Traditionally, my story will be long again, whoever is stressed - just click.
“Der Mensch ist, was er isst.” “Man is what he eats.” by Ludwig Andreas Feuerbach.
So, gastronomic history, fresh, about a month old.
I have good acquaintances, a couple periodically enthusiastic about all kinds of new-fashioned things, such as separate feeding, raw eating, etc. People are quite adult (the daughter already lives separately), in the absence of intelligence, they were not noticed, but every new hobby is fanatically wasted so much time, effort and money that all acquaintances laugh at them quietly. But here is the fresh hobby - environmentally clean products. They persuaded me to go with them to an ecological farm not very far from Moscow, to the Vladimir region (about 150 km). I sorted the foods so that all the freshest, untransferable taste that I had as much as saliva flowed. I immediately nostalgically remembered the village in Siberia, where I spent all the summer holidays, and my grandmother’s cream, and fresh baked bread, and smoked meat with salts, and freshness on a crunchy bowl, and so on. Yes, and the same, somehow tired, and milk that does not spoil for weeks, and does not scratch at all, just start to smell, and cream, which is not cream at all, although you read the composition, like everything is okay (slips, yeast), but try to remove the oil from that cream - it will not work out, or rather, it will get some shit. Who doesn't believe - experiment yourself, we somehow got stuck in a dispute with a comrade. And the sausage, which does not want to eat even my dog, and the chickens, from which it is impossible to cook a normal soup, and the beer of famous brands, which can not be molded on the stone in the bath (it is better not to experiment with this - ruin the bath, you will have to ventilate), and Russian cheeses, which are all for some reason the same soap taste, and so on.
I don’t need a certificate, it’s all shit. You can certify one thing, and then release completely different and almost no control. In general, it is noted that the more and more often advertisements that praise their products on television, the more rare the ugliness, it turns out in the end. It is clear that no normal farmer offering conventional, not high-tech products, on the shelves of supermarkets will not be able to get under any circumstances. Well, it doesn’t fit into their logistics, pricing, merchandising and other marketing, they won’t take from it, for example, milk, which can slip out (turn into cane) in 2-3 days, as is the case with normal milk from under a cow. This is very sad, but a fact.
Upon arrival in a small village (farms 30-40) I was immediately a little confused by the appearance of farmers, very far from peasant. She is still nothing, a sports girl of just over forty years in white jeans and a light blouse, but with very careful hands and long painted nails. And he is clearly younger and generally dressed, as if from the shirt of fashioners near Paris, in brilliant stretching pants, squeezed, hands small without a hint of muscles, I doubt very much that he would not only be able to lift, for example, a tail, but also to grab a helmet. Careful 2-storey cottage, clean asphalted courtyard, in the open garage gates looks quite fresh. Well, I have no picture in my head with the natural Russian peasant farming. They went into the house, sat in the living room on a leather sofa, drink Chinese green tea, and the housewife breaks without hesitation, what a wonderful farm they have, how everything is well organized, that the products are the most environmentally friendly, that many famous people ride to it, here is a photo with the signature of K..., here is a photo of T... I got a little tired of this pathos with marketing, and the tea has already ended, and I didn’t very polite break:
Can I see the farm?
The hostess looked at me not very satisfied, but immediately recovered, learned smiled:
Yes, of course let’s go...
Shoes to wear? - I asked quite seriously, but they all perceived as a joke and defamation.
I’ll show you the goose first. Huskies we have wonderful, the breeds of X. (I regret, I immediately forgot the name), the taste of the untransmitted... We have for Christmas Mr. C. for six months orders – the hostess continued to rub as we went on clean paths from the pavement tiles to the backyard. A rabbit net cage of about 4 to 7 meters, inside about 50 birds, and maybe more.
Where are they swimming? Again, with a disapproving look, I asked.
Why then? They are grown in our country according to high-tech Swedish methodology, on special ecological combined food. And in the village pond the bird of local residents, they do not vaccinate it at all. Do you imagine? And we don’t need any infection, isn’t it Alexey? – and a look in focus on my confused comrade, who gave a sound that immediately reminded me of Kisa Vorobyaninova from a famous film, something like: “yes, already...”
- And this is a stove, a miracle of modern technology, we stoke only on pear stoves according to a special program. Two hours ago they put, in an hour-and-a-half the party will be ready - the hostess didn't touch her swinging hand for a second. Well, okay, I understand everything, but in order not to offend Lecha, I diplomatically came:
I will go for a walk and admire the surroundings.
Are you a goose that you will not take? Again, that unpleasant, unblinking look somewhere in the nose.
- No, thank you, I did not plan, I was so for the company with Alexei and Olga - and turned away quickly dropped off the street. I will explain to those who have not understood what I did: a goose, even if it is a domestic bird, a water-floating bird, and the smartest, in the villages with its own herd, walks on the pond, where it spends its long summer day. He swims, filters the clove of the rivers and the bottom of the sea in search of small river or lake life, in breaks rests on the shore, where he splashes grass, consumes to improve digestion broken or small shells and shells, and sleeps several times a day on a planner. In the evening it returns independently, usually feeds once a day in the evening (mainly with the aim of returning) steamed boiling water, crushed on a grain, grain. This will be an ecological goose. And grown closely, tightly, fed combined food, which is 90% consisting, at best, of transgenic soybeans, with vaccines and antibiotics - I will also buy in Moscow, and at least 2 times cheaper. And a cold smoke for three (!) The hour is merely a bullying of something over a word and a product. I think it did not go without any means, such as "smoke" and other chemistry, because my grandmother in the village drank meat for at least three days, in a black bath (who doesn't know, such a bath with a stove without a smoker), on specially prepared berries. She crushed everything, and goats, and pork, and lamb, and the whole large family (most of them already urban). The lambs were whole, the pigs cut, but the rear beds must be whole. And this meat and fat could hang on the hooks all summer in the usual village warehouse at room temperature and not ruin absolutely. It was covered on top with a thin flow of green mold and that was it. Grandma said that this mold is "good", and she ate, and you don't want to - cut, and inside... Unlike taste, slightly amber colour, gentle fat and hard dark dark red meat, which, in fact, easily chewed...
There was hardly any cooking in the summer. Dried meat and fat, potatoes in uniforms, onion feathers, radish, cucumbers from bed, cream, milk. I didn't really like steam (although my grandmother always made me take a 350-gram cup in the morning and evening after breastfeeding), but the cold from the refrigerator was very respected, the boy probably drank two liters a day, if not more. You want something else, so you can drink eggs from under the chicken raw, or cream for the freshest bread with a crisp crust, with a rural bakery, smash and sugar from the top, or just sharpen the cucumbers from the bed with honey (very delicious, by the way). No, it’s impossible, the salivary is stabbing, I’ll go eat something))).
Someone now will definitely say that before, said the grass was greener... - probably so, but anyway, I have something to compare with modern products.
Okay, the lyrical retreat is over, let’s go back to our history.
At the gate came another car, the affairs of the "farmers" are clearly going well. And I, slightly upset, walked through the village street. Weather is wonderful, so special is our "golden autumn", the sun shines, there is almost no wind, the freshest, cool, drunken air, not far away on the smooth heights yelled, the forest flames with rare stains of dark green oils. It is hard to be angry with such beauty and breathe such air. I am not in a hurry and am enjoying the process. Through a couple of sections in the garden, a picturesque peasant digs up, in boots, fuchs and cartouches, when he saw me, he bended and leaned on a spade, and began to look at the person who approached me.
God to help! I greeted him as I approached the carpenter.
“And you don’t get sick,” replied the grandfather, under seventy years old, carefully looking at me and almost without pause:
Did you come to the city? With clean products? - and the eyes became clever and a smile was hidden in a rare beard.
“Yes, but I won’t take them... And you don’t hold the goats? I would buy... – taking the bull by the horns and showing that I’m not ready to discuss “city.”
- We hold, why don't we hold... And I can sell... For a thousand you can take? My grandfather gave me a great price.
- I will take, why not take... - for about 7-8 kilograms of bird is quite normal price.
"Alexander Nikolaevich," he introduced himself, and it immediately became apparent that he liked it very much, that I did not negotiate.
- They are on the pond, we go together, not far from here, you will choose what you like, I will tell your grandmother that the water is heated, we will shake up the line-up - Alexander Nikolaevich (further AN) went a little distracted. He went into the courtyard, heard a conversation and literally a couple of minutes later went out with a bowl in which a third was, seen beforehand, steamed grain and a tail in the other hand. They went down to the pond, where he deceived his (chapter 20-25) to become a grain, skillfully caught one goat by the neck, pulled to the nearest cork and not less skillfully and quickly with a tail cut off the beating bird, yet at the same time kicked off the leg from the cluster that had rushed to protect his leader, a huge goat. It did not work without mat, but there was a huge skill and experience in everything. In the courtyard, I pulled out a tank with boiling water from the summer kitchen and sat on the doorstep. The grandmother (call Nastya, she briefly told me) pulled the bird into the tank for a moment, almost bleeding, and pulled it out, almost instantly, as it seemed to me, she shrugged it.
Will you take a pen? No is? Well, okay... – and immediately laid out the raw pen on the newspapers to dry.
Where are the other goats? I asked me.
"Well, we leave a little for ourselves, and we give a couple of girls to Moscow, and we give the rest to the city of Galke - somehow not very amusingly said the AN, smoke a cigarette. The rest of the village do the same and many work there too. They will not hit their fingers on the farm. And the man she has, is not a man at all. I will reveal to you now the secret of how to distinguish our goats from her – suddenly, my grandfather was amused.
On our feet and wings there is little fat and the rest is light yellow, matte and glowing through the transparent skin, and on her bird the fat is somewhat dim, yellow and grey. Next to it, you will distinguish.
I also bought from the AN a couple of chickens, immediately cuddled, five liters of milk, a three-liter bowl of cream, five dozen eggs, a bowl of raspberries, a three-liter bowl of fermented cabbage, a large piece of salt salad.
Will you take a berry? Or a half?
Is there a standing? I have clarified.
You know, you know, you young man! I immediately praised Anne.
No, not in the herd. How do you know?
Yet another small retreat. Many do not eat lambs because of their specific taste and, above all, smell. But the secret is simple. A sheep (or sheep, no matter) must be given "resistance" before being slaughtered. Keep it alone for a week in a small plot, for example, 2 by 2 meters, no more, and feed it only with grass or seed, but without restriction. He doesn’t run, eats and sleeps without any stress. Then the meat will be very gentle and absolutely without any specific smell.
I told the AN about the holiday village childhood, that peasant work is familiar to me, that even a pig can be killed and split.
- In Nastya, I heard, and our son-in-law (as I understood, about my years) in Sarai is afraid to enter... - swallowed his hand grandfather.
Called Alexei, who lost me when we were already sitting at the table with simple but delicious dishes and under the samsung on the berry kidneys in a rushed conversation. And about pig cutting, I shared the experience from Siberia, that there the pig is completely processed, that the intestines, naturally thoroughly washed and boiled with boiling water, go to the sausage. My grandmother made three kinds, livestock, meat and blood. The stomach goes to Saltison and even the head is completely decomposed, most of it on the cold, and the brains add a part to the livery, and a part to the blood sausage. He told me about the secrets of the salt (his father was from Ukraine). I complained about the daughter that comes once a year, that the granddaughter, the only one in the village, will not be drawn, about the "handless" son-in-law. And about the son-first-born who died in Afghanistan in the distant 1980s...
Lechu and Olga were also met, as relatives who tried to negate, almost by force sat at the table, with Galina, but nothing was served except tea. They too were still picked up by the AN, after listening to my short story and reference from the AN about "urban" farmers, they were noticeably upset. Lecha took from Galina two goats of 2500 rubles for each frozen (!) and "capped" for 3,500, so all the way back were driving almost silently, probably, their next hobby ended. My grandfather and I said goodbye, as a native and agreed on a pork floor at a good price, provided that I will come with the first frost and help to fall.
A week later, I sat in a mansion in the country with my wife and watched the sunset. She drank red dry wine, brought from France, with French cheese, of several kinds, and I drank water, poured a little by little, grams by 20, and snacking grandfather’s salad, with a thin slice of garlic and black rye bread. The taste is crazy, and the wife laughs - the mesalian is consistent... And I am well...
P.S The name and place of action, for obvious reasons, have been changed.