Baked Goat Brie with Bourbon Peach Jam and Pecans

Now that the weather is finally cooling off, it no longer seems unreasonable to consider indulging in cooking something that requires turning on the oven. I've had something in mind ever since my friend Peggy sent me her fabulous Bourbon Peach Jam. Spectacular on its own (yeah, I confess to having eaten some just straight from the jar) and on pancakes, I had a hunch it would also work well with brie.

Time and excess mental capacity are in short supply at the moment but this dish is so ridiculously easy that I went for it. I grabbed a round of brie--any brie will do but my go-to brie if I'm going to doctor it up is a small round of goat brie from Trader Joe's--and a sheet of puff pastry. For some reason, there always seems to be an orphan sheet of puff pastry in the freezer. So, short story shorter....plop the brie onto the puff pastry (put some parchment paper in the bottom of a baking dish for easier extraction/clean-up later), cut the pastry down to size, slather on the jam, top with toasted pecans, and fold the ends of the pastry over the top, sealing in all the jammy, cheesy goodness.

Brush the top with a bit of beaten egg, sprinkle on a bit of brown sugar, and top with more pecans. Stick this in the oven at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes (longer if using a full-sized round of brie). If you are patient, you will get a nicely browned pastry with super gooey cheese inside. I'm not. I couldn't wait. Still wonderful if not quite as photogenic.

Grab your crackers and get on it. But be quick if you're sharing this with me. It won't last long. 

How Quickly It All Becomes Normal

Dare I say it? It's been very quiet around here. Not just on the blog but on the farm. The calves are now two months old. They are getting big. Filling out. Horns emerging. Tall enough to drink out of the big stock tank. Not as bouncy but still eager to lick a friendly hand, arm, or face. And still complete suckers for a neck or tummy rub. But at the same time, they're looking more like miniature versions of their parents. They move with the herd now. Rarely do I find them off by themselves. They are grazing like old pros but fortunately they continue to nurse as well. The more of that high butterfat milk they get in them before winter the better. And all that rain over the summer has meant really good grazing going in to the autumn months.

The biggest change is how normal it has become to have this herd of five water buffalo milling about. We have our routines. Some days, rare days thankfully, I don't see them at all. While those aren't good days for me, the buffalo seem to do just fine. Each of them seems healthy and, despite their disparate personalities, they are functioning well as a group. I'm surprised how often I find the calves hanging with (and sometimes messing with) Eschol who seems quite chill about them now. Even when Mabel tucks her head under his belly as if to give him grief for not coming equipped with an udder (I mean, c'mon, Dad, there are all these dangly bits--why not some that are useful to me???).

Fall tends to be a fallow time for the blog--not for lack of activity on the farm but for lack of time to write--so let me leave you with some pictures to tide you over 'til the next post.

Mabel tasting the black raspberry leaves.

Chuck and Mabel

Chuck with Audrey (standing) & Effie

Chuck's little horns starting to emerge

Mabel a.k.a., Miss Muddy Hooves

Chuck charging out of the wallow

Ouch! But so worth it.

And now for something completely different: the honey harvest. Back in June, I took off two supers of honey from my one remaining colony. A couple of hard winters and some sketchy nectar flows meant that for several years I had been leaving all honey with the bees to ensure their ability to survive and rebuild their numbers. So, it was wonderful this year to see so much extra honey after the Tulip Poplar flow (the primary nectar flow in this region) that I felt safe harvesting.

I felt a lot of other things after harvesting. Mostly sore. No, not from bee stings. The bees aren't happy when I take the honey but I wear the requisite space suit so I don't blow up like a balloon (yes, I'm a little oversensitive to stings) and they don't have to die. Really, the most painful part of this process is getting the supers off of the hive. The honey supers are at the top, really heavy when full of honey, and stuck together with propolis. So, picture trying to pry apart wooden boxes weighing c. 40 pounds, sealed all around with the stickiest, gooiest resin-like substance that re-sticks as soon as the pieces make contact again, and then lifting the boxes from chest height all while angry bees try to find any weakness in your protective gear. Below is a typical shallow super with a wooden bee escape on top.

Mind you, lifting 40 pounds off the ground or from waist height is no problem for me but I never really learned to bench press. I can see now why that might have been useful. Very different endeavor. Add in the twist that I have to do to get the supers in to the cart for transporting back to the house and the scene just begs for a pulled back muscle. Yeah. Ouch. Not smart. Must design a better set-up for next year. But a little pain is a small price to pay for such glorious goodness. The girls had built the comb way out past the edges of the frames and it just looked and smelled so wonderful. After getting the last few bees out of there, I moved the supers inside and in no time the odor of honey and beeswax filled the house.

One thing I did right this year was invest in an extractor. I'm now the proud owner of a 9-frame, hand-cranked, radial extractor. This bad boy flings the honey out of the comb with the greatest of ease.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before the spinning, there's uncapping to be done. First, pry the frames apart. Yes, more propolis. Much more propolis. Healthy for the hive. Hell on the beekeeper.

I take each frame and use a hot uncapping knife to gently cut the caps off of both sides of the comb. This handy double tub setup catches the cappings in the top level while letting any stray honey drip through to the lower level for later capture.

There's a real art to cutting off the cappings. Too slow and you cook the honey. Too fast and you miss too many cells. Get the angle wrong and you gouge the comb. But not unlike finding the clutch point on a stick shift car, after a few ugly attempts, it becomes second nature. I know I'm not the only beekeeper who plays the can-I-get-the-whole-run-of-cappings-in-one-continuous-sheet game (very much like trying to peel an apple). Nine frames done and we're ready to spin. Well, close the lid, then we're ready.

In just a few moments, the first drops hit the strainer.

Soon honey is gushing through the gate.

After extracting two supers, we bottled 60 pounds of honey from that first harvest. This past weekend, we extracted another super for 27 pounds more. We had hoped the second harvest might be heavy on the Sourwood (our second biggest nectar flow and the most popular honey with the tourists) but judging from the color and taste, I'd say it's much like the first--primarily Tulip Poplar (my favorite) with an assortment of wildflowers. At any rate, we are set for honey for a good long time. Sweet!

Best Laid Plans

I must learn to be careful what I write. Just as soon as I put fingertips to keyboard and publish a post, the universe conspires to change things up on me again. A week ago Thursday, I told you how Chuck was taking flying runs at his elders but Mabel was not. The next day, she decided to outdo her brother. As with all other things, she puts even more energy and enthusiasm into her latest tricks than does Chuck. While Chuck sneaks up from behind, Mabel is now launching full-frontal assaults. While her vertical lift on approach is impressive, my joy at her athleticism is somewhat tempered by the fact that she is not nearly so easily parried as the boy buff.  Trying to defend against both simultaneously has quickly put paid to any notion I had about relaxing in the pasture with these two.

And it's not just me. Mabel took to play charging Effie and Eschol on the other side of the electric fence. I don't know if Eschol couldn't take the taunting or if it was the agitation of yet another flash flood Friday afternoon (no lasting damage this time--just lots of black walnut limbs that had to be removed from the electric fences), but I awoke around 5:30am Saturday to the sounds of a very unhappy buffalo.

Effie was racing back and forth through the fish pond completely beside herself, grunting like crazy. I went over toward the barns to check on the others and Effie followed close behind. A very saggy electric fence tipped me off right away that Eschol had unilaterally decided to reunite the herd. Something about the sound of flood waters really seems to get him going. I assumed he was up in the big barn with Audrey and the calves, so I raced to erect the electric fence behind the big barn that serves as my only protected access when the bull is in residence. Then I had to take down the electric fence that Eschol had jumped to let Effie through before he spotted me. I think Eschol was well-pleased with himself and was thoroughly occupied with re-establishing his position as king of the barn. Me, I wasn't too pleased about all that excitement before breakfast (and more importantly, before coffee).

Well, so much for my idea about hanging out with the calves. And letting Audrey have the good grazing on the Booth to herself. The reunited herd complicates life for me but it also simplifies things (only one water tank, one mineral block, one herd to move....). On the whole, I think they're much happier being back together. There was a day or two of Eschol chasing the calves but they are both fast and sure of hoof these days so they were able to keep ahead of his horns for the most part. I'm glad they had a few weeks to get strong. Eschol didn't let them get much nursing done in that first day of reunion but things have calmed down considerably. He's still trying to mate with Audrey and Effie and that's not great but they know how to resist his advances. It's the barn that suffers when he gets frustrated. And Audrey got a little roughed up by Eschol and Effie as they re-established the pecking order but no lasting damage that I can see.

On the plus side, the calves are learning to wallow properly. Audrey didn't waste any time once she got access to the big wallow again. I went out one morning to find this adorable scene:

Baby's first wallow. Mabel took to it just like she'd been doing it forever. I can't wait 'til she starts submerging her head in the water tank and blowing bubbles like her biological mother, Effie. And no worries about getting stuck in the mud. When she was done she hopped right out from the deepest part of the wallow.

She was in a playful mood that day. First, she went over to bug her brother.

Then she bounded over to check out the lady with the camera.

Then she spied Eschol and Effie up the hill. Maybe they'd like to play. First, gotta get mom out of the wallow and collect Chuck.

Chuck was way ahead of her. He bounded up the hill and nosed Effie, then made a run at Eschol. But as soon as Eschol started to run at him, he made a big course correction and ran up into the barn. Could Chuck be chicken? Just a good survival instinct, I think.

Meanwhile, Mabel made her way up the hill with Audrey. Effie met them halfway and I watched to see if she would show any interest in her calf after all this time.

Nope. Only a little annoyance. Mabel ducked behind Audrey to avoid Miss Shaky Horns then they all proceeded toward the wet-weather creek. Mabel gave it another try, approaching Effie from behind but Effie just walked off so Mabel bounded back to Audrey. I'm not sure if Mabel knows that Effie is her birth mom or if it matters to her. She may just be checking her out the new big creature in her life. I've since seen her do the same with Eschol, fearless little girl that she is.

The rains have continued here, nearly every day. The barn is horribly soggy but the wallow is full. Good thing, too, because it's getting a lot of use now.

And that, my friends, is this week in buffalo.

Effie Does Not Care for Turkey

A few days ago, I crossed Effie and Eschol into the lower pasture for their evening graze. As I turned my attention to preparing my own repast, I looked out the window to see Eschol maxing and relaxing. Effie, true to form, was most definitely not relaxed. She was staring intently toward the corner of the field nearest the house.

The walnut tree obscures the intensity of her gaze but take my word for it--she was not happy. The objects of her attention? A flock of wild turkeys. Sensing that they were unwelcome, the flock of about a dozen hens and juvenile turkeys tried to stick close to the fence. But then Effie charged. The flock split with half heading for the driveway and the other half hugging the edge of the creek. Strangely, they all stayed within the pasture rather than ducking under the wire. Effie seemed pleased to have shooed them away and she bounded back towards Eschol, reveling in her victory.

Victory, as we well know, is often short lived. The split flock tried to reunite on the far side of the pasture.

Not on Effie's watch, oh no. And this time she brought reinforcements.

Two 1500-pound buffalo charging at full speed was enough to convince at least a few of the turkeys that trying to make a graceful exit was not in their best interest.

Much flapping, squawking, and ungainly flight ensued as the laggard turkeys tried to save themselves by making a break for the low branches of the nearest black walnut tree.

Effie did her best to stare them out of their perch but they stayed put while the remainder of the flock snuck out of the pasture. Eventually, Effie lost interest as flight is not nearly as entertaining as fight.

I do not know why Effie does not care for turkey. Certainly, she has chased all manner of critters out of her territory in the past. But the turkeys are frequent visitors here and I can't recall her ever giving chase before. Was it something they said? Maybe they kept her up at night with their incessant gobbling. That would make me cranky, too.