Chapter One: My Chicks are Born

To begin my story with the beginning of my chick's life, I record that my chicks were born on April 27th, 2009 on a Monday, in Polk, Ohio. Then came the great time of waiting, during which I telephoned the post office twice, came begging upon their doorstep once, was most unfortunately absent when called to announce the chick's arrival and still not at home when the postal service ultimately came to my doorstep, last evening at about 6 p.m. Fortunately for me--not to mention the chicks--my son and husband were home and greeted their arrival with all due manner of excitement, calling me upon my cellular phone in order that I might hear all manner of peeping. And now the comparison of my chick's story with that of David Copperfield ends, except perhaps for the story of one poor, crippled chick, whose fate remains to be determined.

Until now, I have only hinted at my plans and dreams to start keeping chickens. I intended to get them last year, but didn't feel up to building a coop myself and with my father's illness and my husband's increasingly busy schedule, I hesitated to ask for help. Earlier this year, I discovered that Good's a local Amish business that sells sheds and swingsets, also had a small 4x6-foot chicken coop. I'd seen similar coops advertised for twice the price and so it seemed like a good deal. I ordered it in February and it took well over a month to get it delivered. I'll post about the coop at a later time.

Since last year, I had pretty much decided to get Plymouth Barred Rocks. After all, these are the breed which started the Delmarva chicken industry. Then, I admired the flocks of Rhode Island Reds I saw at Rumbleway Farm and the Colchester Farm CSA, and decided to get a few of those as well. My friend Jeff, who has Dominiques, suggested I consider a heritage breed. So I went to the American Livestock Breeds Conservancy website, and found a great chart on heritage poultry breeds, their relative rarity, the types of eggs they lay, their meat qualities and their disposition.



I remembered my brother's silky bantams--beautiful fluffy white birds--and the fact that I could not play in my own backyard because of one, evil rooster. Yes, I know they don't look very tough, but this rooster would fly at me whenever I ventured past the swimming pool toward the rest of the yard. The day our new neighbors moved in sometime in the early 1980s, he attacked their 4-year old son. They were from the city, somewhere in Massachusetts; some welcome to the country and the south! When the rooster was in the coop and I had to collect eggs, I would stick a pole in and knock him around a little bit so he would be too woozy to attack. Finally--perhaps after the neighbor incident--we decided to get rid of the evil rooster. My grandmother did the deed and cooked him up for dinner. His flesh was purple like turtle meat, stringy, and basically inedible. His last revenge.

So I was intrigued when I read that the Delaware breed was gentle. Originally called "Indian Rivers" for a prime broiler area in Sussex County, Delaware, the breed was developed by George Ellis in 1940 for the burgeoning poultry industry. They were bred from the old stand-by Barred Plymouth rocks and New Hampshires. In the 1950s, they were replaced by the Cornish Cross breed that dominates today, but they sounded like a good dual purpose bird and they are considered critically low in numbers. In addition, they have a very good rate of lay for extra large to jumbo brown eggs, they grow fast and can be eaten at any age. My most recent issue of Backyard Poultry says they used to be the standard for "Sunday dinner chicken."

I looked up New Hampshires, since they are the hens from which Delaware's were bred, and they are a pretty reddish buff, satisfying my desire for a colorful backyard bird. They also have a pedigree as an outstanding meat bird, having been the standard in the Chicken of Tomorrow contests. That sealed the deal for me. One of my favorite items in our archive when I was curator at the Delaware Agricultural Museum was the copy of the 1948 film, "Chicken of Tomorrow," which was filmed in Delaware. It is the typical newsreel-type film like the ones shown in theaters during World War II, dramatic music and all. I was pleased to discover you can watch "Chicken of Tomorrow" online.
New Hampshires are also "calm" birds, lay extra large brown eggs and are fast growing up to 7 and a half pounds.

So I ordered 12 Delawares, 12 New Hampshires and one Delaware male. The Delaware rooster, bred to any of those females, should produce chicks of the Delaware pattern. If I manage to raise broody hens, I want to do my part to keep the breed going. There is much more to come about my chicken adventure. You're going to have to wait for the baby pictures!

My Grandmother's Peonies

In the 1940s, four years after my mother was born, my grandmother Cleora moved her family from the Dorsey (pronounced Dar-cee) farm across Church Creek to the house where my aunt still lives. Cleora and Vivian (yes, my grandfather was Vivian) had "set up housekeeping" at Dorsey farm when they married in 1924. Both were relatively late in age, my grandfather 29 and my grandmother 23. In 1925, their daughter Vivian was born (Yes, my aunt. I also had a great uncle named Vivian and Vivian is my given middle name) and two and a half years later, my uncle Tyrus--both born at home. Over the next nearly twenty years, the Brannocks moved about every four years, whenever my grandfather became "dissatisfied." They were at the Dorsey farm for the second time and this was their sixth, and thankfully final, move.

My grandfather Vivian was laid up in bed, recovering from a badly broken leg which he suffered in a fall from the hay loft down onto the tongue of a piece of farm equipment. With four year old Joan (my mother) at home and no license to drive, my grandmother loaded up a skiff over and over again and rowed everything--the chickens, coops, furniture, all but the piano and the cookstove--across the Creek to the new farm. The move took place in January, by which time winter had surely come to the Eastern Shore. The farm was owned by my grandfather's sister, Willie, and she had the ramshackle house fixed up with new windows and other repairs. They still had to get water from a well, but this was their first home with electricity. It was 1943.

Cleora also carried some peonies from Dorsey farm to the Church Creek place. With everything else she had to transport, these flowers must have been special to her. Hers had been a hard, rough life, growing up second to the youngest in a farm family with four brothers and two sisters, one of whom was rougher than most men (I knew her late in her life and although she was sweet to me, she had a terrible tongue and was a full two inches taller than my six-foot grandmother). The fact that Cleora took the time and effort to transport these flowers across the river demonstrates the sentimentality I always saw in her...and her tenacity.

About 10 years ago, my Aunt Vivian was mowing down and tearing up most of the perennial plants she had tended for well over 50 years, but she did call my mother and me to ask if we wanted some of Cleora's peonies. With no idea of where I would put them, I immediately drove over with my mother and dug several boxes full to take home. Actually, as I recall, my mother dug them for me. I'm thinking I may have been pregnant at the time, but since my mother is a slightly smaller but no less tenacious version of my grandmother, she probably just did the work for me. I transported my grandmother's peonies home by car, and planted them along my driveway. I soon discovered I had also planted an insidious patch of Dorchester County wiregrass.

Two years ago, we decided to renovate our attached garage into a family room and placed a detached workshop/garage directly over the spot where I'd planted my grandmother's peonies. Like all projects, everything happened at once and I found myself in July needing to transplant some bearded iris and my grandmother's peonies, which had spread beautifully into a 2-foot by 10-foot border. With a sense of futility, I dug them from the dry summer soil and placed them in a backyard bed. A few stalks of green leaves emerged last year, but no flowers. Meanwhile, the patch of wiregrass thrived and began coming up through the stone bed on which our new workshop sat. This year, only a few more stalks appeared, and still no flowers. Late this April, I began to worry that they were truly gone, and with them a piece of my dear grandmother, who died 23 years ago on May 2, 1985.

Last week as I mowed the grass, I saw a touch of pink peeking from a fat bud at the tip of a peony stalk. I investigated and discovered three pink blooms and two white blooms were about to emerge. They were small, and the one that had already bloomed was a bit bug-chewed, but they were alive! I pray that they will continue to slowly but surely recover from their harsh, mid-summer move. After all, if they could survive a trip in January 65 years ago, they can survive anything.

With my attention focused on the vegetable and fruit gardens this year, my landscaping certainly has suffered. Most years, I have weeded and mulched by this time, my annuals are in the ground and my pots are all in bloom on their window shelves. Instead, I have come to admire rows of red and green lettuce, bright red strawberries against dark green leaves, tall onion greens and feathery carrot fronds. The practical in me has chosen to elevate food crops over ornamentals. With all the work to be done, taking care of flowers comes second. But like my grandmother, I am sentimental, and there will always be a place in my garden for things of beauty.

My grandmother, Cleora Brannock, with her hydrangeas, just as I remember her in the early 1980s.

© 2008 Jenifer Dolde

Asparagus (and Spring) Are Finally Here

God and nature, once again, have given me ample reason for hope. I have been shamed out of last week's pessimism about the lack of sun and warm temperatures by the emergence of a dozen or so spears of asparagus, several beautiful days and the promise of almost 80-degree temperatures by the end of the week. While I have been clipping spinach leaves from last fall's crop (we enjoyed a tasty spinach and tomato cream sauce over penne last week) and the new greens will be ready soon, the asparagus will be my first true harvest of the 2008 season. Already, I can taste it. I've found new recipes for a spring vegetable risotto and an asparagus and ham frittata that will be on my dinner table soon.

My impatience for asparagus has already gotten the best of me, however, and I purchased some less-than-local spears several times in the last month. I am using a new roasting technique that is simple and tasty. I just heat up a 1/4 sheet tray drizzled with a tablespoon of olive oil in a 400 degree oven while I wash and snap the asparagus to the width of the tray (about 6 inches). Remove the tray from the oven, tilt to distribute the oil, and arrange the asparagus in a single layer. Shake the tray gently to roll the asparagus back and forth in the olive oil. Season with salt and pepper and perhaps a little garlic or garlic salt (just be careful the fresh garlic doesn't burn and become bitter). Roast until the spears are to the desired tenderness. I like them crisp so it takes less than 10 minutes, depending on the thickness. Grilled asparagus is even more wonderful.

My 12x12-foot asparagus patch is about 12 years old. I grow Jersey Giant, a disease-resistant, all-male hybrid that is supposed to be a better producer than older varieties. I am tempted to try some heirloom asparagus, but have been loathe to break sod on another bed. Asparagus is a perennial, and it takes patience--typically you have to wait four years for a full harvest. Conventional wisdom is that a "well-maintained" asparagus bed will last 10-15 years, keeping the plot as weed free as possible and applying compost each year. But my bed shows no signs of giving up, despite a plague of wild strawberries (see picture above) and the encroaching shade from our ever-larger white pine trees.

I have good reason to be skeptical that my asparagus only has a few more years to live. First of all, the ditch banks along nearby roads produce a decent supply of pick-your-own asparagus each year. According to my husband, Green Giant used to grow asparagus for market in these fields in the 1970s. With both irritation and delight, I watch each spring as folks take their lives in their hands to stop along our narrow country freeway to snap off free spears. I'm irritated because more than once I've had to come to a sudden stop to avoid a head-on collision with a car coming from the opposite direction and because, well, that's MY asparagus growing along the ditchbank-- but apparently others feel the same way. I'm delighted because the asparagus has survived decades growing amongst brush and thorns, making my weedy bed look "well-maintained."

Another reason for skepticism is that my grandfather's asparagus bed remained productive for some fifty years. He was a small-scale "truck" farmer, growing vegetables and small fruits for the local market and canneries. The small plot I remember was behind his garage, probably about 30 by 40 feet. In contrast, at Trumpington in nearby Kent County--the case study in my book--the family cultivated about 10 acres. The patriarch of the family recalled picking, bunching (see picture of antique buncher) and packing asparagus before school for weeks to ship to Baltimore in the 1930s--a lucrative business. No one can recall the variety my grandfather grew, but I don't think it was an heirloom. About 15 years ago, my aunt who lives on the family property began to mow down the asparagus. She had retired and liked to travel, and who could blame her for not wanting to weed 120 square feet of garden! By the time she told me about it (I tried not to look horrified), she'd been mowing for several years and it had just about finally given up. Once again, my asparagus plot comes out looking pampered. I figure I have at least 40 more years.

I did make a small addition to the perennial portion of my garden: MacDonald rhubarb. I planted three crowns in a slightly raised bed at the end of the asparagus bed (hoping to deter the wild strawberries). There will be no harvest this year, and only a light one next year. Until then, I am on the lookout for recipes because I've heard it is quite tasty. Mildred Strong, the current owner of Trumpington, says rhubarb is good in pie and you can stew it much like applesauce. Seventy years ago, the nuns at her Catholic school served it to the children almost daily. I didn't get the impression she wanted me to bring her any when it was ready to harvest. So my rhubarb, like asparagus, will require some patience. According to the growing directions from Johnny's, "a well maintained patch will last 10-15 years...or longer." I'm trusting it will last longer.

© 2008 Jenifer Dolde