Showing posts with label Fat Boy's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fat Boy's. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Paint Yer (Egg)Wagon

So, we were sitting at Fat Boy's with Coyote, talking about chicken eviction...


See, there's a wee barn on our farm that was originally built for The Piper's Jersey cow, Biscuit. Biscuit and her calf, Red Emma, have been gone from the farm for many years. The "two cow garage" morphed first into a woodworker's storage shed, then was repurposed to hold gardening supplies, pigs and chickens. Now, after several generations of pigs and chickens, we have a new plan in mind: tear the whole thing down to the frame and turn it into peoplespace. We imagine book groups, workshops, some nice south-facing windows for seed-starting, and a place for the occasional swagman (or swagwoman) to waltz his (or her) matilda.


That said, the chickens gotta go. We'd been thinking about this all winter and considering the process. We figured we'd cull the non-egg-layers (Mmmm! Chicken stew with dumplings!) and then put them into a moveable coop of some sort. We started looking around at plans and images and studying other people's portable poultry palaces, and the harder we looked, the more perplexed we became. Thankfully, along came Coyote, who had been raising and tending chickens for years and had some ideas and skills to contribute. We decided it was time for a hardware run. Coyote and the Piper and I headed out, with a stop at our favourite cheap seasonal eatery, Fat Boy's, for fortification.


Now, in addition to good, cheap, locally-sourced hamburgers, onion rings and frappes (milkshakes), Fat Boy's has another important feature: crayons and paper placemats. Many a farm project has been sketched on those placemats over the years. We set the paper cup of crayons in the middle of the table and set to work, tossing out possible names for the structure as we went. "Yolks-Wagon" was a solid favourite, but with my taste for the obscure I lobbied for "Taigh-Beak," a play on the Gaelic word for "outhouse." By the time our meal was consumed we'd come to no firm agreement on names, but we did reach the shared conclusion that our moveable coop, in order to fit with our farm's Celtic/British theme, should look something like a traditional Traveller/Gypsy wagon. Alas, due to a local dearth of Travellers and Gypsies, we had only our imaginations and memories to go on, so we boldly scribbled our best approximations of a few paint schemes and sallied forth to the hardware store for said paint and two sheets of red metal roofing.


After we got home, we searched the internet for traditional caravan images. Huzzah! Our paint choices were culturally and historically correct! (Well, mostly. It turned out that "Montpelier Red Velvet," which looked like a basic cherry red under the fluorescent lights of the store, turned out to be sort of a deep raspberry instead.) Our other colours, "Orange Glow," "Blue Flame," and "Globe Artichoke," were right on target. As soon as Coyote had finished the actual carpentry of the structure, with The Piper's occasional help and guidance, I primed the structure and started to paint.


We got one coat of "Globe Artichoke" on the structure before Coyote left. Another WWOOF volunteer helped apply two additional coats, and then I started to play with the other colours. First, I tried out the red paint on the window trim and watched it dry into the aforementioned deep raspberry--not the effect I'd been going for. Next I tried out "orange glow," (really more of a school-bus yellow, but also close to the lovely deep hue of the yolks from our free-range chickens), on the lower portion of three sides. Well, that made everything look bright and cheery, but the big blocks of colour were also intimidating. How shall we get from these bold patches to the complex motifs commonly seen on old caravans? Well, I.....have absolutely no idea. My coop-painting muse has utterly deserted me--and besides, now that it's Spring I have other pressing priorities. It seemed a bit more manageable when the whole thing was three inches high, two-dimensional, and scribbled in crayon on a placemat.


Meanwhile, the chickens seem utterly undisturbed by the paint scheme (or lack thereof). We've been leaving the front door of the structure open and the hens have been seen hopping in and out. I haven't found any eggs in the structure's two laying boxes, but the two-inch layer of pine shavings with which we lined them has definitely been disturbed. More than one hen has apparently been road-testing those nests. Within the next few weeks, I think we'll go ahead and begin culling, then shut the diminished flock in the new structure for a few days to re-imprint their tiny chicken brains with a new concept of "home." From then on, the little hatch on the side of the barn will be closed and their best option for evening roosting will be inside the yolks-wagon/taighe-beak.   (With the chickens relocated, we'll be able to start cleaning out the barn in preparation for its overhaul and eventual repurposing.)  After a week or two of reliable coming and going from their new abode, we'll move the structure a little farther from the barn each night, and eventually the wee chicken caravan will take its rightful place in the pasture where the chickens can clean up after the cows, following Joel Salatin's Polyface Farm model.


And one of these days, maybe we'll even finish painting the silly wee thing.




(All text and images copyright Mainecelt, 2012, except caravan, borrowed from here.)

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Whistle Stop

Last night, The Piper and I made a late-summer pilgrimage to one of our favourite eateries: the Fat Boy Drive-In. Cleverly sandwiched between a military base and a college campus, Fat Boy's is a independent family-run seasonal institution. As you might guess from the name, this is a no-frills fast-food establishment. Only train tracks and a thin line of trees separate it from the ugly grey towers of the old Dragon Cement plant. Seagulls wheel above the green-and-white corrugated fiberglass roof. What it lacks in charm it makes up for with quick service, good food, and prices that make starving students--and hungry farmers--smile.

Fat Boy's has been in business for over 50 years. Generations of high school and college kids have worked their way from April to October at the big grill or on the asphalt, balancing trays and swooping between the cars ("lights on for service!") to take orders. Tourists usually park and wait for the carhops to come to them, but locals often come inside. There are only four small booths, each one stocked with a paper napkin dispenser, a ketchup bottle, and a paper cup full of crayons so kids can color on the paper place mats. More than once we've used these materials to sketch out farm projects, designing house, garden, and pasture fences as we wait for our burgers and "frappes."

Last night, The Piper and I both worked late off the farm--I at the shop, she playing pipes for a wedding somewhere on the coast. She picked me up from my workplace, waved her cash tip in front of my eyes, and said, "Wanna go to Fat Boy's?" I gave her a hungry smile, hopped in, buckled up, and we headed on down the road.

The place had quieted down a bit since Labour Day. The parking lot was only one-third full and there was no-one else sitting in the booths. The young grill workers and carhops were enjoying the rare chance to relax, chat, and tease each other in between filling orders. They weren't slacking, though: we had almost instantaneous service as we slid onto the orange naugahyde cushions in our chosen booth.

We scanned the menu out of habit, although we knew it almost by heart. Hmmm. Fresh haddock sandwich? Hamburger with all the fixings? Or should I just get the House Special, a BLT made with Canadian Bacon and served with lovely thin, crispy onion rings? And what flavour of frappe--pronounced, I shudder to inform you, as "frap"--should we share tonight: chocolate or vanilla for The Piper, maybe mocha for me? We ordered orange cream just to...um...shake things up.

No colouring this time. We were both tired beyond creativity. We sat quietly, content to people-watch as our order was prepared. The rhythm of other folks' work was soothing after the busy-ness of our respective work-days.

Just then, the side door banged open. Two men rushed in with an air of tightly-scheduled importance. One of the men could have been any sort of labourer, with his heavy boots, Carhartts and canvas jacket. The other man's gear puzzled me. What kind of worker wears a black vest, black pants, a white shirt, and a complicated holster with what looked like a walkie-talkie clipped to the edge? Except for the holster, I would have guessed a bartender, but that didn't make much sense. The two men stepped quickly to the counter. I heard the cashier say, "the usual?" and the men nodded their assent. Three minutes later their orders were bagged, rung up, handed over, and the men were on their way back out the door. "Drive safe!" the cashier called out. The men grinned and the black-vested one turned back to answer, "Always." As he turned, I finally caught a glimpse of the emblem and the yellow lettering embroidered on his vest: "Eastern Maine Railroad."

Two minutes later, we heard two long blasts on a train whistle: the engineer's way of saying thanks for a job well done. The railroad men had made Fat Boy's their own little "drive-in," and now they were on their way.


(photo credits: http://watershed.wordpress.com/2006/07/19/fat-boys-drive-in/
and http://cheapassfood.com/eats/show/31-fat-boy-drive-in)
(I'm usually far more focused on eating than picture-taking when I go.)