"Hank and Shayna" On the Road - Myrtle Beach

Hank dee-flaytes Shayna's boobies on vacation in Myrtle Beach!

The Occasional Daily Photo - 7/24 - Sunset on the Pond

Acupuncture is the New Exorcism

I was high as a kite when I left Spark’s office on Tuesday. “You roofied me with needles!” I accused him on my way out. The next patient, who had been sitting quietly in the waiting room, registered a moderate to high look of panic.
I am new to acupuncture, which is surprising considering my distinguished resume in seeking out and receiving holistic treatments. I had tried it once in New York, over ten years ago, at a student center, and the experience was not one that I had kept framed over my desk. “Ouch! Watch it Buster!” I remember myself saying all too often during that hour.
“Oh sorry, still learning that point.”
Like most people, I maintain a healthy dread of needles. Once, when I was about six, my mom took me to an allergist. He claimed the only way to test for the root cause of all my post toddler rashes was to stick me twelve times with a needle that, quite frankly, looked more like a pole vault.
That trauma wasn’t enough to keep my hands out of the cookie tin at the blood donation center in Manhattan though. On my way home from work I used to pass by Beth Israel Hospital on First Avenue and Sixteenth Street. One day I overheard two men raving about the free homemade chocolate chip cookies they handed out in order to keep your sugar levels up. They made these cookies sound so damn good that I figured siphoning off some extra blood and volunteering for an iron deficiency might just be worth it. And it was. Those cookies really were so damn good that I began religiously donating every three months.
I wasn’t quite sure I was ready for my acupuncture encore, but Spark has a mythical reputation, something akin to Zeus puncturing the mortals with a box of needles. I figured this was a golden winged opportunity for me to change my opinion. Beforehand, I had mistakenly jacked up on copious amounts of caffeinee, so when after he checked my pulse and reported that I had some energy that was itching to escape, I naturally thought it was somehow connected.
“You have a strong energy that needs to be released. I’m going to use ten needles.”
“Probably from the caffeine, huh?”
“Maybe a little, but this is more of a static energy.”
“What does that mean?”
“In Mandarin it translates into…evil energy.”
“Come again? I don’t think I heard you correctly. What kind of energy?”
“Evil Energy.”
I had come to acupuncture to open chakras, jumpstart tired organs and catch a little holistic buzz. I certainly wasn’t there to find out that I had somehow been impregnated with Rosemary’s baby. Spark definitely lived up to his reputation though and performed an exorcism that made me feel downright angelic. And I plan on returning as soon as he offers me some chocolate chip cookies.

Daily Photo - 7/22 - Warren Wilson College

Daily Photo - 7/19 - Hoover the Pig

With that snout, we figured Hoover could inhale just about anything.

Andriana and Gecko - Drinkin' Beer and Eatin' Fries

Gecko and I wanted to fit in rightly at the Friday night festival in downtown Asheville. Since we're not the type to roll a big spliff, slap on some Patchouli and spin in circles of seemingly audible ecstasy in front of the live band, we decided to meld into the crowd by drinkin' us some beer and eatin' us some fries instead.

But the fun did not stop there. "What should we do next?" someone from our group asked.

"Let's go meet our friends at the Yacht Club."

Okay, I thought, that's a reasonable response.

Then I tried one, "Hey, let's duck into a nice wine bar in town. You know, since we're here."

I already had myself kicked back on a swanky sofa listening to ambient music, sipping a nice cool glass of Cabernet Sauvignon or Pinot Grigio, the prefect compliment to festival beer and fries.

"Hey! Let's go to the Kava bar!" an unidentified member of our party shouted.

"The Kava bar? What the hell is a Kava bar? You mean Kava like the natural sedative Kava?" I asked.

"Yeah, that Kava. They just opened a whole bar for it. They were accused of spiking drinks with LSD, but they found out it wasn't true, it was just the Kava," answered the unidentified enthusiast.

Walking in though, I wasn't entirely sure about that. I immediately felt like someone had slipped me a tab or two and I hadn't even had a sip of the hippie valium yet. The bar, with it's 1980's Floridian rattan furniture, made me feel as though I was on vacation with the Brady's in Hawaii, after Bobby finds the bad luck tiki and after Greg's terrible surfing accident. Ominously, I wasn't quite sure if a bunch of overweight, shirtless men in grass skirts were waiting behind the fake canoe to throw me into a fire pit or if the mythical Mel and Fran, up from West Palm Beach, were ready to garb me up in a velour jogging suit and rope me into a swinging game of bingo.

If Kava gave off an LSD effect, then the guy working the bar was proof of the connection.

"Heeeelllloooooooo!" he greeted us.

I was gripping the plastic cup of Merlot I smuggled in with dear life, convinced now that it would take nothing less than a naked Denzel Washington gyrating on a stripper's pole to get me to try Kava.

"Heeeellllloooooooooo and welcome to the Kava Bar! What can I get you?"

"Um, nothing thanks. I'm all good."

I did not want to end up like this man behind the bar.

"That is what I used to think, but then I like tried Kava and my whole universe like totally changed. I used to never sleep and had like the worst nightmares, but then Kava totally made me have these totally great dreams. Like this one the other night. Whoa my god, it was sooo cool. I was being chased by like the whole cast of Star War's and then I totally found this like light saber of special powers on the ground. It was sooo cool."

I might have been tempted by the sales pitch if I was an insomniac, someone who enjoyed a vivid imagination or a Star War's fan, but being none of those, I just sank back into the rattan sofa, wine in hand, and patiently waited for Jan, Marsha and Cindy to come and join me.

"Hank and Shayna" On the Road - Airstream Gothic

Comment Away....

I fixed the comments so that you no longer have to be a member to leave one. I have a feeling I know which post y'all wanted to comment on.

Daily Photo - 7/16 - Beulah By Night

The End of Honey

I was never one of those kids sent off to summer camp for weeks at a time. I used to be envious of my classmates who would return to school in the fall armed with a whole new set of inside jokes about staying up late under covers with flashlights, winning the relay race or playing spin the bottle on the wooden floor of the boy’s cabin. Instead of having a nice list of planned activities, I was left to devise my own, which usually ended up as three long months of sleeping past noon, playing video games and learning to skillfully smoke Benson and Hedges out my bedroom window.

It’s Never Too Late!
While staying up late and playing spin the bottle has lost some of its glamour over the past twenty years (I’m lucky if I make it past ten with a good book), an interesting list of camp-like activities has not. Yesterday’s three part Harvest Fest 2010 had me running around Red Wing farm like a teenager high on a six pack of Dr. Pepper and a Snicker’s bar.

Harvest Honey
Last fall, Gecko bought a bunch of bees with the intention of harvesting some homemade honey. Unfortunately, it was a long, hard winter and sadly the bees didn’t survive, but they did have just enough time to sweeten up the hives.
So how is honey harvested?

The Sticky Seven
It’s a sticky job, but someone’s got to do it. Lucky for us, we had a fun group of seven.

The first step is to remove the hive trays from the bee box (yes, that’s my own technical expert terminology).

Then scrape off the waxy coating with a knife so that the honey can be released.
Do not eat the honey trays - although they are sweet and tasty.

Do pretend you are Vanna White with the honey trays.

And definitely spend time admiring the beauty of the hives.

Put the trays into the extractor – exactly what happens inside the metal drum remains a bit of a mystery – all I know is that with enough turns of the handle, sweet, sweet honey will start to pour out.

It's pretty simple and pretty darn cool and I totally recommend you try this at home.

Harvest Mead Wine
If only I had known sooner that I could make wine with honey, water and a few weeks time, I may have saved myself a pretty penny buying Chilean bottles of red from the grocery store. But now that I do know this, the bees better get prepared for double time because the world’s honey supply just may go extinct.

Beth introduced me to Mead wine at our very first family dinner on the farm. Homemade, infused with fruit and herbs and bottled in recycled Pellagrino bottles with labels that read ‘Lavander, Lemon Balm and Sumac’, this honey wine is a pretty dreamy summer drink.

So how is it made? The Sticky Seven get involved.

In a one to four ratio, mix a quart of your homemade honey into a gallon of water.

Strain the honey for maggots while getting pelted with one by Gecko.

Then walk along the path to the river and pick wild berries to mash.

Stain your hands and wave to the camera.

Pour the mashed berries into the honey water.

Funnel it into a jug.

Add some herbs (Lemon Balm).

Then twiddle your thumbs for three weeks until it's ready to drink.

And don't forget...

Don't forget to drink plently of Mead while your making Mead.

Harvest Friends

We started Thursday night family dinners on Red Wing farm last week with seven of us and it was a fabulous success. Well, it seems that the good word got out and about because this week – with seventeen of us – it looks as though the next thing we’re going to have to harvest are more chairs.

Nicole and I cook a chicken we may very well have killed.

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.