Anyone who's spent any appreciable time in the country has some sort of quirky story about an animal that displayed an astonishing amount of personality. Well here's one of my most recent ones. It's the story of Hilda II.
Hilda I was a beautiful red wattle gilt that we got from a breeder down the road for $50. She enjoyed a steady diet of acorns, scraps, a little pig feed, chickens ( and whatever else she scrounged up. Her meat was dark red and delicious. We butchered her in February of this year, and immediately felt the pangs of porcine longing. Sure she was still with us, in our deep freeze, but it just wasn't the same.
One day, I was visiting a neighbor and three little piglets ran across the drive in front of me. Out we jumped and at the end of it all, one little porker came home with us. We put her in the chicken brooder and she began to put on the pounds. She finally ventured out into the daylight and one unfortunate day she ran away. I tracked her rootings for a ways down our drive and out onto the roadside, but then lost her.
A full two months later, I see her standing in the neighbor's coastal field, right underneath one of the horses. We contacted our neighbor and inquired as to her arrival, and low and behold, it was indeed our little Hilda II! He explained that they had an old nag that was declining in health and was probably going to be put down, until Priscilla (their name for Hilda II) showed up and befriended the poor animal. The horse and the pig became almost inseparable, and thanks to a steady diet of alfalfa and corn, both began to pack on pounds again. He wondered if we might extend the arrangement through the winter. Hmm, someone else feeds out my hog and I still get to butcher her? Absolutely!
This morning, while driving the kids to school, I saw the two of them, standing in the field happily munching together, oblivious to the destruction to come at the end of the winter, but none the less enjoying life. It's almost enough to make a guy turn vegetarian...almost.
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Saturday, November 26, 2016
The doors of mercy are closing...
In the final hours of the liturgical year that witnessed the Jubilee Year of Mercy, and as we move closer to the 100th anniversary of the happenings at Fatima, this little snippet from the diary of St. Faustina keeps running through my mind:
"He who refuses to pass through the door of My mercy must pass through the door of My justice."
(Diary 1146)
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Out of an abundance of caution...
"H-E-B announced today (11/18/2016) that it has issued a precautionary recall of its entire H-E-B Baby Food 2 pack 4 oz. cups product line only. As of this afternoon, the H-E-B Baby Food 2 pack 4 oz. cups were removed from shelves out of an abundance of caution due to a customer report of a small piece of rubber found inside a single container of one variety of the product."
This was the first item that came up on the Department of Agriculture's Food and Nutrition webpage. I was on that site, because I just received a call from my inspector to inform me that in going over my 295 page application, they discovered that I did not have a properly filed pre-shipment review log. I'd never even heard of the thing.
"What's that?"
"It's a record keeping device that says that prior to shipment of the product (NB I don't actually ship anything) all CCP's were properly followed."
"Oh. Ok."
"It's a redundancy measure. You've already certified three times in other places that you've done this, but if you don't have one, that is automatic grounds for product recall and destruction."
"Oh. Ok"
"Yeah, it's kind of a big deal."
"Oh. Ok"
"Also, you need to have a thermometer calibration SOP, a signature page, a calibration log sheet and I saw that you only referenced an article in one of your rationales, so we need you to provide that entire article, and, and, and.... so myself and the regional director will be by Monday morning at 9 am to go over all of this with you and detail our expectations for your operation."
"Oh. Ok. Thanks."
CLICK
"Google search: How to conduct a recall."
Folks, I butchered and packaged 68 chickens for a single farm. SIXTY EIGHT!!!!!!!!
That inspector was here for 8 hours all total for 68 chickens. He stood beside me or behind me the entire time.
The average poultry processing plant goes through about 100,000 broilers in an 8 hour shift. His counterpart was paid the same amount of money as him for the same time period to certify that 100,000 chickens got the same exact stamp my 68 birds did. Something has gone seriously off the rails here.
Ima hava drink.
This was the first item that came up on the Department of Agriculture's Food and Nutrition webpage. I was on that site, because I just received a call from my inspector to inform me that in going over my 295 page application, they discovered that I did not have a properly filed pre-shipment review log. I'd never even heard of the thing.
"What's that?"
"It's a record keeping device that says that prior to shipment of the product (NB I don't actually ship anything) all CCP's were properly followed."
"Oh. Ok."
"It's a redundancy measure. You've already certified three times in other places that you've done this, but if you don't have one, that is automatic grounds for product recall and destruction."
"Oh. Ok"
"Yeah, it's kind of a big deal."
"Oh. Ok"
"Also, you need to have a thermometer calibration SOP, a signature page, a calibration log sheet and I saw that you only referenced an article in one of your rationales, so we need you to provide that entire article, and, and, and.... so myself and the regional director will be by Monday morning at 9 am to go over all of this with you and detail our expectations for your operation."
"Oh. Ok. Thanks."
CLICK
"Google search: How to conduct a recall."
Folks, I butchered and packaged 68 chickens for a single farm. SIXTY EIGHT!!!!!!!!
That inspector was here for 8 hours all total for 68 chickens. He stood beside me or behind me the entire time.
The average poultry processing plant goes through about 100,000 broilers in an 8 hour shift. His counterpart was paid the same amount of money as him for the same time period to certify that 100,000 chickens got the same exact stamp my 68 birds did. Something has gone seriously off the rails here.
Ima hava drink.
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Snack Mass
I've been to a lot of different kinds of Masses in my short life. When I was a kid, being in a German-heritage town, there was from time to time a "polka" Mass. For la fiesta de Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, my best friend in elementary school dressed up like an Aztec and danced to drum beats and Indian war whoops just outside the narthex as a statue was processed into the little country church to begin the Mass. In college, as a missionary in Nicaragua, I somehow wound up at an outdoor charismatic Mass, where there was a liturgical "minister" tasked with ensuring the chickens casually wandering through the congregants, didn't make it up to the elevated stage serving as the sanctuary. Then, in Honduras, there was the Neocatecheumenal Way Mass in for the Easter vigil where naked babies were fully immersed, full throated singing women danced around the altar and inch thick "unleavened" bread was placed into everyone's hands prior to being consecrated.
When I got a bit older, I found the beautiful Eastern Masses of Sts. James, John Chrysostom, Basil, and Maron, which one must NEVER call a Mass as well as the Anglican Usage of the Roman Mass. Finally there was the Latin Mass, aka Traditional Latin Mass, aka Extraordinary Form of the Roman Rite Mass, aka (my favorite) the Old Mass.
In my house, my children have been exposed to many of the varietals of the Sacrifice in use today, mostly from the latter list, but occasionally, due to the requirements of duty and obligation, from the former. Naturally, this broad exposure has led to a blending of traditions in our own local rite. This rite, though young, has many unifying elements that many Catholics of generations past and present would recognize. Ad orientem worship, dignified vestments and an all-male clergy and corps are the mainstays. The priest has often maintained the austerity of the patriarchs of ages past, but updating phrases like, "Wisdom, be attentive," and "the doors, the doors," with things like, "Lily, BE QUIET!" or "SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW!!!"
Alas, my a heresy, or at least a significant abuse, has crept in to our domestic liturgical school, the matter of the Eucharist. Every decently catechized person knows that only true, wheat bread constitutes valid matter for the host, but my sons, having at first happily complied with this mandate, have now entered into an era of experimentation. Restaurant style corn chips, bagels, tortillas were the beginning, but as one may surmise, that is a slippery slope. I suspect that mini-rice cakes slathered in nutella, and fresh mozzarella cheese slices may have been illicitly used. I fear the day when they stumble down the path of Luther and insist on bologna sandwiches, independently developing the false-doctrine of consubstantiation.
Granted, this never happens when under my own close scrutiny, it's all very by the book then...sort of. But, like many liturgical abuses, this one seems most often to occur when they think no authority figure is looking, and also in close proximity to just-before-supper-time.
Today, I caught my oldest boy, sneaking out of the pantry, mouth full and jaw working to masticate pilfered goods. "What art thou eating, good son?" saith I. "A bagel, nobel father," quoth he. "Dids't thou have leave to eat such morsel from thy mother, thou cur?" "Nay, sire, but it was for the glory of the Most High, and his Holy Sacrifice that I dids't proffer this to mine brethren. Our Snack Mass, it was't." And then he happily went his merry way, in green brocade and bishops mitre, to feed the starving masses.
I fear I may have to make an Inquisition into the matter.
When I got a bit older, I found the beautiful Eastern Masses of Sts. James, John Chrysostom, Basil, and Maron, which one must NEVER call a Mass as well as the Anglican Usage of the Roman Mass. Finally there was the Latin Mass, aka Traditional Latin Mass, aka Extraordinary Form of the Roman Rite Mass, aka (my favorite) the Old Mass.
In my house, my children have been exposed to many of the varietals of the Sacrifice in use today, mostly from the latter list, but occasionally, due to the requirements of duty and obligation, from the former. Naturally, this broad exposure has led to a blending of traditions in our own local rite. This rite, though young, has many unifying elements that many Catholics of generations past and present would recognize. Ad orientem worship, dignified vestments and an all-male clergy and corps are the mainstays. The priest has often maintained the austerity of the patriarchs of ages past, but updating phrases like, "Wisdom, be attentive," and "the doors, the doors," with things like, "Lily, BE QUIET!" or "SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW!!!"
Alas, my a heresy, or at least a significant abuse, has crept in to our domestic liturgical school, the matter of the Eucharist. Every decently catechized person knows that only true, wheat bread constitutes valid matter for the host, but my sons, having at first happily complied with this mandate, have now entered into an era of experimentation. Restaurant style corn chips, bagels, tortillas were the beginning, but as one may surmise, that is a slippery slope. I suspect that mini-rice cakes slathered in nutella, and fresh mozzarella cheese slices may have been illicitly used. I fear the day when they stumble down the path of Luther and insist on bologna sandwiches, independently developing the false-doctrine of consubstantiation.
Granted, this never happens when under my own close scrutiny, it's all very by the book then...sort of. But, like many liturgical abuses, this one seems most often to occur when they think no authority figure is looking, and also in close proximity to just-before-supper-time.
Today, I caught my oldest boy, sneaking out of the pantry, mouth full and jaw working to masticate pilfered goods. "What art thou eating, good son?" saith I. "A bagel, nobel father," quoth he. "Dids't thou have leave to eat such morsel from thy mother, thou cur?" "Nay, sire, but it was for the glory of the Most High, and his Holy Sacrifice that I dids't proffer this to mine brethren. Our Snack Mass, it was't." And then he happily went his merry way, in green brocade and bishops mitre, to feed the starving masses.
I fear I may have to make an Inquisition into the matter.
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Tomorrow
It's 6:55pm and I still have a list of to-do's a mile long....
In exactly 12 hours, we'll be receiving our first batch of 100 heritage breed chickens to slaughter under State inspection. I've been working for the last 2 years towards this day. I've begged, borrowed and bled to get to this point, and I'm not exactly looking forward to it.
The work is something I've been doing for a while, illegally, I'm told. It's messy, bloody and smelly, but the work doesn't scare me. My crew of two helpers have been helping me for at least a year, and I'm confident in their proficiency and skill. The crew doesn't worry me. The tools are all sound and in good repair. I've maintained them, sharpened them, scoured them, and sanitized them, they will get the job done. Food borne illness? Nope, we use good practices and the birds will go from sentient creatures to ice cold food ready for the fryer in a matter of minutes.
What is it then? Why have I woken up from a fitful sleep at three in the morning, off and on for months? I've done everything to prepare, I built the building to quality standards, I bought quality equipment, I'm working with quality people and producing a quality product.
I'm scared of the power of the State.
I can control or mitigate almost every other factor, but the State can take all of my work, all of my preparation and all of my efforts and by bureaucratic fiat, bring it to nothing in a moment. That's what worries me.
When we embarked on this whole farming adventure, the State was not really a factor in our plans. It has inserted itself with alarming frequency and vigor at various points along the way, though, and it always sets wrong with me.
Leave me the hell alone! That's how I really feel. That's what I really want to say to the man who will show up at my butcher shop tomorrow. I can't though, not if I want to run a legitimate operation and feed people legally and make a living for my family. That sits wrong with me too, and so I'm sitting here not looking forward to tomorrow. Thanks a lot Upton Sinclair.
Oh well, turn it over to our Lord and our Lady and drive on.
In exactly 12 hours, we'll be receiving our first batch of 100 heritage breed chickens to slaughter under State inspection. I've been working for the last 2 years towards this day. I've begged, borrowed and bled to get to this point, and I'm not exactly looking forward to it.
The work is something I've been doing for a while, illegally, I'm told. It's messy, bloody and smelly, but the work doesn't scare me. My crew of two helpers have been helping me for at least a year, and I'm confident in their proficiency and skill. The crew doesn't worry me. The tools are all sound and in good repair. I've maintained them, sharpened them, scoured them, and sanitized them, they will get the job done. Food borne illness? Nope, we use good practices and the birds will go from sentient creatures to ice cold food ready for the fryer in a matter of minutes.
What is it then? Why have I woken up from a fitful sleep at three in the morning, off and on for months? I've done everything to prepare, I built the building to quality standards, I bought quality equipment, I'm working with quality people and producing a quality product.
I'm scared of the power of the State.
I can control or mitigate almost every other factor, but the State can take all of my work, all of my preparation and all of my efforts and by bureaucratic fiat, bring it to nothing in a moment. That's what worries me.
When we embarked on this whole farming adventure, the State was not really a factor in our plans. It has inserted itself with alarming frequency and vigor at various points along the way, though, and it always sets wrong with me.
Leave me the hell alone! That's how I really feel. That's what I really want to say to the man who will show up at my butcher shop tomorrow. I can't though, not if I want to run a legitimate operation and feed people legally and make a living for my family. That sits wrong with me too, and so I'm sitting here not looking forward to tomorrow. Thanks a lot Upton Sinclair.
Oh well, turn it over to our Lord and our Lady and drive on.
Hail Mary...
My alarm just went off...again. It's 1:30 in the afternoon (it was only a slight after lunch siesta, so keep your judgements to yourself), and like almost every single time my alarm goes off, I do the same four things: 1. Say to myself no, except in my head it sounds more like, "mnooaoooh!" 2. Turn off the alarm with a fat, clumsy finger, that could never figure out guitar chords and 3. Begin praying three Hail Mary's. Generally I get through the first one, and most of the second one. And the third one...well, sometimes I make it that far and sometimes the bag-monster eats me alive. 4. Realize that I have something I should have been doing about 10 minutes (or sometimes 60 minutes) ago, and spring out of bed in a foggy state of self-flagellation and panic.
And that's my life in a nutshell.
Systems in place to foster good habits? Check.
Following along the proactive path to productivity by working the plan? Not so much.
Beginning new tasks with my own fiat to God's will and a plea for help from His mom? YES!...sort of.
Then reality hits and it's all I can do, to hope that while I'm trying to play catch up from the get-go, the all-holy Theotokos will look down and say, "When is that guy going to learn? Oh well, he's one of mine, here you go," as she directs streams of grace flowing from the side of her Son directly to my dumb self.
Anyways, here we go, post #1 of the Catholic Family Farmer. Say a Hail Mary for me, if you can spare it ;)
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