​     Even when life on the farm gets busy, my wife Joan and I try to keep our weekly date: spending time together at our club. Going to our club, that is, Sam’s Club, lets us do our farm’s weekly shopping together—and have some fun. Usually, the goods we need (whatever doesn’t grow on our farm, like flour, spices, and laundry detergent) fill one Sam’s-sized cart. When we exit the store, Joan and I push our cart down the gentle, but significant hill to the far corner of the parking lot, where we always park our white Suburban. Despite the shopping cart’s posted warnings (such as “Do not let child ride on cart”), the kid in me loves this part of our date. The gray hair at my temples blowing in the breeze, I put one foot on the cart axle, then the other, and coast all the way down the long hill. Sometimes I can even coax Joan to hop on the front, and the fun on our date extends the length of that hill.
     One day a few years ago, our grocery list had been quite lengthy. The demands of the coming week—hungry farm interns, farm store baking, and several farm tour dinners—had piled not one, but two carts high with potatoes, butter, strawberries, pickles, and so much more. After chatting a bit with the employee at the door, I exited our club with my cart well behind Joan, who was briskly pushing hers toward our car. By the time I paused for passing cars, I could see Joan efficiently unloading the goods. As I glanced down at my own cartful of groceries, the urgency to catch up with Joan combined with the anticipation of the fun ride down the hill. I did not pause to consider how I had so many fewer groceries in the cart, since they had been split between two carts this week, and no Joan on the front to keep the cart well-balanced. Like an Olympic bobsledder, I pushed the cart to a running start, then hopped on to roll down the hill. As soon as my second foot landed my full body weight onto the front of the cart, the laws of physics and the posted warnings on shopping carts caught up with me. To my complete surprise, up popped the front of the cart, toilet paper, bananas, and napkins! Out slid my feet and legs with the wheels of the cart! Down plummeted my back and rear end—with my tailbone crashing squarely onto the asphalt and my hands still gripping the cart handle.
     Lying on my back with the wind knocked out of me, I gasped for air. A large man entering the store remarked, “Son, you ain’t gettin’ up from that.” An elderly woman began yelling, “Oh my God, he’s dying!”—which attracted Joan’s attention. With my back in severe pain, I was thankful Joan appeared so promptly at my side and helped me crawl to the curb. She then brought the car to me, and I managed to gingerly climb in.
An urgent call to a nearby chiropractor let us know, fortunately, that he had an immediate opening. Minutes later as I related my shopping cart misadventure, the chiropractor first smiled at my shenanigans and then helped to relieve much of my discomfort. Whew! With some time to heal, I would be as good as new. I was blissfully unaware that the next day’s events would require not one, but two return visits to the same chiropractor—plus a doctor-ordered enema! Let’s just say, when Joan and I have our regular date at Sam’s Club, I take the posted shopping cart warnings a little more seriously.
     We encourage you to fill your shopping carts (safely, of course!) with our award-winning cheeses and meats at the I-80 Truckstop, North Scott Foods, Randy's Market, or the Freight House Farmers Market. These products, plus our delicious bakery goods, are also available at our self-service store, the Country Cupboard, which is located on our farm, just north of Donahue. Visit us on the web at www.tourmyfarm.com.

                She probably heard the party rolling in even before our well-worn, brown trailer came into view. Chickadee, our beloved bovine, was out on “recess” in the front pasture with the other milking cows when as we began loading calves to go to the Mississippi Valley Fair. Chickadee started bellowing loudly. Rusted in some spots, the trailer may have been nondescript to most, but to Chickadee, it was a party on wheels. Ever since her first ride to the fair as a spring calf, Chickadee had decided that if that beloved trailer was leaving the farm, she should not be left out of the fun.  
                Moo!! Moo!! Moo!! Minutes ticked by as my daughters opened the trailer gate and gently coerced one young haltered heifer, then two, onto the trailer. Chickadee’s continuous hollering did not get anyone’s attention. Clearly, those humans needed some help remembering her standing reservation on the party wagon. Chickadee started galloping her 1,200-pound body toward the trailer. The thin single wire of the electric fence around the cow pasture didn’t even break her stride. The wire snapped, and Chickadee charged up to the trailer, leaping right on board. Meanwhile, all her pasture mates looked up at the commotion and soon gleefully realized they were free. As Chickadee was happily oblivious to the chaos she had created, the other milk cows kicked up their heels and scattered over the farm yard, excited to be somewhere previously off-limits. It took us a long time to repair the electric fence and an even longer time to herd back the loose cattle, who were disinclined to give up their freedom and/or respect the wire fence. It took a still longer time to dislodge Chickadee from the trailer. She did get to ride into the fair on the next load later that afternoon, which made her very happy.
                Once at the fair, for Chickadee, the party must have continued, based on how much she still  had to say. Moo, moo, moo!!! She bellowed almost continuously—day and night, in the show ring and out—much to the chagrin of the exhibitors trying to sleep in the barns with their show cows. Having happily hopped back onto the trailer at the end of dairy exhibition, after days of near continuous mooing, she came home hoarse and thirsty for the mineral-rich well water of our farm. Yet, after two trips on her beloved trailer and parading around the show ring, surprisingly, once she got home, she had no stories to tell. Chickadee settled back into her normal (mostly quiet) routine. Evidently, what happens at Mississippi Valley Fair stays at Mississippi Valley Fair.
                We think our farm-made cheeses are worth shouting about, the perfect complement to any party. But you don’t have to jump on a cattle trailer to enjoy our award-winning cheeses. You can find our cheese at North Scott foods, Randy’s in DeWitt, Freight House Farmers Market and at our farm store at Cinnamon Ridge Farm, just north of Donahue.
 
 

     While I was growing up on the farm, our garden put a lot of food on our table. Whether we were eating fresh snow peas in the late spring, summer’s green peppers, fall’s pumpkins and butternut squash, or canned tomatoes during the winter and spring, the produce the garden provided was essential to our lives. Our large garden had almost everything you can imagine: from asparagus and green beans, to radishes and zucchini.
     Sprawling over a sizable part of our yard, the garden took a lot of collective effort from the whole family.  Planting, hoeing, pruning, weeding, and harvesting were on everyone’s chore list. As I was the youngest in the family, weeding (my least favorite garden activity) always seemed to be on my to-do list! I spent hours upon hours bent over in the hot sun, fingers caked with dirt, as I rooted out thousands of leafy invaders from the long garden rows. But nothing was worse than, having finally finished garden chores, being greeted in the dairy barn by my dad’s indignant “What the Sam Hill have you been doing all day?!?”
     My sister Marge was especially helpful with harvest and preservation, working with my mother to make sure the garden churned out its very best. To her credit, Marge always tried to make it fun for us, creating incentives to make even the drudgery of weeding rewarding. She promised everyone who picked two grocery sacks full of green beans an exciting trip to the drive-in movie theater in the evening. When my siblings and I got to the movie, we realized the catch: the green beans had to come with us! While at the movie we had to stem the green beans, dropping the stems out the car window. You could tell where our family’s car had been at the drive-in. There were four sizeable piles of green bean stems where it had sat! I remember stemming beans during the John Wayne classic True Grit. It was so mesmerizing I didn’t get my two bags done during the film! Fortunately for me, my kind older sister recognized I was distracted and completed my bags as well as her own.
     Even though caring for the garden was exhausting and at times seemed endless, the true reward of scooping out fresh green beans onto your plate made it all worthwhile.
Today you can get that same farm-fresh goodness (without the back-breaking work!) by shopping at our Country Cupboard, located on our farm north of Donahue. Or purchase our products at North Scott Foods or the Freight House Farmers Market. Visit us on the web at www.tourmyfarm.com

​     With longer and warmer days, green fields are not far away. As spring gets into swing, these things remind me excitedly that baseball season is coming!
     When I was growing up, many warm days in the spring and summer my older brother Edwin and I would hustle through our evening livestock chores. Baseball beckoned! In the evening light, my brother and I were each a team of one. Though some might say our barnyard field was not ideal for playing baseball, our love of the game sparked our creativity to make it work out just fine. First and second bases were opposite ends of the barn, third base was the lone azalea bush, and home plate was the corn crib, which also served as a backstop for pitches that got by the batter. Everything on each side of the barn was a foul ball. A ball hit onto the barn roof would roll back down and was still in play. We wanted things competitive, so no ghost runners. Hitting the ball over the barn was a home run, but did complicate things, because it was common for our only ball to be lost in the cow yard.  Innings were frequently delayed by ball searches.
      One hot day in July we had no hay to bale, so we hustled through our chores and got done milking with plenty of time. We felt we could certainly get in several innings before dark.  Sure enough, I soon found myself ahead 6-4 in the bottom of the fifth. The previous inning, I had hit a home run over the barn. We were able to quickly find the ball because the cows were standing around it in a cluster. They were taking turns sniffing it, trying to figure out what had crash landed in their yard interrupting their evening grazing. Then, in the fifth, my brother got two quick strikes on me with change ups. And, with the count 2-2, I crouched ready: my brother was bearing down, and I knew a fast ball was coming. As the pitch came in, I got a great read on the ball, and, with a deep swing, hit a towering shot. It sailed high and curved foul, then the wind caught it and carried it further foul towards the house! We were both stunned and stood motionless as it sailed out of sight. All of a sudden we heard the splintering crash of our mom’s beloved front picture window. My mouth gaped, and my stomach instantly turned into knots. My brother was quicker to react, quipping “Game over, We both lose!” and sprinting out of sight into the corn field. Within seconds, my dad came out blaring, “What the Sam Hill is going on here?” and stomped into the barnyard to find me, alone, holding the bat.
      I was tasked with boarding up the window before dinner. I’d just gotten started when Edwin wordlessly appeared next to me to help; we completed the task in silence. At supper that night very little was said, although Edwin once broke the silence to ask “Did you find our ball?” Crickets. No answer was given.
We had to buy a new window, and when it arrived, we had to put it in. But baseball endured: we also got a screen to put in front of the window on game nights!
     With the start of baseball, get the grill warmed up! Check out our mouth-watering beef at our farm store, The Country Cupboard, or stop by and see us at the Freight House Farmers Market.

     When I was growing up in the 1950’s and 60’s, my extended family lived life together, as most settled near or in the Quad Cities. Birthdays were especially important, and with a large family, it was nearly always time to get the family together and celebrate with card games and food. My siblings and I got close with our many cousins, and I have many fun memories of the innumerable birthdays, anniversary parties, or other events.
     As close family, we also helped each other out with farming. Many expensive pieces of machinery were shared with each other. When we baled hay or harvested oats or corn, we could count on the family’s help. Many hands made light work. One of the best things about these gatherings was the delicious, large meals that my mom and my aunts prepared for the gang of hungry, sweaty relatives. Everyone worked hard in the fields and had huge appetites come meal time. Of course, hunger makes the best seasoning, but it seemed that each meal topped the previous one in quantity and deliciousness. Some of them even rivaled Thanksgiving—which is saying a lot!!
     Oftentimes, in addition to the huge noon meal we’d just eaten, Mom would bring the workers a mid-afternoon snack in the fields.  Once, when I was about five or six, the uncles and cousins were baling at our farm, and my mother decided to surprise them with homemade chocolate cake. Mom told me to get my toy wagon, and then I helped her load a heaping pile of plates, silverware, cups and jugs of water into the red wagon bed. I proudly pulled the haul out to the field while Mom carried the beautiful cake loaded with velvety chocolate frosting.
It was a very warm day for baling, and Mom and I arrived at the perfect time. The crew had reached the end of a windrow, their hay rack completely stacked with new bales of fresh, green hay. They were ready to switch to the empty rack, which was sitting at the edge of the field, but saw my mom coming—and knew that a treat was in store! Mom set her beautiful cake on the empty rack and began preparing to dish it onto plates. She’d only cut half the cake in the kitchen, knowing she’d have time as the guys went through the line, to cut the other half. She placed the first piece of cake on a plate and handed it to the uncle first in line, then turned around to my toy wagon to get him a fork. While her back was turned, my Uncle Jack, who was second in line, snatched the un-cut half of the cake as one piece and began to devour it!! Because he’d taken so much, several on the crew didn’t get any cake. Jack got razzed quite a bit that day—and for many years to come. From then on, my mother always cut the whole cake in the kitchen before taking it to the field!
     Baking, family, and hard work are still treasured parts of life on our farm. You can purchase our delicious baked goods (to cut and share with your family or have all to yourself!) at the Cinnamon Ridge Country Cupboard. Of course, don’t miss out on our award-winning cheese, meat, and eggs. Our products are also available at North Scott Foods in Eldridge and the Freight House Farmers Market.    

     Living in the country could be very isolating, and our many chores to do didn’t leave much time for visiting. My parents combated this by going dancing three times a week. They would go to the Kol Ballroom in Davenport, Club Mocan in Moline, and Fairyland in DeWitt. Mom and Dad loved the social aspect of it, getting off the farm and chatting with their friends. They would dance the twelve dances and sometimes go for a bite afterwards. The dances started at eight, and they’d get home a little after eleven.
 
     Most of the time my siblings and I stayed home and finished chores while Mom and Dad got dressed up and went off dancing.  When we were each around 12, however, we were taken along so we could learn to dance. I balked at going along to the dance when my turn came around, so I was told that learning to dance would improve my basketball skills. I begrudgingly went along and danced with my mother. As I got better, I would sometimes dance with some of their friends. I learned to dance the waltz, foxtrot, polka, tango, and two-step. Despite knowing all these dances, I still wasn’t a starter on the basketball team.
 
     One night some friends at the Fairyland dance told them the Kenny Holfer band was playing at Club Mocan in Moline and invited them to go. Mom and Dad hadn’t been there before, so my father got some general directions from the friends and felt confident he could find it. The next week they set out in the 1966 Ford Galaxy 500 to Moline. The general directions proved to be not enough, and they were soon lost in the ravines and dead-end streets of Moline. He’d head south, find he wasn’t far west enough and be forced to go back towards the river to find another crossroad. My mother suggested asking for directions, but he preferred to trust the map in his head. By the time they got to Club Mocan, it was already the third dance!
 
    Once when arriving at another dance at Fairyland, they found their friend Ted Musal struggling to unlock his vehicle, having locked the keys inside. Many men tried to jimmy it open without success. My father, being the coach of my little league baseball team, had the gear in the backseat. Ted finally got so frustrated he grabbed one of the baseball bats and broke the window.
 
     A delicious steak would be a great Valentine’s dinner to share with your dance partner. Steak—and many other delicious cuts of meat—are available in the Cinnamon Ridge Country Cupboard, along with our cheese, eggs, and baked goods.   

​When I was growing up on the farm, 4 AM was about the usual time Rooster Cogburn would rouse everyone, belting out, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” His raspy crow was a daily reminder that our farm had not only dairy cattle and a few hogs, but also chickens and ducks. We didn’t keep as many chickens as my grandparents, however.  At their farm, they really had chickens: not just one barn, but several which housed more than one thousand hens! In fact, Grandma and Grandpa were so proud of their chickens, they showed them all over the Midwest, including some big shows in Chicago. They would work year round to find the perfect flock to take to exhibition.
     Even though we didn’t have as large a flock as my grandparents, I still found myself with plenty of chores caring for our chickens. Two of my least favorite jobs were cleaning the manure out of the hen house and gathering the eggs. I was constantly banging my head against the rafters, since the roof was only five feet tall. A throbbing head only made shoveling chicken manure even more unpleasant. When it came to gathering eggs, I found myself in a dilemma. If I gathered eggs during the day, I risked getting pecked by the hens. If I waited until night time, I could very likely encounter an opossum or skunk in the hen house. I usually decided being pecked was the lesser of the two evils.
     For my mom, our chickens provided a way she could raise a little money for those extra things our family needed. People in town wanted fresh eggs, and Mom was happy to sell them ours. Most of our egg deliveries occurred after church on Sundays, when we were already in town—and looking clean and presentable. It was my job to take the eggs from our car to the houses. Like the mail man, we delivered in all weather.
     One January Sunday, the sidewalks were coated in ice. When we pulled up in front of a house where we needed to deliver eggs, I stepped out of the car, holding the eggs carefully, and eyeballed the particularly long walk.  My church shoes did not provide much traction, so I slipped and skidded my way up to the front steps. I was feeling pretty good, having made it that far unscathed, and climbed up the steps a little more quickly.  Suddenly, I lost my footing on the very top step. Out went my feet, and up went the egg carton.  Almost in slow motion, I saw the egg carton lid flip open, and twelve eggs went flying everywhere. What a Humpty Dumpty mess! Most fell on the porch, but a few catapulted up to splatter the front door and window. I’m sure Mom watched the whole egg-citement from the car in dismay.  By the time I finished cleaning up the mess and had retrieved a replacement dozen eggs from the car, I could not feel my fingers—or my toes inside those slickery church shoes. From then on, I always remembered to put my tennis shoes in the car on Sundays for egg deliveries!
Fresh eggs are as yummy now as they were then! With or without tennis shoes, you can enjoy our farm-fresh eggs, along with beef, pork, cheese and baked goods, at the Cinnamon Ridge Country Cupboard located on our farm northwest of Donahue.

​     As I was growing up on our rural Scott County farm, money always seemed to be stretched thin for our family.  While buying new shoes for the six kids in our family was nearly impossible, our farm (along with hard work) always provided our family plenty of food.  We had a large garden, and Mom and the girls would can fruit and veggies so we could eat them all year round.  The farm also provided fresh beef, pork, chicken, eggs and lamb. We made our own bread, sometimes even from the wheat we grew and ground ourselves. Mom had the amazing skill of making delicious meal after delicious meal, just using whatever was in season or had come into the icebox.  Vegetable beef soup, sour cream muffins, ham and broccoli casserole, fresh peach pie, chicken and rice...  My mouth waters just thinking about the wonderful meals Mom would have waiting for us after chores.
     While we enjoyed an abundance of food from our farm, Mom and Dad weren’t above finding a good deal.  They would routinely buy large sacks of day-old bread cheap from Bon-Ton Bakery, located near Five Points in Davenport.  Mom was an expert at converting unappetizing day-old bread into yummy, piping hot toast.  The stale bread, expired pastries, and other baked goods that weren’t edible by us, we fed the cats, dogs, chickens and pigs.  Sometimes the bags included some “day old” pet treats (that is, treats Bon-Ton made especially for pets).  Our border collie, Doggo, loved those!
On one summer night, my older brother and I were finishing up milking the cows and feeding the animals. It was past 8 pm, and we hadn’t had supper yet.  But as my stomach rumbled, I remembered my parents were dancing at the Col Ballroom—that is, Mom wouldn’t have a fresh meal waiting for us.  Yes, she’d probably left instructions for reheating some leftovers, but I resigned myself to the idea of a less than tasty meal.  As my brother and I were throwing outdated bread out of the bag to the chickens, we came upon a bunch of Bon-Ton’s “doggie” donuts.
     My brother paused for a few seconds, weighing the bag in his hand. He then said to me, “If you eat one doggie donut, I’ll eat two.” Seeing how I was hungry (with the unexciting prospect of a leftover casserole), somehow I thought this would be a great deal. I said ok and stuffed one in my mouth. It was pretty stale, dry and tasteless. Although it was hard to get it down, I was eager to see my brother to take his turn. But, after I swallowed my last bite, instead of him eating the one he was holding, he proposed, “If you eat two, I’ll eat four.” Not yet seeing a problem with this, I ate another. By the time I finished the second one, my mouth was so dry I couldn’t even spit. My brother started to laugh, and I realized I had been had. As he was running away, I picked up a hard doggie donut and slung it at him. My aim was better than my wits, and it hit him right in the back.
To this day, my wily brother and I still talk about those good times on the farm growing up and eating (most of the time) wonderful food fresh from the farm.  Today at Cinnamon Ridge Farm, we offer many of the same “fresh off the farm” items (BUT NO doggie donuts) at our farm store, at the food hub, and at Freight House farmers market. Stop by in person or check us out on the web at www.tourmyfarm.com.

On the farm, October is a month of harvest. In Scott County and all throughout the midwest, corn is king and has played a significant role in our food, fiber and fuel. Today we can see the latest technologies and hybrids at the Farm Progress Show. But from 1920-1941, people gathered by the thousands at corn husking competitions. For the 1940 national corn husking competition, there were more than 120,000 people gathered at the Henry Keppy Farm Northwest of Davenport. With food tents, a parade, vendor booths and live radio broadcasts, it was more than just a husking competition. It was a great honor for Scott County to be selected for the national competition.
My father, George A. Maxwell and his brother Johnny were a contestants at the Keppy farm competition. At home, he and Johnny would practice husking quickly and throwing ears into the double box wagon to prepare for the competition. Their goal was to always have three ears of corn in the air going into the wagon. Despite all the practice, neither my father nor uncle placed in the contest.
The 1941 contest was the last, as the United States entered World War Two that December. After the war, mechanical harvesting took over and husking contests were just a memory.
Today we have harvesters that steer themselves, harvest 12 or more rows at one time and harvest as much corn in a minute as a husker could do by hand in an hour.
Cinnamon Ridge Farms offers many harvest treats, including pumpkin bars at our store. Please visit us at tourmyfarm.com.

​For over ten years, Cinnamon Ridge Farm has been exhibiting Jersey dairy cattle at the Iowa State Fair. All cattle must remain at the fair for four days, so in between feeding and caring for our cows, I get a chance to explore the fair. My two favorite buildings are the Agricultural Building and the Food Building: great people and fun exhibits!  Three years ago, I was chatting with a supervisor in the Food Building. The supervisor let me know that interested companies or individuals can create and sponsor contests.  I’ve always loved a good competition, so I decided to create one: a cheese curd recipe contest!  For the past two years, we at Cinnamon Ridge Farm have sponsored this contest in the State Fair’s Food Building. Using a recipe that includes cheese curds, entrants submit a product in hopes to win $100, $75 or $50. The contest started with five entries in 2016 and almost tripled to fourteen this past summer.
 
On its first year, my cousin Yogi, who exhibits his sheep at the Iowa State Fair, was not busy on the Thursday morning of the contest. I asked if he’d like to come along with me and observe the judging. He agreed, so we headed over to the Food Building. While we watched the contest, I asked the supervisor what happens to the entries after the judges have finished tasting them. She replied, “They get thrown away.” Yogi and I were both feeling a bit hungry, and as farmers, we wanted to do our part in curbing food waste in the United States. As the contest progressed, Yogi and I ate whatever the judges hadn’t.  The judging concluded, and everyone prepared to hear the results. When first place was announced, Yogi and I looked at each other and agreed that, yes, it had been the most delicious. The supervisor came over and asked where the remainder of the first prize entry was, as it is customary for the winning entry to be displayed with a blue ribbon for the remainder of the fair. Yogi and I were forced to sheepishly admit that we had eaten all of it, not wanting such a delicious dish to go to waste! The supervisor was clearly displeased. But we learned our lesson, and at this year’s contest, we made sure to wait until the results were announced before eating the leftovers.  Even the first runner-up was delicious!  Yum!
 
You can now find the award-winning Cinnamon Ridge Cheese curds at North Scott Foods in Eldridge, along with Freight House Farmers Market and Cinnamon Ridge Country Cupboard. Happy Thanksgiving!