Entries associated with the tag "Hillspring farm":

A new crop of spring food books is piling up around here, and for partly egotistical reasons I was particularly excited about Renewing America's Food Traditions: Saving and Savoring the Continent's Most Endangered Foods, a coffee-table menagerie of heritage animal breeds and heirloom plant varieties that features a short chapter on our favorite critter, the American mulefoot hog. A few months ago the book designer asked permission to use a couple photos I shot for the Whole Hog Project--one a closeup of a fused hoof, and another of a very pregnant Crystal during her days at Hillspring Farm. The book arrived a couple weeks ago, and there she was on page 148. Nice. Then I read the text authored by editor Gary Paul Nabhan, in which he confidently states that the mulefoot is "a breed with fewer than 150 purebred individuals being cared for today."

Whah?

That wasn't even remotely close last year. Further, the chapter gives short shrift to the genetic research and promotional efforts of Arie McFarlen of Maveric Heritage Ranch, who has the largest mulefoot herd in existence. Writes McFarlen: "There is no possible way that there are only 150 breeding animals. Last year alone, Maveric Heritage Ranch registered 97 mulefoots. This added to the 150+ we have registered since 2005, added to the 110 we have on our farm, clearly indicates that there are more than 100 breeding mulefoots. Also, we have started over 25 breeders in the past two years, including the ones in Canada, who each started with a minimum of a breeding trio. That is another 75+ pigs."

The folks at the mulefoot registry in Michigan, who likely have the most up-to-date figures, haven't gotten back to me yet, but they've also started new breeders since I last checked in with them last year. So while I don't imagine the population is anywhere near solid, things aren't as dire as Nabhan portrays them to be. Given that, how should we look at the book's estimations for things like Meech's Prolific Quince, the Cui-ui sucker, or the (hilarious) Tennessee fainting goat?

Earlier this month I headed up to Blanchardville, WI, for a grave and momentous occasion. Our old friends Mark Kessenich and Linda Derrickson decided it was time to haul their mulefoots Cong and Cherry to a small, organically certified slaughterhouse some 35 miles north. A large part of this decision was economically motivated--they simply couldn't afford to carry the pigs through the winter (where have I heard that before?). This in no way made it an easy thing to do, and the pain of the sacrifice was compounded by the fact that about three months earlier the boars Cong and Churchill had broken out of their pasture, and now Cherry was pregnant and pretty close to farrowing. Her unborn piglets would be lost.

The morning was bright but painfully cold. Mark had already cleared the snow from the long driveway. Denise Benoit and Rob Steinhofer, the farm's other residents, were on hand to help with the tricky business of separating Cong and Cherry from Churchill and Crystal, who would be soon moving to Valerie Weihman-Rock's farm in Argyle, where our pig, Dee Dee, is.

First we lured Cherry into a cage from her bedding in the barn. We had to do this with a bucket of grain even though the animals aren't supposed to eat much before slaughter. Mark drove her up the driveway to the trailer. Meanwhile, Denise and I were supposed to be watching Cong to make sure he didn't break out of the little enclosure we'd lured him into, and of course the minute we turned our backs on him he busted out and began fraternizing with the rams and ewes on the other side of the fence. Mark, by this time driving back into the barn, was the first to notice this, and it was the first time I'd ever heard him yell. Still, it was a minor crisis, and we loaded up Cong and hit the road.

When we arrived at the slaughterhouse Cong and Cherry were standing quietly and motionlessly in their respective trailer compartments. If they sensed any danger, they didn't appeared to be stressed. Nevertheless I couldn't help but project my own hangups a little. I thought they looked sad and a little resigned.

Mark backed the trailer up to a short metal chute that led to a door in the back of the building. Two workers emerged and helped usher the pigs one by one into a steamy holding area occupied by a cow and two other groups of hogs lounging atop each other in separated pens. Cong and Cherry had about an hour and a half before it was their turn, which would give them some time to calm down if in fact they were stressed. Mark and I headed up the street to wait in a cafe.

Ever since we started The Whole Hog Project, I've found myself the recipient of tons of pig gifts--T-shirts, a pooping pig key chain, gummi bacon, bacon mints, gum, and Band-Aids, cans of scary potted pork, a very nice hog and balloon painting by local artist Derek Erdman, and stuffed talking pigs--two in the last month alone. One sings the theme from the Addams Family.

All are pretty goofy, and most possess the absurd kitschy anthropomorphism that defangs the idea of slaughter and helps make the idea of eating animals palatable. Well, I like this collection, but I don't need it to feel OK about my bacon.

Meanwhile, I've been alerted to a more realistic kind of pig representation that I wouldn't mind hanging on the wall. The original caretakers of our mulefoot, Mark Kessenich and Linda Derrickson at Hillspring Farm, sent notice about a friend, Wisconsin "barnyard artist" Susan Medaris, who has a show opening Friday at the Madison Public Library. Appropriately titled The Whole Hog, it features a number of porcine images and objets, including an oil painting of either Crystal or Cherry and one of the piglets in their very early days (pictured). If you find yourself in Madison, the show runs until the 30th.

I received an alert early Saturday morning from Linda Derrickson at Hillspring Farm, saying some neighbors had decided to purchase four mulefoot piglets--two from Crystal's litter and two from Cherry's--and were planning to pick them up soon. All eight piglets needed to have their ears pierced with numbered plastic ear tags, stat--it's how you keep track of an animal's age and ancestry, among other things. So I headed back to Wisconsin.

To tag a pig, two circular plastic disks stamped with the animal's assigned number are fitted onto an applicator, which looks like a chunky pair of pliers with a pointed tip on one side. The "male" side of the tag has a pointed protrusion on the back, perhaps a half-inch long, that fits over the pointed side of the applicator; the "female" tag has a hole to receive the male end when the cartilaginous part of the ear is placed between either side of the applicator. The human holding it gives a hard, quick squeeze until the ear is pierced and the two disks snap together. That's the easy part.

Sunday afternoon Mark Kessenich passed around a box of ear plugs to the half-dozen of us that had assembled outside the barn--piglets don't like to be picked up, and when it happens their protests are pitched as highly as possible. Mark headed into the pasture with a pair of slop buckets to rustle up the piglets, hollering--you guessed it--"Soooey! Soooey!" Meanwhile Hillspring resident Denise Benoit positioned four of us inside a pen in the barn--three to wrangle the piglets and the fourth to tag them. One person stood just outside the pen, responsible for fitting the tags onto the applicator and handing it over to the tagger when each piglet was immobilized.  

It took some time but Mark eventually lured Crystal into the barn, where he'd dumped some slop into a trough. Hot on her heels were all eight piglets; they streamed into the pen and dove into the slop while we shut the gate behind them. After Crystal had her fill we guided her back through the gate, using a large board to block the piglets from following. As soon as Crystal disappeared the piglets started complaining, running back and forth in the pen, squealing unhappily, but gradually they calmed down and returned to the trough.

We started with Cherry's piglets, which, being a week younger, were smaller. One person would grab the piglet by the hind legs and hoist it into the air, whereupon the squealing, kicking, and bucking would start. Someone else had to get a hold of the front legs, while a third wrapped arms around the midsection and held onto the snout to prevent nipping. One brisk snap on the applicator--left ear for females, right ear for males--and it was all over. Once placed outside the pen the piglet stopped squealing and returned to the pasture. Catch all the action below.

There was a remarkable difference when we moved onto Crystal's pigs, which were noticeably larger and incredibly strong, but altogether the job only took about 15 minutes. If you doubt just how little this process disturbed the piglets' otherwise peaceful Sunday afternoon, check out the attached post-piercing photographs of Doris Day, the best-looking and friendliest of the female pigs, who can probably look forward to a long life farrowing her own piglets.

Regarding the gorgeous and sweet-tempered Doris: 28-year-old project manager Debbie McKinnie of New Zealand took up Linda's offer to name that piglet, proffering $10 to cover postage and the piglet's registration fee with the American Mulefoot Hog Association. That's right--these pigs have Kiwi fans. McKinnie, who bought the naming rights for a "girlfriend who is mad about little piglets!" also named a male after New Zealand pop star Dave Dobbyn. Naming rights on a few piglets may still be available. For info contact Linda at hillspring@tds.net. 

Coming soon: the debut of the Reader's pig, which has no name as of yet.

When we left Mark Kessenich and Linda Derrickson at the end of part one, it was 1981 and he had just volunteered at her co-op in Madison. Even with Mark's help the little store was a lot of work, so after two years Linda started looking for a business partner. After an article appeared about the co-op appeared in the Isthmus titled "Holistic Twinkies," a friend of the author's expressed interest. Rena Gelman worked in the store for a month before deciding it wasn't for her, but meanwhile she'd noticed a little cafe for sale in downtown Madison and asked Linda if she'd be interested in going in on that. Linda wasn't looking to get into the restaurant business, but when she got a look the place she fell in love.

"Edith Piaf was playing in the background and there were all these professors and grad students sitting at tables," she says. "And I heard like three different foreign languages. I said, 'Oh my gosh yes. I want to do this.'"

Linda sold the co-op, and under the women's ownership the Sunprint Cafe served desserts, salads and pita sandwiches made from scratch, and coffee drinks made on what she thinks was Madison's first espresso machine. "Our hummus recipe is still famous in Madison," she says. The year before they took over, the place had posted a $10,000 profit. After their first year, the figure was $60,000. "In 1984 that was handsome for two women," Linda says. She and Gelman became business sensations, making the covers of several magazines and winning business awards. In 1987 they opened a second place in a larger space in a strip mall on the edge of campus, planning to host art shows, live music, and fund raisers for politicians and causes. "On opening day there were lines out the door and on day two we knew it was too small," she says.

By 1990 Mark and Linda were a couple, divorced from their respective spouses. Linda and Gelman, meanwhile, had begun to grow apart, and in early 1992 they dissolved their partnership. Linda took over over sole ownership of the new restaurant, renaming it Sunporch, and Gelman took the cafe.

Inspired by Alice Waters, Linda had taken an keen interest in growing food for the restaurant, and would "garden by lamplight" when she got home from work. In 1994 she and Mark expanded their growing operation, selling their Madison home and buying a place in the country near Mt. Horeb with a “rambling farmhouse” and an operating restaurant. "The idea was that we were going to grow food out there for that restaurant and also for Sunporch in Madison," Linda says. "We didn't have animals at that time." 

Sunporch continued to thrive. "I would haul in boatloads of fresh produce and flowers to put on all the tables," Linda says. "Every entree and dessert that went out had fresh flowers on it." But she had trouble keeping the new place staffed, and its local following of old folks didn't like the changes they made, like replacing the premade frozen lasagna with things like elk steaks, wild boar, and pheasant. “They called us the Roadkill Cafe. They were very disappointed we weren't opening the same cans of soups that were there before.”

They took another step toward full-time farming in 1995, purchasing their first heritage chickens. Jacob sheep followed in '97 and Scottish Highland cattle in '98. Linda says they chose heritage breeds because they didn't have a barn and needed animals that could survive outside with minimal shelter. 

In 2000 some adjoining property came up for sale, a Prairie-style limestone house. They sold Sunporch, bought the house, and opened a B & B they called the Othala Valley Inn (still in operation under different owners), which they ran for two and half years before realizing their hearts were more with their crops and animals than with the doctors, lawyers, and professionals they were hosting. “We said running a B & B and farming at the same time is too much for two people and we'd rather be farmers,” says Linda.  

Next: Linda and Mark go all the way back to the land.

On Saturday Mark and Linda threw their annual summer solstice festival at Hillspring Farm, a laid-back and delightful celebration featuring music, storytelling, and a ceremony called a "rolling sun" in which a wheel made from evergreen branches was lit up and rolled down from the sheep pasture into the tiny tributary of the Pecatonica River that runs through the farm. If the wheel makes it into the drink it assures a plentiful harvest (it did).

The potluck dinner was terrific, highlighted by the farm's own products like Denise Benoit's chevre and a crisp cherry-wheat home brew made by her husband, Rob Steinhofer. Denise and Rob are the farm's other two residents (more on them later). Linda brought out some of her excellent sauerkraut to go with the farm's plump, juicy lamb brats made from heritage Jacob and Tunis sheep.

I hadn't been to the farm since late last month and it is amazing what a few weeks of spring can do. The three major gardens were exploding with growth, as were the eight mulefoot piglets--who didn't seem to stop eating the entire time.

I'm not sure if that's Crystal or Cherry the piglets are latched onto but you can't deny the expression on her face is the very definition of gratification. At the same time I can't help but recall seeing stuff like that projected behind the Butthole Surfers. 

The piglets attacked the house slop just as voraciously. When they weren't doing that they were lined up at the fence competing with the sows for handfuls of grass and clover fed to them by visitors. If you offered your fingers they'd nibble on them.

They're showing differences already, which isn't atypical of these old breeds--they haven't had all the individuality selected out of them. Some are still tiny, while others seem to be bulking up pretty fast. I still haven't picked one out yet, but I have my eye on a female with white feet who looks a bit longer than the rest.

More pics and video to come.