Daily Photo - 7/15 - Kayne the calf

Chicken killing Class 101

If you’re a city person like me, walking around a farm feels a bit like visiting a foreign country in, let’s say, Western Europe. It’s not so off the mark that you don’t understand it: people still drink espresso in the morning, shop at stores with recognizable names (Zara, H&M, Gucci) and entertain themselves with music you might have heard of and cinema perhaps you’ve seen. But the language is different, the food is different and European toilet paper always feels like a wad of cardboard, not Downy soft.
Same with a farm. My very first memories of language are of farm animals. “What sound does a sheep make?’ my mother would coo.
“Baaah.”
“That’s right, and what sound does a horse make?”
“Oink, Oink”
“No, a horse?”
“Naaay.”
When I see the vegetables growing out of the ground, they are familiar to me. Yes, I eat that: corn, tomatoes, lettuce. Yes, I drink that: milk from a cow. It all makes sense and everything looks as it should. The corn on the stalk looks like the same one I smother in salt and butter at a barbeque and the milk is creamy and white, the same that goes into my morning coffee. But what about the other edible components of the farm? The ones that look entirely different from where they start to where they end up. For instance, how does that feathered chicken I see running around end up as a breaded cutlet on my dinner plate?
With the recent documentary Food, Inc. (http://www.foodincmovie.com/), we were shown the irresponsible, corporate side of farming and creating food from animals. It was alarming to see how disconnected big companies want to keep us from what we eat because of the inhumane practices involved.
There have been a few of my friend’s who have asked if everyone here on Red Wing Farm is a vegetarian. The answer is no – some are, some are not. But everyone here on this farm and from the neighboring farming school, Warren Wilson, are responsible and humane and that is exactly how they harvest their food.
So how does that organic chicken I buy in the store or the farmer’s market come to be? Well, Nicole was kind enough to invite me to Chicken Killing Class 101 so I could see for myself.

Step 1. Be Nice To Your Chicks

The very first step is to be nice to the chickens. Let them run around in the sunshine and play with their friends and feed them proper chicken food not antibiotics.

Step 2. It Has To Be Done

I know. It sucks. But the truth is that if your going to eat the chicken… well, then the chicken has to die. These cones keep them tight inside and their jugular is slit immediately. They quickly pass out and then bleed to death. This part kind of resembles a Quentin Tarantino movie but I have to say, the chickens weren’t squawking with fear – they were far more relaxed than I would have predicted.

Step 3. Give Em' A Hot Bath For A Job Well Done

After they have bled to death and their heads are chopped off, they are dunked into a bath of hot water so that their feathers are loosened from their skin.

Step 4. Stick Em' In the Spin Cycle

Holding the chicken at the edge of the Feather Extracting Machine, their feet are gently taken off with a sharp knife. Then their warm carcass is placed in Permanent Press for a few minutes until their feathers are almost entirely gone.

Step 5. Get Em' Them To The Beauty Salon

At the Poultry Salon, a team of dedicated, un-squeamish students spend about ten minutes gutting and cleaning each bird until they look exactly like what I buy in the store.

Speaking of Guts? Did I have my own?

Yes. That would be me cringing (hence the funny wrinkled face), but that would also be me holding a knife and going for the jugular (everyone I know should really remember that and tread lightly in the future). I was able to muster enough guts to slit the necks of two chickens but i was waaaay too squeamish to become a beautician in the Poultry Salon.

Daily Photo - 7/14 - Big Foot Butterfly

Watch Us...

When our circuit breaker went off - again - last night, Gecko was...well, he was over it. And so was I.

"Jeeezuz! What the... forget about Watch Me Airstream, you should rename the blog Watch Me Explode."

"Ha!"

"Watch Me Airbourne!"

"Ha!"

"Watch Me Decompose!"

"hmmm...not sure about that one."

"Watch Me Have A Goddam Meltdown!"

"Sing it Gecko!"

Wow - it has been a rough, hot week and a half trying to get Beulah up and running. She sure does look purdy, but purdy looks don't cool you down when it's 95 degrees outside and the humidity has wrapped it's sweaty tentacles around your head.

Much like owning a stationary house, it's taken us a minute to figure out what runs on what: the aircon works (or in our case, does not work) on electricity, the outlets work on electricity (sometimes) but they will default to battery, the stove works on propane (leaking), the fridge works on electric but will default to propane and the hot water heater we've just kind of ignored, choosing to stick with solar. We've been tripping circuits, ingesting propane and I electrocuted myself when my ring touched the door and gave me the jolt of the century. I can't say we felt entirely comfortable living in a fully charged metal shell that smelled like a gas station, but we didn't have much choice other than sleeping outside, where our lives were in equal danger with the swamp monsters and black bears that roam around at night.

Then, as if Beulah is gauging our worthiness for her love and affection through perseverance, when it's time to show a mechanic exactly how the electric isn't functioning properly, it decides to put on it's best performance and run perfectly until the mechanic is safely gone.

We were validated once when the aircon guy was here and we had him take a look at the propane lines. When we moved in, Gecko had tested it, we smelled gas and he turned it off. When the mechanic turned it on he smelled the propane as well and was surprised at how big the leak on the stove line actually was.

"Y'all ain't afraid of fire are ya?"

"Uh...no...not that we know of."

Then he lit the stove and it was as if he had just drilled a hole to the earth's core. The flame from the leak was one you could roast marshmallows on.

"It's a good thang you turned that propane off when you did because you could ave blown yourselves up."

After he fixed the stove and left we went outside to enjoy one small victory in the case against Gecko and Andriana vs. Beulah and the Mechanics.

"Well, at least we got the stove working."

"Yeah, at least we got that."

"It's beautiful outside."

"Yeah, it sure is."

(five minutes of silence)

"Do you smell propane?"

"Goddammit!"

Seriously...Just Grow A Pair

Look, I get it...I didn't want to post this image, let alone photograph it - but I did want to provide you, the public, with a visual - next time you are told to grow a pair, just think of these.

Daily Photo - 7/13 - Little Frank

Can we take him home paw? I named this little cutie Frank.

And the time goes tic, tic, tic, tic.....tock

Wanna wake up at 3 a.m? then again at 4? how bout' again at 5?

Just have this conversation right before bed and you'll be guaranteed a sleepless night.

Gecko: Jeeez, is that another tic? Goddammit. (he says as he impales it with a screwdriver.)

Andriana: Jeeez, that's like the fourth one today. WTF. Where are they coming from?(she says from under her covers, tucked in for the night, her eyes honing in on any and all small black dots including her very own pupils)

Gecko: I don't know. Maybe we're carrying them in. (he says while getting settled into his bed.)

Andriana: That many? Can't be. (she says, itching and scratching)

Gecko: You know, I think they are probably coming in from the wheel well. Yeah, that's probably it - the wheel well.

Andriana: What's the wheel well?

Gecko: It's that space right under your bed where the wheels are stored. Anyway, goodnight.

Watch Me Airstream Y'all!

The last I left off with the Watch Me Travel site, I was bravely…wait, strike that…I was valiantly…no, better yet…I was heroically making my way through winter in New York. I know I make Manhattan sound like Juno, Alaska in January, but to me, the suddenness of having to leave the warm beachside town I was writing from in Portugal because of visa issues had certainly made it feel that way.
When Europe didn’t want me anymore it felt good when family and friends did. Luckily I have a superstar brother and sister-in-law who granted me familial gypsy rites to the spare bed in their pied-à-terre until I figured out my next move - which happened in early May when my friend Gecko called.
“Hey Gecko, how are you?”
“Honey, I’m over it. I’m selling the house, buying an airstream, and parking it on an organic farm. You should come on down.”
When he said that I felt like Bob Barker had just called my name from the studio audience. “Oh my god! That sounds amazing! Yes! I’m a comin’! I’m a comin’ dooooown!” I shouted into the phone, my free arm swatting the humid city air as if I was running down the aisle of the Price Is Right, ready to bid on a dinette set from 1985.
Down would be on Red Wing Farm, a ten-minute drive outside of Asheville, North Carolina. And Gecko is officially one of my most favorite people ever. An artist, an adventurer, and professional prankster (rubber rats, carefully placed insects and perfectly timed explosion sounds as soon as I get to the propane tank), he knows how to fearlessly live life because he has successfully dodged his own death more times than a few dozen litters of kittens combined.
I would be lying if I said I ever saw myself trading in my eyeshadow collection and summer wedge sandals for a bottle of bug repellent and a pair of beat up river shoes this summer. Originally when I was mulling over my next writing destination, I kept gravitating to cobbled European streets lined with outdoor cafes or laid back Middle Eastern seaside towns where lounging on floor pillows while smoking apple sheesha was all in a day’s work. I definitely didn’t predict an organic farm down south in my very own country. But when Gecko explained his motivation for selling almost everything and moving into an airstream, it seemed all too appropriate for the time in my life and the times in general.

Getting Back to Basics

The past three years have been pretty rocky the world over. People have lost their homes, their jobs and their life savings. Entire countries have gone bankrupt, markets have crashed, and currencies have been devalued. Egregious banks have been bailed out, an oil leak is dumping an unprecedented number of barrels into the Gulf of Mexico per day and U.S soldiers continue to return home traumatized, without limbs or in body bags.
With each new crisis, the question - echoed in newspapers, by political commentators or during private dinner conversations – seems to remain the same, “Who is responsible for this?” And the flagrant irresponsibility so present in our current events is always deduced to a common denominator – greed.
The timing and relevance of Gecko’s decision to downsize was parallel to my own. I had spent over a year living out of a backpack and just mustered enough courage to sell off almost all of my other possessions. With so much of the world feeling volatile, reckless and irresponsible, I was completely grateful for the opportunity to spend time with and learn from people who were practicing the exact opposite – people who are rolling up their sleeves, working hard, living responsibly and getting back to basics. This blog is an attempt to document that.

Wowzers!

There was so much darn activity this week between getting settled on the farm and working out the kinks of the airstream (correct - we still do not have air conditioning) that I’ve barely had much time to write – but here goes with some bullet points of this week's finer moments:

The Yankee Whore Arrives in Nawth Carolyna!

When Gecko picked me up from the Asheville Airport the day before the fourth of July, the sun was still kicking down some good ol’ southern heat. He was tired. He had spent most of the day hauling the Airstream from the top of a mountain, where it had been renovated, over to the farm, where it would stay parked by a lake. There were still a lot of technical’s to work out like electricity, propane and air conditioning, but the interior was done and we were excited to spend our first night in the trailer.
I was tired too. I had spent the day hauling myself from subway to train to plane to connecting plane and I was officially ready for a cold beer and some fresh farm air. I was also ready to switch up my jeans and my wedge-heeled sandals for a pair of daisy dukes and flip-flops. Surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains and a coveted spot in a trailer, it was time to leave the city girl back in New York and start fine tuning my inner Britney Spears.
Before I had the chance to do any of this though we stopped at the Shell station. Gecko and I separated in the chips aisle and he was already back in the car before I had finished paying. When I got there he was cracking up.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, slipping in to the passenger seat.
He was hysterical.
“WHAT?”
“That guy who was in the store with us just came out and said to his wife ‘You ain’t gonna believe what I jus seen in there – that them there wuz a prostitute!’”
And that them there prostitute would be me! I love Nawth Carolyna already! I had no idea that a pair of jeans, a tank top, some wedge sandals from Macy’s, and my Coach sunglasses would make such a bold and immediate statement in the south.
Well ladies and gents it looks as though the Yankee Whore has arrived!

Accepting Lyme Disease Into My Heart

The turnoff road to the farm is sandwiched between a Jehovah’s Witness kingdom of something or other building and a Baptist church. Oh, and Billy Graham’s heavenly (tax free) hideaway is just five minutes away.
Being smack down in the Bible Belt, I thought it might be a good time to turn inward and see what else I could stuff into the storage bins of my heart. I read something in a church program once that I was supposed to accept something, but I forgot what, so with tics in a blessed abundance, I decided for now to accept the possibility of Lyme disease.

Thursday Night Family Dinner on the Farm

There are seven of us here, sharing a five-acre plot of beautiful, farmable land. The owners of Red Wing Farm, Beth and Christopher, have turned their dream of sustainable living into a reality and are not only cultivating the soil but a community of like minded people to help and share in the experience. There are two smart and hard working interns, Nicole and Ali, who are students at the nearby Warren Wilson college. And Dau, Beth’s nephew just arrived from Georgia to spend the summer working the farm as well. It is incredible the amount of work it takes to run such a responsible and organic operation. There are no sprayed chemicals killing the bugs off the vegetables, they must be handpicked. There are weekly harvests for market days and there is the constant planting and tending of new seeds for the season ahead. Everything is calculated and timed according to nature and it is a gift for me to witness these guys in action everyday, all day, in the heat, making this possible.
Then there are the two hoodlums parked by the lake where the snapping turtles live. Gecko and I have been incredibly busy as well – not necessarily farming but carefully constructing a fantasy world of summer camp for adults.
Beth and Christopher live in the house. Ali lives in a small airstream. Nicole lives in a converted bus and Dau lives in the Yome – a round, canvas yurt-like structure. All of us, except Beth and Topher, share a communal outdoor kitchen and a bathhouse. With sharing a pillar of community living, it was decided that family dinners would happen every Thursday, with each person adding something to the potluck. Our first one went swimmingly well.
There was Mead, a homemade honey wine infused with herbs, and squash casserole. Beth made the best potato salad I have ever eaten and also fried green tomatoes, which I tried for the first time (yum). There was bean salad and falafal. The dinner was delicious and it was organic and the most incredible part was that almost everything was grown right here on Red Wing Farm.

Young Boy Has Difficult Time With Certain Images

These are two girls from the local Roller Derby team who I can't wait to get tickets to see! This boy is too young to know what roller derby is and therefore looks as though he might be in the process of getting scarred for life.