Project Homestead

Honeybees, welcome home.

They came a week ago—all 10,000 of them—in a screened box. Their queen was hiding in plain sight, inside a small screened box of her own. Michael poured our new honeybees into their new top bar beehive on Sunday. And by Thursday, they had eaten through the candy plug to release her, and get to work.

And I mean work. Their family is only one-sixth the size they will be. Yet in four days, they'd built four bars' worth of virgin beeswax honeycomb. When we checked in on them, they were clinging to the comb they had built in a catenary curve, and moving over and under each other with ease. There's nothing frantic or frightening about it: Michael and our great beekeeping friend, Winnie, naturally wore mesh hoods when they opened the hive. But the boys and I can open the hive's back window anytime (with no protection at all) and take a peek ourselves.

Bringing home a colony of honeybees is hard to describe in the way bringing home a baby is. We have been planning for the arrival of these delicate little ones for months. But they are not cuddly and sweet and completely dependent on you. (And they don't grow up and help you tend to projects you all love.) They're the opposite, in many ways. From the get-go, they know where they live. They're already collecting plenty of nectar. They're making their own home.

Yet watching an intelligent, cooperative community thrive, when it can live as nature intended, is kind of awesome. These acrobats hover around blooming honeysuckle and again right outside their one-inch wide front door—telling the others where the good eats are. Honeybees each have their role, and they work together to keep the colony healthy. They're so good at it all that their sweet honey feeds us, too.

Truth is, they give me hope: Another living connection to all that grows in the ground reminds me that life is good. And bees are great.

For the love of (edible) perennials

 

Let me start by saying, please forgive me for my incredibly long absence. I could rack up the reasons (new jobs—two of them; sickness—we're all fine now; a delightfully warm and sunny spring—we skied in shorts and t-shirts on Easter, for crying out loud!). But I won't. Suffice it to say, I've been busy. And yet I've missed sharing the ongoing adventure with you all. I am back.

As the snow melted early here and the earth began to green up, I couldn't help but notice something shocking in the garden. The established rows of arugula—I planted Fedco's Sylvetta for the first time last spring—were busy growing just where I'd left them late last fall. I figured they'd re-seed; I'd heard they did so freely. I let them flower, and I collected their seeds at the end of the season. I couldn't help myself. This was the most wonderful arugula I'd ever eaten. Nutty, almost creamy, and delectably pungent, it actually beckoned me to the garden.

I'd even heard it would last well into the winter—with protection. That's why I was so surprised to see this crop crop up all on its own. It was just where I'd planted it last spring, established plants and many little green seedlings (from the re-seeding, I suppose). Of course, I didn't "protect" these greens with row covers or low hoops. I didn't even mulch them. I let them be and waited to see what would happen. Turns out, my Zone 5 location was protected enough to overwinter them without any effort at all. What a pleasant surprise to awaken to a beloved vegetable, ready to grow and eat within a few weeks of the snow's melt.

I can relate: I've felt a bit buried this winter. But deep roots and well-tended soil—feeling grounded, I realize now—makes all the difference. I can emerge from a long, winter's nap, ready to stretch up to the warm spring sunshine.  

knitting pretty

  

There comes a time in every parent's life when their children exceed them, as they should. It could be in their sense of generosity, their astounding memory, their ease with numbers, or their fearless approach to sliding down snowy mountains on skis.

Owen is six. And, for him, one such magical moment came a few weeks ago. "Mama, guess what! I finished my knitting needles today," he said, recalling highlights of an otherwise typical Wednesday. In the four years I've spent on the fringes of Waldorf early childhood classrooms, I have learned crafts I never dreamed possible: felting, sewing, embroidery, drawing, woodworking—singing, even. But one creative outlet had always eluded me, the one for which Waldorf kids are famous. Knitting. I told myself (giddily) that I would learn to knit when Owen did, in First Grade. And I couldn't wait.

So, on this December afternoon, Owen explained that he and his classmates had sharpened small dowels with pencil sharpeners. They sanded them so no splinters might snag delicate yarn, and they oiled them to preserve the wood. The final loving touch? He glued an acorn cap to the end of each needle to keep his work from sliding off.

I was so charmed that we made a pair just like them for home—and for me to practice with, when he's not here. We borrowed a great Kids Knitting book from the library, so even an inexperienced mother could catch on to casting on quickly. And we did. The pictures were easy to imitate, and Owen's keen memory and generosity guided me. We were both hooked. He'd knit for a while each day, and then take the little muslin drawstring bag into which we'd tucked his yarn and needles to bed with him. He knit by flashlight before bed and, again, when he woke up.

One morning, when Michael went in to wake up drowsy boys, I found him laying in the top bunk. While Owen knitted, Michael spun his skein of creamy yarn into a much more manageable ball. "It's addictive," he admitted. While I was busy trying not to drop stitches and ripping out all of my work when I did, Owen was knitting. Steadily.

A week or so later, my muse came downstairs from his afternoon rest and showed me the makings of a large-ish knitted rooster. (It was supposed to be a small square, sewn together, but he explained that he just couldn't stop.) Looking at the life he's given to one long strand of wool, all by himself, I felt such a gush of pride I nearly cried.

I didn't, though. I just took a few deep breaths, the kind of breaths that fill you to brimming when you  watch someone you love do something great. My sweet boy doesn't just know how to knit. He can repair his mistakes, with patience to spare. If I'm lucky, maybe he'll teach me how to pearl, next...

stacking wood

 

Woodstacking lends itself to folksy phrases (which I'll translate later). My favorite is the old dandy, "stack it loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." Perhaps it's because every step of the way—from cutting the timber, to splitting it, to hauling it, and, finally, stacking it—leather-gloved hands are handling the wood. And those hands have time to think.

Burning wood is said to warm you three times (splitting, stacking, carrying it inside to burn). In our case, it's four. We made a mistake of inexperience our first year, when we we ordered "seasoned" wood. It was supposed to have been dry, ready to burn, we thought. But it wasn't. Wet wood takes far more time (and cursing) to heat up. So, that year, we burned through far more fuel oil—our heating insurance. That lesson taught us to season it ourselves. That means we order our firewood at least a year in advance. We stack it once in a "fieldstack" back behind the house, where it dries in warm sunshine and cool breezes. By the time we're ready to stack it near the house, patience has turned what was green and damp a warm, silvery gray. Deep cracks through its ends, known as checks, reveal that it's ready to burn. Then, we stack it once more. 

Well, by we, I mean Michael. He's got a knack for spacial relations and details. So we specialize. I haul it. He stacks it. And here's where the folklore comes in. He tells me that he learned a lot of what he knows about burning wood—from BTU output to stacking to fire-starting—from the astonishing Woodheat.org. (Go there.) Stacking wood takes ample patience and a fair bit of problem-solving ability. But one good trick is to bookend each unsupported pile with the familiar "Lincoln Log" pattern. It's bomber.

From there, you can get fancy. We left our stack ends wide open in the middle (using two logs per row instead of three) to allow for even more airflow ... we were also getting tired. In fact, this is a great way to ensure that your well-dried, well-built pile stays put through the coldest days of winter. As for the rest of the pile, we stack it straight on, piece by piece. And we nestle the logs together with gaps that are "loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." In other words, no gaping holes. But airflow is key. Remember: Dry wood = hot fires.

Woodstacking is a rite of autumn around here. But, log by log, it's also one that feeds a tangible, monetary, sustainable fire. Once finished, Michael couldn't help grinning and taking deep breaths of satisfaction every time he looked out the window at our pile of winter heat, waiting to be burned.

I'm off to bed, and feed the woodstove...

stay in touch.

If you're here, I can't thank you enough for your support. Shepherding aside, we've got plenty of exciting homesteading projects in the hopper. [Apple picking and cider vinegar, wood stacking, and a pickled egg tutorial are coming soon.] Just enter your email address in the box to the right, then press the "subscribe" button. Instant inspiration—and connection! Thanks again for reading; we'll keep you posted...

Getting our goats. Someday.

 

Well, dear friends and family, despite your overwhelming support, kindness, and more than 300 votes, I have some disappointing news: We did not win a starter flock of angora goats. Thanks to you, our essay  earned the 11th largest number of votes among 49 worthy contest entries in Martha's Vineyard Fiber Farm's great Goat Giveaway. We can't thank you enough.

Truth be told, I'm actually OK with it. There's plenty of fall gardening yet to do. We're keeping a watchful eye on this year's chicks (now four months old), who just moved into the henhouse with our big girls. A few pecks aside, they seem to be getting along well. Besides, it's apple pressing time here. I'm itching to try my hand at making apple cider vinegar and, if I'm feeling really oatsy, a foray into hard cider. Both make good use of the fruit from our solid but less than scrumptious old apples trees.

Possibility is a heady thing. Word was still spreading about our goat project while we buzzed around the Common Ground Fair late last month. With each friend we ran into who told us, "I voted for you and asked my friends to, too!,"  I couldn't help but feel like we'd already won—with the warm wishes from all of you behind us.

We were quizzing everyone we could about goats in general and mohair in particular, when we met possibly the most entertaining breeder/lover/dealer of angora goats in Maine. Pogo of Friends' Folly Farm, whose own hair curls a lot like the little one's above, assured us how delightful angoras are to have around. Who knows, maybe we'll become shepherds yet one day.

It's a cozy comfort indeed to know just who to call when we're ready to dive in, head first.

Fairly full from Common Ground

I just returned from a glorious, enriching day of lapping up organic living and growing in Unity, Maine, home of the Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association. The group's annual Common Ground Fair is so full of information, friends and amazing food, I left feeling full to bursting. Here's what I can remember...

• Angora goats are “addictive.”
• Organic, locally grown fair food is VERY expensive.
• The Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association, a.k.a. MOFGA, is magic: Its fair is simultaneously down-home and ethereal.
• Young bulls are called bullocks.
• Who needs roller coasters, when kids can slide down a grassy hill, using only cardboard, for two hours and 17 minutes?

• Top-bar beehives give bees room to build honeycomb in the size they naturally need. Some beekeepers plant lavender and thyme beneath their hives to keep mites at bay.
• If you have a cordless drill, you can whip amendments into worked soil with the nifty Tilther from Johnny’s Selected Seeds. 
• I pine for Johnny’s Six Row Seeder.
• “Chestnut” crab apples are sweet, juicy and bright; the perfect size for little hands or a few big bites.
• Apples are the most interesting fruit I know.
• You can make fire by rubbing two sticks together … after tying a basic bow, carving a peg to rub in a whittled plank, and kneeling very carefully while rubbing furiously. Having a friendly Maine Guide nearby is a big help.

• Sheep are far easier to herd than goats. Sheepdogs have an easier time doing it than kiddos.
• Spinning wool is a quiet art; spinning "in the grease" works wonders on dry winter hands.
• “Fingers look like carrots” to livestock.
• Friendships made in the course of pursuing your passions are lasting and real.
• Forests selectively harvested and replanted with varying species are less stressed than single-species stands of timber.
• Hula hoops whirl around hips longer if you stand with one foot in front of the other, spread apart a bit. If you can manage it, your kids will cheer.
• You can live without cell phone service for an entire day.
• Garlic is easy to grow in fertile soil (6 inches apart on 12-inch rows). Hardneck varieties are easier to peel than softnecks. Curing bulbs in a dry place will help them store them well for months.
• Abundance is all around us.

It's time to harvest just about everywhere. Eat up, and enjoy.

Vote for Goats!

Goat heaven.

There comes a time in a homesteader's life when a dream (of raising friendly livestock) and chance (the possibility of winning a herd of goats!) overlap. That's just what happened when a dear friend forwarded me word of the amazing Goat Giveaway from Martha's Vineyard Fiber Farm and its uncommonly generous owner, Susan. Our essay is in—and we can use all the help we can get. In a hurry? VOTE for us here. If you've got a moment, read on...

Here's what I wrote:

When our young family settled in coastal Maine five years ago, we did so with an eye toward planting some deep roots—and tapping into a simple, grounded life we always wanted.

We feel blessed to have found a 7-acre property that flanks a sunny four-acre fresh water pond and a broad hill covered with shrubs, maples and white pines that shelter us long after other trees have turned in for the winter. Our log cabin overlooks our chicken coop, which we built ourselves near the house to make daily visits to our dozen “girls” easy. (Our two boys collect most of the eggs.) We also tend to a productive hillside berry and vegetable garden and small orchard. We plan to welcome our first batch of bees next spring. And I’m sewing a lot of my family’s clothes.

We couldn’t have imagined how quickly we’d take to it all. Now we can’t imagine living any other way.

That’s because we found a clutch of good friends here who build, bake, knit, sew, quilt, felt, grow and raise as much as they can themselves. Luckily, they are happy to share what they know with us. We buy raw milk from dairying friends. We all raise backyard chickens (and a few sheep). A few garden year-round in hoop-houses. And we stitch handmade birthday presents for all of our little ones. When I brought it up, the idea of this contest was so exciting that a handful of friends jumped at the chance to form a “village” that would help raise (shear, feed and pet) this wooly herd.

We’re not sure if it will be a cooperative, a collective, or a CSA like yours, but our goal is the same. We want to share with others the experience of raising and caring for animals that nourish us, our families and our crafts. We have the land and the animal know-how. Others have skills to help us erect the shed that will house the flock. Still others have spun and dyed yarn. Most are knitters, crafters and mothers.

The longer we’ve lived here, the more we feel empowered to see the possibilities of what we can do with what we have—and how rewarding those accomplishments can be. I even started a blog to keep track of it all. It’s called Project Homestead. (Not all of this is new to me, though. I grew up riding and caring for my family’s horses, and rising before the sun to milk our Nubian goats. My sisters and I loved everything about them—from bottle-feeding our first kid, to their velvet-soft ears and their winsome souls.) So when we added chickens to our family last year, we all knew we were onto something. Caring for animals who help care for us is a cycle that feels organic, in the deepest way.

That cycle is what grounds us and our boys to this place we love to call home. And we think your beautiful goats would feel happy and at home here, too. In fact, our young would-be shepherds have a few ideas of their own.

“I would like to give our goats leaves and carrots and peanut butter crackers,” explained three-year-old Caleb, who often upends his bike and pretends it’s a spinning wheel. After hearing this, Owen, who is 6, agreed (what’s not to love about peanut butter crackers?). He continued: “I’d like to have goats because they would be fun to be with. I would like to help take care of them. And feed them. And give them love.”

We all would, more than anything.

Thanks so much for considering us for your unbelievably generous gift.

Fondly,

Victoria, Michael, Owen and Caleb Stefanakos

Freeport, Maine

Of course, there are DOZENS of other knitters, spinners and animal lovers who also entered the contest. To help them choose, the grassroots Fiber Farm has asked its devoted readers and supporters to vote for their favorite essay. We'd love it if you'd take a minute to support us, The Stefanakos Family shepherds, by clicking on the star at the bottom of our essay. Please vote only ONCE, as folks clogging the works get disqualified.

Thanks SO much for your support. I'll keep you posted.

(really) handmade ice cream

I've been known to eat a fair bit of ice cream. So much, in fact, I was shocked to realize sometime in high school that a pint of coffee Häagen-Dazs was not created solely for me, to finish in one sitting. After all, it took a while for the solid mass to soften just enough that a spoon could slide into the creamy moat growing around the frozen edge. And by then, the container was nearly empty anyway...

This admission explains why I consider it my duty to help replenish the world's ice cream supply. And once Owen and I made this delicious, beautifully simple, vanilla version in 30 minutes, with nothing more than Ball jars, ice cubes, pickling salt, and a few stirs, I was convinced I could do it over and over again.

We got the idea from the brilliant River Cottage Family Cookbook (the recipe is below, with a few tiny tweaks). I recommend the book for anyone who likes to cook real, whole food and understand how fresh ingredients work together. It's instructive without being overly simple or, worse, condescending. And if you have kids, it's a no-brainer. Wander over to your local library and borrow it, or buy it at once.

This recipe is so fun because it's human powered and requires no cooking (that's a bonus on hot day). It's also a great excuse to use fresh cream skimmed from my friends' raw whole milk, good sugar and today's ripe berries. Then there's the chemistry: Ice isn't cold enough, long enough, to freeze cream solid. Toss in some salt, though, and voila! (By the ocean, we know firsthand that while fresh water freezes at 32 degrees F, saltwater freezes at much lower temperatures. So, by adding salt, the temperature of the ice drops quickly—and is happy to freeze jars of cream and sugar while it's at it.)

To get going, here's all you'll need:

• 2-3 Tbsp. well-chilled heavy cream (we used 4 or so Tbsp. with fine results)
• Flavoring, such as vanilla extract, 2 or 3 strawberries, 2 tsp. of your fave jam, a little melted chocolate
• 2 tsp. confectioner's sugar
• Clean half-pint Ball jar with lid, 5 cups ice cubes straight from the freezer, 1 cup of salt (we used plain, cheap pickling salt), and a heavy metal pan (we used an enameled cast iron stock pot) with a lid.

What you do:

1. Spoon the cream into the clean jar. Add your favorite flavoring: For vanilla ice cream, add a few drops of the vanilla extract; for strawberries, crush them until they're runny and stir them in, or mix in 2 tsp. of good jam; for chocolate, stir in melted chocolate. Add the sugar.

2. Screw the lid tightly. Place the jar in the fridge while you sort out the ice and salt.

3. Get the ice from the freezer. The ice should be as cold as possible. If that sounds a bit silly, remember that the temperature of ice can vary a lot. Straight from the freezer, it could be as low as 14 degrees F. Ice that's been sitting around in a bowl and is just beginning to melt will be only 30 or 28 degrees F. Put the ice and salt into the container and mix them together well. The temperature of the ice will fall rapidly.

4. Make a well in the ice mixture. Take the jam jar out of the fridge and stand it in the well. Put the lid on the container and let it stand somewhere cool. (I put our pot back in the freezer.)

5. After 10 minutes, take off both lids and carefully stir the cream mixture, making sure you don't get any of the salt in it. It will have turned very cold but it won't have started to freeze yet. Replace the lids. Repeat this stirring process at 10-minute intervals until the cream turns to ice cream. It will do this quite suddenly, so be ready.

6. This makes a small amount of ice cream, just right for a single cone or to sandwich between a couple of wafers. You could use a bigger pan and add more jam jars. Just keep the proportions of ice to salt the same. (Note: We made eight jars' worth in two pans, and I plan to experiment to see how full we can make each jar. See full explanation of my weakness above...)

Enjoy.

a fine day's rest

I tend to fill most free time with activity, like switching loads of laundry or planting neglected leek seedlings, or chicken tending or sewing (just one more seam!). But on my birthday, yesterday, I took a detour: I decided to simply recline. In every way. I let dear friends plan. I packed no lunches. I watched boys entertain themselves on the beach. And, I must say, it got me to thinking how restorative such rest days can be. DOING at all times takes doing. For those of us with unfinished gardens and dishes, not to mention conscientious lives to attend to—all of us, that is—being does, too.

After such a fine day, I remember now that doing nothing is worth the effort. Gazing, lazily, at trees jutting out of the endless blue makes the forest that much easier to see, once back home. Of course, bare feet, sand, and ample sunshine (following weeks of wool socks, mud and rain) may have improved my vision a bit.

Repeat after me: Take a load off... The weeds won't mind a bit.