I’ve had a running daydream for a while now, no one’s really running, but everyone’s in motion. I’ve already shown you bits and pieces of it, some of them even rooted in historical science, but just imagine the parts of it that are simply too cartoony to share. An animated kitchen in the woods, little people living amongst a symphony of singing animals, all doing their part to prepare a delicious family dinner for the entire neighborhood. Contributions of the hunted and gathered and laid and lactated, and yours truly whipping it all into shapes. Everybody’s dietary preferences are a bit different, but it all comes together effortlessly as always, as long as I simply believe. And the best part about this open kitchen - you’re invited.
I’ll pretend that I don’t actually believe in this fantasy world, but it will continue to be the model of symbiosis that I strive to create, because I know for a fact, that elements of this dream have already manifested into reality. We have only two options, to build healthy relationships as we participate in life on Earth, or to drop out of the game entirely, and I’m kinda having fun playing along.
*******
I gave up milk the other day. While I was milking a Cow. It’s easy to forget where your food comes from when it’s on aisle nine, but when you know which udder has the highest flow, that is true food chain awareness. I knew that I did not approve of the pasteurized pastures of industrial dairy, yet I had been partaking in it with little consideration, just as most of america prefers the bliss of ignorance. I knew that it was not healthy for me to consume, and that my demand was contributing to the need for the fences that captivated my every thought.
Being in this fenced-in paradise has provided me the freedom to truly explore my beliefs of living in a good way. I already knew that would be the case when I arrived, and I predicted then, that I would soon give up milk. My projection was met with the same disbelief that I still feel about the transition, this is the land of the best milk you’ve ever tasted, and the new milk Cow is even sweeter than Lacey.
I knew that I would be further discovering where my convictions lie, and that if I couldn’t be ok with it here in the homiest operation imaginable, then there was no chance that I could find a cleaner alternative elsewhere. I gulped it down for weeks and milked it for as long as I could, but I knew the change was coming. I had already given up fenced meat, so what was the difference with fenced milk? I had experienced the excited willingness to exchange lactose for gluten, and I want to believe that this transaction fits into my dream of simply preparing food for another, but the fence just spoils it for me. Especially when this time around, the Cows are far less happy about the whole milking situation.
Last summer, Lacey had already been separated from her calf, so not only was she left with more time to anticipate her grain fix, it was actually uncomfortable not to be milked. I was almost doing her a favor by relieving the pressures of confinement.
But now, Lacey and her sister are both around, and each with a child, so in order to fill our pail, we have to separate a calf from its mama overnight. For some reason, neither of them like this, and we hear them scream for each other all night long, even if we do put them next door to one another. In the morning we usher in mom, who is still happy to get fed, although she holds back a large portion of her milk, until we bring her calf into a stall next to hers and trick her out of every trickle. She’s trying to save some for her baby, but if we can help it, we take as much as we possibly can. She will of course make more, and she is at last returned to the calf-napped little one, for another day at least.
At one point, we had them in a closer field, and our only option to separate the cream was to put the oversized calf into an undersized crate for the evening, so we tightly caged a not-so-happy Cow, and then mom ran from us as she jumped an electric fence. I don’t think this counts as symbiotic.
We weren’t fond of the crate idea either, and didn’t try it again, but the biggest concern seemed to be the adrenaline taste in the milk. So there’s a direct correlation between emotional state and flavor profile, and our Cows have been missing their babies all night, can’t imagine that we’re getting the cream of the crop.
And on my last day of drinking milk, Lacey came in on her own, but even with her back legs chained from kicking our habit, she just wasn’t very pleasant to work with. I had to keep refilling her grain bucket to coax docility, it was obvious that she didn’t really want to be there, and then her calf came running in like he was starving as I had to fight for a sloppy seconds.
*******
I’m not going to force an animal to put out. I was taking advantage of yet another sacred feminine energy of Unci Maka. She was in chains for God’s sake. For our sake. If we were friends and she wanted this, then she wouldn’t kick me off of her. Just because she is physically addicted to gluten like the rest of america, that does not give me the right to exploit her lifeforce. And at the added cost of her kid’s health. She sent every signal of “no”, but I just kept on molesting her with my justifications of superiority, as she finally resigned to just letting it happen. And I of course was nearly in tears, and telling her how I felt, and swearing off milk in the process. But how do I think Cows are treated in facilities where their names are simply numbers?
Far less personally, in fact, machines do most of the work. There's all sorts of gauges and dials, and they can more accurately drain every drop as they also monitor for the diseases of mad Cows. A friend of Ben’s had recently progressed his technodairy with a big loan, then the lactose free-market collapsed, and now he’s as bent over as the Cows are. The mega-dairies control the industry, and they stand to profit even as it crashes, for it is they, who are left to collect the shattered pieces of the few remaining family farms.
They are running a factory that imprisons my sisters, steals their innocence, and exploits their sexuality. Even here at this place, we must wean Lacey’s calf off of her at least two months before she is ready to rebreed, which means that she’s not ready to rebreed, it only means that we are ready. It provides us with the maximum return on investment, a factor that should never be taken into account when determining the quality of life of another.
In fact, who are we to determine another’s quality of life at all? We’re the ones who ruined it to begin with as we imprisoned our family, and we ruined the entire planet for those we locked out, and we cage our own species if they’re not the right color, and even our own race if they don’t act civilized enough, and we are the most despicable villains of all time. We are the darkness. We are the bad guys. We deserve every bit of wrath that Mother Nature can throw at us. And how can I continue to drink the spoils of the rape of my sister, just because some white guy said it was ok?
*******
So I can’t. Which is easy enough, I may love cereal and ice cream, but I don’t need them. But what about butter? It’s the primary ingredient of both my own cooking, and the community kitchen on the farm. So what then? Just use Coconut oil? Stop using the stolen goods from my own neighborhood, and instead use the stolen goods from another’s, pack it in plastic, and then ship it around the world? Well, that doesn’t exactly sound right. I may feel it unethical, but at least I can personally offer some Wheat to the victim of my own crimes, instead of blindly exporting the oppression to a faceless foreigner. Still can’t do it, but a serial swap to non-dairy, only leaves me milking Almonds for my Corn flake cardboard. I can’t simply swap one poison for another, I have to learn how to make more with less.
I am actively on a path of removing excess from my life, which includes all imports, Coconut oil and Almond milk and dark chocolate bars, and even coffee. It is the only way to live responsibly on this planet, for me at least, but I’m not there yet. I’m only a broken man living in a broken world, gimme a break, can’t I just work on a couple of these at a time?
I can’t just dive into a tub of oil to replace the butter on our popcorn, I need to work on using less in general, but I can still rub down a hot pan when I 'need' to. I’m far more conscious of moderation now, I fry in the thinnest layer of lube, and I’ve been poaching eggs in water as I invent interesting new ways of putting it all together. Time for another evolution I guess, but first, we should recap a couple of the highlights from the last few weeks of delicious dairy delicacies in a fanciful montage of letting go, and cue sentimental music.
-Strawberry Ice Cream and Honey Cookies-
Truly handmade, I mixed up the separated cream and fruit and honey, and maybe an egg white, spread it out on a cookie sheet in the freezer, and just stirred it around every five minutes. Small batch artisan creation only. And as for the cookies, I just made something up, definitely lots of butter though.
-Super Duper Chocolate Pudding Creation-
Invented by accident, like all the greats, and the crowd was left clueless. We had some imported cocoa powder, so that was no mystery, but how had I come up with the exact consistency of pudding? Potato. Steamed Potatoes in the recently replaced vitamix, and some milk, and it whips into the creamiest plain pudding you’ve ever not really tasted. So add some honey and chocolate, or vanilla, or Strawberry, or can’t I just quit milk tomorrow?
-Fresh Wheat Frybread-
What?! I have to give up frybread? I don’t know about all that. And this stuff was delicious, it wasn’t the fluffy white flour frybread of rancid reservation rations, but its slimmed down crispiness cooked in a thin pool of coconut oil was fantastic. And then we started putting an egg in the hole. But for real, I have to give up frybread?
No, but for real, no frybread? Well, how’s that ever gonna work? And my top secret recipe uses canned milk, who knows what kinda process that pasture gets? I stopped putting milk in my coffee that day, but I had only picked up that habit because of this same raw milk last year. I began eating soft-boiled instead of fried, every pat of butter counts when you realize just how much cream goes into it, and it takes a whole lot of milk to get that cream in the first place.
But frybread? How can I quit milk because of my spiritual beliefs, when quitting frybread is sacrilegious? Well, I can still make it for others, but I guess the real solution is to figure it out without milk. I can make my own version of fried bread, might not take the cake at the Rosebud Fair, but at least I’ll have a lot more free time to dig Dandelions, once I get fired from the kitchen.
But as a sworn officer of camp cuisine, I take my oath to serve seriously, so later that day, I happily made butter. And again the other day, I hand cranked a batch, but I was not as efficient as the colonized machine, and some cream remained in the milk. A few days and a taste test later, and we discovered that I had inadvertently invented the world’s best sour cream. Couldn’t do it again on purpose, better make it count, so today I spent hours in the kitchen preparing a meal inspired by a condiment, that I didn’t even consume.
I was planning to actually, I was going to break my several week streak and partake in the spoils, it was technically a throwaway byproduct of butter that might not create more demand for milking, but that’s not how this path works. I don’t mean the insectivasivegan path, I mean my walk connected between Unci Maka and all of Wakan Tanka. I was ready to eat it, just a dollop, and then somehow my unplanned writing style summed up for me the beef I have with milk, just moments before I returned to serve dinner. Perhaps it was on my mind and that’s how it came up, or perhaps it was just the encouragement I needed from the universe, as I continue my commitment to hold all of life sacred on this planet. But it sure did look good.
-Groundhog Tacos-
Fresh Wheat tortillas, roasted leg of Groundhog, Lamb’s Quarter greenery, rainbow Peach salsa w/ Sorrel, sour cream (optional)
-Vegan Squashiladas-
Broccoli, Yellow Squash, Carrots, Butternut, tortillas, sauce(Tomato, Butternut, Onion, Jalapeno)
-Peach/Strawberry/Cantaloupe Pie-
Made it in the crockpot, crust with coconut oil instead of butter, and finished off the top under the wood-fired broiler. But the kicker, was the symmetric scoop of sorbet I made by vitamixing all three frozen fruits together. Mmmm….
The tacos were most excellent, even without the creamy topping, and I feel way better writing about my perseverance, than my soured conviction. But now everyone is wondering if I’ve gone vegan on them. Well, I’m on a path headed in that general direction, I’m moved by the same moral dilemmas that have guided so many, those that I’ve teased in the past as a loud and proud meatatarian. The same ridicule that I am now preparing to face, but I still eat meat. Love it. I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon, though I can’t guarantee that it’s not in my future as well.
But for now, if I can catch it, I can eat it. It’s gonna be tough when I visit colonization, not much Groundhog from what I remember, and lots of temptations of fancy charcuteries and cheese platters, so we’ll see. And Ben has shared his thoughts on accepting a meal that’s offered and not looking it in another’s mouth, instead simply praying with it to raise its vibration, as you raise your host’s as well. Better to perpetuate a good loving energy as I visit relatives, instead of pushing my newfangled diet over top of theirs.
And on the rez, we’ll pray real good for the subpar food, extra prayers to the cuisines in captivity, and we’ll throw in a little understanding for their captors as they find love in their hearts. It’s a bit different out there, it’s not a life of excess built on the spoils of colonization, it’s haphazardly pieced together with the dregs. But out here on the farm, I’ve been the one butchering the whole block.
*******
“Hoka brother, got a Chicken needs pluckin.” He knew it was a skill I was looking to acquire, so I leapt to the task, though he hadn’t even been the one to kill it. We’d been pulling a couple of Blacksnakes out of the Chicken house every few days, one time they couldn’t even wait until date night was over to kick off the copulation, right there on the Chicken coup floor, romantic indeed. They’d snag a few eggs and we’d just escort them outside, I offered to fire up the grill, but Snakes are friends around these parts. Unless we’re hungry enough. Which the Snake seemed to be, one day we found him wrapped around a full grown Chicken, and the next day he’d killed one, but he had to give up swallowing the prehistoric poultry after he’d bitten off more than he could chew. So, winner winner Chicken dinner.
Now, the Chickens weren’t wild, although they weren’t really that tame either, and they have free reign to roam around and eat bugs all day long, and Cow poop. They still get grain, and they like to sneak into the barn for a bite of Horse feed, but there is no clear fence line of separation. They voluntarily go home to roost, and I let them out every morning as I sing my sunshine song. Of course, the Sun don’t shine in the baby chick house across the way, where we run a twenty-four hour light bulb to artificially grow stunted offspring chickens, but at least they’re organic.
I’m still working through my beliefs on the fouls of farming. I think that domestication breeds inferiority, and that is even the case here, but as for now, my biggest dilemmas are the ethics of caging my family as I cage their food. I’m certainly on a path of calling these birds out as well, and I can’t imagine that I’d trust any store-bought freedom for my range, but today, is a good day to fry.
*******
JK, we roasted it, but I did the plucking and Ben showed me how to pick out the rest. And then the next day, it was decided that the lone Guinea was tormenting the chickens beyond the tolerable limits, only we get to pluck their feathers, and only after they’re dead. So her fate was decided, thumbs down, and I was the executioner.
Now would a vegan do this? I felt no dilemma. She’s still domesticated, but she was as wild as all get out, and I am on a path of learning these ways, so we’ll just have to wait and see how I feel about it afterwards.
I’ve never killed anything bigger than a Frog, except maybe a Snake in ‘self-defense’, or a Deer with my car, but that was all back before my realizations of relation. If you don't count the Nightcrawlers I got hooked, or the fish I strung out, I’ve never taken the life of anything larger than a Beetle for dinner. If I’m going to drink milk, then I need to be ok with milking a cow, and I’m not, so I don’t. And the same goes here. If I can’t do it, then that answers my question real quick.
But I was ready. I was prepared to take its life in a good way, as I honored its sacrifice in this sacred circle. I offered some Tobacco to Unci Maka, began a prayer song, and caught the bird. I kept singing as the vibrations got loud and a little overdramatic, I was fully in the moment and praying for her spirit, she calmed down a bit, I lowered the last verse which raised her concern, and then it was over. I prayed with more Tobacco and placed it in her mouth, continued to sing while I plucked and gutted her, added another feather to my hat, and then I ate her raw warm bleeding heart. Take that vegans.
I know the power of the heart, the power of consuming the heart, I know the strength it will give me as I commit to this walk, and I plan to continue this tradition with every sacred life that sacrifices its energy by my hand. I also know the scientific significance of eating organs, they’re super healthy for us, crazy high in B vitamins, iron, zinc, magnesium, protein, and vitamins A, D, E and K. The liver is referred to as “nature’s multivitamin”, western doctor’s even recommend them to those silly vegans before they wither away, and they were an essential component to most every meat-based traditional diet before the invasion of colonized cuisine.
The muscle mass may provide a strong foundation of food system, but we didn’t evolve to eat only the choicest cuts of red meat. We’ve always rounded out our intake with the nutrient density of inside information, yet now we only round out our colons as we pump up the pockets of our healthcare providers, who happen to be the same corporate entities who convinced us that it was gross to eat the most nutritious bits of the entire kingdom. I’m starting to smell something fishy with this whole concept of colonial consumerism, but that’s just a gut feeling, carrion.
*******
We’ve trapped a few Groundhogs, the one tonight was the first I’d personally undressed, perfect for my waking thoughts of Groundhog Pot Pie, and the other night I had another dream come true. Not a sleeping dream, but a manifestation that I’d already written about, one of several that have come to fruition during this revisitation to the farm.
It was actually the day our Guinea was cooked, late that night as I was up alone writing, and the kitty was fresh off the hunt, as he gave me the customary signal that he had been successful. An endless barrage of mews and meows, usually quite annoying, especially in the middle of the night, but I’ve come to think of it as his sacred prayer time before dinner. Thank you Unci Maka.
He’s good at catching Mice, and he’ll even snag a Barn Swallow out of the air, as he agrees with their chosen nomenclature, but today was a new one - he brought in an adolescent bunny. We knew he was hunting them, which I had been sworn off of because they are friends around here, no Rabbit season for me, but earlier today I told the kitty that if he caught it, I’d cook it.
I was fresh off of gutting a Guinea, not the same, but they share a lot of the same parts, and I’d butchered a few Rabbits back at camp for the infamous Rabbit Ramenoff incident. Now, kitty might have preferred it raw, could’ve eaten the whole thing himself, even if it was half his size. But if you come strolling into the kitchen with a fresh catch, I really have no option but to season some Rabbit.
I cleaned it all up, offered the heart to the kitty, it was his kill after all, and once the fire got hot, the delicious aroma brought him back to the dinner table. We actually sat on the floor next to his milk bowl, both of us, and we each got a plate with an even split of the most tender little legs you ever did see. Feet didn’t turn out to be too lucky, but at least we got one helluva chapter about going vegan.
I cooked his a little less than mine, though mine was still extra medium rare, and I stuck the fur in the fridge to work on later. And as I write this, I now think I should make a nice little fur vest for kitty’s wintertime hunts. He probably won’t like it, and I’m not about dressing up our furry friends for facebook, but fashion design is certainly a skillset that only humans are capable of wasting time on.
*******
Manifest complete. I had fulfilled a dream of symbiosis. We’ll see if he brings me another, though we might have to sneak it past the authorities. This dream of mine is real, it’s outlandish for the animals out on the land, but I’ve got proof positive that unspoken partnership of symbiotic vibration is possible, and you should have heard him purr.
So what about the cows then? How can I get enough cream to let it sour for farm fresh indian tacos? I know it’s possible, the Mundari are already doing it in a good way, but I’m not sure that I’m ready for my nomadicism to be dictated by simply following the herd, I do love dairy though. And I still believe that we are within the law to process grains and trade for milk, can’t cage the Cow or the Wheat field, and I’m sure there’s more digging into the calculations of fairsharenesss, but I think it’s in there somewhere. And I know that it’s uncomfortable for a Cow who still produces milk after she loses a baby, and some produce more than the kid drinks anyway, and who am I to judge their parenting habits, maybe a scoop of grain makes the whole milk family unit happier. Maybe I give the kid a scoop, as we swap lunches. We’ll assume that we’ve reached an agreement, because without a fence or a cattle prod, that seems like the only option anyway.
So how does this work? Simple, we have a milking booth. Cows know they can come trade, it doesn’t even have to be psychic communication, they are smart enough to be conditioned to where the food is, I’ve seen it in action, and word gets around. They step right up, they get to eat, and we get to drink. No chains, I’m assuming they won’t kick since they volunteered for the position, and if they do, I retain the right to refuse service. Maybe it’s local Cows, regulars, those that I know by name, or maybe it’s just some travelers as they grab a bite to eat on their way through town.
We may not get our favorite Jersey Cow everyday, but that’s how the cookie crumbles, especially in a fresh glass of the good stuff. And it’ll all be good, because these will actually be happy Cows with good vibrations. If they don’t wanna be here, they won’t be. I don’t want to simply addict Cows to gluten as they neglect their families, so maybe there’s a limit per week or something. And if I’m getting a little too ridiculous for you, sorry, but do realize that even humans are willing to donate precious bodily fluids, in exchange for this money stuff that we’ve replaced food with? I’m only cutting out a few profiteering middle men.
I think this could be a legitimate option in the future, way more ethical than cages and chains and calfnapping and creek crapping and all the other stuff we do now, and those already in symbiosis with the herd, give me even more hope. But now, I’ve done gone and dreamt up a solar powered self-service robot milking booth. Please don’t.
*******
Cheese will be a toughie, it was all I could do to resist the smoked cheddar and crackers that found there way out here, but if I can’t be ok with our milk, then how could I possibly trust in a commercial dairy to provide better service? And even organic Cows are allowed to eat a third of their diet as GMOs. It looked so good though, the plastic package even felt good in my hand. I’m still gonna eat cracker stackers, just gotta whip up some kinda fancy spread.
The Broccoli was about ready to harvest, and there was going to be a bunch hitting at once, so we’d be putting most of it up as Ben’s favorite Broccoli soup. The secret ingredient was milk/butter/gluten gravy, no wonder it fills you up so fast, and tastes so good. We checked on the row of forty plants, and it was time to get going, because the Worms were moving in. We don’t use any sprays or anything, so bugs get on stuff, that’s just part of organic living. It’s no big deal really, except to those who insist on the biggest fullest fertilizerest specimens with no visible bug holes through the sheen of pesticidal coating.
Ben had a different defense mechanism though, he smushed all that he could find. Obviously I take issue with this approach, but I’m not here to judge, though I did gently remove all that I encountered and let them eat the parts that we were leaving behind. Broccoli stalks are good, and good for you, I like to cut them up like Carrot sticks... and dip ‘em in honey. The leaves are good too, bitter, which is often the sign of a strong medicinal plant, and a boiling pot of Guinea broth fixes ‘em right up like country style Collards. I made a pot one night, plus I’d been throwing some leaves in with the sautéed tops, though that was back when I was still using a lot of butter. Which, by the way, I’ve been cooking without butter for three weeks, and I don’t think anyone’s even noticed.
I mentioned harvesting the whole plant instead of just the top, it could continue to sprout second growths of little Broccolis for a while, but tomorrow they were gonna pull the plugs to make room for the Squash to spread out. Vegentrification was taking over the neighborhood the day after last month’s rent. He agreed that those parts are good too, but we simply have too much already to deal with, and obviously the cream of the crop is the priority.
So we’re just gonna throw this stuff away? The Chickens will love it, sure, but we fenced this off from the rest of the planet, and now we’re not even gonna eat it? We’re only taking the choicest nuggets and throwing the rest out? We grew more than we could even fill our buffet plates with, threw out the rest, and now we have to freeze the tasty green nuggets before anyone else can get a munch? Now, we do have to put stuff up for the winter, the farm doesn’t put out during the off-season, and who knows what kinda transient types will stop by. But there’s already a stack of uneaten Broccoli soup from last year taking up space. So, I’m sorta thinking we’ve crossed over into the realm of excess.
Cheers of abundance were shared, but not by me, I only saw the wasted energy in the stalks and leaves. Knowing that they were good, but forgetting about them, as we lopped off their heads in a rush to capture every last one, before anyone else could even grab a single bite. I’m sure I coulda volunteered to operate a second shift of the soup kitchen, boil a brew while I wrote about saving the day, but I didn’t, so it’s as much on me as anyone. But, couldn’t we have just planted less Broccoli?
If we only had twenty heads, couldn’t we make just as much soup with the entire plant? Isn’t that what the indians would have done? I’m pretty sure they’re famous for using every last part, not up