Welcome back, Bob

2013: our most recent (and probably last) goat babies

Nothing to do with cooking, but here's a book recommendation: David Quammen's Spillover, about diseases that jump from animals to people. Sounds deeply unpleasant, but it's not at all. I grabbed it after we got back from vacation to try to understand what's happening in West Africa and it pretty much took over my life for a few days. I read until it fell from my hands at night and picked it up in the morning before getting out of bed. I can't justify writing at length about Ebola and SARS on a cookbook blog, so I'll just tell you this: Quammen is curious not just about ghastly emerging diseases, but about the scientists who track them down in African bat caves, Australian horse paddocks, and the forests and high-end hotels of Southeast Asia. He's written an engrossing, illuminating, and thoroughly excellent book with more plot twists than most detective novels. It's even funny, in places. You should read it. 

Friday morning, I got to the section on Lyme disease. It turns out that small parcels of land, like residential lots, are ideal habitats for the tiny mice that carry Lyme. Why? Because they're poor habitats for the mid-size predators (foxes, coyotes) that eat those tiny mice. I had just read this and was silently agreeing about the importance of predators when -- uncanny, uncomfortable coincidence -- our chickens began to shriek. 

I ran outside and found outraged, screeching hens in the trees and on the rail of the deck and the roof of the coop. I followed their collective gaze and found a bobcat in the corner of the yard. We haven’t had a bobcat in the yard in over a year. It's been wonderful because the chickens can range freely and safely. It's been bad because: rats. We don't have an infestation or anything, but every week or so. . . During the spring of 2013 when a bobcat was paying daily visits, we didn't see a single rat. It was striking.

I'd like to pretend otherwise now, but it was too well documented on this blog: I hated that bobcat. He (or she) killed three chickens in a single day before I could lock them up. He used to strut around our yard and eye me contemptuously as I yelled and threw things at him. We were waiting for Natalie to kid and I could well imagine what this animal would do with newborn goats. I considered many options for getting rid of the cat, but before I could follow through with any of them he abruptly stopped coming around and all was well.

I ran this new bobcat off, then coaxed the chickens into the run with some leftover chiffon cake and latched the gate. It must have been a young cat because it hadn’t managed to kill a single hen. Standing there, I realized that all my feelings about bobcats had changed. We don't have any pregnant goats and I could do with fewer rats. I could do with no rats. Plus, I'd just read Spillover.

Most importantly, though, I'm finally ready to stop with the free-ranging chickens. Really ready. I know it's nicer for chickens, but I need a break. For the last six years, hens have had the run of the place, digging up my ranunculus bulbs, laying eggs in the ivy, eating the rhubarb, "decorating" the patio. We gave up trying to grow any vegetables. A few chickens invariably tried to roost in the trees and bushes which meant fishing them out at night, but we couldn't always find them and every few months something gory and noisy happened at 2 a.m. and Mark and I went running outside, half asleep, to chase away raccoons or skunks with a shovel, the hose, rocks, whatever was handy. I once threw a can of paint at a raccoon. We nursed more than one savaged chicken back to health with nothing but Neosporin and little bowls of yogurt while keeping her in a box in the kitchen. Talk about zoonotic disease risk. 

This is just a long-winded way of saying that I've been wanting to confine the chickens for some time, but lacked the heart. The bobcat was the excuse I'd been looking for. It's for their own good!

So, that's a change. More changes afoot, bigger changes. Isabel is applying to colleges this fall and tomorrow Owen joins her at the high school. Already nostalgic for our easy summer.

freshman  

Back to cookbooks in the next post.

Brought to you by Mutual of Omaha

our special kitty

The bobcat situation is a mess. He was back nine times today starting at 7:30 in the morning and most recently just a few minutes ago. The poor chickens go berserk, the goats get agitated, and Mark or I run outside and chase him away. We carry a baseball bat now; that cat is big. No more chicken deaths, though, because they're locked in the coop.

Yesterday, I visited the county web site to see what our options were and called one of the agencies listed there. The woman I talked to was well-meaning. Well-meaning to bobcats.

I briefly explained our problem, asked for suggestions. Her reply began with lines to this effect: "One of the reasons we all love living in this beautiful county is the abundance of wildlife. Have you heard the coyotes at night lately?" She asked the question with joy and wonder in her voice and I should have ended the call right then because we were so clearly tuned to different stations.

She told me that bobcat control is not about removal, but coexistence. She warned me that to trap and relocate an animal it is both inhumane and illegal. I had not brought this up, but apparently she worried I might I start looking at Havahart traps online, which of course I had already done. According to her, we need to either get rid of our own own animals or erect insuperable barriers, like "coyote rollers," that would be installed on top of our existing fence at considerable expense. Then she pointed out that if we have overhanging trees, which we do, these will allow the bobcat access to our backyard no matter what barriers are in place, including coyote rollers or an electric wire.

He stalks around the coop as the chickens have a collective nervous breakdown.

In short, she had nothing to offer. The bobcat can kill every chicken and goat on the premises and there's nothing we can do about it. Legally, he seems to have the run of the place. Is this possible? Did I misunderstand something? I will make more calls if the reign of terror continues much longer.

Every time that bobcat came back today, I hated him a little more. Forcing people to accept the presence of aggressive predators in their backyard does not breed respect and awe, it breeds rage. I would add that a wild animal who subsists on pets in a suburban town is not living a very wild life.

I know this is a sensitive and controversial subject and some people have strong feelings on the other side and I respect that. Let me assure you that no harm will come to this cat at my hand. The plan is to keep the chickens in their coop for the indefinite future and hope the goats are too big to tempt him. I will chase him off as necessary. By May when Natalie kids, maybe he will have forgotten about us or moved on or been hit by a Prius.

He can write about this on his college applications.

Meow

I just handed in my story about Catalina, an uncommonly fast turnaround for a pro like me who likes to forget everything she thought and felt while reporting a story and then try to piece it together again months later when she's completely lost interest.

So, we have a serious bobcat problem. On Saturday, a bobcat took a chicken from our yard. The other chickens started yelling, I ran outside, saw the cat slithering over the fence with a dead chicken in its mouth. Well, well, well, I thought, what a brave and naughty little animal. I was not overly upset. I decided it was a female who was pregnant or had cubs (kittens?) and I would not begrudge her a chicken.

This morning, the bobcat took another chicken. Same routine. I felt less magnanimous and the bobcat became a male. I thought, at least he didn't get Rhoda, our favorite hen, and I'm sure he's full now, but tomorrow the chickens are staying in their coop.

You know where this is going. Rhoda. That was about an hour later. I was working on the Catalina story and heard the chickens yelling. I threw a watering can and scared the cat away before the kill was complete and Rhoda died on the patio while I patted her feathers. A minute later, as I was putting Rhoda in an empty feed sack, the chickens started freaking out and I saw the bobcat had jumped back on the fence to our yard and he just crouched there staring at me, which felt like the bobcat equivalent of giving me the finger. I threw a pot at him and he jumped off the fence onto the street. I ran out to the road and chased him into the shrubbery and blackberry vines across the street, way deep, far, far, far, and by the time I came back up and had walked in the front door, the chickens were again screaming and I went out and the bobcat was heading over the fence with the third dead chicken of the day.

A temporary solution is to keep the chickens in their coop for the indefinite future, which they will hate, but if they had bigger brains I know they'd agree that dying is worse.

I got to thinking. Would a hungry, ballsy bobcat try to take down a goat?

According to the internet, yes.

I have no idea what I'm going to do, but I really hate this empowered bobcat killing things on our patio in the middle of the day. I would call animal control, but let's just say there are some issues related to our beloved goats that I would need to think through beforehand.

We had a rat problem about a year ago. I didn't talk about it much as it was shameful and vile. I put out traps and never caught a single rat. I locked one of our cats in the coop and she never caught a rat. There were more and more rats down there all the time, rooting around in the chicken coop, scuttling down weird little holes, and, once, running right across poor Mark's foot. I would see 4 or 5 rats at a time and it became so disgusting I started thinking about getting rid of our chickens.

And then one day Mark and I realized we had not seen a rat for a month. And now it has been many months. It was one of those blessed and mysterious gifts from the universe.

But I don't think it was a gift from the universe anymore. I think it was the bobcat.

Justine's excellent Guatemalan party

That's my grandmother, making tortillas the old-fashioned Guatemalan way. She eschews the tortilla press, which is for inferior cooks, lazy cooks, Mexican cooks.

 

These are fighting words, but my grandmother, who is Guatemalan, doesn't read my blog so I am going to say it: Guatemalan food is just like a regional Mexican food. Refried beans, tamales, tacos, tortillas -- it's all the same, just different shapes and colors. Am I wrong? I am right.

For the Guatemalan-themed party my sister threw last week, I contributed chirmol made by charring tomatillos, tomatoes, and garlic, which I then pureed in a blender.

Tomatoes and tomatillos from our garden. Gold star for me. How is this not salsa? This is salsa.

 

I also made a sweet potato pudding which involved stewing the sweet potatoes with honey, cinnamon, butter, milk, then mashing the mixture and topping with toasted cookie crumbs.

It was tasty, creamy, and fairly healthy, for a dessert.

Then I made -- or tried to make -- huevo chimbo, which my grandmother has always talked about with such longing.  

First I beat 12 egg yolks until light and creamy and poured them into a brownie pan.

 

Then I baked it until it was puffed and firm

and cut into strips.

Cruel joke. They look like yummy lady fingers but are actually baked egg yolk.

At this point, you briefly dip the egg strips into a hot spiced syrup to which you have added currants, prunes, and liquor, preferably good quality liquor.

Serve.

A few weeks ago in Guatemala I ate huevo chimbo that was firm, rich, moist, and unforgettably delicious. This homemade huevo chimbo was not like that. It was like French toast spiked with cheap sherry. 

My sister did most the work for the party. First of all, she hosted, which is the hardest part. She also grilled the steak, fried the chorizo, steamed the tamales, mashed the black beans, and made awesome chancletas -- a pudding of chayote served in the hollowed-out shell of the squash-- that you can see in the foreground of the picture below.

After the meal, my grandmother spent two hours looking at pictures from our Guatemala trip on Justine's computer. I sat in the corner drinking margaritas and thinking about the bobcat.

We have seen no trace of the cat since Friday. I am hoping it has been hit by a car.

Beer margaritas from the other Tipsy Baker

A few days ago, someone alerted me to this blog, and my first response was to sneer the "perfect margarita" recipe because it contains beer and frozen limeade.

I was subsequently chastised for snobbishly dismissing a drink I have never tried. Point taken! Last night, my sister hosted a party for our grandmother, a Guatemalan party about which I will have more to say later. Among my contributions was a pitcher of "perfect margaritas."

 

To make this unconventional drink, you mix equal parts frozen limeade concentrate, beer, tequila, and lemon-lime soda. Serve on the rocks.

How were the margaritas? They were great and fizzy and they were also easy. The beer cuts the sweetness of the limeade and soda pop, and somehow it all balances out very nicely. I should add that these are not as potent as "proper" margaritas, which was a blessing given how hot it was yesterday, how distraught I was about that bobcat, and how many of them I drank. This is an excellent recipe for a big party.

That said, I did not think these margaritas were quite as delicious as those made with Cointreau and fresh lime juice. They don't have the  complexity and sharp, sour edge you can only achieve with top-shelf liquor and the laborious slicing and squeezing of many limes. 

As for the bobcat, it's like Straw Dogs around here today. We've got bricks piled up on the deck to throw in the event of another incursion, which we have been told to expect.