Canned Milk

As promised, this is the canning instructions from the Dairy Goat Journal magazine that I use to subscribed to. How many years ago that was I don't remember but the paper stuck in the notebook is yellowed and brittle. That should give you a clue.

Mary Jane Toth was the author and her column was about cooking with goat milk.

I make no claims as to the safety of the following methods for I have no knowledge of the science of canning and I'm just passing along what I collected. I do know that I've used the pressure canned milk for probably twenty years but always in cooking. That would add a safety level. Because I pressure can milk every year, I've long since quit looking at the instructions and had forgotten that the paper included a water bath method.

The instructions are typed as they were written in the magazine.

By Mary Jane Toth
Pressure Canning Milk
Fill the clean jars with strained milk, leaving an inch space for expansion. Put on the lids and rings and tighten down gently. Place jars in pressure canner. Add water to a depth of 2-3 inches, put on pressure canner lid and tighten down. Heat until the pressure is at 15 pounds. adjust heat to keep it as close to 15 pounds as possible. Keep at this pressure for 10 minutes. It is important that the timing bit begin until the pressure has reached 15 pounds. after 10 minutes is up, turn off the heat, allow the pressure to go down before opening the canner. Carefully remove the hot jars of milk and set the jars on a towel or cloth. Allow to cool undisturbed for 24 hours before moving them to storage.

Hot Water Bath Canning (milk)
This is my preferred method of canning. Fill the clean jars with strained milk, leaving 1/2 in ch space. Put on the lids and rings, tighten gently. Place jars into a large kettle or canning kettle. Fill with hot water from the tap up to the necks of the jars. Cover and bring to a boil. Start timing as soon as the water begins to boil. Boil gently for one hour. After time is up carefully remove the hot jars of milk from the canner, set on a towel or cloth and allow to cool undisturbed for 24 hours before moving.

To those of you that wondered about my silence after your comments. Well, for two months my blogging site would not let me. I have to wonder? Did Bard's foot hitting the button on the computer's tower two different times while I was typing a new blog fix the problem? For it was right after that that I could once again comment.

Answered Prayers

(Cricket)

I could have done without the adrenaline rush on Saturday and the last couple of days of stress that ensued because of the wreck. For I'm hardly a thrill seeker since I have a limited store of adrenaline and take medication to make up for my inadequate supply. Yet even if you aren't short of the hormone like myself, an emergency that sets your heart racing and your mind scrambling for a solution to keep death abroad, probably isn't something you seek.

So when I slowly drove past our friend's pens after doing our own livestock chores, I wasn't expecting anything but horses placidly chewing on a round bale of hay. I'd been asked to glance over as I passed to see if all was well. The owners were gone to South Dakota to a funeral. That's when I noticed Cricket, a black filly, that wasn't theirs but was being house in their pen. She was laying on her spine, her right pastern hung up, pinned at the top of the fence and wedged between two pipe fence panels. Her eyes were starting to roll back in her head and I knew I didn't have much time before she'd die. Horses can't remain on their backs for long because they need to stand often in order to place pressure on their hooves forcing the frog inside to pump blood back up through their legs.

With a hefty blow from both hands, I hit her hoof upward but it was stuck fast and I knew I was going to have to move the fence panels up and angle them differently while at the same time removing her hoof. I prayed fervently, "Lord, I need some help and fast. I can't do this alone.", and just as I completed my prayer, a burgundy colored suburban came into view. I waved for help like a panicked maniac, no clue who was behind those tinted windows. A gentlemen stepped out and headed toward me. Surveying his size, I thanked the Lord once more for sending me someone who could obviously help with the heavy work ahead of us.

(The spot in the metal panel where Crickets leg was caught.)

I ran for the tack shed as he approached to grab a pitch fork and shovel. Meanwhile, he tried to move the hoof upwards while I was hauling the tools back - but it didn't budge. I handed him the shovel and we worked our way underneath the fence and began to pry it loose. The manure packed up against the metal panels was frozen to the ground. Once the fence was loosened, we torqued it at the joint to try and find more room but it just pinched her pastern tighter. So my male assistant asked for a bar in case we had to bend the fence and I ran once more for the tack shed. Upon my return, I suggested we tilt the fence more horizontally and see if that wouldn't work. It did and the filly was freed.

(Her pastern was caught just above the top pin that connects the fence together and it was resting sideways.

But laid up against the fence like Cricket was, she couldn't get her feet under her to stand and we needed to restore circulation in her legs fast. Leaning with my back then progressing down to holding the fence up with my foot, my assistant grabbed a back leg and I a front and slowly, lest we twist a gut from rotating her too quickly, we rolled her over. She remained dazed and didn't fight our efforts. I was grateful for that but it also meant she had been in the fence a long time and we were running out of time to save her.

We pushed her on to her chest and waited a couple minutes to see if she would rise on her own. She didn't. So we once more got under her the best we could and heaved upwards encouraging her to stand. After a few attempts Cricket was on her four legs weaving unsteadily. When she walked off swaying slightly, I thought the hard part was over and I thanked the gentlemen profusely for coming to my rescue. He said he was just driving by so that his kids could look at the animals. I knew it wasn't a coincidence that he had come at just that moment when I needed him so desperately.


He left and I hadn't even had the presence of mind to find out his name. Probably because I wouldn't of remembered it. I'm terrible with names at the best of times and my mind was focused in on the two year old filly. Walking off to go get a halter to put on Cricket so I could assess her injuries and pour whatever kind of antibacterial I could find in the tack shed on the wound, I noticed from her pastern a steady stream of blood shooting out four inches before falling to the ground. It hadn't been there a few moments before. The restoration of circulation to her legs had set it off.

I realized the first panic was only a warm up and now I was terror stricken when I realized she'd severed an artery. How I wished I hadn't released my rescuer so soon.

I grabbed a halter to restrain her and while I bent down, I cooed reassuringly, "It's okay girl. Hold still. You've got to help me. Whoa... girl." and I probed into the wound with my fingers to find the bleeder and pinch off the flow of blood. Slipping my hand that held the lead rope into my pants pocket, I flipped open my cell phone, the one I'd felt prompted to bring that day to chores, and dialed our home phone. With the phone pressed against my coat collar and ear, I gave instructions to my husband while I tried to keep Cricket from walking off and my fingers clamping down on the artery.

Kirk walked around the house collecting items as I named them off, "The Betadine is in the bathroom closet. The vet wrap in the livestock Rubbermaid containers in the basement."

"What do you want to stuff in the wound?" Kirk asked and another rush of adrenaline surged through me as I couldn't think where the gauze pads were and doubted there was enough.

Then inspiration illuminated my thoughts and I told Kirk,"Grab the roll of paper towels."

Continuing to send prayers heavenward, I pleaded, "Lord, help me to save this horse for Travis. He loves her so much."

And the sweet little filly remained calm, though occasionally, she grew restless took a step away and my fingers slipped from the wound. I wanted to hold her leg up and better control it but she was too unsteady on all four feet. I couldn't ask her to try to stand on three. So I just continued to sweet talk her and press on the artery the best I could.

(Monday's wrap where we used up left over rolls of vet wrap. The turquoise area is the pastern.) (This picture was taken on Tuesday. Most of the swelling is gone.)

When Kirk arrived, he became my assistant handing me the supplies as I asked for them. I packed the wound with paper towels and wound vet wrap tightly around the cut to form a pressure bandage. To our relief, the green vet wrap did not turn crimson and it appeared we had stopped the flow of blood.

As Kirk held her halter, I jumped in the car and headed for Travis's house. I don't know his cell phone number and they don't have a land line. His wife was home but the situation was beyond her and Travis was on a trip a long distance away. So I called the vet and he assured me that I was proceeding correctly and asked," How deep is the wound?

"I don't know. There's too much blood to see. Deep enough to cut an artery." I replied.

"Good point." he said and didn't ask anymore questions.

He did instruct me to keep the bandage on until the next day and advised me at that time to disinfect it, then cover it again. Luckily, the profuse flow of blood cleaned the wound and a few hours later Kirk and I returned to check on Cricket in the box stall that we'd placed her into. Her leg had started to really swell and the vet wrap was gouging into her flesh. Slitting the bandage down the front of her leg to remove the pressure, I then wrapped vet wrap over the top, far more loosely than before, keeping in mind the leg would continue to swell.

It didn't appear that Cricket had damaged any tendons or ligaments and we thanked God. The situation could have been worse. I don't know how she didn't break the leg. She had to have been playfully rearing at the horse in the next pen.

Jackie came home from the funeral and we doctored Cricket on Sunday and Monday. Today, her owner should be home and taking over her care.

NOTE: The paper towels worked awesome as they were very absorbent and didn't stick to the wound. A huge advantage for if it would have adhered, the wound would be ripped open and start to bleed again. Paper towels would work great soaked in Betadine to pad a wound. (I used Scott's paper towel. Don't know if cheap paper towels would be as good.)

If you have read the James Herriot books you will remember they used sugar on prolapsed uteruses to shrink them so they could stuff them back in. I was having a conversation with my doctor, (not vet), on Monday and he recommended that I use a mixture of sugar and Betadine on the wound. He said they made a commercial product that mixed sugar and iodine and it worked wonders. So always game for an experiment, Jackie and I placed sugar on a gauze pad and poured Betadine over the top forming a type of poultice. Then clamping the mixture over the wound we wound vet wrap to hold it in place. The swelling receeded substantially. Now I think one could just use a simple antibiotic on the wound. But I'm filing away that trick to use in future emergencies.

I haven't forgotten about the canning goat milk recipe but I wanted to post this before the day is over so check tomorrow for the recipe. I'm typing it right now.

The Weather Is Frightful

"The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful..." is still singing its way through my head but what do you expect?

This is our weather forecast for the next few days. So I'm keeping the fire stoked with lots of wood and coal. Meanwhile, my husband is up on the mountain hunting elk, deer, and blue grouse. No thank you. I'm not staying in a tent with weather that is most likely worse than it is here. I don't care if the wall tent does have a stove. My average body temperature is in the 96's as it is. I'd freeze.
To me it seems all wrong for him to go all that way to shoot a deer when we've good sized bucks eating out of our garden.

Alas, if only we lived out in the country and not the last street in town with the prairie on our backside, then one of these fat sassy boys would be in our freezer.


Oh well, I guess I'll use the worry wart skills my mother ingrained in me and pray Kirk stays safe while he sets up camp, hunts for two days, and awaits the arrival of our son. He is scheduled to fly in tomorrow from his trip scuba diving in the Bahamas. Won't that be a shock, from the warmth of the Bahamas to below zero temperatures on the mountain?


I'll just stay here and can some more milk and chicken breasts. The canned goat's milk makes wonderful sausage gravy for a biscuits and gravy breakfast. It also adds richness to my home-made caramels at Christmas time. I use it instead of the evaporated milk my recipe calls for. And though we don't drink it, I cook with it for the three months that the goat's are dry before they kid. I know you only have to keep them dry two months but my girls are old and I figure they can use the extra months break. It also gives me a break from milking twice a day.

The chicken breasts I buy at the store. Unfortunately, we don't have the facilities to raise more than a few meat birds of our own. These boneless breasts cost me $6. 97 for three pounds and yesterday I used two packages divided amongst six wide mouth, pint jars. So it adds up to around $2.32 a jar not counting electricity. Which since I usually do this on a cold day, I chock that cost up to warming the house. It is more meat than I previously got in a can and for less money. What the cost of canned chicken breast is now, I've no idea.

With this we will make sandwiches just like you do canned tuna. I add a little mayonnaise, diced dill pickle and onion, and a sprinkling of celery salt along with celery if we have some. On top I place a few slices of Jarlsburg cheese and grill it between some home-made artisan European style bread. It makes a quick lunch with chips or soup. This mixture is also good on lettuce for a salad.

The idea originated from our buying canned chicken breast instead of tuna for sandwiches and then after a year of this and a price hike on the item I said my favorite old line from what movie I can't recall, "Anything they can do, I can do better." So I did. This philosophy has held true on almost everything. But not frozen cheese cake.Mine tastes better but won't freeze. Don't know if it is the preservatives, or chemicals they use. Anyone out there had success? I'd really appreciate your secret.

So as I thought about it, I decided that I liked the taste of grilled chicken, instead of fried or broiled so now I place my raw chicken breasts on our gas barbecue grill and cook them to just barely done. If they are slightly pink inside that's okay.

Then I cut the breasts into three pieces and stuff them into the jars. If you have a family then you might want to cut the pieces smaller so you can fit more inside each jar. With just the two of us, we can get at least four sandwiches out of a pint so I don't pack the jars really full. Pour boiling water over the chicken in the jar and process at 10 pounds (- 12 at our elevation-) for 75 minutes. I've gotten creative with some jars and added spices, chicken bouillon, and onion before processing.

What is Bard,( our son's dog) doing while I can and the weather outside is frightful. He's underfoot chewing on stuffed snowmen. To be precise, Annie and Arnold. He has the nose chewed off poor Annie and the hat off of Arnold. They were given to him by our daughter who felt her children had way too many stuff animals. Bard loves them and hauls them everywhere. His dog toys have been ignored.

Yes, he is remaining on his leash at the corrals as he repeatedly lunges toward my chickens. Sheds had to be bedded and the coops given sawdust to help ward off the cold. Poor animals don't have their winter coats yet. It is suppose to be fall and I forgot and wore cotton socks instead of my wool ones. By the time I got home my toes were bright red and stinging.

Montana Recipe Discovered

In Missoula, Montana about eleven years ago, we had this wonderful cream sauce that was drizzled across our steaks. Other than the base was cream and it had tiny pieces of dried tomatoes in it, I had no clue how the chef made it, until now. The answer was in one of the recipes I had copied from a cookbook at the library and stuffed in my three ring binder to try sometime. The recipe I found wasn't a sauce for steak but for noodles but I liked the Montana chef's creative touch.

Just after I had decided to try the recipe, I spoke to our oldest daughter on the phone. As I attempted to pronounce the cheese from memory I royally slaughtered the name but she breezed through the word like she had been saying it all her life. "Do you mean, Gorgonzola?", she told me making me feel like a hick from the sticks. Which I'll admit I am. A hick with Cadillac taste buds. Yet at the same time, I was pleased that our daughter has had the opportunity to experience a much more refined culture than is available in our area.

Admittedly, a large number of my new recipes are Italian but I've never tried Gorgonzola cheese. Which isn't too surprising since not too long ago I thought smoked cheddar was gourmet. In part because in our rural area little variety was available for a long time. With the influx of population the stores have expanded their selection and we have been trying different kinds of cheese.

The Italian style must have lured me to copy this recipe last year but when my resent research on the internet said that Gorgonzola was a type of blue cheese, I almost tossed out the recipe. But then my mind reverted back to a time in Atlanta, Georgia where we were seated at a small Japanese restaurant. Serving us was a small older Japanese women dressed in traditional clothing. She spoke only two words in broken English but she repeated them over and over, "Be adventuresome." We followed her advice and with the aid of Satoro,( a friend of ours from Japan), to read the menu, we tried a variety of dishes. The food was wonderful.

So I decided once more to go out on a limb so to speak and "Be Adventuresome". The recipe had said that Gorgonzola cheese was creamy and buttery so to help convince myself to move forward, I mentally added - mild - and hoped it was true.

The recipe also called for pancetta, a shallot, and oil packed sun dried tomatoes, all of which I didn't have and wasn't willing to buy for it would have pushed the meal past my cost limits for repeaters (meals made often). So, instead of a shallot, I used an onion from the garden; and instead of pancetta, I used bacon; and instead of the oil packed sun-dried tomatoes, I used a home-canned dried tomatoes and spices packed in oil mixture from my food storage room.

(Sliced thick tomatoes in the dehydrator)

(I'd dried tomatoes part-way in my food dryer and then bottled them in olive oil with chopped garlic and chopped fresh basil. It was last years new canning experiment. ) Plus I altered the recipe by using bouillon and water instead of canned chicken broth from the store - which I never buy. Especially since I learned on Good Eats that you couldn't get make store canned broth thicken to make gravy. Now to me there is simply something wrong with broth if it won't make gravy. Every since then, I've made my own with bouillon and water or frozen broth from a baked chicken or used home bottled chicken in its broth.

Further altering the dish was the dark gray streak down the left side of my Zerox copied recipe. It obscures the amounts of each ingredient that the recipe calls for. Without a clue to which cookbook it was copied from, I have come up with my own version of the recipe.

(This week, I bottled and processed a new batch of dried tomatoes with basis and garlic. I have a feeling I will be using a lot more of it. )

Since it isn't made with Sun-Dried Tomato because I used the dehydrator, I think it deserves a new title. I shall call it Spiced Dried Tomato Gorgonzola Sauce and give you my version.

Spiced Dried Tomato Gorgonzola Sauce

1. Pour a little of the spiced olive oil from the jar of dried tomatoes into the sauce pan and saute a half a diced onion in it.

2. Then after cooking the onion until softened, add about three-fourths a cup of chopped cooked bacon. (I cook my bacon ahead of time and freeze it. For instructions go to my blog - Convenience Bacon 6/01/09.) Stir the onion and bacon together until the bacon is warm.

3. Then pour in a cup of heavy cream (mine is of course goat cream courtesy of our does) and a cup of milk ( Again, mine is whole goat milk.)

4. The original recipe calls for chicken broth but I used milk and added a sprinkle of bouillon instead. Theirs in lower in calories but I bet mine is richer in taste.

5. Then as that mixture heats up, I chopped the dehydrator dried tomatoes and added them along with approximately a half a teaspoon of black pepper. Bring to a boil then reduce to simmer while you add 5 ounces of Gorgonzola cheese.

6. When the cheese has melted you are to put it in the blender and process but the first time I did not because Kirk likes his sauces with chunks. Next time, I'm going to do half the amount in the blender and half not, then stir together.

7. Pour over noodles. Our preference is to use noodles of spaghetti thickness but use the kind you like best.

Your pantry is likely a bit different than mine so, "Be Adventuresome".
My Cadillac taste buds are grateful that I was.

The Oasis For Misfit Chickens

The Oasis For Misfit Chickens

When I awoke this morning and looked out the window to see this, snow weighing the bows of the willow tree almost to the ground, I almost burst out into a Christmas carols - "Oh, the fire is slowly dieing and my dear we're still goodbying but as long as you love me so... let it snow let it snow let it snow. " There is something special about the first real snow that sets off a chorus of music in my head. But instead of grabbing the CD player for Christmas music, I went to the basement and stoked the fire and wondered about our misfits, at the corrals. With the snow outside and Christmas carols playing in my head I couldn't help but think of the island of misfit toys in the Rudolf The Red-nosed Reindeer movie. But instead of toys, we have a mottley crew of chickens that just don't fit in. Our corral area is an island or oasis for the old, ugly, or timid.

There's Gertie who is as ugly as they come and who's never had tail feathers. Then she lost the ones on her back to some viscous hen pecking and they've never returned making her uglier than ever. She keeps to herself though there are other chickens about and acts like someone is always out to get her. Not even Eggburt and his little harem of three hens, that belongs to the neighbors who come over occasionally to visit, will claim poor ugly Gertie.

There's another rooster, Sinbad, an ancient black Australorp, who's also the neighbors, that lives with us now since Eggburt drove him off. He will eat beside Gertie but won't claim her as one of his own hens despite the fact that he has none. I don't get it since he's missing half of all his toes from frostbite and isn't exactly a prize himself.


Then there is Zorro who hasn't a brave feather on his body or a brain cell in his head. Just lots of feathers.

He is the only rooster we've had that actually crows, " cock a doodle doo". Every one else says, "err err err err errrrr". Speaking of crowing, Sinbad has to be disappointed now that we've started hauling hay and the shed is no longer empty. He'd strut through the open space crowing for all he was worth. The metal sides would resonated with the sounds giving the illusion that he was much larger. I know it made him feel more masculine by the way he held up his head and march with dignity.

I kept thinking the dumb Polish chicken wouldn't be around much longer since he hasn't any smarts but here he is so Kirk christened him yesterday with the name, Zorro. The name makes us laugh and Zorro has done that over the summer with his large bald spot on his head. We began to think his feathers would never grow in on his crown but finally at the end of the summer they started to grow. I've never been able to teach him to sleep in the hay barn so he perches on top the roosters small coop at night.

With five inches or so of snow on the ground, I wondered if the misfits had found the new place in the hay shed I'd prepared for them the night before. It was just a couple hay bales that held up the plastic that covered the hay stack. It gave them a place to crawl under and stay dry with hay bales all around to insulate them from the cold. I found Zorro sopping wet on top the roosters coop this morning, too dumb to go find shelter, and so tonight I'll wait until he roosts on top and try to catch him. Maybe he needs his own spot in the shed. I'll try.

But it was Mildred that I was really worried about. She's the Cochin from the garden. When I put her into the hens coop the residents once again began singling her out for torture so, I let her loose to run with the misfits.

I managed to catch her last night at evening chores and toss her into the hay shed. I worried she wouldn't stay with Gertie and Sinbad but this morning it looked like she must have, for she was dry.

Tonight, I will begin feeding the oasis of misfits inside the hay shed and hopefully they will have found a home. Just as the island of misfit toys found a home in the end of Rudolf The Red-nosed Reindeer.

Moonlighting

MOONLIGHTING

That's what we have been doing the last two night, moonlighting. Kirk came home late Friday with 4.6 tons of hay from South Dakota and by the time we were ready to unload it into our hay loafer turned hay shed, the moon was shining bright and the sun had gone to bed. Which is where I would rather have been than lugging around eighty pound hay bales in the dark. In the process, I explored most of the crevices between the bales of hay with one leg or the other as they fell in. Kirk didn't seem to be having any trouble maneuvering around them but we've always said my mother should have named me Grace.

It would have been nice to have had at least the headlights of the truck shining on the tasks but the pickup was attached to the gooseneck trailer that was backed into the hay shed. When I teased Kirk accusing him of leaving the cracks so he could see me tottering like a drunken sailor, he told me he had left them there for the cats and their kittens. Which isn't true since you space your bales to make as even as possible a rectangular shape so that the hay stack doesn't fall down. But invariably, the cats will nestle in the spaces to wait out the blistery winter winds and cold weather until spring arrives. Then the crevices become a nursery for their kittens.

The flash on the camera made this picture appear as if it were daylight and snowing. I'm not sure what all the white dots are.

The night before hay hauling, Kirk had gotten home from work at his customary eight o'clock and had brought a small load of coal for our free standing coal and wood stove. The weatherman says snow and cold are on their way. So by the light of the moon and the head lamp perched on his head, he groped for the black chunks to toss them into the outside coal bin. Meanwhile in preparation for some chicken snatching, I was wiring metal cages whose doors have a tendency to fall off. The two foot enclosures are a hand me down from the next door neighbor who once had rabbits.

These cages would provide carrying cases for the hens journey to the chicken coop at the corrals. If the weather man is right, this week is to be a chilly one and they had best be inside something warmer than an open ended shed. We'll bring home another set of pullets next spring since these girls helped immensely with the infestation of grasshoppers in the garden.

Though you understand why the hens needed moved, unless your a long time chicken raiser, your still probably questioning why I was trying to catch them in the dark? In the daylight they can see me coming and the yard is a wide open space with few places in which to corner them. I'd also be on my own since my husband would be at work until dark. My plan was to wait until the hens were roosting drowsily with their eyes closed on the tomato cages in the garden. Then I'd sneak up on them, wrap my hands around their wings pinning them to their sides, and slip quietly out of the garden. The draw back to my little plan was if the chickens woke up and discovered me - I'd be chasing six black hens in the dark.


An old photo of the hens from summer.

When I formulated my little plan, I'd forgotten about Jack Frost who'd been visiting the garden the last few nights leaving it a maze of wilted crunchy vegetable skeletons. So as I peered at black lumps that I guessed were the hens, I was desperately searching for a clear dirt patch in which to place my feet. There weren't any. The garden didn't have any paths for I'd used every square inch to grow vegetables. Particularly dense was the area around the two tomato cages where the chickens usually perched for pumpkin vines had seized the area. Each step I took closer to the hens brought a loud crunching sound announcing my approach. But though they stirred a little, the girls held still.

With out a hitch, I managed three trips through the wilted pumpkin patch nabbing a hen each time. But then I took a hold of Mildred, the Cochin. She let out a loud indignant squawk and bit me twice. Somehow I knew my luck had come to an end. I continued to stroke her soothingly talking in hushed reassuring tones. I figured we could work through this. She had calmed down by the time I'd reached the pickup's tailgate and I placed her in the empty second cage. Then I turned my attention back to the two remaining black hens. There were no more clotted shadows on the tomato cages. I guess catching all six easily was too much to ask for.

Kirk came out to help and we flashed our headlamps across the garden. One black Australorp was making its way through the corn stalks and the other headed off toward the empty potato patch. But like escapees from a prison camp, they rushed to avoid the spot lights as our headlamps caught their movements. So we used the lights to locate them, then quickly flash the beam in another direction and peer closely into the darkness straining to see any movement while listening for the rustling their feet made on the dead foliage in order to discern which direction they'd dashed off to. Slowly herding one hen at a time toward the tomato cages in order to slow their progress as they moved to maneuver beneath them, we managed to catch the two black hens after a few tries. In the process of chasing them, we stumbled (literally) over some more buttercup squash that was hiding under the dense vines and scooped them up to add to our stores. And I added a few bruises to my hay scratched legs as they located the metal rods I'd pounded into the ground to guide the winding garden hose around the plants.

Bard at point on Saturday on the prairie behind our house.

It wouldn't have been a big deal that we caught the two hens that night, for I could have waited until the next. Trying again when they'd fallen asleep but Bard, our son's puppy, was scheduled to arrive the next morning. We were babysitting him while our son, Kalob, went scuba diving in the Bahamas.

And although he is a Bird dog, Bard wouldn't of been much help. All summer he has been coming to visit and has ignored the hens but two weeks ago the bird dog part of his brain clicked on. He killed one of Kalob's girlfriend's mother's chickens. Not a popular way to start his career and a repeat performance wasn't what our son or I had in mind. So it was imperative for their safety that the hens be removed before morning.

Bard is now three months old.

But how is he going to handle the misfit crew of chickens running around the chicken coop? I think a leash is in order when we do chores. I'll tell you how it goes and I promise to do the rewrite I lost on the chicken recipes so don't give up hope on me. My daughter insisted on hearing more details about our chasing black hens in the dark and so here they are.

Make Them Laugh

Well I forgot to push, save now, on my blog draft and the total rewrite is lost. Now it is time to do livestock chores and Kirk came home with four tons of hay to unload. So instead of what I planned, I'll share with you a moment in the park a few weeks ago where my cute husband and granddaughters are seeing who can make the most goofy faces. It's pretty clear who's the winner.