Freshly picked farmers

A fabulous morning at Bream Creek Farmers Market with bread just baked, apples just picked and coffee just brewed.  With a shared small blueberry and almond tart on a picnic table, what could be better.  The market is gearing up for its annual ball, the Bream Creek Show.  The animal nursery got a dress rehearsal today with guinea pigs and ducklings getting a rough going over by some small and cautious hands.  The white Silkie chicken just looked plain annoyed - as they often do.  The green hills around in all directions provide a watercolour landscape with a soft haze on an Autumn, feels like end of Summer, kind of day.  A guitar plugged in and a smooth voice provides warmth for the soul while beanbags offer comfort for the rear.  A bottle or two from the local winery and a trolley full of gatherings are loaded into the back of the car, and home to enjoy the bounty.  It's not quite Easter yet but the freshly baked hot cross buns have no hope of going past Labour Day.  These buns were light, with some spice and no traces of hard orange rind bits.  They were baked from beginning to end by the same person as opposed to the factory kind that start life as a pre-mix then are transported to an outlet who only finish them off in an oven.  That's the one thing I love about farmers market, it's the real deal.  The apple lady said that her apples were chemical free, and the tiny grub graffiti was the stamp of authenticity to that.  If you can, support your local farmers market at every opportunity.  There's nothing par baked about them.

That's not busy...this is busy

We've been so busy on the farm the last few weeks it's been hard to find time to sit down and write.  I'm already hearing the BS detector go kapoing as I write this.  I can't really call myself busy when our little farm yard family are always at work.  Our chooks never take a day off.  They're up as soon as head rooster blasts them out of the pen and they don't stop until the sun sets and he says it's ok to go to bed.  They even forgive me when I'm late with the chook feed and come racing up to me with the oldest of the Wyandottes standing on my foot looking up as if to say 'where the bloody hell have you been?' I apologize and get last night's pasta out on the ground as quick as I can.  Whilst I was off being busy the apples trees have fruited their best to date with the green granny smith variety in bunches of two and three, and mostly free of moth and grub confinement.  A big thank you goes out again, to our chicken community.  I haven't had time to pick the capsicum and the plant now resembles a little christmas tree trimmed with dangling red ornaments like lanterns.  I know I need to get to the basil plant as it threatens the end of abundance with the seed flowers appearing with their mini wedding bouquet flowers.  I'll get to them and a pesto sauce will result with some recently salvaged almonds that the green parrots so kindly left for me.  Garden produce waits for no man, woman or chicken.  It's ready when it's ready and if you're not ready it's gone.

The Apple doesn't fall far from the crumble

I hand wrote out the Sally Wise Apple Crumble Recipe off the website.  If it's one thing I can't seem to master it's cooking from a computer.  I've got enough flour and nut particles lodged in my ipad device to cause considerable concern to a whole raft of food allergy suffers.  So resorting to the old methods I took great pleasure in spending a sunny afternoon picking apples from our variety unknown trees.  One of the trees only produces in green and is intending to stay that way so we'll call them Granny Smiths for the sake of a name.  This year we  pruned and watered, and the chooks put in a tireless effort in scratching for bugs and insects at the base of the tree.  And with much combined success this year we've been fruitful.  The odd grub has managed to somehow distract a scrounging chook and scurry up the tree but we can live with that by surgical removal.  Our local possum life have set off my car alarm in the middle of the night in the hope of bounding off the roof into the tree only to most likely be flung across the driveway with fright.  So the finished apple crumble was warmly welcomed with a large spoonful of vanilla ice cream melting across the top.  And using your own produce just makes it  feel all the more special.  Now I just need to conquer the almond tree before the green parrots do.

When you're a Jet

This is Harold.  He's one of the previous batch of chicks born and bred on our property.  We know he's a he because he acts like one, and the crowing was a bit of a give away.  Harold is a loner.  He won't assimilate with the rest of the chicken family.  He's broken away into his own gang and recruited a couple of the younger hens into his posse.  He's always in trouble and is constantly chased by Cyril our team leader rooster who pulls him by his feathers but cannot get him to join the group.  Cyril storms off spitting white down all the way back to the hen house.  We attempted to move Harold on before we even knew he was a Harold.  He was destined to move with three other chicks to a family nearby whose kids were excited about their new pets.  Harold busted out and took off before we could get him on the bus.  He trusts no one since that day.  He's cuts a lonely figure in the yard, living by his own rules.  If I found cigarette buts behind the fishing shed I'd suspect Harold.  His gang hang around as opposed to the energetic foraging done by the others.  They hang out in trees and look down on the others.  Their request for a pool table has been denied.  I'm not sure about Harold's future if the rumbles continue.  I've seen the likes of Harold's along the edge of highways.  They ignore the rattle and thunder of the early morning traffic as if they've turned their backs on civilisation.  They're chicken outlaws.  Prone to holding up wagon trains I suspect.  We can only hope that one day he'll grow up and turn out to be fine upstanding rooster as the others are.  Failing that we'll have a chicken stomping around our property in a leather jacket.

Shoulda listened to your nanna

The life we have selected for ourselves on our small parcel of food producing land is not entirely one of self sufficiency but certainly can head towards it.  Each time I pick a vegetable from the garden and use it in my cooking I give myself a congratulatory pretend gold star.  I high five myself ever so discreetly when I've denied a supermarket at least the cost of this home grown, transported and consumed item.  When I've used more than one ingredient from our trial and error planted offerings I'm at the point of a warm glow inside equal to at least a large purple elephant stamp on my homework.  Whilst joyful of frugalness of a few less items bought in the weekly shop is great, we are a long way off avoiding the shop altogether.  We can't grow toilet paper and sewing my own anything is a craft yet to be acquired.  The ability to make do, repair, recycle and reuse is a whole new hessian bag of skills that needs to be learned as I'm probably part of the first generation that lost it.  The life I am so keen to emulate is nothing more than what my ancestors were very familiar with. They didn't grow up on a farm, but they grew lots of what they ate, and made mostly what they wore. They chopped wood for fires, ate meat that was local and baked their own for birthdays, babies and special events.  They didn't need to learn, they were essential life skills that were taught.  My grandmother (pictured on the left, not sure who the scary woman is with the bird on her shoulder but I suspect it's Jack Sparrow's mother) would roll on the floor laughing if she knew what we didn't know today. Basics like baking, sewing, knitting..err, polishing etc.  So while I'm quietly smug about my non consumer achievements I'm just relearning what was already learnt many years ago.

No, doesn't look straight to me...

Animals interact with us all the time. Sometimes we notice it more than others.  They interact with each other in their own silent world.  But today I could do with some less interaction and a little more silence. There is a thunderstorm outside.  The sky went dark with a blanket of even grey all around and everything was still. It was like the birds were holding their breath, just waiting. Then came the lightning, thunder and rain.  Blissful, heavy rain.  After months of dry it's a welcomed pinging noise on a tin roof.  Number One Son doesn't like the thunder. He barks and barks and no matter how much comfort, consoling or shouting of go to your room, nothing will quieten him.  He's farm manager when the real farm manager isn't here.  Sometimes it's tolerable but most of the time I wish we could demote him and offer the position to Minnie (pictured).  She's a quiet achiever.  She's always around when you are and apart from the dribbling and purring when you pick her up, she shows great leadership capability.  She's fearless with the sheep and pushes the chickens out of their comfort zone.  She's handy around the yard in the mousing department but has a keen eye on the building works as well, and always available to test out a newly dug hole.  I'm considering getting her a high viz vest and some work boots soon.  Meanwhile the thunder is still rolling overhead and I've got a sooking cocker spaniel at my feet.

What's wrong with a patriotic iced vovo?

In honour of my father who is no longer here to celebrate his birthday this week, we had a quick moment of reflection in his much visited rose garden.  We, being me and five chickens.  Australia Day was commemorated today with the erecting of a green house (why can't everything just be put together with an alan key) and the making of a Matthew Evans version of Anzac Biscuits.  They are easy to make but in my view highly overrated.  They resemble somewhere between an overly sweet oatcake and a run over muesli bar that can turn from soft chewiness to plasterboard in a matter of minutes.  They spread in the oven like burning cheese and come out the size of dinner plates no matter how dainty they begin.  In their defence for those who dunk (or drown) biscuits in milky tea they probably get a gong but for anyone who has spent an amount equal to a home deposit on veneers and crowns they shall be passed over for the less denture wrenching options.  Come dinner time Lewis (pictured) will be pleased.