Archive for March, 2009

Oh hello, Spring has sprung and with it the urge to bacchanalia till you drop is reaching escape velocity. I offer as a remedy the first party of the season targeted for Sunday, April 19th. There will be gewgaw and folderol for all. That, by the way is Not what you should bring as your pot luck offering. The usual gang of knuckleheads will lead us down the musical path to temptation and urge us into seditious forms of behaviour like dancing, drinking, smoking, joking and exploring the dark gooshy places ventured into after such an event. My mom will be here and has agreed to fly her all girl band in from joisey to play a couple of tunes. They're called the Octagepussykatz and consist of two Tibetan fog horns, a didgeridoo, accordian, washboard and timbales. They will rip the tops of your heads off. Oh, and by the way, watch your language, eh. I'm calling it for 2pm till 8pm so as to avoid W.M.C.F.K.(WimpMusicianColdFingerKvetch). If its raining, it ain't happening. I read the text of a letter sent recently from some midwestern industrial farm conglom to the First Lady regarding her organic veggie garden, "respectfully" warning her of the dangerous inadequacies inherant to organic farming and going on to trumpet the wonders of chemically treated crops whose yields are SOOOO much greater and whose chances of survival are SOOOO much better because of the wondrous pesticides now coursing the blood streams and altering the genetics of each and every one of us. I needed a time out. Not just a Johnny black with beer back break either. So I went out to the pond and sat on my haunches with a handful of sedated insects (just put em' in the freezer for a couple of minutes), waiting for the nearest bufo to take the bait. Didn't take long before I rassled one down and gently masqueezed its back until a thin, light brown oily substance began to shine in the afternoon light. I took a big ol' lick hoping that the bufo would turn into princess Di in the body of a nineteen year old Thai girl with mocha silk skin, skilled in the art of Kama Sutra with particular mastery of the posture known as "mongoose foraging in the musk melon patch". After vomiting for three or four hours, I felt a lot better. Still seeing stars though. I'm not sending any photos of the chickabals this week as they are grounded. Seems as though the relaxants in their water supply wore off and they ran down the neighbors dog and ate him..............not good. They have taken to weaving strands of grass into bandanas and walking around with boom boxes affixed to their ears playing lowrider music,. You'll see little groups of them hanging out in corners or in tall grass clumps geezing oyster shell flour and planning savage raids on all pets within a four hundred yard radius. We're bringing in one of Doc Bebockbocs close friends who specializes in tough love anger management. What Doctor Waldo Sardonicups phD. does is place the feet of an offending chick ever so slightly into a pot of boiling water so as to solicit a scream inaudible to humans but a total freaker to her cousins. They become completely distracted and forget their bloodlust momentarily. The good doctor has put together a device that allows a chicken to be dipped at an interval which keeps the rest of the flock flummoxed all day. I also saw a technique on Dick Cheneys web site that looks promising. We'll break the little fuckers of their grotesque habits even if we have to kill em'and eat em' all.

Lets see, we've got atemoya, avocado, some citrus, papaya, jaboticaba, soursop, raw coffee beans, plenty of greens and herbs as well as House of Yumm pesto, chocavopousse, tomatillo salsa and froozies. The eggs are trickling in so i'm hoping that within a couple of weeks we'll start to have some to sell. We're open by appointment any time of day although I encourage shopping in the morning or later in the day when the veggie leaves are at there crispy best. 878-6287 Nurse Brandy took off today leaving a super secret recipe for turnovers and tracers of twinklemoan in her wake. She's on assignment in Boulder where she will be participating in a triage operation to treat patients with advanced cases of narcissitic rage. Those who are too far gone will be allowed to sit mindlessly in front of t.v.s that no longer work, clicking a remote which solicits no response but to display a commercial for American Idol over and over again, creating a perfect state of equilibrium between useless wanting and endless waiting. Those still coherant will be read Dr. Seuss stories while on morphine drips. She doesn't know what will come next for her, but has promised to keep us posted as to her whereabouts worldwide, which I look forward to sharing. And last but not least, HOW ABOUT TIGER AT BAYHILL. HOLYCRAP. The more you come, the more we'll grow, Peace out, Jp

Oh Hello, The farm is the world in microcosm. Any and every relationship in existence is witnessed being played out by a cast of characters as diverse as the billions of organisms contained in a tablespoon of healthy soil. From the heartwarming antics of the "pantzer" to the leghorn impersonation of the Hutu and Tutsi one can but wonder at the layers of meaning contained in our ability to observe, collate and empathize. All this in the hope that the small revelations can lead to large clues as to how this tiny life integrates seemlessly with All Life. So much power, so little perspective, so it goes. Our guiding principle here at the Rancho is to allow the intuition to flourish by deepening ones willingness to simply observe and to then act, with confidence, based on those observations. Much of that is routine work and common sense stuff, but hidden within the tapestry of routine can be found patterns in nature which point to universal principles at work and play. Patterns which re-enforce our natural tendency toward integration with our surroundings and a sense that being of service to that which tirelessly, endlessly and without thought or desire supports and nurtures us is natures reward for being human on Earth. On the other hand, if you are Monsanto, Carghill, A.D.M. or other agromaniacs, the stated goal is to control the worlds seed, fertilizer, pesticide and food supply through legislation aimed at legitimizing yet another form of genocide. Want a cup of scary? Google Codex Alimentarius for the creepiest look at foods future and the end of any semblance of "organically" grown food. I've followed this issue for some time now and am not optimistic given that Tom Nutsack, with incestuously close ties to Monsanto was named secretary of agribusiness and that HR 875 is about to be crammed through congress giving unprecedented power over the food supply of the world to those who, in a just world would be hanging by their testicles from the nearest organically grown tree. By the way, the only legislator who has ever gotten back to me on this is Abercrombie, and while his message was laden with gobbledegook, at least he tried. The monsanto mafia, rothschild molesters and kosher nostra are well on their way to controlling food and money in the world. As a public service we have included some recipes for money, since food is rapidly becoming too expensive to buy (over 7 bucks a loaf for bread) and since your "victory gardens" will soon be subject to the scrutiny of monsanto storm troopers armed with pollen guns and ready to claim your harvest as their own and then levee a six figure fine for your seditious behaviour. Sauteed sawbucks:

1. Shred (don't chop) a pile of twenties.
2. Grease skillet with toe jam or a spray of underarm deoderant.
3. Lightly saute sawbucks until the edges begin to brown and curl.
4. Remove from heat, cover with brackish water and let sit for twelve minutes.
5. When the money is al dente, serve over a bed of nickels.

Fricaccee of fifties:

1. Stack fifty dollar bills until one and a half inches high.
2. Cut into cubes. Wrap with duct tape.
3. Gather some tree bark and dead leaves (while nobody is watching) and form into matzo balls.
4. Place ingredients in stew pot with water substitute and green antifreeze.
5. Bring to a rolling boil, cool and serve over a some spent shotgun shells.

Three cheers to Doc Bebockboc and nurse Sally for mixing up a cocktail (no pun intended) of poultry sedatives in mild solution for the little leghorn darlings to drink with daily water and high and behold, while they stumble around a bit (probably the valium), they no longer seem to crave raw flesh. One of the neo-hips going through a "boy" thing asked if she could hang with the chicks and have a shot or two. I told her to reel herself in and mixed her up a pitcher of sunset pina coladas. Nurse Brandy, who has been tireless in her zeal to keep the chicks healthy and happy, all but insisted today that the cure for all my anxieties over watching the cannibals at play was to have her bake up a batch of turnovers with eight different kinds of filling. She told me i'm to eat one an hour and call her in the morning. I think i'll save the white sapote, banana, coconut, pecan turnover with a drizzle of raw cacao sauce for last. Therein lies happymouth. While we have yet to officially name turnovers as part of our House of Yumm offerings, the numbers crunch out well enough that a weekly bake out may be justified, as well as simply prepping and freezing them for you to take home and nuke. We'll keep you posted. So come on down before the property is quarantined and our food confiscated for not containing enough toxic matter to pass for "organic". We're through the looking glass here people. Next stop, sunshine tax. We're open until we're not. Give a call @ 8786287 and come down for some politically incorrect food. The more you come, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

Oh Servus! I was browsing Der Spiegel today (do I have to have a reason?) and came across a heartwarming article linking compassion and euro in a daisychain of economic and psychophysical relief. The headline read, "Brothel cuts rates by half for senior citizens". Given the legal and respectable nature of prostitution in Germany and the fact that the economy is the vurst since ze vohrr, a perfect marriage. Rates are only good between 10am and 4pm, you must be over 66 and you can bring your spouse. Hmmmmmm, only four and a half more years...........i'll be covered by medicare in case I get Bulgarian herporrhea or a heart attack. Ahhh, the golden years. This part may be creepy to some. We've been witnessing acts of outright cannibalism amongst the leghorn population. By the time we noticed the bloodied feathers on the first three or four, they were gettin' pecked down to the flesh and then some. Had to isolate them in some old bunny cages w/food and water supply to see if they would heal up and not continue to indulge in behavior most unbecoming. The majority of wounds occur at the base of the tail feathers where the baby feathers still reside and provide scant cover for the succulent flesh that tastes just like a whopper. Well, we've been pulling them out for the last few days and keeping them isolated to groups of no more than four or five and they seem to be recovering nicely. I decided to give doc Bebockboc and nurse Sally a shout and they told me to call the nursery, find out what they say and then get back to them if I had any more questions. I thought that was kind of a strange response until I called the nursery.

"Hi, this is Margie at Ahdeel Powtry, how may ah hep you?" "Yes, I bought some birds which you shipped last month and the Leghorns seem to be eating each other. I mean literally. Are they cannibals or what?" (jokingly) "Oh yes sir, they ahr." "Really?" (incredulously) "Oh yes sir. Once they git the taste of bloooood, they cain't stop." "But the Reds are so docile and calm and don't even seem to shit as much. Is there anything I can do, because this is totally unacceptable." (In kind but firm tones) "Well sir.....................hold on, ah'll ask." "O.K." "Yes sir, the owner Jerry sayd that you need to get some of that Camphophenic, just like the kind you have in your medicine chest aind paint that awn the birds, or just get one a' them big ol' toenail clippers and clip their beaks off. He says that the production Leghorn are fiesty like that." "I'm sorry, we don't mutilate our birds here and don't you think it would be appropriate to tell your clients about a habit like that? I mean, do they behave that way as adults, or do they grow out of it?" "Hold awn sir, ah'll ask... O.k. sir, yes, Jerry says they are like that as adults as weyll."

At this point a time out was called for, so I reached for the last of the animal tranks that Doc had slipped me and knocked it back with some Johnny Black as I mumbled that i'd phone back in a few days and we could talk about it. She said they "wanted to be of hep if they coood." Phew, what a relief. I was going to send you photos of exposed and bloodied flesh, documentary style, pointing out the dangers of hybrids pushed to the edge, but opted for recovery room shots instead. Nurture over nature. We've started reading the "Greenleaf guide to Vegan Cookery" to them and have some "Ghandi on nonviolence" tapes in the mail. The oldest of the Knucklehead Consortium, i.e. the pair of four year old Black Australorps started laying on the ides of March. Co-inkydink or the foreshadowing of hard boiled doom? I'm going with the triumph of the light, as in happy equinox and here's to an unmatched laying season. The youngsters should be online in time for our thirteenth annual fiftieth birthday party. We've got fresh avo, atemoya, citrus, papaya and we'll be cutting a stalk of bananas in the next few days. Plenty of greens as well as the usual pile of miscillany. Running a bit low on chocavopousse but the sharwil avo is kicking in just in time to provide a little extra fruit to amp up the supply. A clockwork green. So, as March grunts and groans its way out of pretending to be tough, and warmth and light win the northern hemisphere over, go plant a seed that has nothing to do with greed. The more you come, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp