Heat Wave

We have had a lot hot days here at the farm. This summer has been exceptionally lovely, warm enough in the day and cool at night. Usually July is hot and humid and that heat lasts into August. We have to set up window air conditioning to cut the humidity and make our house safe to live in. Our upstairs has central air, but the downstairs and the kitchen do not. This summer has been so cool at night though, that the window units stayed in storage.

This week though, the heat finally arrived. We've not had much rain the last month either, so the wallows for the pigs are dried up. The downstairs of the house is hot, but not humid (drought) so we figured we could wait out the heat and save on the electric bill. So far so good.

The weather isn't just dangerous for humans though, it can also be deadly for the animals. We moved the sheep to the pasture with the deepest shade and the taller grass, made sure the pigs were set up with shade too. We check the waters each day.

Yesterday the cow was spooked out of her pen. Luckily she found the duck pool and got water from there.

Then we discovered the pigs were out. We still h ave no idea how that happened, all the gates were tethered shut and there were no breeches in the fence large enough for a 400 lb sow or two to escape. None. Yet, we found one pig in heat stroke and the others missing.

It was 100 degrees out. The sun was blaring down. No humidity.

I heard Chad yelling for help when he found the pig (she was ok, btw, once she got water) and I set the kids up with netflix and walked out. Walked. Running in this heat is not an option, it would be deadly stupid.

The dog was out too. Zim helped me track the missing pigs while Chad secured the fencing and set up bait. Chad was frustrated and mad at that point, also in the heat and harsh sun. I was not about to argue, but I did anyway. I flushed out three pigs, one of the big sows went back in easily.

I stayed slow and calm and made careful progress. Still it was dangerously hot. I got caught up in the bramble and scratched and scraped and my boot laces tangled. Chad and I got separated and couldn't hear each other. It was a mess. Even though I flushed out both the remaining pigs, they didn't go where we set up and they ran in two different directions.

I was too hot and headed back to the farmhouse. Chad got mad and frustrated and kept at it. I was mad and frustrated too. I was also loud and probably could give the FCC a run for their money if it had been a live broadcast. Oh my. Not my proudest moment.

My approach was to think through while I got hydrated. Chad took a different approach and thought that staying with the pigs was the better option.

In the end, the pigs were all rounded up and penned back up, given fresh water and food. All the sheep were accounted for. The llama was healthy and well. The cow was put back on her plot and her fence checked.

The people however were overheated and exhausted and flushed from being frustrated and angry. I made a light dinner and we headed to bed. Days like this are how we earn our farmer cred, though I wish we had fewer of them.

Dinner was simple: 
Elbow macaroni boiled and strained
Crushed tomatoes from the garden, simmered with granulated garlic
Italian sausage and onion browned and added to the tomato
Mix all together and serve hot



It all came together in about 15 minutes (while the noodles boiled, I cooked the meat and the tomatoes).

We ate, showered, and went to bed early.

We still have no idea how the pigs escaped and the worry that they will get out again is lingering like this heat. I am really looking forward to the cold front predicted for Sunday night and the bit of rain that might come too.

Mrs. Amelia Davis, 5th grade class, Thank You.

A recent conversation with a very sweet friend got me thinking about my first day of 5th grade. On one hand it was the most horrific day of my young life up to that point. My mother curled my short hair and it ended up like a clown wig, we had pulled up in the moving truck the day before and the only clothes I had were the jeans and t-shirt I wore on the drive from Colorado to eastern Illinois and my farm sneakers. It was raining. I had never ridden a bus before. The bus was late, I got lost in the building, the entire class was dressed in their Sunday best, right down to shiny black shoes and ties. Late, I was offered a seat at a desk in a sea of strangers and the chair broke from under me.

I wish I was kidding. I sat there, being stared, in a we muddy pile of mortified farm girl, for what seemed like an hour while someone got a new chair from a different classroom. I cried silently and on the inside.

My teacher though was the most jarring of the picture. She was black. I had never seen a person with black skin. My classmates were a rage of colours too. Sure I had seen the Cosby's and Michael Jackson, but being from rural Colorado, I honestly, at age ten, thought that they were Hispanic. That was my range of experience. I had Hispanic classmates, but never any teachers. I don't think I had interacted with any adults who were not white before that day.

Yet, here was this very dark skinned black woman standing at the head of the class. I have no idea what she thought of me. Oh, she was gorgeous and fierce. She didn't bat an eye, or roll them like the students did, when I presented my report on the "real" Thanksgiving feast, massacre and all. That was my first foray into the untold histories and making sure someone educated my classmates. I also wrote about Peabody Coal Company. She presented me with Black History Month and a goldmine of history that I had never read, people standing up to oppression and hatred. Those became role models to my tiny framed white farm girl mind. Heroes.

Mrs. Davis kept me in at lunch recess. It was probably for losing my homework. Though, I loved it. I caught up. She gave me more things to read. She encouraged my writing, both journalistic and poetry. I worked hard at both. I felt heard.

I never forgot her.

My friend said she didn't remember our teacher as the description I provided, stunning and beautiful. Then again, I also see that friend in the same way and I am quite sure that's not how she'd describe herself either. Sometimes, children and the adults they grow into, do not factor things like extra flesh into an assessment of character. To me, Mrs. Davis remains in my memory the captain of a very stormy ship in my childhood. Without that experience, I would not have set my foot on this journey.

The rest of the year, and quite honestly the rest of my time spent in Kankakee school district, was painful and horrible. Bullied and mocked daily, I dog paddled in shark infested waters, retreating at lunch to the library and escaping into books and writing stories and poetry. I knew recess could be calm and nourishing from those 5th grade afternoons spent with Mrs. Davis. Quite frankly, sometimes I would pretend to have lost my homework just to stay in.

So, wherever you are Amelia Davis, thank you. Thank you so much.

Girls, Public Breakdowns, and Rape Culture

Many of my friends have asked my opinion on the VMA performance that Miley Cyrus gave. Probably because I have opinions, little girls, and have taught American women's history, my thoughts on this pique curiosity.

Interestingly enough, I do have thoughts, but not the standard ones I am seeing floating around. My thoughts are not about the appropriation and even propping of black people and culture, not about the objectification of child stars or women in general, not about the artistic horribleness that surely was not her idea. All of those things are being discussed and rightfully so. Still that was not my reaction.

My gut reaction when I watched this train wreck was the same one I had when I watched footage of the public mental break of Britney Spears.....that girl was raped. Clearly I don't know that for sure. But when the Britney Spears drama was happening I started searching for smaller blogs, articles, and references from the months just before it all went so publicly downhill and I found this. I don't necessarily find this a credible source per se, but it was exactly what I was looking for.

Every single woman I know that has had a breakdown like these women, public and self destructive, began their downward spiral by an incident of rape or sexual violence, myself included. (Though, for the record, not every rape victim reacts this way.)

So when I watched Miley, once a sweet girl with a very lyrical voice and so much talent, on stage doing what she was doing, all I could see was a replay of my own history. I was not raped, but I witnessed a violent sexual assault and it forever changed me. I set myself up to be in the same set of situations over and over again until I could gain control, relive it until I could win the game. Instead I fell hard and had a wonderful support system of friends that kept my head above water. These girls on television don't seem to have that, they have folks making money off them instead.

I see a troubled girl, trying to reclaim a sexuality through regaining the power of it, publicly and distastefully. Any names we call her, her actions on stage warrant them. That's power. Her choices on stage are being targeted, but that's her choice. It screams out to me that she has recently been powerless and these choices are her way to regain a sense of control over her own body and sexuality.

The fact that the performance segwayed into a duet thing with that gender bashing summer song Blurred Lines and her costuming reflected the degrading video that goes with it, was affirmation for me. As Miley participated in the degradation she was taking back that power of choice. She is also asking for us to call her out, call her the names that she calls herself. Making that narrative true, but not because of what may have happened to her, because of things she is choosing to do.

It is messed up, but that is how I have seen it play out over and over again. Historically women who work in the sex industry have a significantly higher likely hood of having been raped or abused, prior to working in the industry. That is interesting considering these statistics and these too and these. Let's not kid ourselves, the music industry, when it puts on productions like what we all got to see at the VMA, is just a sub genre of crappy porn.

I hope that I am wrong. I also hope that if I am right, she gets the help and love and support she needs to get through the pain and terror that never goes away, just becomes more manageable with time.

As far as this goes down in the cultural history of women in music, as far as a lot of music in the last three years goes, I am quite sure we will all look back on it with collective shame at how degrading to women and to human beings so much of it is. That is the legacy of this, that our culture of rape is being danced to and sung aloud by children who hear it on the radio. Art is the propaganda of our culture and this is what it is teaching us. It makes my stomach turn. Think. Think before you call that child any more names. Think about the untold history that is unfolding publicly and that we may just be seeing the edges of the storm.

Those are my thoughts.

National Sexual Assault Hotline - 1.800.656.HOPE

Ribs and African Peanut Sauce

I have this recipe in my Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book that I go to whenever I feel nostalgic for my early days of eating.

It took about 4 years for my taste buds to start working again after a major health change. I started to actually taste food. Cheesecake. Curry. Coke in a glass bottle. Bacon. I fell in love with food. There were some things though that I could not get used to, like meat on a bone. Meat had to be breaded and boneless like bread. Yet, Chad insisted on buying a whole pig and then cooking it.

The first time I ever had ribs was this recipe. Of course I have changed it slightly, if you have the book you can find the original one easily. I embarrassed myself the first time I ate them. It was very cave lady like. Oh, and the sauce! I made the sauce for dipping egg rolls and pork chops in too, it is so very good. I never looked back. That is when the real change happened for me in how I looked at my food. Eating became enjoyable, I had reason to think cooking might someday too.

Place a rack of pork ribs bone side up and cook at 350 degrees F for 45 minutes, flip and cover in sauce, cook for another 30-45 minutes. Serve with extra sauce for dipping.

Sauce Recipe:
1 cup of peanut butter
1 cup of hot water
2 T lemon juice
1 t of Berbere seasoning from Pensey's or another curry type seasoning. Add more if you like.
Stir on low heat until smooth.

Mmmmm. Ribs. The kids gnawed on the bones after giving me a standing ovation. Every bone was licked clean. Even Isaac wanted more and more. I ate them with the same wild abandon as I did that first meal.