The simple fact is that right now, in a courthouse 30 miles from where I sit, a farmer is on trial for selling his products to informed, consenting consumers.  Let me say that again.  A peaceful man performed a trade that’s been collectively recognized as legitimate and vital for the last 12,000 years. Informed persons, not able to perform that same trade themselves, not only sought out his product, but went out of their way to procure it for themselves and their families.  To say that they gave their consent is to make an understatement of grand proportions.

Because that product was unprocessed milk, a substance treated as illicit in the state of Wisconsin, that peaceful farmer finds himself in the Sauk County courthouse facing up to 30 months in jail and fines upwards of $10,000.  But technically this case isn’t about milk – raw or otherwise.  He’s being tried for operating without the proper licenses.  The fact that a farmer can not get a license to sell raw milk to informed, consenting individuals in the state of Wisconsin has to be danced around in that courtroom, as all mention of raw milk has been strictly prohibited by pre-trial hearings.  Every time the subject comes up, the jury is ushered out of the room, a sad parade that’s happened about a dozen times so far in the trial, reports say.

You may, like the majority of consumers, find the notion of exposure to raw milk a risk you’re not willing to take. But don’t think for even a second that this case doesn’t have bearing over what you put onto your plate.  Even if you have no desire whatsoever for raw milk, I implore you to ask why you have lost the right to make that choice for yourself.  The authorities cite safety and consumer protection as their justification for the criminalization of failure to pasteurize dairy products.  And rightfully so, even raw milk advocates contend, when talking about the centralized system of dairy distribution that commingles milk from a multitude of herds and geographical regions.  There would be no possible way to ensure the safety of that milk without pasteurization.  It would indeed be criminal to slip raw milk into that mix, unbeknownst to consumers and regulators alike.  For that protection, I am grateful.

But I choose not to buy milk from the status quo dairy supply chain.  You see, I witness on a daily basis the difference that fresh air, sunshine, grass, and bugs make in the quality of my eggs.  I’m far from alone in this; I daresay anyone who’s ever compared true farm fresh, free-range eggs to mainstream factory-produced ones can attest to the dramatic differences in taste and color.  The same is true for milk.  Grassfed milk bears little comparison to the grocery store variety.  The color is different; literally “cream” in color, like the pale-yellow-tinged paint chip by the same name, not the snow-white commodity in the pint cartons bearing the prefix “whipping.”  I was shocked to discover cream that was actually cream-colored!  And the taste?  It is so good that I jump through great hurdles, at great expense, to procure a regular supply for my family.  The flavor of unheated milk is matchless, we think, and we’ve become a house full of regular milk-drinkers.  And because this milk has not been heat-treated, it retains the vast portfolio of vitamins, minerals, enzymes (proteins) so carefully balanced by Mother Nature.  Because the milk has not been homogenized, I’m able to skim off the decadent cream for our morning coffee or to make my own sour cream.  And bacteria?  We understand that by foregoing the process of pasteurization, we are risking exposure to a whole laundry list of potentially dangerous microorganisms.  No one will deny that risk.  But it’s a risk I personally mitigate by looking my dairy farmer in the eye on a regular basis.  By visiting the farm, observing the condition of the cows, even casually.  Most importantly, I trust my farmer, whose family enjoys the same milk I do, whose credibility and competence I’ve vetted for myself.

We believe that raw milk, specifically grassfed raw milk, is the best choice for our family.  The State of Wisconsin and the dairy industry, among other giants, assert that it’s just not safe for me to make that choice.  “Father knows best” might as well be the slogan for this governmental oversight. Raw milk advocates have mounted scientifically quantifiable evidence to support their claims just as the opposing regulatory and industry factions have done.  Still, a learned person is not authorized to make the decisions about what ultimately shows up on their plate.  “Trust Father!” the machine chants.  “Anyone who doesn’t is in the lunatic fringe!”

But Father – my mother remembers when you advised against breastfeeding, my sister received vaccinations mandated by you that were later pulled off the market for safety reasons.  We are constantly bombarded with recalls of food linked to disease outbreaks, food regulated under your “safety” umbrella.  Your promises of food safety are nothing more than a mirage.

Father – your safety record is abysmal!  Why, exactly, should I trust you?  It seems like you’ve already got enough oversight responsibilities on your plate.  The truth is, you can’t guarantee the safety of our food; no one can.  You can promote truth in labeling.  You can mandate good practices, but you can’t do so with a one-size-fits-all glove.  You can encourage informed consent.  You can cover your ass with a simple disclaimer and then get the hell out of my kitchen.

You are already in the business of doing this, Father!  It is not possible for me to accidentally order sushi (raw meat) or un-cooked or under-cooked meat in a restaurant without being reminded of the risk of food-borne pathogens.  Every menu offering meat cooked to order, by your law, bears a disclaimer.  Yet you still allow me to make that choice.  You allow me to buy raw meat from the supermarket – how can you possibly be sure that I’ll cook it properly or in time?  You can’t. That is not, in fact, your responsibility.  Your responsibility ended after you warned me – from then on, my safety was up to me.  And cigarettes, which you allow me to buy, albeit warned, though there is no lingering doubt that they contain carcinogens?  That is freedom, even if it’s one I choose not to enjoy.

To be absolutely clear, this is not about trying to convert anyone to the Church of Raw Milk.  Drink it or not, I could care less.  Raw milk is merely a canary in the coal mine.  This is about the simple human right to feed oneself and one’s family.  Most of us delegate the physical work of doing so to others, compensating them with money just as we are compensated for our own specialized work.  It is, in fact, illegal for most of us to do so – to raise our own chicken, or eggs, or meat – because of zoning restrictions.  Is it legal where you live to keep a laying hen? If you wanted to, would you be allowed to butcher your own chicken? We are losing the freedom to feed ourselves as we see fit. 

That just plain makes me angry, Father.

We hopped in the car and headed out to do a little pig shopping one day not so long ago.  Window shopping, you might call it, whereby you hone in on the specifics of what you want but plan to pull out your wallet on a different day.

Hone in we did, all right.  On our list of pig must-haves: floppy ears, the kind which must be physically held back to reveal the pig eyes lurking beneath.  Lard.  An insatiable hunger for grass and food that is green.  A preference for an outdoor lifestyle.  An easy-going, docile attitude.  (must like kids) Black body color, most likely.

There are not yet pigs on Five Green Acres, but Folks – it’s just a matter of time.

Sometimes love just isn’t enough, is it?  Last week found us teary-eyed and bereft as we drove clear across the state and broke up with our dog.  Oh, Olive.  It was alarming and then heartbreaking to realize the relationship between her and the family was not a healthy one, but when the realization hit, it rang with such truth that there was little doubt in what we must do.  We needed to give her up.  Olive needed to be placed with a person, not a family, especially not one with young children.  She needed to be able to exercise her magic power freely – lavishing intense devotion on her chosen person.  Why that person was, for her brief stay, me…I’ll never know.  If anyone deserved the caliber of loyalty that she bestowed, it was Andrew.  It surely wasn’t me.  Andrew drove clear across the state to pick her up last October, brought her to deer camp to be his companion for the weekend in November, tried desperately to get her to understand that she was to be his dog.  But it was a classic love triangle.  He loved her, she loved me, I was running all over crazy tending to the house, livestock, children, (not in that order) not pausing to sit down for a dog snuggle till bedtime.  All of my daytime embracing goes to the kids, in order of shortest to tallest.  She became mad with jealousy.  All of my evening embracing goes to the Mister.  She became mad with jealousy.  Of course I loved her, and tried much harder to give her what she needed – we all tried so hard to accommodate her – but it wasn’t enough.

It reached a boiling point last week and the sub-current of mounting anxiety burst through to the forefront.  Per the terms of our adoption contract, she was to be returned to the rescue organization that liberated her from her breeding kennel.  We were relieved to hear they had a waiting list of folks hoping to be matched with a French Bulldog like her, and the news of a potential match with an older single woman who had just lost her longtime bulldog companion bolstered our conviction that holding on to her in our mediocre setting was keeping her from someone else who was waiting for her.  Someone who needed her.

It was a long, long drive to return her.  She rode beside me as I bawled intermittently for nearly three hours.  Then, when it was time to hand her over, she went willingly and without any signs of stress.  As we drove away, the front seat now empty, we sailed back across the state on that wave of relief borne from doing the right thing, no matter how hard.

Hey local folks!  Two exciting chicken announcements have been in the works for the last several weeks and I’m excited to make them both public today.

Five Green Acres Pastured Chicken is now available for pre-order!

Harvest Day is Sunday, June 2 – plan to pick up your pre-ordered birds or cuts and join us in the Harvest Potluck Celebration.  Easy pre-order on the Pastured Chicken page.

2-Day Chicken Butchering Workshop now open for registration.

Hands-on workshop takes you through each of the steps of safely processing your own backyard chicken, whether they’re broilers or stew hens.  Workshop includes over 8 hours of guided instruction, offering each participant experience in every step of the process, 4-6lbs of chicken to take home, and a comprehensive reference handbook detailing the process and sources for tools/materials.  Class limited to 8 participants and pre-registration is required.  Find all the details and registration info on the Chicken Butchering Workshop page.

It is thrilling to be able to offer these chicken resources to the greater Madison community.  Hope to see/meet you there!

Just this morning I learned of the tragic death of Kathreen Ricketson and her partner Rob while on their year-long family sabbatical in Australia.  Kathreen was, among so many things, the creator of the WhipUp site that I had the privilege of contributing to in April.  My heart breaks for their children.  It comes as no surprise, though, that the outpouring from the greater craft community has been huge; a trust fund has been established for the children – details can be found here.

It’s yet another jolting reminder to gather close the ones you love, as if there haven’t been enough of those lately.  But more than that, Kathreen and Rob stand as a shining examples of the courageous few with the tenacity to follow their internal compass.  Their sabbatical began in January, after the family had rented out their home, pared down their belongings to what would fit into their travel camper, and set out to “reconnect as a family and slow down our life.”  All reports from Kathreen since January had affirmed the family’s tremendous success in doing so.  They were in the thick of it – of LIFE – and, man, it sounded like quite a ride.  It is monumentally tragic that their journey ended as it did, that the children are now forever without them, but I can’t help thinking of how much more tragic this story would be if they had never set out on this adventure.  She left us with little doubt that they were exactly where they wanted to be, doing exactly what was right for their family.

This is what I hope to remember most about Kathreen.  That woman, that family knew how to live.  And the courage she demonstrated by doing so shines like a beacon for the rest of us trying to make sense of our own internal callings.  Godspeed, Kathreen.

Let the records show that Isadora has started her first business, an egg business.  Given her penchant lately for all things “club” and paying homage to the “Lovely Ladies” moniker she bestowed upon the flock 5 1/2 years ago, we’ve decided to call it The Lovely Ladies’ Egg Club.  It’s a chance for her to have some honest responsibility, with much guidance, and a chance to earn some money.  So many areas to explore here – money management, customer service, chicken management, supply and demand, inventory control.  May it flourish and inspire other ventures as she grows.

“What a remarkable way for this land to provide,” Andrew exclaimed after returning with a limit of trout caught the morning of the season’s opener.  Accompanied by his eager apprentices, he won us a trout dinner in less than a half hour.  Remarkable, indeed.  We are so grateful to this land and to the vibrant brown trout who we count among our neighbors.

With the help of my two Trusty Transplanters, we began filling the greenhouse shelves with the sprouts that had outgrown their humble beginning under my bathroom lights.  I may have jumped the gun on moving the teeny-tiny tomato starts – I think many of them were not quite strong enough to weather the shock of transplanting – they now lay limp and forlorn.  But at this time of year, the urgency of every item on the To-Do list seems to flash by like a comet.  Best to grab it by the tail as it races by or you’ll spend a lot of time chasing after it.

And a cold frame!  Finally!  I have been meaning to get one going for ages now.  The hunger for fresh greens propelled me out to the garage one day with a Cold-Frame-Or-Bust attitude.  I was fiercely determined not to bust.  It took most of the day to corral the random pieces of barn wood and discarded windows, to fire up the power tools.  The resulting frame is not a marvel of carpentry….or even very well made, but hot damn – those are lettuce sprouts in there!  Success!

Lovely Camille

Handsome Mr. Munson

Munson and Clarisse, the only veteran mama to lamb this year. I hope she’s packing triplets in there.

Ooooooooooh, Sweet Billy!

Sheep yawn, part 1.

Sheep yawn, part 2.

Sheep yawn, part 3.

The thrilling conclusion of the sheep yawn

Turks make good neighbors.

In a much-anticipated move, the sheep were reunited with the pasture this Saturday.  And the whole crowd cheered.

On Friday night we huffed and we puffed and we brought home our piano.  Our living room is complete; I smile each and every time I walk through the room, still shocked to have realized this lifelong desire.  We have a piano.

No, none of us play.  Officially.  But it’s getting plenty of play time, even out of tune as it is.  It is old and beautiful and substantial and it wasted no time at all fitting in perfectly.  I recognize it as a fantastic tool for learning, very visually, how music theory works.  In addition to its status as an instrument, of course.   I can’t wait to learn it all myself.

Last night it became the site of a spontaneously-composed score for a play that Isadora conceived for us all.  It was an instrumental play, set to the intuitive playing of Isadora except while she took the stage as the young girls who find themselves attacked by zombies.  Zombie 1 was played by Errol, perfectly, and Zombie 2 was played by me, but I needed much coaching to arrive at the perfect zombie gait.  Could I please try to model my movement more closely after Errol’s zombie? the director tactfully asked. He graciously coached me on the spot. More like a stiff-legged toy soldier, less like a Thriller extra.  Got it.   Captain Daddio was the priest who presided over the funerals of the zombie victims and I was also the lone mourner. All of this took place in a haunted house.  (gosh, we love the Halloween theme around here)

The moment Isadora hit the opening notes – an eerie rendition of a clock striking midnight – I knew the piano had just paid for itself tenfold, even if the total cost was only $10 and a chicken dinner to compensate our movers.