trust the spirit
like a magnetic beacon at the end of an impossibly long tunnel, terra madre is actually approaching. thoughts, which have remained in the stratosphere for the last four months—as animals died, as the summer never stopped, and the piglets were born—thoughts which seemed surreal are now here. we leave for italy in five days.
let me back up.
woah, boys. easy now.
while attempting to introduce our two new bulls to the herd (located several fence lines, over the hill, and halfway to grandma’s away), a lapse in one section of our temporary alley allowed the transferees to undermine the plans. one second they were in the alley, and the next second they were in full trot, in tandem, towards the farthest possible location they could find—the tree line, three hundred yards away.
son of a.
i’ve become increasingly more paranoid about what the animals do during a rain storm. let’s face it, we all stay inside, and they’re all together, conspiring willy nilly about who knows what.
exhibit, a: look at those beady eyes:
the invitation reads:
wednesday, august twenty fifth
we are so pleased to extend an invitation to a first-time farm255 happening…a culmination of blood, sweat, mud, hides, hair, and muscle. a paradise of sorts for the admirer of our farm toil, kitchen fire and fat. we’re bringing our good friend brent j. young { chef, butcher & steeler } down from his shop up in brooklyn, new york { the meat hook } to seek together with our chef, matthew palmerlee, and our sous chef, jake o. francis, the off & over & insides of our various animals and make them into a six-course tasting supper during the hot, dead middle of august.
the sun takes its time across the massively blue idaho sky, scorching forest as it lingers. freshly dead trees stand as shriveled instant fossils, their moisture evaporating at once. the thin air falls heavy on your nose as breaths of evergreens and wild flowers roll down the slopes and settle in the valley below. if the wet, muggy air of the georgia piedmont hangs oppressively on my back, then the cool, dry mountain air in idaho feels like a bellow inflating my chest in comparison. without rain the rocks turn to dirt beneath our feet and mushroom clouds of dust cake our ankles with each step.
I'm High On Cooking | in Farm, Travel | tagged The DeLish Gang, farm 255, françois, idaho, pasture raised pork it’s amazing how much my life has changed in two oh ten, and it’s important that i ferris bueller myself around every once and a while, so i don’t miss it (the whole scene is great, but 1:12 is the line you’re looking for). it’s a sunday morning, seven thirty am, and i’m scrubbing down a chill tank that will receive over a hundred birds before ten. that’s a hundred birds i will have a hand in killing, chilling, and bagging. a hundred birds on a hundred plates for a few hundred mouths.