlier and seen the lovely chickens from her brood hen at my friend Alison's. He'd found them quite lovely and was very interested in the price (free, with gift). So, I called, I organized, I nearly completely zapped my rendezvous -- happily she came to me in the parking lot Friday morning! -- and off I went to collect some chickens.

First of course, I had to catch them. Aie yaie yaie. I forget sometimes to what degree I'm a city girl. Oh, I can climb trees, play in dirt, shovel out a horse stall, saddle and bridle a horse, wash a dog, find mushrooms under pine needles.... but catch shy chickens? Suddenly I wondered if truly, that greased pig contest would be any easier.

At last we cornered a few in the pen and succeeded in grasping some tale feathers and pinning them down into a carton. One rooster and five hens of various colors and styles.

I was humbled and proud at the same time. I'm not completely pathetic... just a bit leery and hesitant with age I think, yet often kafutzed by my inner child.

The chickens lived happily in a large cardboard box throughout the day in the back of my car till I got to the Mas. Whereby we released them into the poullailler which had normally been fixed up by JP's helper.

Immediately the dogs were very interested. They got a wacking for their interest, and we hoped had learned from it. In any case, the plan was to keep a close eye on them and prevent damage in the time it took for us to reinforce the perimeter of the pen.

But, the best laid plans of mice and men....

The next morning, it could have been a scene from Jemima Puddleduck. The dogs got into the pen, and there was damage. We found feathers, and one dead buried a distance from the pen. I was crushed. Half my chickens were gone in one fell swoop! And the rooster too?

So, we got to work, pinning down the fence all around, to make sure no dog or fox would slip under the wire. And then we cleared all the field grasses and branches and wild vines and more from the perimeter and put in an electric fence at the height that our four legged friends would best encounter. A long morning's work. But well worth it. A few yelps confirmed that the dogs had discovered the electric charge, and their subsequent distancing of themselves from the coop vastly reassured me.

And then, is that a rooster we heard? The day was not a total loss. We found our handsome rooster and corralled him back to the coop with success. Now, perhaps another one or two has saved herself in the woods and will come back to the rooster's call?

The day before, I'd learned of the loss of the baby goats (not those we saw born, but those from the night before). And this day, the natural instinct of a few house dogs did its work on our feathered friends.

As JP told me, when you work with animals, you learn to accept a certain level of loss. It is up to us to prevent it to the best of our abilities. But we are not perfect, and mistakes occur, and nature lets you know quite quickly to wise up and do the necessary.

It still hurts though. The learning curve is a bit brutal.

Baby Goats!!!

Les Petits Cabris Naissent!

A bit later than many others, the baby goats in Aurelie's herd are plopping into this world. Jonas and I were there on the second day of birthing. And a dramatic moment it was.

On the spur of the moment this morning, Jonas decided to stay with me rather than go to class. After the exertions of Tuesday, I was fine with one more quiet day before he returns to the hustle and bustle of friends and school. But, today wasn't a day for hanging in the house and watching films (yesterday he saw the Karate Kid). I let him know that our day was to be spent at the goat cheese farm, lunching and visiting with Isabelle and Paul Pierre whom I've seen but once since Christmas. Thus he needed to be calm, well-behaved and patient. I'd care for him, but he needed to be a good kid, easy to have along in a grown-up setting.

He was quite okay with the arrangements, so with fresh bread from the oven, a bottle of JP's organic rosé Domaine Cabanis, animal cards and crayons for Jonas and some rice milk for his tender stomach, we were off.

Forty-five minutes later we were there. And lo and behold, we had arrived at a most special moment.

Aurelie was in the barn with her new stagiaire calmly and competently busy. I saw that there were some babies, but it took me a second to realize that they were in the midst of accompanying a mother goat push out her baby. Just as we entered the stalls out slipped a new kid.

Is there anything more symbolic? Spring is here! The world is being born again. La vie renait.

Jonas watched in awe and then, as we awaited a second birth (the mother was to have triplets), we went into the far pen where the kids born the night and day before were gently nudging about alongside their protective mothers.

There was but one kid per mother. And I learned later from Paul Pierre and Isabelle that there had been a few accidents the day before.


Aurelie doesn't live at the farm with her goats (as yet) and has two small daughters to care for. She wasn't able to return to the farm the evening before till 9pm to attend the late night births. Unfortunately, there'd been a few before her arrival, and in one case a mother sat upon her new kid, in another it was long in coming, and in another... I didn't get the whole story, but a few kids were lost. However each mother was left with one. And in the end, the herd is there to produce milk, not goat kids. As long as the mothers have one beneath them to release the colustrom and get the system rolling, all will be (relatively) well. It is sad to have any new life depart too quickly, but in fact, Aurelie's herd is already quite a good number (45). Multiple births are typical in this herd. Singles are the exception. And one must always remember that as a general rule, all the baby males will be heading to the abatoir within a couple of weeks... Thus, it is all relative you might say.


As we watched (and documented), the mother goat pushed out the birthing pouch, then Aurelie slid her hand around the little feet that were poking out and assisted the head that followed. Goopy, bloody and oh so fragile, another life arrived upon the hay.


Then Aurelie felt the mother's belly and sensed more small feet. A third kid had yet to arrive. But the mother had stopped pushing. She was caring for her first two, licking them clean, gently manouevring about them. Aurelie was a bit worried and slathered her hand with some oil and slipped it into the mother up to her elbow. She felt the last kid and helped it out. He was limp in her hands, soft, as if his bones hadn't firmed up. He was dead. Malformed apparently, but nearly full size. She quickly whisked him away -- the mother barely realized that she'd lost one of her mini-brood.

It was then time to snip the bits of umbilical cord dangling on the bellies of the new kid, and and help them nurse for the first time. Once that is handled, the goat farmer can sit back a moment and take a breather. Till the next mother starts dropping her kid (which happened a mere 30 minutes' later.)

Nine down, thirty-six to go...

Ah, those Manifestations!

Sorry for the quality of the photos -- I only had my cell phone with me, so, they are what they are. But perhaps Nathalie at Avignon in Photos will have some better shots soon. (see my list of blogs to the right).

Les Jeunes Agriculteurs are angry, scared, and desperate! And so, let us dump carrots, beets, grape must and more all over the main roads around Avignon. And let us block the two bridges coming into and exiting Avignon, and let us do this during rush hour on a Friday night! And we will... what? Wreak havoc and put poor women like myself (and thousands upon thousands of other people) in a car for four and a half hours covering no more than 40 km? In the vain attempt to go from home to school (normally 15 minutes -- I left at 3:45 and arrived at 4:30), from school to the train station (I've two kids to put on the train on Friday evening, remember?) to which we arrived at 6:15 -- a full hour and and fifteen minutes after the departure of Gaetan's train. From which we then zoomed through town (amazing) to my bridge, which we were dissuaded to attempt crossing by the friendly policemen as it was blocked by trucks and more. At which point I then headed south to another bridge across the Rhône, -- it took another hour to get out of Avignon. And we arrived home at the tender hour of 8pm. And to think, I thought I'd be able to have a nice shower quietly by myself at 5pm and prepare for the weekend ... silly me.


Arghghghgh. OK, life is pretty rough for anyone who's farming. Here, as in the US, if you try to sell in bulk to the major buyers, you are offered less than it cost you to produce your wares. So, there is a system of primes which pay farmers for what their farms used to produce at rates that were set a few years back. And, these primes don't change, as the farmer is encouraged to produce less. To the point at which these primes have no longer any connection to production. They are designed to keep farmers afloat while maintaining the sanctity of a buyers' market that refuses to pay decent rates for produce farmed locally.


Now, if you go organic, and you sell directly to the consumer as much as possible (through the markets, monthly crates, etc.,) you're far better off. Nevertheless, it is still a difficult life, and yet one which would like to choose.

Another barrier to setting up keep as a farmer is acquiring the land to do so -- good farming land is more often sold at high rates to developpers than at affordable rates to farmers. Haven't we heard that somewhere before? It is the same world-round I believe, be in the Ohio River Valley or ...


However, rarely in the US do farmers have the chutzpah to gather together and block a major city for an entire afternoon. So, cultural moment for all: my kids, myself ... and a time to hear tales of Gaetan's father's dumping goat manure in a local McDonalds way back when. I laughed with my boys in the car, stretched my legs when possible, took stock of the apples, carrots and various mashed and rotten fruit on the street, rolled through puddles of car-crushed refuse, eyed the many riot police hanging out on street corners, and when possible, made a brief stop for cookies and iced tea and other yummies to tide over the empty stomachs of my boys during the last stretch home. All's well that ends well. But aieeeee, I would have preferred to have Spain or the Alps or Italy at the end of my 4 1/2 hour drive! Not moving, barely inching along for hours at end is not fun, no matter that I maintained an optimistic outlook and the kids sang along to FUN radio.


Now myself, I was more in the mood for "Do you remember..." the strikes of the winter of 95? Do you remember walking or biking or roller blading or hitch-hiking all over Paris? in the cold winds of winter? (my legs have never since been as lovely...) Do you remember, missing your plane due to trucks blocking the highway exits? But be reassured, when this happens, the tickets are changed no questions asked. Ah yes, free speach and the right to demonstrate. T'is wonderful non?

Goats in the Morning

Yes I can, when necessary, be a morning person. And how lovely it can be.

Amongst the many benefits beyond beautiful misty landscapes are a chance to chat quietly with Paul Pierre and Isabelle about the many variations and ways of personalizing a person's goat cheese making. For instance, they use rather little rennit compared to the standard practice. And, they don't necessarily chill the milk first before putting in the rennit and the whey. They leave it 72 hours rather than just 24 in their 20C/70F room, and the texture of their curdle is quite a bit softer than that of other colleagues.



There are also variations possible depending on how long the cheese is left on the racks in the 20C/70F room, before being put in the dehumidifier. And, it can stay longer in the dehumidifier, if a drier, firmer cheese is preferred. Likewise, the cave d'affinage can be set at 11C or at 14C, depending on the preference of the cheese maker.



Working with live enzymes: the art of fermenting. Temperature, humidity, and so much more play a part. Each cheese maker finds the method that pleases he or she. Trial and error, reading and learning, watching and following, and then off on your own path.