12-11-11 "This should be about..." This journal entry should be about our annual cane grinding and syrup making event.
Yesterday, with the assistance of the Sea Island chefs and our CSA members, we hosted our annual syrup cooking.
Highlights should include Ryan's fiery but delicious chili, David's turkey gumbo, baby goats, garden tours and a very close to perfect cooking of the syrup.
Instead, we'll turn out attention to the unusual events of the early morning hours.
Andrew likes to tell me that things in the kitchen never go as planned. On any given day, a sauce may not turn out as expected, a steak dinner for 45 may suddenly turn out to be the main meal for the Vegetarian's Anonymous convention, and the wedding party for 50 may suddenly add long lost cousin Louise and her family of 75.
That, as he reminds me, is kitchen life.
"You have it easy," he says at the end of a hard shift. "You're outside doing something that you love and your customers all love you for the job that you do."
Or, as another new CSA member offered this week, "Your job is so refreshing, so wholesome."
And so we must acknowledge that this is often true.
But, dear reader, we have our moments.
Long time followers may recall that a few years ago, not long after I first met Andrew, our cane grinding went from routine to survivor when the pole that turns the cane mill snapped in half.
"Sixty plus years," BA wailed, "and you broke my father's cane pole!"
But, being resourceful farmers with chainsaws, tractors and brains, we snapped into action, felled a new tree and presto! had a new cane pole in a matter of an hour.
This year, pre-grinding, we were smart enough to recognize that our old new pole was not weathering as well as we'd hoped and that there as the potential that it would break.
We planned ahead.
We pre-selected and pre-felled and pre-cut a new cane pole. Planning ahead is always the best policy.
But, again, nothing ever goes exactly as planned.
Exactly as planned, we unloaded the cane stalks at 9:15am.
Exactly as planned, we began to grind at 9:30 am.
Exactly as planned, the Sea Island apprentice chefs arrived on time and in mass to assist in any necessary chores.
Cane stalks were fed into the grinder, grinding commenced, cane juice flowed forth.
We were elated with ourselves.
While some chefs strained juice, others fed cane or viewed the gardens. The animals had been fed and were happy, there was the faint sound of music in the air, the world seemed at peace.
As chief tractor driver, I was happily spinning in circles, powering the cane grinder (we use the tractor instead of a horse or mule, far more reliable!), when I glanced across the field at the happy sight of my domain.
BA's young heifers were nibbling away at their hay, the horses were grazing at the last green shoots of fall grass, the goats were heading to the woods for their morning's forage when...when mayhem ensued.
As I watched, the goats turned from the woods and began running home.
I looked around in panic and caught Andrew's eye, we both turned.
The goats, in full flight now, scattered and a moment later we both realized that they were being pursued by a pack of dogs.
Two weeks prior we'd seen a pair of young black labs cutting across the back field.
We'd called to the dogs then, tried to see if they were wearing collars, but they were wary of us and turned for the safety of the woods.
To be on the safe side, Andrew had fired a warning shot over their heads and we'd watched (laughing a little) as they raced away in terror.
That was not the case today. Today the black labs were back with a friend and before we had time to even grasp the situation, the three dogs had singled out a grown nanny, isolated her from the herd, and had her down on the ground.
I screamed, Andrew raced to the house for his gun, and the remaining cane grinding participants looked around for some sense of reason and sanity.
I was half way across the field towards the distressed nanny before Andrew made his first shot.
At such a distance, with no time to set up the shot, he had no chance of downing one of the dogs. They were, however, frightened enough to release the nanny and run back for the safety of the woods.
He took a second shot, equally as futile, while the nanny struggled to her feet and rejoined the rest of the herd.
We all turned for home.
While Andrew waited in hopes of another shot, Antonio and I tried to calm the shaken nannies. I called them gently, said all their favorite things ("You girls want some bread? Come on home."), and we walked them back to the safety of their pasture.
As we turned the corner of the barn I heard the distinctive chirp of baby chicks.
I shook off the sound. The goldfinches had recently returned for their winter stay and I assumed it was their chatter I was hearing.
But no, there is was again and again.
To our disbelief, we then discovered two baby chicks on the ground behind the barn. Then two more. Then another.
Close examination would reveal that a hen had stashed a secret nest in the hay barn and hatched 14 chicks. The nest, build on the edge of the hay stack, had become unstable and all of the chicks had fallen out and down to the bottom of the hay bales.
It took some time to retrieve all of the chicks. Some were half dead from the cold but a few minutes beside the fireplace was enough to revive even the worst case.
When it was all said and done, the nannies were safely locked away, the baby chicks enjoying the warmth of the bathroom heater, and the syrup cooked as close to perfect as syrup can possibly be cooked.
Not the day we had expected but an excellent, tiring day all the same.
Almost exactly like a day in a kitchen...or another day on the farm.