Baby Goats Deux: The Peanut Crew

Early November of last year found Dave, Emily, and I shepherding Oliver the buck around the girls’ pen while he did his thing as many times as the goats would let him—”going on dates” or “getting girlfriends,” we called it. We had to intervene a few times to steady some squirrely lady goats, but generally everything went off—hyuck—without a hitch. That was, at least, until a super unexpected frost settled in, and for about ten days none of the goats were into getting it on. In Maine, and throughout much of frigid New England, breeding is carried out later in the year to protect the tender new kids from the hellacious winters and early springs. Gestation takes five months, so breeding in November yields April babies here, even as livestock in much of the rest of the country were having kids in March or even February. On the one side we’re working against winter, and on the other, we’re working against the start of our time-intensive farmers markets, so finishing breeding within that sandwich is crucial. When the goats took a ten-day time-out last year, we wondered how things would turn out on this end, and for better—I think, at least—it’s led to two distinct generations of kids.

Last time I posted about the kids, we were smack in the middle of generation one: seventeen baby goats all born within about eight days of one another. Unsurprisingly considering the frosty hiatus, about ten days passed wherein no kids were born. And then the other foot dropped overnight: six kids, then 12 kids, then two kids in two days, and now we’re waiting for the final two mamas to bear their babes. That’s generation two, the “peanut crew,” so called because they are teensy tiny compared to their three-week-old half-sisters and half-brothers. Among my favorites, there’s the littlest kid whom I call Charlie Brown because she’s just so teeny and loveable, and a beautiful gray one with a mottled face and bright pink nose who eats like a horse (picture at top). The distinct ages seems to have helped keep the chaos under control, especially since we’re able to differ the feeding methods: generation one is on bucket feeders, and the peanuts are being bottle-fed; it would be exhausting were we to be bottle-feeding all of them. The newest of the bunch all seem quite healthy too. Among the first crew, we unfortunately lost four overall: one refused to eat, two had neurological issues, and a fourth just stopped being able to stand or sit up one day. There’s a fifth slow one who is coming around now, and he’s sort of become everyone’s favorite because he is the slowest, messiest eater, but just seems to exist in such a Zen state of unconcern; sometimes we call him Buddha (picture top left below, he's facing the camera). 

Yesterday, Mr. Tilton came by to pick up the majority of bucklings from generation one and take them to his livestock auction. Some of those guys will be castrated and used as pets—wethers, they’re called—others will become companions for horses, since both are social creatures but tending a horse is much more involved than tending a goat, still others will grow up to be breeders or to manage brush growth at farms and rural properties, and yes, some will be raised for meat over the better part of this year. Today, two of my favorite little gals will go to the farm store to be sold as pets to the willing populace, and other farmers and dairy owners have been coming by to pick up a kid or two to round off their own herd numbers. And then of course there’s what this farm will keep, which is so far the majority of the baby girl goats. Soon enough we’ll move them all out of the barn and into the brush, where they’ll stuff themselves silly and cease to be peanuts, but for now, we’re still having fun getting to know all of their quirks and personalities as we bottle-feed. This is my last week on the farm, so hopefully I’ll get to meet the very final batch of babes and even toss out a name or two. Mama Greta, for instance, was named after 1930s actress Greta Garbo, so her baby will be named after a 1940s actress; Ilsa’s generation of kids will be named after flowers (Allium/Allie? Trilium aka Stinking Benjamin aka Benny?); there’s a group of artist babies (Frida!) and of suffragettes (Lucretia/Lu?); another of water babies and a bunch more I haven’t learned of yet. I hope to do one or two more farm follow-up posts, but thanks for now for following along! If you have any suggestions for flower names, I'd love to read them in the comments!

Cinnamon and Sugar Brioche Doughnuts + Rhubarb Ginger Jam

On the subject of the Down East breakfast, Maine poet and professor Robert P. T. Coffin wrote in 1949 that “weather, mother of good poetry, is also mother of good breakfasts.” The bitter cold necessitated the bulletproof morning meals that helped farmers and fishermen sustain themselves through the day so that they never “blew away.” It was a six- or seven-part spread, overwhelmed by chunks of salt pork and sandwiched by red-hot, scalding tea—“the whisky of the north”—that put “whiskers on the soles of your feet.” A proper breakfast must, he repeated, “stay put and generate heat. It must have rich, fattened, and oiled doughnuts to it, heavy pies, and pancakes, to keep the stomach busy, to keep the blood away from a man’s brain, where it can only do mischief, to keep his blood in his arms and thighs where a good woodchopper’s or smelt-fisherman’s blood belongs...The Maine breakfast is a hefty meal for hefty he-men.”*

Pronoun troubles aside, Coffin was right: big, rib-sticking breakfasts are a staple up here. Even at dawn, everything tastes better with links of maple sausage on the side, and a hunk of toast with butter-fried eggs is never far behind. We don't wrap our breakfasts in seven flapjacks, eat sinewy, jellied hog’s-head cheese, or chase the meal with five quarters of sweet pie, as Coffin contends that strong Maine farmers do, but we do cook up great big pans of hash browns, drink steins of bitter black coffee, and fry handfuls of “fattened” doughnuts rather often. The weather is responsible? Then so be it. Whether you're Down East or not, don’t miss out on either this jam or these doughnuts. The jam, now one of my favorites ever made or eaten—what genius first put ginger with rhubarb anyway!?—is a cheery complement to these ludicrously buttery but barely sweetened brioche doughnuts. I shook them in cinnamon and sugar to add an extra element of warmth, but plain old-fashioned or a dusting of cardamom wouldn’t be at all out of place. We ended up having them with sausage, granola, and yogurt, so not quite Coffin’s lumberjack and lobsterman prescription, but certainly a mighty-fine and rightly affirming way to start the day. And a quick note to thank everyone for the kind feedback on last week’s baby goat midwife post! I've sneaked in a few photos of them enjoying their own Down East breakfast below. Brioche Doughnuts Adapted from Karen DeMasco, The Craft of Baking Makes about 12 doughnuts and 20 holes Doughnuts, previously: Another Karen DeMasco classic. This is the most buttery doughnut dough I've ever used, and it has a super excellent flavor. To make the frying process as smooth as can be, have your cooking station set up before you fry: timer, paper towels, cinnamon-sugar bowl, and serving tray. 2 1/2 cups high-gluten bread flour 1/4 cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon Kosher salt (I used Diamond; use less if using Morton) 2 1/4 teaspoons (1/4 ounce or 1 packet) active dry yeast 6 large eggs 3 sticks (12 ounces) unsalted butter, chilled and cut into one-inch pieces Peanut oil for frying 1/2 cup granulated sugar + 1 teaspoon cinnamon + pinch salt for tossing, optional 1. Sift flour, sugar, and salt into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the dough hook attachment. Mix a few times to blend. 2. Set a saucepan of water to boil on the stove. In a heat-proof bowl, whisk the six eggs with the yeast, and place over the boiling water, whisking continuously for about a minute, or until the eggs are just warm to the touch. Add the egg-yeast mixture to the flour bowl, and mix on medium for about four minutes, until the mixture starts to resemble more of a dough. 3. With the mixer still running, add the pieces of butter quickly, but one at a time, then allow machine to run until no visible pieces of butter remain. (This took our old-ish mixer about eight minutes.) Turn dough out onto a lightly floured counter, and knead for about five minutes, until dough is tighter. A word of caution that the dough will be very sticky and loose. Try to resist the temptation to add more flour. 4. Place dough in a clean, well-oiled bowl, cover with plastic or a damp dishtowel and allow to rise for two hours. Fold the dough over itself, cover again, and allow to rise in the fridge at least six hours or overnight. 5. The next morning, toss dough out onto a lightly floured surface, and roll into a rectangle about three-fourths of an inch thick. Using a three-inch round and one-inch center, cut doughnuts out of the dough; cut holes out of remaining dough, and do not reroll scraps. Place cut doughnuts on cookie sheet or cutting board lined with parchment, cover, and allow to puff up over the next 30 minutes. 6. In a wide, shallow pan, heat peanut oil to 350 degrees F; do your best to maintain this oil temperature throughout. Cook one test doughnut about 1.5 minutes per side, then drain on paper towels. Cut it open to ensure the center is cooked, and adjust your fry time accordingly; it works well to fry three at a time. Doughnut holes take about a minute to cook through; it worked fine to fry five or six at a time. Blot the doughnuts and toss in the cinnamon-sugar mixture while they're still warm. Serve with a few spoonfuls of rhubarb-ginger jam. Doughnuts are best the morning they’re made! Rhubarb + Ginger Jam Makes about a pint Good on toast, great in yogurt, mighty-fine served alongside a doughnut. What's not to love?! 1 pound rhubarb stalks (pink if you got ‘em) 1 to 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar 2-inch knob of ginger, peeled and grated (about two heaping tablespoons) Zest and juice of half a lemon 1. Trim the rhubarb and chop it into one-inch pieces. In a medium bowl, toss rhubarb with the lesser amount of sugar, grated ginger, and lemon juice and zest. Let sit for at least two hours, stirring two or three times, until rhubarb has let off its juices; you can also cover and let the rhubarb do its thing in the fridge overnight. Ultimately, the mixture should get really juicy. 2. Pour the rhubarb mixture and juices into a medium saucepan. Bring to boil to and stir to dissolve the sugar, then allow to rapid-boil for about 15 minutes; the stalks will completely break down and the mixture will thicken up quite a bit. Keep an eye on it though so as not to burn. Taste, and if you prefer a slightly sweeter jam, add the remaining quarter-cup sugar and stir to dissolve. Remove jam from heat and allow to cool—it will thicken as it does—or fill sterilized jars and process accordingly. We just filled one big ol’ jar and are keeping it in the fridge instead of storing. *Robert P. Coffin, "Down East Breakfast," in Endless Feasts, ed. Ruth Reichl (New York: Condé Nast Publications Inc., 2002), 123–129.

Call the Baby Goat Midwife!

At the moment, I am a baby goat midwife and cuddle puddle collaborator in Maine. My main job on the farm is to be at the birthing ready while Dave and Jen “catch” the baby goats and free them from their newborn slime, then I rub, rub, rub their backs until the babes cough and sputter and look alive. Removing umbilical cords and treating future belly buttons with strong iodine is also under my purview, though it seems I’m not the best at that in spite of my most expert baby-petting skills. When the births are unattended, the mama goats will bite down hard on the babies’ ears to spark a nervous response and get their blood flowing; that’s essentially what I do, but with vigorous patting instead.

We try to attend all of the births since our intervention sometimes means their survival: for one thing since it’s crucial on a farm business not to lose any producing animals, and for another because everyone loves the goats (except Joe! He is a pest!). Two days ago, for instance, my new favorite little white goat tried to come out at a physically impossible birthing angle—hip first with the leg bent back. After hours of tremendous exertion, mama Snow White looked about ready to call it quits, so Jen jumped in to manually turn the baby goat the right way and make way for her and the two brothers who followed; if we hadn’t been there, it’s likely that the traffic jam would have killed some or all of the goats. Those are terribly high-stress moments for the animals and people both, but luckily the occasion for our intervention is rare. Even so, we try to stand by through all the births, which means many pen-watching all-nighters are in our future!

We also get to feed the babies, which is pretty much the sweetest, stickiest, and most adorable job. We lightly pasteurize all of the moms’ milk to avoid passing on any illnesses the farm might not know about, then three times per day we bottle-feed the babes from sanitized beer bottles filled with pudding-thick milk; it’s also our duty to pet them as much as possible during this time to encourage positive socialization. Goats are naturally social and super curious creatures, so what this translates to is the babies crawling all over us in a big fuzzy puddle while we try to rub them silly. So far we have 15 wee ones from seven mamas, and there are about 20 who’ve yet to give birth. Needless to say, we’ll soon be swimming in a herd of squawking baby Nubians, which is totally cool by me; it will be an absolute miracle if I end up goat-free at the end of the month.

This might be a baking blog and all, but I just wanted to share a little about what it is that I’m doing up in Maine again! After spending a super intensive season making cheese and learning more and more about milks and animals last year, I wanted to be up here to bookend the experience and help the farm start the spring. And while I have a lot of baking plans in store while I’m here (bourbon! rhubarb! coconut!), there will likely be a lot of baby goat realness thrown in along the way. So thanks for reading and supporting this adventure. I hope you accept payment in the form of baby animal photos and videos. Oh, and don't forget to click those photos in the middle to embiggen!