Boomer and His Chicken: A Love Story

Boomer and his chicken. Giving Hallmark movies a run for their money.

Meet Boomer. He’s a young wether—chunky, cheerful, and just smart enough to open the feed bin if I forget to latch it. He’s got that mischievous sparkle in his eye that says, “I know you said no, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

And this… this is his chicken. Not a chicken. His chicken.

She follows him around like she signed a lifetime contract. Wherever Boomer goes, she’s one step behind, clucking away like a feathered bodyguard. If he lies down, she fluffs out beside him. If he gets up, she does too. If he chews hay, she pecks delicately, as if they’re sharing a candlelit dinner for two—minus the candles and with considerably more chewing.

And Boomer? He’s not just tolerating her—he’s proud of her. The other goats tried to get too close once, and Boomer hip-checked them so hard you’d think he was auditioning for the NHL. He’s protective, watchful, and maybe a little smug about his unusual partnership.

They’re inseparable. I didn’t plan it, didn’t encourage it, and certainly didn’t expect it. But here we are: a goat in a committed relationship with a chicken. Some people have emotional support animals. Boomer has a poultry pal with attitude.

I keep waiting for them to have a spat, but so far, they’re a model of barnyard harmony. Maybe they understand each other. Maybe they’re just two oddballs who found their match. Either way, I’ve learned not to question it.

Because on a farm, “normal” packed its bags and left a long time ago. Around here, if a goat wants a chicken best friend, I just refill the hay rack, toss a little scratch grain, and let love do its thing.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

PMS Special: The Toasted Reese’s Sandwich You Didn’t Know You Needed

Have you ever had an undeniable craving? Of course you have. Particularly during that time of the month, when your emotions are running high, your patience is running low, and your pantry better be stocked—or someone’s getting hurt.

Now, I'm well past that age (thank the good Lord and a few gray hairs), but I still love my goodies. I just don’t have anything to blame them on anymore, which is kind of a shame. “Hormones” was such a convenient excuse for inhaling half a chocolate cake at 5:30 a.m.

So here it is—straight from my unrepentant sweet tooth to yours—my very own creation:

Toasted Reese’s Sandwich

Yes, I know it sounds odd. But trust me, it’s divine.

1. Start with two slices of bread. Whole grain if you want to pretend you're being virtuous.

2. Slather one side with peanut butter like you're spackling a barn wall—no skimping.

3. Sprinkle a generous handful of chocolate chips over the top.

4. Cap it with the second slice of bread, butter the outsides lightly (don’t be shy),

5. Toss it in a frypan and brown both sides like you would a grilled cheese.

Slide it onto a plate, pour yourself a cold glass of milk, and prepare for your eyes to roll back in your head.

Variation? Sure. Replace the peanut butter with marshmallow fluff and you’ve got yourself a toasted s’mores sandwich. Bonfire optional.

Now, before you start getting all huffy about waistlines and sugar crashes, let me reassure you—this sandwich is very healthy.

• Peanut butter has protein.
  

• Chocolate? Full of antioxidants.

• Whole grain bread? Practically a salad.

Right? Right. And if you believe all that, I’ve got a lovely bridge in Brooklyn I’ll let you have cheap.

Try it. Let me know what you think. Or don’t—just make another one and eat it in secret like the rest of us do.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Pig Pen Plunge: Mud, Mayhem, and Missing Boots

So there I was, minding my own business, thinking I could have a normal farm day. (I know, I know—rookie mistake.) We’d had rain like it was trying to re-flood the Earth. Puddles became ponds. Mud became quicksand. And the pigs? Oh, they were living their best swamp life.

The electric fence around the pig pen had gone all sad and droopy, like an overcooked spaghetti noodle. It needed to be tightened up. So I got clever: I distracted the pigs with food—a classic move in the “how to avoid being trampled” handbook—and snuck into their pen to fix the fence.

About halfway through my mission, my left boot made a bold decision to abandon the rest of me. It stuck firmly in the mud while my body kept moving forward with the grace of a drunken giraffe. What followed can only be described as interpretive dance meets panic attack—arms flailing like airport ground crew on espresso, one leg locked in the mud muttering, “I live here now,” while the other thrashed about like it was auditioning for Riverdance.

Then came the moment gravity won. And somehow, despite my forward motion, I ended up flat on my back like a turtle flipped upside down. Don’t ask me how. Newton himself would’ve thrown his apple and said, “Nah, that ain’t right.”

And this wasn’t just any mud. This was pig mud—a luxurious blend of topsoil, rainwater, leftover slop, and pig poo, aged to perfection. The kind of smell that grabs your nostrils and shouts, “WELCOME TO THE FARM, BABY!”

As I lay there, auditioning for Swine Survivor, I tried to figure out how to get up without adding more pig-based goo to my person. That plan lasted exactly five seconds, because the pigs, now done eating, decided to investigate. And by investigate, I mean gallop toward me like a snorting stampede of short-legged hippos.

At this point, survival instincts kicked in. I pushed myself up, now adding mud to my arms and the front of my shirt. The pigs, sensing weakness (and probably hoping I was a snack), took the opportunity to notice the fence was completely down. Off they went on a joy-filled, mud-slicked jailbreak.

I stared at their chunky behinds disappearing into the distance and thought, “Well. . . at least now I can fix the fence without anyone chewing on my ears.”

I wrangled the fence back into place, which was easier said than done, considering I was moving like a Roomba with a drinking problem. The pigs actually stopped running and ambled back to watch—not out of concern, heaven forbid, but with the quiet curiosity of creatures wondering whether to intervene or just let nature run its course.

Just when I thought I might actually finish the job and slink away with a shred of dignity—BAM!—the right boot betrayed me too. Apparently, it couldn’t stand the separation anxiety and decided to join its partner in muck-based rebellion.

Now I’m wallowing around in my socks, which instantly became one with the mud, absorbing every earthy, squishy, pig-poo-soaked molecule. I swear I heard them sob, resigning themselves to their fate. Every step made a squelch so loud it echoed. My socks were no longer socks—they were now biohazards.

At this point, my feet were wet, my boots were buried somewhere around ankle-deep, and I was just slogging through the muck with the grace of a toddler wearing oversized flippers. I wasn’t fixing a fence—I was starring in a one-woman mud wrestling match, and the mud was winning.

Then I spotted a broken fence post nearby—blessedly pointy on one end and sort of solid on the other. Did I hesitate? Not for a second. I snatched it up and used it like a walking stick-slash-battle staff, stabbing it into the mud for balance like a deranged farm hobbit crossing the Misty Mountains of Pig Filth.

I looked like Gandalf’s muddier cousin, limping through the sludge yelling, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”—mostly to the pigs, who were eyeing me like I might be the second course. Then, like a grain-based pied piper, I lured those porky escapees back into their pen with the promise of more grain. Pigs are easily manipulated—just like me, apparently.

I squelched my way back to the house—mud oozing out of my socks and clinging to my backside like a diaper at DEFCON 1. My hair, once long and lovely, was now a mud curtain. There was mud on my face, my neck, my soul.

I hollered into the house, “EVERYONE CLOSE YOUR EYES!” and proceeded to strip down outside like a feral cavewoman. Modesty has absolutely no place when covered with pig mud. I walked to the shower stark naked, trailing clumps of pig pen behind me.

Three full rounds of scrubbing and I still smelled like Eau de Hog Heaven. So I did what any desperate woman would do: I grabbed my teenage grandson’s Ax body wash. If that stuff can mask the teenage boy stench of dirty socks, football practice, and puberty sweat, surely it could handle a little pig manure.

The clothes got hosed down, washed, bleached, and blessed by a priest.

The gloves still stank and got tossed straight into the trash. Turns out pig mud is like glitter—once it’s in your life, it never fully leaves. And the boots? They died as they lived: in a pit of muck. I didn’t even try to save them. I just saluted and whispered, “Thank you for your service.” I’d wanted new ones anyway. To my knowledge, they’re still buried out there, unless the pigs ate them.

So, next time you hear someone say, “Farm life must be so peaceful,” just know that somewhere out there, a woman is flailing in pig mud, losing her boots and her dignity, while pigs laugh in the face of her misguided efforts.

The moral of the story?

Never trust mud.

Always bring extra clothes.

And keep your teenage grandson’s body wash locked and loaded.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Only 1 Day Left: Tax Day Tea Party Tomorrow

Tomorrow’s the big day — the Tax Day Tea Party. Seems like folks all across the country have finally had their fill of Washington’s spending spree. And really, who can blame them? You can’t keep handing out money like Halloween candy and then look surprised when the bucket’s empty.

People are waking up. They’ve had enough of watching politicians throw around billions while regular families are counting pennies at the grocery store. Most of us have already cut back — fewer dinners out, no new truck this year, stretching what we’ve got. Meanwhile, Washington’s still acting like the party’s just getting started and somebody else is picking up the tab.

When I first heard about these Tea Parties, I thought maybe a few folks would show up with signs and a couple of thermoses of coffee. But this thing’s catching fire. It’s not about being Republican or Democrat — it’s about being fed up. About reminding the people in charge that the money they’re so quick to spend doesn’t fall from the sky. It comes from us — the ones out here working, paying taxes, and trying to keep the lights on.

Tomorrow, people from every walk of life will be standing together to say, “Enough.” I like that word. It’s simple, honest, and to the point. Enough of the waste, enough of the excuses, and enough of pretending that the government knows better than the folks footing the bill.

So whether you’re standing on a courthouse lawn, waving from your car, or cheering from the kitchen table — tomorrow’s the day to be heard. We’re not asking for much. Just a little common sense, a little accountability, and maybe a reminder that the government works for us — not the other way around.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Ziplock Omelets: Easy Breakfast for a Crowd

A friend sent me this recipe, and I have to say — it might be one of the most fantastic ideas I’ve ever tried. It’s simple, fun, and best of all, everyone gets their omelet exactly the way they like it. And before anyone starts worrying about cooking in plastic, here’s the reassuring part: Ziploc and Saran bags are plasticizer-free, which means they won’t leak dioxins or any other scary-sounding stuff into your breakfast.

This recipe is perfect for those big family mornings when everyone’s gathered under one roof and the kitchen feels like Grand Central Station. The best part? Nobody has to wait their turn for a “special order” omelet.

Here’s how it works: Have each person write their name on a quart-size Ziploc freezer bag with a permanent marker. Crack two eggs into the bag — no more than that — and shake them up to blend. Then lay out a buffet of ingredients: diced ham, chopped onions, green peppers, shredded cheese, mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns, even a spoonful of salsa for the brave ones. Everyone customizes their own omelet right in the bag, gives it a good shake, squeezes out the air, and seals it tight.

Now comes the magic. Drop the bags into a large pot of rolling, boiling water for exactly 13 minutes. You can fit 6–8 omelets in one pot at a time. When the timer dings, just open the bags and slide out perfectly cooked omelets — no flipping, no sticking, no fuss.

Serve them with fresh fruit, coffee cake, or toast, and watch the smiles. It’s more than breakfast — it’s an event. Everyone gets involved, nobody’s left waiting, and cleanup’s a breeze.

Who knew the best family memories could start with a pot of boiling water and a few Ziploc bags?

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Honey-Do List: Spring Projects, Post Pounders, and Pure Determination

It’s finally sunny this morning, and I’m not gonna lie—if it had rained one more day, I was about to start gathering two of every animal and checking the caulking on the chicken coop. After a solid stretch of gray skies, it's good to see actual shadows again. I squinted at the yard and muttered, “Good grief, that grass grew three feet.”

With sunshine back on the schedule, it’s time to tackle the Honey-Do list. That’s our running tab of projects, chores, repairs, and occasionally some good old-fashioned over-commitment. I call it the Honey-Do list, but really, it’s more of a “Honey, don’t forget we still have…” list. And up here in the Great North Woods, we don’t get much time to mess around—Mother Nature runs a tight schedule and does not give extensions.

Spring and fall are our “get-your-butt-in-gear” seasons. Summer is for sweating, swatting, and second-guessing your life choices, and winter is one long snow globe shake with a side of frostbite. So we hustle like caffeinated squirrels in the spring and fall, trying to get everything done before the mosquitoes arrive with their tiny pitchforks or the snow starts rolling in like a blizzard at the North Pole.

Here’s what’s on our let’s-pretend-we’ll-get-it-all-done list this year:

1) Clear more land and seed for pasture.
Last year, we fenced off some new areas and unleashed the goats and pigs, who immediately got to work like it was their full-time job (which, frankly, it is). The underbrush didn’t stand a chance. Now we’ve got to take out the bigger stuff—cut what we can use for firewood, drag the rest to burn piles, and seed the new ground. The sheep will keep it trimmed, bless their nibbling little hearts.

2) Fence more land to rinse and repeat.
More fence. Always more fence. If you ever wonder where all our time and money goes, just look for the T-posts and blisters. We’ll let the animals clear it this year and plan to seed it next. It’s the circle of life… except it involves post pounders and a lot more sweating.

3) Build raised beds and a mini greenhouse.
My tomatoes have a tragic history up here. Every year they get just about blushing pink and—bam!—first frost. Not this year, tomatoes. Not. This. Year. I’m building a greenhouse from the metal frame of an old portable garage that once housed animals, then tools, then nothing, and now? Redemption arc. We’ll wrap it in heavy clear plastic, shove the tomatoes in there, and dare the weather to try me. The other half of that old frame? It’s becoming the new chicken coop. Because up here, “repurpose” means “this used to be something else entirely and now it has chickens in it.”

4) Finish the barn. For real this time.
Last year we finished the second section of the barn the night before the first real snow hit. I’m not exaggerating—we put up the last roof panel, packed up the tools, and watched the sky go dark like it was cueing the closing credits. This year we’re adding the third and final section, connecting the rooflines, and taking down the temporary interior walls. I dream of a big open barn the way some folks dream of beachfront property. But without the sand in your underwear.

So that’s the plan—ambitious, slightly delusional, and written down here so I can’t pretend I forgot any of it.

Now I want to hear from you. What’s on your “honey-do” list this year? Big projects? Tiny ones that somehow eat three weekends? Are you building a deck or just trying to find the garden hose you left out last fall? (No judgment—I’ve lost entire tools until spring thaw.) Drop me a comment and let me know what you’ve got cooking.

Bonus points if your list also includes chickens, duct tape, or an old shed you're definitely going to fix this year.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Spring Cleaning: When The Farm Dog Declared War on My Camera

It’s spring cleaning season. That magical time of year when you open a closet, get hit in the head with a badminton racket from 1993, and decide it’s time to start selling things on eBay. This time around, I dusted off my old Canon T90 35mm film camera. Hadn’t used it in over 15 years. I’m not saying it was prehistoric, but I half expected it to have a floppy disk slot and smell faintly of dial-up internet.

Before listing it, I figured I should run a test roll through it to make sure it still functioned and didn’t spontaneously combust from shock. So I popped in some film, pointed it at the nearest random thing (a rock, probably), and started clicking away.

That’s when Roxie sprang into action.

Now, you need to understand—Roxie is our English Shepherd. She considers herself head of Homeland Security, Chief of Barn Operations, and Supreme Commander of Backyard Intelligence. No movement goes unnoticed. No behavior goes unjudged. And now, apparently, no camera goes uninvestigated.

The moment that Canon let out its first mechanical click, she froze like she’d just spotted a fox sneaking into the henhouse. Her eyes locked onto it with laser precision. Her ears perked up so fast I think I heard the wind change. As I walked, snapping more test shots, she stalked the camera like it was an unstable fugitive. I swear, if it had so much as shifted in my hand, she would've launched a full takedown operation and wrestled it into a crate for questioning.

She circled. She stared. She positioned herself between the camera and the livestock, just in case it made a break for the goats. The message was clear: “You better behave, fancy box. I'm watching you.”

And in the middle of all that ridiculous security detail, I suddenly saw her. I mean really saw her. That little fuzzball we brought home last summer was gone. In her place was this majestic, slightly unhinged, stunning farm dog. She used to fit in my grandson’s lap like a floppy plush toy. Now she’s all grown up and walks around like she’s got her own security clearance and an opinion on zoning laws.

And she doesn’t just follow the rules of the farm. Oh no. She enforces them with military precision.

Unless, of course, the rule applies to her.

Because Roxie is above the law. She’s not bound by mere mortal expectations like "stay off the couch" or "don’t steal the cat’s food." She’s a sovereign entity. Her Highness, Empress Roxie of the Land Between the Fence Posts. And she answers to no one.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Need More Ear Tags: Grandkids, Names, and a Failing Memory

On March 24th I wrote about being thankful for ear tags on the lambs so I could tell them apart. A little number here, a little color coding there, and boom—no more mixing up the twins. Simple. Effective. Sanity-saving.

This past weekend, one of our grandsons came to visit. Now, as I’m sure every parent and grandparent on earth has experienced, the moment came when I needed to get his attention… and my brain promptly short-circuited.

I ran through the usual name gauntlet: a sibling, a cousin, one of our old dogs, possibly a chicken, and then finally blurted out, “Oh, whoever you are, come here!”

Without missing a beat, my husband—who has witnessed this before and lived to tell the tale—said, “Maybe we should start putting ear tags on the grandkids.”

Now before you poo-poo the idea, just think about it.

Never again would I be confused about who I’m talking to. No more name roulette. No more muttering under my breath while I try to remember which one is the soccer player and which one eats ketchup on everything including toast. And if there are twins involved? Problem solved. Color-coded ear tags and we’re golden.

Of course, tagging your grandkids like livestock is generally frowned upon by polite society (and probably several government agencies). So I propose a compromise:

Name tags.

Issue one to each child upon entry. Pin it to their shirt. Easy peasy. If I have a senior moment, I can just read it. Nice and simple.

…Assuming, of course, I can find my glasses.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

"Here's to You Mr. Jefferson"

Every now and then, a song comes along that says what so many of us are feeling — and “Here’s to You, Mr. Jefferson” does exactly that. It’s a salute to the kind of leadership that built this country: honest, brave, and grounded in faith and freedom. Listening to it, I couldn’t help but think how far we’ve drifted from those roots.

Thomas Jefferson believed in limited government, personal responsibility, and the idea that folks ought to be free to live their lives without a pile of regulations and taxes breathing down their necks. He’d probably raise an eyebrow — or both — if he could see the circus going on in Washington today. Somewhere between then and now, we forgot that government is supposed to serve the people, not the other way around.

The song feels like a thank-you letter to the Founding Fathers, and maybe a bit of a challenge to the rest of us — to remember what they stood for and what they sacrificed. Freedom isn’t something you set on a shelf and admire; it’s something you protect and work at every day.

Hearing those words made me stop and think: Jefferson and the others didn’t fight for comfort. They fought for principle. They risked everything so that ordinary folks — farmers, shopkeepers, dreamers — could live free.

So here’s to you, Mr. Jefferson. Thanks for the reminder that liberty still matters, that faith still matters, and that there are still Americans willing to stand up and say so. We may be living in complicated times, but the truth you wrote still stands: “The God who gave us life gave us liberty.” And that’s worth raising a glass to.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Large Double Meat Pizza: A Glimpse into the Future of Privacy

I'm generally not a fan of the ACLU but this pizza-ordering-in-the-future video is pretty eye opening. I see things, especially technology, changing every day. I have no doubt that this is the way things can be in the very near future. So I guess everyone should be aware so that we can keep technology serving us instead of the other way around.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Future of Food: What Everyone Should Know About GMOs

Every time I watch this video, I’m reminded that what’s on our dinner plates isn’t just about taste—it’s about power, responsibility, and the future of our farmland. Deborah Koons Garcia lays out a simple but stark warning: the system that feeds us is changing—and fast.

She shows how seed patenting, genetic engineering, and corporate consolidation aren’t far-off sci-fi—they’re already here. Farmers are being squeezed, choices are being limited, and the folks who know the land best aren’t calling the shots anymore.

For someone like you, Sandy—who values craftsmanship, tradition, and the idea that a good meal comes from honest work—this video hits a nerve. It’s saying: “Don’t take for granted that your food came from someone who cared.” Because increasingly, the food supply is treating convenience and profit as top priorities—while trickier questions about health, ecosystem, and community get shoved aside.

One standout message: if we lose small farms, if we lose biodiversity in our fields, we lose much more than food security—we lose a heritage. This isn’t just about “organic versus conventional” (though that’s part of it). It’s about who has ownership of the seeds, who decides what grows, and who profits from it.

And yes—there’s hope tucked in there. The video reminds us that our choices matter. What we buy, what we support, where our food comes from—they all count. So if you’re tired of feeling like a passive consumer, this is the wake-up call.

In short: this is more than a video about food. It’s a video about freedom—freedom to eat well, freedom to farm well, freedom to know where your food comes from. And for folks who remember how things used to be done—honestly, locally, and right—it’s a reminder: let’s not let that slip away.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm