I remember the first time I milked a cow. I was overwhelmed by the task. I had no idea what I was doing. All I had was Carla Emery’s Encyclopedia for Country Living to guide me. Believe me, that cow made the gettings rough. She kicked and moved and gave us a complete fit. The result: we had one quart of fresh milk to drink. Read that again: ONE QUART. The subsequent milkings were challenging but over time grew easier. Having to work so hard to get fresh milk caused me to treat that liquid as precious gold. Later we would master the milkings and a surplus resulted. I had the opportunity to pour the milk out for the dog. But, did I really want to take thirty minutes worth of work in the cold to feed my dog? Not hardly. I became intensely interested in creating other useful products out of milk. I made yogurt, cheese, butter and more.

Butchering our steer created the same result. We worked hard cutting, slicing, and dicing.  We were reluctant to waste any of the trimmings. My husband saw the extra beef fat and decided we should make tallow. He wanted to use the tallow to make soap. I was not delighted because I have an intense prejuidice for my luxury bars. They are made with high quality cocoa nut, palm, olive and castor oils. I developed a strong bias toward home made soap made with animal fats. Another reason for resistance to rendering tallow is that I knew nothing about tallow or its soap making properties. I was too tired to learn after a full day butchering.

Despite my reluctance, I began gathering information. Especially because I learned that tallow makes a nice laundry soap.  After butchering I drove to see my plain friend. I asked her how she rendered tallow. I always get frustrated when talking to my plain friends. Most of their answers to my questions involve, “Oh, I just cook it down, render it, strain it and put it in a bucket. Be sure and store it where it is cool”.

It is not that my plain friends are intending to frustrate me. We just have a huge culture gap. They forget I wasn’t raised at my mother’s skirts rendering tallow, so I need detailed steps and I mean detailed.

What normally happens is I will go home and follow my friend’s instructions and make a big mess failing miserably while I am at it. I go back to my friend’s house where she laughs with a Pennsylvania Dutch laugh. Yes, they laugh with an accent too. Then she tells me. “No, you have to cook it down slowly over a low heat or a double boiler so you don’t have to use a fire extinguisher”. I am joking. I did not start a fire when rendering tallow. My friend has finally learned that I am a newbie and that when I ask questions she should warn me of the safety hazards. The point is that when you turn to people who have been raised living the old paths, it is important to work with them side by side. Often they fail to include critical details and summarize instructions by saying, “ Oh, I just cook it”. Many of my plain friends can’t tell me how hot because they use a wood cook stove. Makes it tough. So I have learned to stand beside them at their stove and use my finger or wrist to tell temperatures. When the wrist cannot be used, you have to learn to look at the texture of what you are cooking. Either way, there are real benefits to apprenticing with someone when learning the old ways.

Upon arriving home, I also consulted the internet for tips and pointers on rendering tallow. My research was not thorough so I encountered some problems. I will discuss those later in the body of the article.

Here is a piece of beef fat before we cut it up.

At first I just cubed the fat into small pieces. I cooked my first batch this way.

Cutting the fat into cubes quickly became tiresome.  We had a lot of fat, so we decided to speed the process up by using our meat grinder. 

I learned about this tip somewhere on the internet.  The fat cooked down much faster by grinding it.  I had cubes and ground fat in one pan and the cubes took forever to cook down in comparision. 

I cooked some of the fat on the stove top, some in a roaster oven, and some in a couple of baking dishes in the oven.  Again we had a massive amount of fat to work with.  I needed to make progress and quick.  It is important when cooking the fat to be watchful.  It can catch fire if you cook it too hot.  We did not have this experience fortuantely. 

We cooked the fat down until there were cracklings.  We were careful not to cook the cracklings too long and burn them.  We used a potato masher to work the cracklings over as we cooked.  When we were satisfied that we cooked the fat long enough we strained the oil.  One website suggested placing a coffee filter over a canning jar.  They suggested a paper towel would work equally well.  This did not work for me.  The filter cloged up and the fat would not drain.  For good measure I left the fat to drain overnight.  I returned to solidfied fat on top of the coffee filter.  It became apparent that the coffee filter and paper towel idea was not working so I did what my plain friend recommended.  She filters her lard and tallow with a mesh wire sieve.  It worked fine.

I placed the first batch of tallow in canning jars to cool overnight.  In the morning, I gave the jars a wiff and groaned.  It smelled like hamburger grease.  My new mission was to figure out how to get rid of the smell.  Also, I needed to know how to store the tallow. 

I poured through my soap making books and found nothing but bias against working with tallow.  Some soap makers felt it wasn’t worth the mess and hastle to render tallow.  They recommended buying pure tallow from a soap oil company.  The news was frustrating and not useful.  I intended to make use of the tallow one way or another.  Finally, I found a book in my collection that was helpful.  It is called “The Art of Soap Making:  A Contemporary Primer” by Merilyn Mohr.   The author describes how to take disgusting rancid fat and make it pure and fresh.  Jackpot! 

I took a quart of the tallow that I let cool and placed it in the roaster.  I added about a gallon and a half of water and two tablespoons of salt.  I let this cook.  I would start this before we started school and strain it during our lunch break. 

I filtered the entire contents of the roaster in a large stainless steel bowl.  I would let it cool and then place the bowl in the freezer.  After several hours i had a nice white disc of tallow floating on the water.  I let it get hard enough that I could scrape an impurities off the bottom.  I broke the disc up  a little and placed it in freezer bags. 

It took a week to wash three gallons of tallow, doing a little at a time every day.  I did not use all the fat from the animal.  I still have some in the freezer.  It was easier than I expected.  Smellier than I had hoped …  at first.  However, washing the tallow with water and salt made the smell disappear.  For fun, I washed some of the tallow with baking soda.  The result was much whiter tallow.  (A second time with baking soda didn’t turn out as well; the tallow was more crumbly and unusable, I think because I used too much baking soda.) 

Ms.  Mohr, in her book, suggests you can reclaim most fat and get the smell out by sweeting it with vinegar or lemon juice.  “Two tablespoons of lemon juice or vinegar disolved in one-half cup water and boiled with one cup fat will improve its character for soapmaking.”

A few days later, my husband and I made Castile soap out of tallow (70% tallow, 30% olive oil).  My husband had never made soap before, but he did fabulous.  It is so rewarding to work together and with joy on our homesteading endeavors.

I let it cure for a few weeks and then grated the bars.  I took the shavings added water and made five gallons of laundry soap.  I also made two gallons of dish soap. 

                            Amazing how we started out with this:                                

  And with some effort got this:

The bottom picture is dish soap I made out of the Castile.  I took the soap right out of the pot heated up and began washing dishes.  It stayed sudsy the whole time.  Once it cooled and was poured into bottles it no longer produced suds.  Suds or no suds, I am pleased with our efforts.  I am happy to save money and stop supporting Proctor and Gamble. 

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Homesteading is progressive and transformative

Learning to butcher your own food

About commercially processed Poultry

It is common knowledge that poultry mega farms produce inferior meat. The birds do not see the light of day. They are not allowed to forage naturally for bugs or eat grass. They are caged in massive confinement operations hidden from the light of day unable to move much. I am not an animal rights activist. But, it didn’t take long to learn that preventing chickens from living a normal chicken life meant less health benefits for me, the consumer. Beyond that, I was mortified when I learned mass processing meant the plucked carcasses marinated in a vat of water and fecal matter before being soaked in a vat of chlorinated water. Yuck!!

Butchered chickens:  Check

Our first butchering day was memorable. I purchased chicken from Wal-Mart as a matter of course. I remember I still had one store bought chicken left upon butchering day. The children wanted fresh chicken so I obliged them. I baked the chicken in the oven. The aroma filled the house. When I removed the pan from the oven, the yellow drippings made our mouths water. It did take me, the citified girl, effort to press the imagery of the butchering far back in the recesses of my mind. The chicken we raised was delectable. It is hard to use words to describe how good that chicken tasted.

A few days later, not wanting to be a bad steward, I decided to cook the bird from Wal-Mart. The aroma that filled the house was of stale chicken fat. My children being keen expressed displeasure with the smell when compared to the chickens we raised. I removed the pan from the oven. The drippings were not a bright golden yellow, but a dull greasy liquid that looked gray and brown in areas. The children took a few bites and begged me to pitch the store chicken. I never bought another chicken at the store. The difference was that noticeable to us.

Our spring plans

We hope to raise broilers this spring, enough for our own families needs. The children miss butchering and got quite upset last spring that we were not going to buy broilers. Last season we bought chicken from a local farmer. If we can’t find a supplier, we don’t buy it.

Butchered a hog: Check

Recently, we had the opportunity to meet with friends who are primitive but proficient homesteaders. They invited us to their farm to teach us how to butcher a hog. Providence would have it that we were not able to participate in the kill but only in processing part. However, we still learned a good deal. It took us a half day to process the hog. I did not take the fat to render it into lard. I had an abundance of lard I purchased from a local farmer. However, I took the bones and scrap meat and boiled it down. I made scrapple for our family. One thing our friends taught us is to make use of every part of the animal. I have a long ways to go to learn how to butcher a hog from beginning to end, but we are further then we were a year ago.

Butchered a steer: Check

Our friends invited us back to butcher a steer. It was a 1200 lb Jersey. It took us a full day to process the steer. Again, we were not able to participate in the kill but helped process and cut the meat. My husband decided we should take the fat home and render it into tallow. There was an incredible amount of fat on this animal. Processing tallow was a huge undertaking for me. I had to first overcome the mental block of working with the fat. The aim in rendering tallow was for soap or candle making. I had already made soap out of high quality oils. I was spoiled and reluctant to give up using those good oils. I decided use the tallow for other soap needs like laundry and dish soap adjusting slowly away from the other oils. I will share more later on how we rendered tallow. For now, it is important to note how butchering our own steer impacted me. There were aspects that were unpleasant. I still prefer to milk cows and avoid killing. However, if I am going to eat meat, I am convicted that I must do so in a manner that would bring glory to God. Supporting a large confinement operation and industrial sized meat packing plant doesn’t line up with my personal convictions on stewarding the land, animals, and resources God gave us. When I participated in the hard work of butchering an animal, I was less interested in wasting byproducts. I believe if more people worked hard around the production of their food, they would experience a desire not to be so wasteful.

About commercially processed beef

In Kansas I lived two miles south of a feedlot. It saddened my family to drive by the feedlot and see cows between hock and chest deep in mud and manure. The smell of such a large operation was hideous. On rainy days with the wind blowing just right we smelled the putrid smell of the feedlot at our farm. The animals in the feedlot, the last days of their lives were confined to mud. Again, I am not an animal rights activist. But, I am a human rights activist. We have a right to be fed meat from well cared for animals. I believe that placing an animal in filth then slaughtering it, makes for a less healthy animal. Feedlots are a breeding ground for diseased animals. Large packing plants hire people who have to endure repetitive motion in an assembly line type job. This is where mechanization of agriculture converges. Animals are mass produced, mass handled, nothing more than a mere cog. Humans who process them are just an extension of the corporate glut. They are also machines, a cog in a machine. Let’s hope they don’t get carpal tunnel syndrome. Mass production gives way to a lack of passion and concern, an increase in fatigue and human error which means food borne illnesses. Just how many recalls have their been in the last ten years in the food industry? I am not over generalizing. We have a serious problem with our food industry and the safety of the food they produce.

Beef the little guy versus the big guy: comparision and contrast

Imagine those feedlot cows wading in  mud and their own manure before they are butchered. Now imagine the steer we butchered with our friends. I saw him a week before he was killed. He was in the barn out of the ran munching on hay and standing in a fresh bed of straw. Prior to the rain he was walking around in a pasture with green grass already poking up despite the winter weather. It is far different than the feedlot cows.

Who butchered our steer? My husband, my children, our two nieces, and three other friends. We worked together talking about the joy of the Lord in our lives. We arrived fresh for the job early on a Saturday morning. The steer was the only animal my friends were butchering that day. There was a cheerful energy about us as we worked. Our grinders and meat saws were powered by a team of four horses on a treadmill. The overhead for this custom butcher was very low.

Who butchers store bought beef? Generally, over worked underpaid people who spend hours doing repetitive work. Their machines are powered by electricity and fuels that are highly dangerous. One such chemical claimed the life of my step-father who received a blast of anhydrous ammonia in the face when checking Tyson’s cooling system. His early and untimely death are stark reminders the immediate consequences of progress and advancement.

Informed choices

We all have choices about our purchases. I appreciate quality care of the animals I eat. It is a real benefit when their carcasses are not injected full of hormones and antibiotics. I further appreciate the personal atmosphere of a small butcher shop. An even better venture is to butcher our own animals from start to finish on our own farmstead in the future.

Stay tuned for a pictorial article on rendering tallow.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

To homestead, one must have a variety of skills. Some skills are easier then others. I enjoy milking cows. I am tempted to say it is easy. Ease depends on the day, the cow‘s mood, my mood, and other miscellaneous elements. Milking cows involves life and harvesting the abundance. To have milk, there must be a baby calf. Dairy cows produce more milk than their baby calf needs So, the dairymen collects the extra. There is no death to harvest save the occasional still birth or cow that doesn’t make it through labor on the small farmstead. This proves to be the opposite on corporate dairies. Dead cows and calves are the norm rather than the exception.  I digress.

I don’t like butchering but it is necessary for the homesteader　

The point is I dislike butchering animals. Yet, it is a necessary part of life unless you are a vegetarian. I am not a vegetarian. That means, I should learn to kill animals. Hitting smallish critters with my car does not count. Though I have a few friends who joke about starting a restaurant called “Road Kill Café”. Generally, they are jesting. But, since the economy continues to worsen, I have noticed a few of them have a serious gleam in their eye when I slap my leg and guffaw. I politely declined recent invitations for dinner at their house.  Just to be on the safe side. 

Last week I visited a friend who abrubptly asked, “Are you still going back in time, Chris? You aren’t going to kill your own food, are you? Please tell me you aren‘t going to kill your own food!” My friend cannot understand why we do what we do here on our homestead. Though she loves us and we love her, she struggles to understand. She is not the first to express confusion about our goals and likely will not be the last.

I explained to my friend I was guilty and had been for a long time. I began killing my own food back in the early 90’s. It started with hunting quail. My next kill would not occur until 2005, when we butchered a mean old rooster who kept flogging the kids. One thing led to another and we began butchering chickens for our customers.

“Why on earth would anyone want to go back in time? Why would you want to kill your own food?” my friend asked.

Clearing up the confusion about homesteading

In this article, I will address the first question: why are we going back in time? In a future installment, I will speak candidly about our decision to kill our own food.

Homesteading is progression not regression as some like to believe

I don’t consider what we are doing going back. It is not regressing, rather progressing. I believe that modern industrialized culture lied to me. They enticed me to live a life of supposed luxury and convenience because it is cheaper and more efficient. Advertisers and media were able to hide their hidden costs for the short term. For the ease of buying it at the store rather then doing it on my own, I became bound to the role designated to me by culture. I would have to be a career woman and work outside the home. Suddenly, the act of picking up a can of green beans at the store had all kinds of fine print.

Consequences for store bought only mentality

Let’s look at that fine print:

Don’t just buy green beans. You must buy hamburger helper, milk, cheese, eggs, microwave dinners, bread, canned chili beans, etc.

Don’t just shop for convenience food items. You must buy convenience appliances like a microwave, dishwasher (don’t for get our special dish soap and our incestuous relationship with the electric company, water and gas company) , electric dryer, electric washer, refrigerator with the ice maker, stove with the automatic cooking feature etc.

For convenience, you will need to take any children you have and put them in daycare starting at six weeks old for eight to ten hours per day. Let others see their firsts. Let others bond with them. Let others teach them values. Remember it is the American modern way.

You will also need to send your children to public school so you can keep working while the government trains your children.

When you get sick from eating all the processed foods, be sure and call the doctor who has an enmeshed relationship with pharmaceuticals. Don’t worry about paying for it, because your group health insurance plan will cover 80 percent after the deductible. You may need to work a little overtime to pay for your added medical costs, but that is okay society needs you. The gross national product needs you. Uncle Sam surely needs you because they have to have those taxes to pay for all the programs designed to help America’s fractured families.

Tired of being a consumer, I want to produce. 

I have been lied too. I have been enslaved for a number of years. I spent the first portion of my adult life buying (literally) the lies that in order to be happy and fulfilled I needed the newest model car, computer, the best education, career and more. The money I did earn was spent supporting industry. In fact, the more I worked the more debt we had. I found no happiness in chasing that dream. If others can more power to them. I didn’t. It wasn’t the life for me. Instead, I watched my oldest child grow up before my very eyes and we were becoming strangers. I noticed that my ability to change the world through my career was elusive at best. I did good work but it was of superficial value. When all was said and done, did I want people (as in society) to remember me as a good social worker? No I wanted people (as in my children and close family) to remember me differently. I wanted my children to remember me as a devoted mother who cared about them, who taught them about the Lord Jesus and how to live a full life.

I wanted a more meaningful life than I found pursuing the American Dream. I wanted to have relationships with my children to stop wasting money on Tyson’s, Chrysler’s, Sony’s, Microsoft’s, Farm Land’s, and Proctor and Gamble’s dream and start making my own dream come true. I decided to live differently on purpose and because I wanted to.

In order to achieve this dream, I stopped working outside the home and began farming. I stopped sending my child to public school and daycare and began to home educate them. I stopped buying all the junk. We began working to produce our own milk and food. Ultimately we began to sell to our local community and developed a wonderful sense of community around the farm.

Homesteads and small farms impact the local community and change lives

When we relocated and started farming in Missouri, we found the same demand and appreciation for our work. The community responded positively to our new farm too. Through the farm, we met and touched the lives of many incredible people. For example, I paid a visit to our first hometown in Missouri just the other day. I ran into a youth who spent time on our farm. He did not start out on good terms with me. My first meeting with him was in the form of fierce confrontation. He bullied my children and pulled a knife on them as they walked past his home. I warned him that if he continued to use his free time pulling knives on kids he would find himself in juvenile court with a record. When I approached him and his mother about the problem, I encouraged him to come to the farm and help us feed baby calves rather than harass the children. He would find that more rewarding then juvenile court. Indeed, he did. He spent some time on our farm helping and loved it. Our relationship was transformed from that point forward.

I saw this young man in a local market a couple of days ago. He came up to me saying, “Hey, remember me? I helped you feed your calves. I sure miss working on the farm!” Almost two years have passed. He is almost fifteen now. He remembers my family not so much by the bullying incident, but by helping us feed our calves. Farms are good for the children in our culture and children are good for the farms. Small family farms are equally good for the community.

Is this really going back?

It is cutting edge to me.

It is transformative.

We bridged the gap of a potentially ugly social problem with our farm. We prevented juvenile delinquency by inviting the youth to our farm to work. It was not just this one youth but several of the teenagers in town came to help dig a water line.

Again, I ask is this backwards?

I met the needs of my children first by working with them on the farm. Then we reached out to our community and put the youth to work. It was better than any therapy interventions I used as a social worker. And, I did this while being a stay at home mom. Talk about streamlined and effective.

Our Sabbatical is almost over　

True, we have been on sabbatical for over a year. But, the roots of Christian agrarianism have grown deeply in my children. They are ready this spring to return to farming. Plans are underway. The excitement is dizzying. Furthermore, it is facilitated by the children who have lived this life and know of the benefits first hand. I hear them recount story after story of our life on the farm at the dinner table. The people they met, the experiences they had changed them and they miss it. They want it back.

We are back on the land now with a renewed vision. Our journey over the last two years changed us for the better. We have sat by and watched as our friends further their agrarian goals. We felt disheartened at the long wait. Yet, in this fallow time we were strengthened and transformed. We spent the last year and a half learning homesteading skills first hand. Our friendship with the self reliant homesteaders affirmed that the most progressive lifestyle to be lived is that with little or no connection with modern technology. We are not bound by a religious sect to live a certain way. We are lead by our conscious choice, our desire to steward the land God gave us with wisdom and appreciation. We will pick and chose what aspects of non-electric life we will sacrifice. We have seen the impact and heartlessness of mechanized and fully automated farming. The devastation doesn’t just affect the animals and the land. It impacts the lives of people and the surrounding community. We are ready to take our place farming again stewarding the land and animals for God’s glory.

Stay tuned for part two of “Going back in time? Killing your own food?”

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

But don’t under estimate her by her size.

When she enters a room her presence alone commands attention.

Believe me, if you ignore her, she will in a matter of seconds maker herself noticeable. It is anybody’s guess just how she will go about making herself known.

She is the youngest of six children and she WILL NOT be left out. Her birth was just 22 months after the twin boys. I fretted. How she would fare being born right after two active boys? Would they be too rambunctious for her? My concerns immediately disappeared when I saw the boys run through the yard shrieking as she chased them with a big stick.

I am not being hyperbolic. In fact, I am minimizing for self-preservation. She chased them with a PVC pipe the next time. And yes, she did take off after them with a weapon more than once. She was still in diapers and toddling then. After a few years of firm discipline, the shrieking episodes have decreased. Just this past week, one of the twins was squawking, “Charity is chasing me”. Thankfully, she had no weapon and she immediately stopped upon my arrival.

Being the youngest of six children requires a level of persistence. She demands to be included in all activities despite her age limitations or other circumstances. In fact, Charity spent the first part of her young life insisting that she was a part of the my boys twinship creating a pseudo set of triplets. She finally swapped that idea for celebrating individuality because it suited her better. However, sometimes her age difference gets the best of her. The other day we were driving to town. My husband was driving. Charity sat in front seat between my husband and me. For good measure, she said. “I just want you to know I am not driving right now. But, I will be soon”. I am not sure what to make of her assertion. So, I ignore it but am making a mental note to hide the keys.

Charity experiences frustration at being the youngest. Often she hears her siblings remark, “You can’t do that because you are too young. You are not big enough”. She recently witnessed all of her siblings master reading skills. Not to be outdone, she picks up books and reads them making up words as she goes. Should anyone correct her for not “really” reading, they will start war. She has never accepted the reality that she is the youngest . She will vehemently argue with anyone who makes that statement. Just ask her how old she is and she will tell you, “I am sixteen”.

Six months ago, the twins lost their teeth. It is a monumental event for a young boy to lose his teeth. Everyone near and far were pulled aside to view their new toothless smile. The twins amused themselves by drinking out of straws in new ways, spitting creatively and inventing a new form of whistling. Charity became obsessed. She wanted to loose her teeth. After months of telling her that she would likely lose her first tooth at six or seven like her brother’s she finally dropped the fixation and moved on to more serious pursuits which included beating her twin brothers at chess by creating her own set of rules. And then it happened…

Charity entered the room where I was exercising and exclaimed, “Mommy, I have a loose tooth. I have a loose tooth”! Her eyes were wide with excitement and she was jumping up and down. She insisted I wiggle her tooth to verify her findings. I groaned with skepticism. I thought we had put this issue to rest months ago. Reluctantly, I wiggled the tooth in question. Sure enough it was loose. It was not nearly ready to fall out but it was indeed loose. My daughter will not have to wait a year or two to lose her first tooth. I returned to exercising. Charity zoomed out of the room and loudly proclaimed her discovery to the entire household.

The children were captivated.  Charity would now face this prodigious rite of passage. It was as though they all determined she was no longer worthy of penalties imposed by age differences. The children began recounting their own rite of passage with Charity. Some of the children had words of warning and advise. Zach suggested that she should not put her tooth in a cup of peroxide because she would not be able to keep it for all posterity. He reviewed his mistake with the group. “Mom forgot my tooth was in the cup and dumped it down the drain. My first tooth is in the bottom of the lagoon in Kansas. “ All of the children nodded in agreement affirming the devastation of losing such a treasured relic of childhood. Josiah shared how he placed one of his teeth in a empty soda cup because he lost it while eating out. “Mom forgot my tooth was in it and threw it away”. Jordan shared how some thief claimed his two baby teeth. “They were in Mom’s purse when it got stolen from the car.” Jordan went on to advise Charity to never ask Zach to help pull the lose tooth. “I asked Zach to pull my loose tooth. He reached in and grabbed the wrong tooth and yanked it out. It was painful because it was not ready to be pulled, I forgave him because it meant I would soon have two missing teeth. But it sure did hurt. “ said Jordan. Who would have guessed the mundane act of losing baby teeth would produce such camaraderie. Charity reentered the exercise room every few minutes. She wanted to know if her tooth was ready to come out and how much longer she would have to wait. I dismissed her with instructions to wiggle her tooth regularly with her tongue. In time, the tooth would fall out.

We are all poised, ready and waiting for the announcement. I have the camera battery charged so we can capture this important moment on film just as I have with the other children. Charity determined to eat food differently at supper tonight. After all, she will have a gap soon. She gave us a full demonstration at supper time complete with exaggerated antics. We celebrate this childhood first knowing since Charity is the youngest to date, we may not see this rite of passage again in this generation. I will look forward to the day when my children’s children show up at the door declaring “Grandma, Grandma I lost my first tooth.” It will be a great privilege to share the excitement with them and the stories of how their parent’s celebrated this rite of passage. The simple joys of a childhood well lived warm the heart.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

March 17^th. It is not an average day to most individuals. Most people concern themselves about the color green. Are they wearing it? If not, they better be ready to be pinched. I don’t concern myself with this dilemma. I am a holiday cinic and St. Patrick’s Day is no different. Most of our holidays are based on peculiar and suspect rituals. Some start out based on good Christian values. But, soon are morphed into idiocy. What the fools don’t distort, then consumerism will finish off through senseless commercialization. Truth be known, I am cynical of most holidays. Don’t even get me started on Martin Luther’s King Jr. Day. Ah, then there is Labor Day. It wouldn’t be a bad day to celebrate IF American’s worked the rest of the 364 days of the year. Another sad truth: Most of us do not know how to work.

Like I said, I am cynical, to cynical for my own good. While most of you were thinking of St. Patrick’s Day and whether you were wearing green, I was thinking of St. Patrick’s Day in a different way. Yes, I was thinking of green. Not the green I was going to wear, but the green the earth wears. I stood looking out at our mud soaked homestead. My warm house and the bright sunshine created a delusion that spring had indeed arrived. I pressed my forehead against the glass window. The chill of the glass revealed my eyes were deceived. Winter still staked its claim on the day. In fact, I concluded Mother Nature was as oblivious to St. Patrick’s Day as I was. She could care less that I had a plan, a deadline. She sent cold wet weather yet again.

One self-proclaimed old geezer used to pester me about this time every year when I lived in Kansas. He would ask me annually for fifteen years running if I planted my taters yet. My response was always, “No.” He would rebuff me saying, “How do you expect to have potatoes , if you don’t get them in the ground by St. Patrick’s Day. Those potatoes gotta be blooming by Memorial Day.”

The years came and went. I was haunted by this question. When it was first posed to me, I was in the throes of modern American living. I was a career woman and I bought potatoes at the store. I didn’t have time to dig in the dirt. A few more years passed. I then wished I could dig in the dirt but doing so meant leaving small children to entertain themselves. It wasn’t worth the consequences. More time passed and I was consumed with activities related to our busy farmstead dairy operation. Each year, I felt remorse because I fell short of getting potatoes planted by the old geezer’s deadline.

St. Patrick’s Day is three short months after New Year’s Day. Every year I set resolutions insisting that I was going to establish a new and improved garden. I would prevail over every obstacle placed in my way and get a garden established with potatoes in the ground by March 17th. You know how the story goes. My resolutions became a vague and distant memory by January 2^nd of every year. By the time March rolled around, life got in the way of the garden goals.

I never could figure out how the old geezer planted potatoes faithfully around St. Patrick’s Day. I was unduly perplexed one year. The winter was prolonged and heavy snow covered the ground for weeks. I was sure he would not ask about the potatoes that year because he couldn’t have chiseled through layers of ice and snow to plant his own potatoes. Never the less, the question came. I stole away to the old geezer’s house to verify his assertion that his taters were in the ground. Sure enough, they were not only in the ground but foliage poked through the dirt.

This year I didn’t even try to set New Year’s resolutions. I knew better. I learned long ago it was a precursor for guilt and remorse. Consequently, I did not write out plans for our garden. I hoped my relocation to Missouri would end my associations with the St. Patrick’s Day guilt. Not a chance. Last year and avid gardener told me she planted her potatoes on St. Patrick’s Day here in Missouri too. I didn’t garden last year. Renting a home prevented me from gardening. Secretly, on cold winter days I dreamed of planting potatoes by St. Patrick’s Day. It was an unspoken desire. The New Year started with many presenting barriers. Our recent move placed us on a farm that has been used for pasture for many years. There was no garden plot upon our arrival. Activities related to setting up our modular prevented us from tilling the ground in the fall months. The winter was uncommonly wet and there have been few dry days. On St. Patrick’s Day, I stood at the den window and surveyed the landscape. Wet. It was all soaking wet. It will be week’s before we can walk on the garden spot let alone till it. The old geezer is no longer in my life. But, if he were, the answer would be the same. And, I am just sure his potatoes would be planted. How he managed to plant potatoes with the unpredictable weather remains a mystery.

Yes, I have some things in common with St. Patrick’s Day groupies. I think of green. I think of the green leafs of potato plants pressing up through the dirt. This year I thought of yellow.

 A bit of reading and research suggests no digging is necessary for planting potatoes. One could simply use straw as a medium to plant potatoes. Once the potatoes leaves appear cover them with more straw. So, it is muddy here on our farmstead. But, I might get potatoes in the ground soon after all.
Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid.

Learning about this approach has taken me nearly a year because we have faced numerous transitions as a family. I am still in the process of learning and internalizing what I am learning so I can teach it to the children. What we have implemented has dramatically impacted our family.

The children are showing tremendous initiative in school and in their lives in general as a result of these changes. Moriah, 10, woke herself up before the rest of the family, dressed and opened her bible. She began her own private study and is recording her walk with God in a notebook. I expected to find Moriah in bed. Imagine my surprise when I opened the door and found her sitting quietly at her desk reading God’s word. The twins, age seven, also began their own personal study by reading the Psalms. They want to be like the godly men who founded our nation that we had been reading about. They both have come to family worship with notebooks keeping a record of what they learn. All of the children have asked to double their math lessons completing two per day. Despite the effort this takes, they refused to return to one lesson per day when I gave them the opportunity. In fact, they insist on test days that they should still complete two lessons anyway. One day we had attended a vocal performance for our niece. The children begged to complete their second lesson in math when we returned home. This change in my children came after learning about key figures in American Christian history. They also saw how the failure to use the bible as a basis for examination of fields of study has eroded the moral values of our culture and lead to a dumbing down in our country. I am delighted to see the children so invested in rigorous scholarship.

You can learn more about the biblical principle approach from the Principled Mom. Enjoy!

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

The following is an excerpt from my private journal penned about a month ago. Life around here isn’t always climactic. Sometimes it borders mundane. In this case, it was drudgery. I was sick. Yet, in the midst of upset schedules a well bonded family with a foundation built on biblical love functions in a way that is worth noting and perhaps even celebrating. This is my attempt to celebrate and praise God for all He has blessed me with from my sickbed.

When asked the question what is happening in my home, my thoughts center around the kitchen. The kitchen is the hub of our family life. This room is located in the center of our home and its location suits our family’s natural behavior patterns.

Right now noise emanates from the kitchen. A dish clanks, feet pitter patter across the floor, heavier footsteps punctuate the scurry of the little feet. My husband has kitchen duty tonight. I am sick and have been all day. I listen intently as he instructs the children. My husband is no fool. He dislikes dishes. He can cook and believe me he can cook delicious meals. They are creative expressions much like the music he composes. But, he warned me when we married that he rarely does dishes. It was not an assertive warning, but rather an honest confession of weakness. I knew there might come a day when he would have to face feeding the children and the by products of such an effort, dirty dishes. He handled the task tonight like a genius. I just heard him assign the children to do the dishes. Surely, he is a good leader. It is common knowledge that good leaders are good because they delegate. And, delegate is what my husband did.

Being sick leaving a house full of children and a husband in charge could be a terror producing experience for a keeper of the home. Much of the normal routine will be left undone or it will be completed by well meaning hands who have a blindness to dirt and sticky substances. Yes, tonight I entered the kitchen and my socks stuck to the vinyl. The floor was not sticky last night. Though some tasks will be completed, many important details will remain undone. Yet, it is in the midst of sickness that I see my children and husband rise to heights that over shadow mild irritations of an unkempt house. For example, my husband came to my bedside and listened to my confessions of remorse for sleeping the day away. “I wish I knew what is causing this, “ I said.

“I don’t know what it is causing it, but I am going to love you and treasure you anyway. Oh, here. The children made you this,” he said pointing to a picture resting next to my pillow. Apparently the children came in my room while I was sleeping. They placed the picture next to my pillow. The children made a picture of flowers, trees and a cross. They wrote, “I love you, Mommy” and signed their names. Later my ten year old daughter came and reported something that gave me great relief. She took my lesson plan book and completed each subject with her brothers and sisters. They had to modify some of the readings because some of our curriculum includes adult level books.

No one wants to endure sickness. It is a hassle and huge inconvenience at best. However, when wrestling with physical suffering we have a greater appreciation for health. In sickness we can still be thankful and rejoice. Though I despise being sick, I thank God for reminding me not to take my heath for granted. I thank God for the tender compassion as reflected in my husband. He displayed such creativity when cooking and employing the children to clean up the kitchen. It was a joy to listen to the happy interactions in the kitchen from my room. It enabled me to reflect on our new life with gratitude for all God has done. The children all worked together to complete the house work and school requirements. Perhaps, a day in bed will restore enough of my health to return to normal activities tomorrow. As I pillow my head tonight, I can do so knowing I have a loving and bonded family. Moreover, I have a loving and merciful God.

Udderly His,

Kansas Milkmaid

2) Transplant the seedlings into a bigger pot allowing more room for growth.

We are anxious for our seeds to germinate. For now, we are making plans and dreaming of canning lots of tomatoes. We are also praying for fruitfulness in our endeavors (This is the key to successful farming. Successful farming doesn‘t always mean success. It means surviving calamity with grace, poise and contentment. Only a heavy reliance on God will assure peace in the face of drought and disease).

The rain also kept us from installing a laundry line. I am anxious to get back to hanging clothes out. My plain friends hang clothes out all winter. They inspire me to be more courageous when it comes to cutting the electric bill. The good news is after installing our geothermal heat pump our electric bill decreased substantially. However, we long for the day when our off-the-grid home to be completed. In the meantime, we plan to take advantage of the spring and return to manually washing clothes and hanging the laundry out to dry. Since our temporary home is a new site, we have run into road blocks with some of our simple living. There is no good place to wash clothes manually outside without lots of mud. Further, there is no laundry line. We aim to solve this problem once there is a bit of dry weather.

We were unable to work on building our chicken tractor this weekend due to the wet weather. The children were ready to build it rain or no rain. They are anxious to return to farming.

Despite the foiled plans, I did accomplish important tasks on the homestead. Though it may not seem monumental, I cut the guy’s hair. A trip to the barber shop would cost our family 50.00 minimum for the men. Scheduling five people for haircuts would also be difficult. It is a joy to spend one on one time with the boys while cutting their hair. Overall, I am getting more courageous as I cut. Each time, I get a slightly different result. Some haircuts are better than others. But, I am delighted to cut their hair. My husband put up his “winter coat”. He shaved his beard. We are all anxious for spring. You can learn to cut hair by checking out a DVD at the local library. It requires grace and mercy as the skills are learned. A family grounded in Christian love is bound to be sanctified with home hair cutting.

My husband and I converted some tallow into Castile soap. It was fun to teach him how to make soap. It is a joy to work with someone who is so content and happy. I look forward to working side by side with him on other farmstead projects as well. I usually make soap out of cocoa nut oil, olive oil, and palm oil. I super fat it with castor for a nice lather. Honestly, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of making soap out of tallow. I love my luxury bars. Luxury costs. It costs in terms of raw materials. It costs in terms of shipping. Learning to work with tallow will cut costs and simplify. While I am not ready to use tallow based soaps for a body bar, I am willing to use tallow to make laundry soap and dish soap.

We used the following recipe to make our Castile soap:

Tallow-37.7 ounces

Olive-16 ounces

Lye-7.5 ounces

Water-17.25 ounces

The soap smelled like tallow until it completed the gel phase. I rendered the tallow twice, yet it still smelled like cooking grease. It wasn’t rancid but clearly it wasn’t the smell I was accustomed to. I may need to perfect my rendering process to see if I can eliminate the smell. After I cut the bars and there was no smell. Apparently, after once the soap saponifies the smell dissipates. We were pleased. The soap is now curing.

Time did not permit me to write an outline of the transformation of our home school. I will attempt to write an article on the Principle Approach next weekend Lord willing. I recently found a website dedicated to this approach. You can find more information here.

Until next time…

I remain….

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

A year ago, my hair began to curl naturally. I believe it has to do with whine. Yes, whine not wine. There is nothing quite so hair curling as a child’s whine. (My husband asserts that the real reason my hair started curling is because of true love. He put a spring in my step and curl in my hair. And, I agree with him. True love transforms us in character and appearance.) Some people talk of hair raising experiences. When I hear my children whine, it is so irritating it doesn’t just raise my hair, whining curls my hairs and my toes. I grit my teeth and widen my eyes. I can cope with a lot but I can’t cope with whining.

Whining comes and goes in waves around here. Generally, it comes because I have not dealt swiftly with misbehavior. The whining swells as I ignore the need for rebuke. Lately, whining is associated with a particular subject in school. Math. The children enjoy it, but sometimes struggle with a powerful urge to go fishing. Some will try to rush through the problems just to get a pole in their hands.

 I caught on to their scheme and slowed them down. Rushing math never produces good results. The error factor was on the rise as the spring like days increased. I am no dummy. I saw the correlation. I upped the ante and required them to slow down for quality sake. The whining increased. My hair got curlier. My jaw began to spasm from tight clenching. Something had to be done.

My husband and I gathered the children for early morning bible study. It was then that I saw the opportunity. God’s word is sharper than any two edged sword. Our study landed us in the middle of the Psalms where a warning was issued not to become hard hearted. I explained to the children that refusing correction on whining was evidence of a hard heart, a spirit that was unwilling to be taught. All made a commitment to stop whining. Surely, the word of God was effective as they listened intently during our study. But we gave teeth to this study by assuring the children that whiners would not be permitted to fish.

Parenting often provides insightful moments for the believer. That is, our relationship with our children is not unlike our relationship with God. Indeed, God refers to us as His children. There are many references to God, the father too. My children’s whining exasperated me at the minimum. At the maximum, it sent me over the edge. In the middle of our study, the Holy Spirit convicted me. As a child of God, I have given way to whining. When life doesn’t go as planned, I whine, complain and moan about my circumstances. I wonder. I just wonder if my whining provokes God in the same way I feel provoked by my children’s whines? At the end of our study, we all agreed to complete our tasks cheerfully with thankful hearts set on praising God.

Today I am reminded how merciful God is to me. I am thankful He is patient with me when I grumble and complain. I thank Him for the sanctifying me through teachable moments with my children. And yes, I am thankful for the children’s whining. I have a new longing to praise my father, to complete the tasks He assigns me with a cheerful heart filled with praise. That means, I will praise Him for the trials too instead of whining about them.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Current status and today‘s accomplishments:

–Feet throbbing after long busy day on the homestead.

–Brain fogged from exhaustion.

–Overwhelmed at the newness of the tasks before me.

–Rendered more tallow. Perplexed. My recent batch looks more yellow, less white. Plan to fall asleep pondering this fat dilemma. Which leads me to my next point…

– After two weeks of rendering bovine fat, I have taken an keen interest in reducing…ahem…the amount of fat I carry. Tough topic. Lots of excuses. I am middle aged, a momma of six. I have much more enjoyable things to do than repetitive motion causing profuse sweating and intense burning sensation in my muscles. What can I say? Eating a Snickers wins out over exercising every time.

–Despite my no win battle with chocolate, I triumphed and burned 600 to 700 calories Monday through Wednesday. Let’s all chant, “You go girl”. Please, oh please do because I am so unmotivated to keep this up.

–Made eight loaves of 100 percent whole wheat bread with flax today. It is really 100 percent. Not a smidgen of white flour. I despise recipes that are titled “100 percent whole wheat” and include white flour as a second primary ingredient. It is homesteading heresy.

–Prepared peach cobbler for breakfast tomorrow. I know, you wonder about us. Cobbler for breakfast? Why not? The kids love it. My husband loves it and it is easy to make. Every body is happy and so am I. Hmmm…now I will have to stay on that repetitive motion machine longer tomorrow. Bleck.

–Cooked down some soap shavings to make two gallons of homemade dish soap. I used glycerin this time. The soap bubbled two seconds longer than then the kind I made without glycerin. In the end, the dishes were clean and the water looked similar to bath water where my children inevitably leave the soap in the tub turning to spongy mush. Still searching for ways to make a better inexpensive dish soap.

–Cleaned up the kitchen after my husband and children converted it into a miniature horticulture laboratory. They planted four varieties of heirloom tomatoes. The seedlings are resting quietly near the den window. I am waiting just waiting for the day when an exuberant child dashes by the table, trips and overturns those seedlings. It is bound to happen. We have whispered threats to them. Let’s see if they heed them.

Farming involves learning to cope with forces of nature around you. As we plant seeds, we realize from the time the seed goes into the dirt to the time of bearing fruit any number of events can interfere with the production of the final product. If the kids don’t overturn the potting containers, a hail storm or an escapee cow can destroy all the good intentions, dreams and goals. Disease, pests, drought, and disaster can claim the diligent daily work of the farmer. This is not just true for the farmer, but for anyone in life who sets a goal and puts it into action. Goals and dreams take effort. We must confront forces beyond our control squarely, honestly and helplessly. And sometimes, despite our best efforts we have little to show for a day’s work. It is here in the midst of the frustration that we find our only source of contentment resides in Christ. He gives us the strength to carry on. He gives us a hope beyond the sabotaged plans or personal failures. He gives meaning to the failure as we endeavor to walk closely with Him.

Closing this day thanking God for the completion of goals long talked about. I thank God for my aching feet. May He bless our family with many more days of working diligently together to keep dreams of farming alive. Moreover, may He guide those little footsteps away from that planting table and enable us to harvest the fruits of our labors.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid