Everything But The Kitchen Sink

Cooking right now in the crock pot is a huge batch of my everything but the kitchen sink chili.  It's made with Grandpa Ed's beef, canned corn from this summer's bounty, my own taco seasoning and pretty much anything else I have in the fridge.  I like to cook it in the slow cooker because I can just let it go for 6 hours.  But you can cook it in a big stock pot on the stove.  But you'll have to start on low and slowly increase the heat, stirring every no and again to prevent burning on the bottom.  Either way, I guarantee everyone will love this hearty chili!

Everything but the Kitchen Sink Chili
Servings = 12
Time = 30 min active, 6 hrs slow cook

Ingredients
2 Tablespoons olive oil
1 lb ground beef
1 large onion, chopped
4 garlic cloves, diced
2 carrots, shredded
2 celery ribs, chopped
1 can diced tomatoes
1 can tomato sauce
1 can corn kernels
5 cans beans, all rinsed and drained*
1/4 cup taco seasoning
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Directions
1.  In a large pan over medium-high heat, cook beef brown throughout.
2.  Put the beef in the stock pot along with everything else.  Stir it all together.
3.  Cook on low for 6-8 hours.
4.  Adjust spiciness by adding more cayenne pepper.

* I like to do 2 cans of pinto and 1 can of each black, garbanzo and kidney.

We eat this one of two ways.  First is in a bread bowl.  Second is over a baked potato.  In both cases, we add a generous dollup of sour cream and sprinkle with shredded cheddar cheese and chives.  Enjoy!

Top of the Morning

I'm not Irish. I'm a mutt with lots of euro-ancestors, German, Scottish, but not Irish. Thankfully on St. Patrick's Day, we all get to be Irish! I got my green on. Last night I made two traditional Irish foods - corned beef and soda bread. (The beef is from Grandpa Ed's farm.) The recipes are below. We also had cauliflower-gratin because Jeremy and Jordan aren't fans of cabbage. I suppose potatoes would be more fitting, but we don't have any left (the voles ate most of our potato crop last year).

Corned Beef

16 oz beef brisket

6 c water

1 Tbs mustard seeds

1 tsp salt

1 tsp sugar

1/2 tsp pepper

1/2 tsp ground ginger

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp ground allspice

1/4 tsp ground cloves

2 bay leaves

Place all in a large, heavy pot, cover and bring to boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until cooked through - about 1 to 1 1/2 hrs. Remove meat and let it rest for 10 before cutting. Serve with some of the liquid for pouring over.

Brown Soda Bread

Cooking spray

2 ½ c whole-wheat flour

½ c all-purpose flour

½ c steel-cut oats

2 T brown sugar

1 T wheat germ

1 t baking soda

1 t baking powder

½ t salt

2 c low-fat buttermilk

1 large egg, lightly beaten

Preheat oven to 325 F. Coat a loaf pan with cooking spray. Line pan with parchment paper and coat the paper with cooking spray. Combine flours and the next 6 ingredients (through salt). In a separate bowl, combine buttermilk and egg; pour into flour and stir until just combined. Spoon batter into prepared loaf pan. Bake 1 hour and 5 minutes or until toothpick test comes out clean. Invert bread on a wire rack; cool completely. Remove parchment paper and slice.

Loose Cow

On my way home from work, I came to the intersection of 10th and 199th. From that stop light I can see Grandpa Ed's house and farm. Today I noticed lots of cars at weird angles up ahead, completely blocking both lanes. As I was sitting there watching I realized the cars were corralling a large cow. "OH crap! One of Grandpa Ed's cows must have gotten out."

I drove up to the situation and weaving around cars to get into Ed's driveway with the intention of letting him know his cow was out. While I was pulling into his driveway, he was pulling out of the drive to the barn in his white pickup (circa 1975). He slowly drove towards the cow, pushing it down the road to a pullout and gate to his pasture. I turned around and follow the pickup; parking side long by the pullout to help block the cow in.

Opening the car door and hoping out, I sunk into the soft grass and mud realizing I was in heels, suit pants and a long wool jacket. Not exactly cow wrestling gear. Grandpa Ed was getting out too, wearing work pants and tall rubber boots; much more appropriate. Walking over the him, I eyed the cow and noticed that it was actually an 800 lb steer. My thought, "Holly Cow!" Grandpa Ed gave me a look of confusion until I said I was on my way home and happened to see the situation. Ed said we should get the steer into his pasture. But just then the steer made a break for the road.

Now, I am perfectly willing to jump in front of a sheep or pig, but there was no way on this green earth that I was going to jump in front of a huge, angry steer. Another man had driven up and waved his arms to try and stop the animal. Not surprisingly, that didn't work. The steer was back out on the road. A third man in a large diesel truck drove towards the steer pushing it back up the road to a gate on a the other side where yet another man was standing and let the steer in.

I asked Grandpa Ed if that is his cow and he said "No, it belongs in the pasture next to mine. People are renting that barn but they aren't there much. The steer got into my pasture a couple days ago. He must have found a way out to the road." I went to check if one of three guys standing by the gate where the steer had been let into a confined space happened to know the renters.

What a sight I must have been - thirty something woman in professional clothes, with mud on my heels, walking up to tell them something about a large steer. I started with "Ed is my husband's grandpa." (In a small town, relations equal instant acceptance.) They all thought the animal was Ed's and no one knew the renters; but the waving-arms-man headed up to check and see if anyone was there. Nope, no luck. Turned out that the pasture where the steer was currently trapped belonged to the diesel-truck-man's parents and he just happened to be there checking on the property since his folks were in Arizona. He said the steer could stay there until the renters could be contacted. "Or," I said off-hand, "We could call Wards." That got a chuckle. (Wards is one of local butchers.)

By the time I got back to Grandpa Ed's pasture to fill him in on the plan, he had retrieved wire and tools and was headed out to fix the fence where the steer had gotten out. I explained that the steer would stay where it was for now. He said good and walked off to complete his chore. I hollered after him, "Call Jeremy if you need help with the fence!" Seriously, the man is 92 years old!

Beef Broker

We don't raise beef, mostly because we don't have enough room but also because cows need serious fencing (see "The Great Escaping Cow" post). Jeremy's Grandpa Ed runs about 30 head of cattle in Ridgefield, which is roughly 15 miles east of us. We sell his beef; we are "beef brokers."

The eating-local movement isn't stronger anywhere else in the country than in Portland. Portlander's are willing to pay lots and lots for locally grown meat and eggs. Recently one of my coworkers said that she was paying $6 for a dozen eggs at the Farmer's Market. WOW! I'm not charging enough! Since all the people I work with know I have a farm they are constantly asking if we have meat to sell. Usually the answer is no. Generally we only have enough food for ourselves and my parents. But when Grandpa Ed is butchering we have lots of beef to sell.

This year 10 of my coworkers, plus our neighbors and some friends in town, wanted beef. Some wanted 1/4 of a cow - about 100 lbs - other just wanted a few cuts. All in all, I figured we could sell 2 whole cows. Jeremy called Grandpa Ed to "place an order".

Grandpa Ed is over 90 years old. He stays young because he just doesn't stop - "if you rest you rust" is a very true statement. He called a few weeks later saying that he messed up the order and we only get 1/2 a cow. That's only 200+ lbs of meat! No good! Fortunately people are very understanding and just happy to get any meat at all.

We don't mark up the cost, so people get the beef at about $2 per lb. That's a great price even compared to grocery store prices. These cows are all pasture-raised and well taken care of. I bet I could charge $8 per lb. But I'm selling to friends and people we spend lots of time with so I just can't bring myself to charging more. Maybe I'm too soft.

*Picture: Grandpa Ed and Jordan

Vacation

I asked Jeremy if Grandpa Ed ever took a vacation. He said, once. (Grandpa Ed is 90 years old and still runs 30 head of cattle in Ridgefield, WA.) Jeremy said it's because Grandpa Ed can't not work. Apparently while on vacation to his sister's house somewhere in the middle of the country (Iowa or Kansas or something), he built her a garage. I'm sure that Grandpa Ed's pension for working is one reason, but I think I know the other reason for not taking vacations.

Every summer we spend a week at my parents' lake cabin in eastern Washington. I grew up going to Bead Lake - spending almost every weekend there in the summers swimming, learning to water ski, hiking the hills - it was great fun. As an adult the best part of going to the lake, apart from the awesome family time, is that there is no cell phone service, no internet, no cable. I get to disconnect for a bit and just relax!

Until we moved out to the farm, leaving a house for a week meant putting a hold on the newspaper and mail and getting someone to check on the cats a couple of times during the week. On the farm it means something entirely different.

We can't just leave extra food and water out for the sheep. We can't leave eggs to pile up in the chicken coop. And there is no way I can relax worrying about coyotes or a lamb squeezing under the fence. We have to get someone to stay at the house for the whole time we are away.

This can't be just anyone either. I have to trust the person to take care of all the daily chores, be on alert for problems and know what to do if there is a problem. It's not like there are massive chores everyday. Most days I spend little more than a hour doing farm chores. But those chores have to be done.

Thankfully for the past two years my co-worker, Desiree, who grew up on a farm in central Oregon, has offered to farm-sit. She has a family and a job and a house of her own, but says she enjoys remembering all the farming activities and her kids love gathering eggs and petting the sheep. We have really lucked out! If Grandpa Ed had Desiree maybe he would have taken more vacations - even if he all he did was build garages.

(PS - Since we have no internet at the lake, I will be blog-free for the next 10 days. I have asked Desiree to keep track of her activities so I can post a good "while we were away" story.)

How we got here

I've been thinking about our move to the farm. It's strange how people's lives change. Some people grow together while some grow appart. And it's hard to know which you'll be.

Jeremy and I met in college. I was 19 and he was 20 - seems so very young! Both of us fitting the "starving college student" persona well; living off of fast food, top ramen and mac-n-cheese. It was a rare occassion when my roommates and I would make a home cooked meal. Jeremy and I never talked about farming or food or where we wanted to live - we were just in love and lovin it.

After college Jeremy got a job and I was accepted to graduate school in Portland, OR. My choice of appartment was solely on availablity and afforability. I moved to Northwest, which is very urban, to a tiny studio appartment. No need for a car. I could walk everywhere and where I couldn't walk to I took the bus. There were at least 10 bars within 10 block of my appartment. It was great fun. In fact, I could easily go back to living the completely urban lifestyle. But when we decided we were ready to get married and have kids, we got sucked into the American dream - house, 2-car garage, yard, etc. That meant moving to the suburbs. Battle Ground, Jeremy's home town, was close to Portland, had affoardable houses and it had a future grandparent (Jeremy's mom).

We lived in a rental, then bought our first house in suburbia. Both had large yards where I could garden. But we found that every weekend we really, really wanted to "get out of town". Camping, hiking, skiing, etc. We starting talking about buying some recreational property in the woods or at the beach - some place we could get away too. I didn't realize it at the time, but I hated living in suburbia. I had to drive everywhere, even just a few blocks to the grocery store. There were lots of neighbors. I didn't know any of them well, but I could hear them and see them. It wasn't relaxing being at home. I couldn't hang in my yard.

The other thing that was happening then was that Jeremy and I were becoming more intersted in food and where our food came from. We started buying beef from Jeremy's Grandpa Ed. Jeremy was always a hunter - deer and elk. We purchase a large freezer. I gardened more, started making jams. We started frequenting the farmer's market.

So we started considering two options: 1) buy 10 acres out in the woods for camping, hiking and hunting; or 2) buy property in the country to live on. We looked at both options. Both of us rely on our gut for these kind of things - probably not the most certain and safe approach but it has worked so far.

(This is where our lives could have easily either grown appart or together. We got lucky and we grew together.)

The third place we looked at was a dump. As we drove up the driveway, the land was a muddy mess with five horse trodding about. The garage was open with kids' toys, tools, lawn mower, etc. pouring out. The yard was cluttered with garden knick knacks. The real estate agent had to take us in through the down stairs door. Immediately dogs started barking and we were hit with the strong smell of dog pee. The dogs, five of them, were in cages by the back door. Two of the rooms downstairs had vissible mold on the walls. We walked up stairs. Clutter, laundry, toys, everywhere. The dishwasher was full, dirty and open. There were cobweds on the walls. A strong smell of artificial vanilla was trying to mask the dog pee, unsucessfully. A few of the rooms were so jammed with stuff we couldn't even enter. At this point, Jeremy and I were thinking - no way! Then we walked out onto the back deck.

It was cluttered too. But it provided a view of nearly all the property. The trees were amazing. It was quiet - country quiet where you hear animals and birds and a creek - it was peaceful. We both took a deep breath, releasing. Jeremy said, let's take another look. This time we walked through the house thinking - Is this cosmetic or structural? Can we fix it? The answer was, yes we can fix all of it. The price was really good too, which helped. We made an offer and moved in a few months later.

We had to rent a dumpster to dispose of all the crap they left behind. It took two years for the pasture to become somewhat healthy, although it is an ongoing process. Five years later the mold is gone (full gutting and redoing downstairs), carpet replaced to eliminate the dog pee smell, painting, etc. There are still many things to do but it is getting there. And every night, rain or sun, we spend a few minutes on the back deck taking deep breaths, releasing. And you know what, I rarely have a desire to "get out of town" because I live "out of town."

The Great Escaping Cow

June 2006

Jeremy's grandpa called on a Saturday and asked "Do you want a calf?"

Grandpa Ed lives about 10 miles away in Ridgefield on 38 acres. He runs about 30 head of cattle. His calves are born in January. Apparently one of the calves was a "bummer", which means the mother wouldn't feed. In this situation, your choices are bottle feeding or veal. This lucky calve got the first option. She grew up in the small "back yard" of Grandpa Ed house, fed by the neighbor girl. When it came time to wean the calf and turn her out to the pasture, she wouldn't go - she just kept coming back to the yard. So Grandpa Ed called us and asked if we could take her.

A single cow needs about 5 acres of good pature with a strong, electric fence. We have 3, 1-acre pastures; only one of which was in good shape that summer. We have wire fences in relative phases of needing to be replaced. And we had, at the time, an electric fence, but the battery was sitting in 2 inches of water and I wasn't sure if the fence had been run in the past 15 years. Are we gonna let all that stop us, no way!

Sunday, Jeremy took the truck, picked up his dad for extra muscle, and headed to Grandpa Ed's. He brought back the cutest little doe-eyed black angus calf. Plus, being raised by a little girl, the calf behaived like a family dog. She was about 50 lbs when they unloaded her to the south pasture and we spent the next few hours feeding her oats out of the palm of our hands. We named her Gladys.

The problem with calves, like all baby farm animals, is that they grow. Quickly. By the next summer we had a 400 lb cow on a one-acre pasture. And then we learned why they say "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence."

The first time she got out, I came home from the office with Jordan (3 years old) to find Jeremy in his suit and tie helping our neighbor unload Gladys from the truck back into the pasture. Apparently a wire fence with a mild electric charge doesn't pose much of an obstacle to a 400 lb cow intent on our neighbor's garden. I'm guessing, though I never had the guts to test this theory, that our electric fence had a charge that felt like static when you touch a metal door handle. This was also the day we met our neighbors - "Nice to meet you. Sorry our cow ate your peas."

Trying to get a full-grown cow to move, anywhere let alone onto a truck, is nearly impossible. Imagine pushing an SUV, in neutral, but that SUV has the ability to turn itself or hit the brakes. And it's 95 degrees outside.

The second time Gladys got out, we came home to her penned up in the wrong place - by the barn, not in the pasture. Our other neighbor Eric had to retrieve Gladys when she crushed the fence and headed back to "her" garden. I imagine she smooshed the fences much the same way I crush a stack of cardboard waiting to be recycled. It took Eric two hours to get Gladys into the truck.

By this time it was August. The grass that wasn't eatten to the dirt had stopped growing and she was consuming multiple bails of hay a week.

The third time she escaped - thankfully just to Eric's yard - we decided it was time for steak. We called for the "kill truck". After saying our goodbyes, I took Jordan and went shopping - there was no way I could be there when they shot her. Jeremy had to stay and it took a while for him to get over loosing our cow.

I miss the hand-feeding, that she came running to see you at the gate and her big brown eyes with long, long lashed. But the roasts, steak and hamburger are amazingly delicious!