212 Sweetwater Hills Drive, Hendersonville, NC

Social Distancing on a Trout Stream

Social Distancing on a Trout Stream

When my husband, Jim and I  decided to move from Bozeman, Montana in 2013 to be closer to family, we researched various areas trying to find our forever home, and were delighted to find that Western North Carolina held much of the same kind of beauty that fed our souls in Montana.

The mountains were not gray and tall like the Rockies, but their gentle, undulating ridges, rounded and verdant, appealed to us in a different way. Hidden among those ridges, the many waterfalls and babbling trout streams seemed to promise to satisfy our thirst for  the wild, natural beauty we'd become accustomed to in Montana.

When we first moved to the area, we were eager to explore the  multitude of waterfalls in the area - 250 to be exact, an embarrassment of riches, to be sure, and only about a 20 minute drive from our home.

Trout streams were not lacking here, either. The mountains of Western North Carolina have around 4,000 miles of creeks, streams and rivers with conditions perfect for trout, the most famous of course, being the Davidson River, consistently is named as one of Trout Unlimited’s “Top 100 Trout Streams in America."

To the rest of the world, the Davidson is a world famous trout bum destination, but to me, it is my happy place. I don't go as often as I'd like, and sometimes, I don't even bring my rod to fish - often, I go to the river to satisfy the longing that builds up in me - the longing to be connected and surrounded by what feels like the pull of the universe -  to stand with my feet planted in the river, the cold, clear waters rushing around my calves, watching the river rush toward me, around me and past me.

It is here I can find peace and quiet - the roar of the river drowns out the sound of the traffic from the road, as well as the din of everyday cares and to-do lists that seem to fill my head on any given day. Afterwards, I always feel refreshed, cleansed, and happy. Especially today.  In this strange new world of pandemics, face masks and social distancing, it feels amazing to stand in a river and let it flow around me. Let the world melt away if only for a little while. I stood there for awhile, drinking in the sights and sounds of the river, then reluctantly climbed out of the river and up the muddy bank toward my car. I'll be back soon, I told myself. Next time, I'll bring my fly rod.

My Goal in life is to be a Yokel!

MY GOAL is to be a YOKEL! 

                              Ummmm, a LOCAL YOKEL THAT IS!!!

After experiencing multiple near-fainting experiences at the check-out line of our local co-op, I decided to try to find a way to buy fresh, local produce straight from the farmer. This, I imagined, had to be cheaper and better for me than buying organic produce from Mexico.

Also, I wasn't crazy about buying shipped in food from said country. Every time I picked up a high priced vegetable labeled "organic" from Mexico I hesitated, wondering - "Isn't that an oxymoron? Organic? From Mexico? You can't drink the water but you can eat the vegetables grown with that questionable water?" Sometimes, I'd put the vegetable back, other times, in desperation, I'd buy it. "Geez," I thought. There's got to be a better way. There is. After seeing a Facebook post from my friend and former neighbors Macon and Luke Costlow on the joys of being a CSA member, I decided to take the plunge.

I googled organic csa farms and found one near Brevard. Cool. I can go for a hike on the day that I go pick up my veggies. So I joined the group near Brevard, but quickly realized that it would eat up my day as well as my gas to have to drive out there and back every Wednesday. The notion of driving out to the country to hike and get my veggies sounded romantic at first, but after just one trip, I changed my mind.

Back to the drawing board. Could there possibly be one in Hendersonville? Hmmm. I picked up a copy of the local food guide magazine "ASAP" and found a farm that uses organic practices - (they are not labeled "certified organic", but they do not use harmful chemicals in the production of their food) right here in Hendersonville. I'd already paid good, non-refundable money to the Brevard farm, so I'll have to wait till spring to switch to Blue Meadow Farms, located "just down the road" from me.

Blue Meadow Farms in Hendersonville uses organic practices - and in my mind are the VERY best foods you can eat - local, foods grown without chemicals - is like eating local honey, these foods are designed to support your immune system. :0)

Besides all the obvious reasons of freshness, conservation of fuel (it costs a lot of gas to get veggies here from Holland or California!) and supporting your local economy/farmers, there are some serious health benefits to consider.

It has been said that we can benefit by cultivating an internal microbiome that corresponds with our external environment. If you are living in, for example New York City, amongst the native pollens, mites and microbiota of that area, but consuming foods shipped in from Mexico, Florida and China, your internal system won’t be in harmony with your external environment. You might have heard the idea that eating raw local honey is like an inoculation against seasonal allergies. This theory carries on from that concept.
In addition, seasonal produce that has been allowed to ripen in the sun, harvested, purchased and consumed quickly is left with more antioxidants and beneficial phytonutrients than those that took 3 or 4 weeks to cross a continent before they got on your plate. These nutrient-dense farm-to-plate foods support robust health and immunity, much more so than those that are picked early, treated with gases and then coated with wax to keep them ‘fresh’ while they are shipped.

BE a LOCAL YOKEL!!! :0)

I'm crazy that way....

I am simultaneously reading  Walden by Henry David Thoreau and binge watching Mad Men on Netflix.  Yikes! It is pretty jolting to switch from one to the other, but kind of fun at the same time. I seem to be crazy that way. I'm either knee deep into a book about Julia Child or Coco Chanel, or waist deep in a trout stream as the sun sets trying to cast one more time in hopes of an encounter with a brookie. There seems to be no middle ground for my interests. Walden or Mad Men. Who should I blame for that? Probably my mom. Or maybe it was the 60's that shaped me. Maybe that whole decade is to blame for the way I turned out. 

I am fascinated by that period of time - the culture, the politics, the clothes, the....well, let's face it, everything about the 60's. First of all, I love the style. My mom, as well as many American women, modeled her own style after Jackie Kennedy.  I developed a love for pencil skirts, white pearl necklaces, high heel pumps and black, patent-leather clasp-closing pocket books from watching mom get dressed for church or an evening out.

Also fascinating in a trainwreck-sort-of-way about the 60's was watching those around me go through major changes as the decade progressed. 1969 especially. I remember it well. I was 10 years old, and it seemed that was the year my world changed forever. One of the good memories from that year was of a hot Louisiana summer day. It was July 20th. I was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in front of our black and white television, transfixed by the images on the screen, as a man wearing a bubble on his head walked on the moon. One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. It was thrilling to imagine what it was like to step onto another world. 

And then there was my world. Tumultuous and fragile. 1969 seemed to be a turning point, and not for the better. It was the year of Hurricane Camille. I remember standing barefoot on the lawn, watching as my brothers washed out garbage cans and filled them with water, then later that day sitting solemnly at the kitchen table, while my mom nervously filled the hurricane lanterns and trimmed the wicks. Soon after, hurricane Camille roared through Louisiana, cutting a destructive swath through the state. We'd worried that if Camille came too close to our little town of Milton,  the Vermillion River just across the street from our house could easily  swell and flood its banks, sending tidal waves of  muddy water, gators and snakes into our yard and house. That was also the same year that my dad hurled our entire Thanksgiving dinner, one plate at a time, against the kitchen walls. It was then that the reality of how broken our family life really was finally dawned in my 10 year-old heart. 

1969. I have to remind myself of the good times. In spite of all the craziness, there are a few good memories. Not only did I get my love of all things Jackie from my mom, but she also passed on to me her love of the outdoors. She had grown up a tomboy in a large family of working class Cajuns, running around barefoot most of the time, gigging frogs for bait to catch catfish in the canal, stepping over sleeping water moccasins curled up in the baking hot sun on the levee to get to her cousins' house - in a word, fearless.  That year mom must have thought I was old enough to go tromping through the woods with my two older brothers. It became a normal thing for me to tag along with them as they wielded machetes and fired off BB guns. Our adventures in those tangled woods of Tarzan vines, poison ivy, and who knows what else, were not as genteel naturalists, but bold hunters - lopping off  the heads of any snakes that dared slither in front of us, and shooting the big banana spiders lurking in the webs spun high above our heads between the trees. Later in life, I grew out of the adolescent need my brothers instilled in me to kill things that moved, and became enamored with observing and appreciating nature instead. 

Now, in my 50's, after a decidedly tumultuous life of my own, I have come to the point in my life that a cabin in the woods (near a river) sounds like a great idea, (at least for a week or two at a time anyway), far from the madding crowds,  where I could emulate some of my heroes.

Robert Traver is one of them.

“I fish because I love to. Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly. Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape. Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing what they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion. Because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed, or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility, and endless patience. Because I suspect that men are going this way for the last time and I for one don't want to waste the trip. Because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters. Because in the woods I can find solitude without loneliness. ... And finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant and not nearly so much fun.”

Henry David Thoreau, another of my heroes, said the following:

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

So, I confess. As a fashion-loving, fly-fishing, bird-watching, what-plant-is-that-and-what-is-it-useful-for kinda girl, I divide my time between passions that have no common ground: Walden purity and Mad Men schemes, Chanel wishes and Robert Traver dreams. Like I said, I'm crazy that way. 

Where's Walden???

Where’s Walden???

No, that’s not a typo. As I sit here in my log cabin in front of a flickering fire, listening to the wind play a wistful tune on the chimes hanging just outside our back door, I bless and curse this power outage simultaneously, reflecting on how different life is now than when Walden was penned, and struggling with guilt over my addiction to the luxuries in life that I take so much for granted.

It is nice, I think, to stop and just sit sometimes.  Do nothing. Not even speak. Just sit and watch the flames before me flicker and dance. It is true that my sabbatical from the 21^st century has been forced upon me by Mother Nature, but If I really wanted to, I could go out to the garage and charge my dead cell phone with my car charger.  I still have some juice left on my iPad that I spent good money on to have cellular service for just such an occasion. I could message, Facebook, email and surf the web to my heart’s content, but here I sit, thinking about how we as a culture have allowed ourselves to be enslaved to the technology that surrounds us, taking us farther and farther away from the simplicity of life that could be ours. Who has time to just "be"? To just sit? Watch a fire, or sit on a swing in the middle of the day and listen to the clear notes of a wood thrush or the tin horn tunes of a nuthatch? 

One of my favorite poems is called Leisure Time. It is to a certain degree, a sad reminder of how I am frittering away precious moments that I can never recover, spending my life in the pursuit of obtaining things. Henry David Thoreau said that the cost of a thing is the amount of what I call life which is required to be exchanged for it.

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare. 

William Henry Davies

It is so easy in our day and time to be consumed with the luxuries and conveniences of our culture. On the other hand, by the minute I am getting hungrier, grubbier, and colder the longer our power is out. Funny what a little deprivation can do to a gal.  "Are we really enslaved? Or have we been set free from the harsh life that our ancestors endured?  Hmmmm...Something to Think about, for sure. Pioneer life without any conveniences sounds romantic at first, but try to live that way for a week even, and most people, including myself would bolt like a (fill in your favorite saying here  – branded cow, spooked horse, groom on his wedding day, etc.)

Last night we lost power  - an ice storm, a blown transformer somewhere close – and were instantly plunged into the dark ages – that terrible time many years ago when there were no glowing cell phones, iPads, computers, or TV’s with which to warm the cockles of our hearts, no sleek electric stoves that, with a touch of a button, would summon glowing rings of fire without flame with which one could whip up a tasty dish from the latest Food Network recipe email. Back then there were no monolithic French-door refrigerators – big, amazing boxes with 4 convenient doors one could open and retrieve cold milk, vegetables, chilled drinks and even frozen meat from without having to trudge down to the root cellar or smokehouse, or for that matter, the barn, where Betsy the cow waited impatiently for her morning milking.

Nope, nothing like a power outage to inspire gratitude for the smallest of conveniences in our extraordinarily privileged, totally cushy, 21^st century life.  I have come to understand this fully every time in the last 12 hours when I have walked into a dark room and went to flip a switch and nothing happened – every time I wanted to cook a meal, wash my hands, flush a toilet, or even try to hang out anywhere but in front of the fireplace – no central heat! 

The thought that keeps me happy, feeling like this is some camping adventure of sorts, is that it is only temporary. Soon (hopefully), as if by a miracle, all the lights in the house will blink on, and Duke Energy will breathe life back into all our cute little artificially intelligent devices – sassy phones that talk back to you when you ask for directions, computers that know you so well they anticipate what ads, stories, or searches you want to read, and television shows that tell you what you should be wearing, eating, thinking, doing or stop doing. 

Ah, yes! Life as we know it, life as we want it. Life as we live it....and yet, I dream of a Walden life....longing ...for that simpler time...WAIT!!! The lights just flickered!!! POWER'S BACK ON!!!! 

Wikipedia Says So!!! Hippy Ti Yo!!!!

Wikipedia says so!!! Hippy Ti Yo!!!

Hippy Ti Yo (also spelled Hippy To Yo, Hip Et Taiau, Les Huppes Taiauts, Hippy-Ty-Yo, Hippy-Tai-Yo, Hippitiyo, Tayeaux Dog Tayeaux) is a traditional melody that was first recorded as Ils La Volet Mon Trancas, sung by Cajun musician Cleoma Breaux in 1934 in San Antonio, Texas.^[1] The melody would later be adapted into many different songs throughout history.

Contents

  [hide] 

• 1 Music
  • 1.1 Origins
  • 1.2 Late 20th century and recent covers
• 2 References

Music[edit]

Origins[edit]

The song is an old tune about a mysterious creature, women or a couple of dogs, Hip and Taiaud, who prowl about stealing things off the farm, engendering the ire of the farmer which makes them return the items. Origin of the phrase is suggested to belong to the Cajun and black Creole cowboys of the Cajun prairies.^[2][3] In the film "American Patchwork", Alan Lomax makes a loose claim stating cowboys from Texas heard the phrase being used as they drove their cattle across the Cajun prairies to be sold in New Orleans. He makes the assumption that this phrase is the origins of the call "Whoopie Ti Yi Yo".

Author Raymond E. Francois describes a different origin. The French word "Huppe", used colloquially, means clever while "taiaut" comes from the English shout tally-ho, and refers to a hound dog, thus "clever hounds".^[4]

The earliest recording of the song is believed to be a 1934 version sung by Cleoma Breaux and played by Joe Falcon entitled "Ils La Volet Mon Trancas", recorded in San Antonio, Texas (Bluebird B-2191). Later that year, the Breaux Brothers would record the same melody as the tune "T'as vole mon chapeau" (Vocalion 02961). In 1962,Joe Falcon explains he picked up the song from black Creoles, one named Sidney Babineaux.^[3]

The following year in 1935, Leo Soileau and His Three Aces used the same melody for his song "Hackberry Hop" (Bluebird B-2086). The song refers to the town ofHackberry, Louisiana which is located about 30 miles from U.S. Route 90. Several years later, the familiar melody would appear in a 1953 rockabilly called "Route 90" byClarence Garlow on Flair Records (#1021). The melody is eerily similar in chord progression as well as in the vocal pattern.

Cajun French	English
C'est Hip et Taiau les chiens, Qui a volé mon traîneau, Chere Quand ils ont vu j'étais fou, chere Ils rapporté mon traîneau, chere C'est Hip et Taiau les chiens, Qui a volé mon manteau, Chere Quand ils ont vu j'étais fou, chere Ils rapporté mon manteau, chere C'est Hip et Taiau les chiens, Qui a volé mon chapeau, Chere Quand ils ont vu j'étais fou, chere Ils rapporté mon chapeau, chere	It's the Hip and Taiau dogs Who stole my sled, dear When they saw I was crazy, dear They brought my sled, dear It's the Hip and Taiau dogs Who stole my coat, dear When they saw I was crazy, dear They brought my coat, dear It's the Hip and Taiau dogs Who stole my hat, dear When they saw I was crazy, dear They brought my hat, dear

Hippy Ti O!!!!

• Hippy Ti O!!!  
• Cajuns were the first cowboys, not Texans!! 
•  (and other little known facts about us!)

I found the following article online written by Sharon LaFleur and have posted excerpts from it. Enjoy!!!

• The people who today are known as Cajuns came from a small area around Poitou on the central west coast of France.
• Tired of being tenant farmers for big land owners, these people left France and settled in the area they called l'Acadie now known as Nova Scotia in 1604, many years prior to the English settlements in Virginia and Massachusetts.
• L'Acadie as a name is said to be related to the Greek word Arcadia which means idyllic or beautiful place, but is more likely from the French version of the Native American Mi'kmaq (also spelled Micmac) word cadie, meaning  place, with a positive connotation.
• The Acadiens, unlike the English and Spanish, had good relations with and respect for Native Americans. In Acadie, the French settlers stayed on the perimeter of the island and the Mi'kmacs inhabited the interior. This relationship was carried forward by the Cajuns towards the Native American tribes of Louisiana. It is estimated by Larry Richard who was curator of the Mississippi Valley Museum at Acadian Village in Lafayette, La. that fully 40% of today's Cajuns also possess Native American ancestry.
• The Acadians reclaimed thousands of acres of salt water marshland in Acadie by utilizing a version of the Mi'kmaq lobster trap which washed the salt out the soil making it arable. This process took approximately three years. Acadiens were successfully able to grow wheat further north than any other settlers.
• Due to the back-and-forth political battles between the French and the English, the Acadiens chose to remain neutral. Depending on who was in power at the time, the soldiers forced the Acadiens to provide them with meat, grains and vegetables, and the Acadiens felt that they were safe from involvement in the warring factions because of their contributions.
• Acadiens in the community of Beaubassin in the area of the Chicnecto Isthmus, Canadaraised cattle in small herds which was unusual in those times - generally a family had one or two animals only. The Spanish in New Orleans knew this and recruited Acadiens to Louisiana after the French and Indian War. In exchange for a portion of the herd every year, the Acadiens were given land and tools. Nearly a hundred years prior to the advent of the Chisholm Trail, Cajuns had hundreds of registered cattle brands. It was actually the Cajuns, not Texans who were the original "cowboys." The expression "Hippy Ti O" is from an old, old French word for hunting dog, still used by Cajuns, taïaut."
• The Acadiens were expelled from Canada by the British in 1755 in what the Acadiens called "Le Grand Dérangement" or big upheaval. Families were torn apart, houses burned, people forced onto ships and scattered about the American colonies, back to Europe and throughout the Caribbean. Most of the 10,000 deportees died; about 3,000 eventually found their way to Louisiana.
• The English wanted the lands the Acadiens had cleared and planted for English settlers. Charles Lawrence, the British governor, concocted a scheme whereby he insisted that the Acadiens sign an oath of allegiance to the English king, renounce their Catholic faith and agree to fight against the Mi'kmacs. The Acadiens refused. Lawrence told his people that even if the Acadiens were to sign the oath, he would have them deported regardless.
• The stories of the horror the Acadiens endured are too numerous to mention. One example: in my birth state of Massachusetts 2,000 Acadiens on three ships (meant to carry less than half that number) spent the frigid winter of 1755 in Boston Harbor. The Acadiens were not allowed to disembark for nearly four months while the Massachusetts legislature debated their fate. There were no staterooms or restrooms on board the ships, just cargo holds. Many of the children on board were taken from their parents and "distributed" around the state to other families.
• Cajuns hold thousands of U.S. patents in machinery, oilfield equipment, medical devices and many other areas. Cajuns' ability to make "something out of nothing" and to solve problems with unique ideas is a point of pride.
• Cajuns for the most part did not own slaves nor did they approve of the idea of slavery. Many Cajun men of fighting age hid out in the Atchafalaya Basin for the duration of the Civil War rather than participate in it.
• French was the predominant language in south Louisiana until it was forbidden by law to be spoken in public schools in the early 1920s. Some children were so shamed by this (imagine needing to use the restroom, not knowing how to ask in English and not being allowed to ask in French) that their families refused to send them to school at all. Children sometimes were playfully reminded that they couldn't speak French (it depended on the viewpoint of the individual school) but others - and I know several still living today - who were forced to kneel on dried corn and/or paddled for speaking French, even on the playground.
• Cajun culture was so strong and embracing that no matter the national origin of an inhabitant, people would speak French rather than English which was actually called "American" and a put down was to call someone "un américain" which is the Cajun way of saying someone is a redneck. 
• There are reasons that illiteracy plagued Cajuns. In Acadie, some of the Catholic priests wanted to control communications between the Acadiens and the British and refused to educate Acadien children. If Acadiens couldn't read or write, they'd have to rely on the priests to read and reply to official documents. Of course, there was no public education at the time. Public education was not an option for many Cajun children when it was first introduced in Louisiana, for while the education was free, the books were not, and many families could not afford to buy the books. (In many Cajun homes in the past, there was a handmade triptych displaying the images of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Sacred Heart of Jesus and Huey Long - among other actions, because he made it possible for poor children to go to school when the books became free.) And for reasons explained above, French speakers started to keep their children at home rather than subject them to the treatment they were receiving in Louisiana public schools.
• Cajuns GI's in World War II took part in the French underground because unlike French-speaking Canadians and Belgians, the Germans could not distinguish between the Cajuns' French accents and native French accents. Even though there were nearly 400 years between the original Acadian/Cajun French language and WWII, their accents remained virtually unchanged. Cajun French is very close to the old French of Poitou whereas "standard" French has changed enormously. 
• The name Cajun is a corruption of Acadien "'Cadien." 
• The Cajun "national" dish of gumbo comes from the African word for okra, gombo.
• Generally speaking Cajuns are white, Catholic and can trace their origins to Acadie. Breaux, Broussard, Boudreaux are Acadien names, LaFleur is not. Créoles in Acadiana (according to Gwendolyn Midlo Hall who wrote "Africans in Colonial Louisiana," "Créole" has at least 30 different definitions and Créole people are those who are born in Louisiana of African ancestry) are black and Catholic. Both Cajuns and Créoles played what they called French music up until the time of World War II. Over the next couple of decades, Cajun music picked up country western influences and Créole music went R & B and became known as zydeco.
• By the 1960s all things Cajun were denigrated even in the Lafayette, La. newspaper, The Daily Advertiser. In an editorial, the paper called for the end of Cajun music saying it was embarrassment. Shortly thereafter, Dewey Balfa, a legendary Cajun fiddler, and his brothers were invited to perform at the 1964 Newport Folk Festival. It was a revelation to them that festival attendees were thrilled by the their music, while many at home were ashamed. 
• The word coonass means Cajun. The origins of the word are unknown, though many theories exist. It has been a slur, is used by Cajuns amongst themselves affectionately, but should never be used by anyone other than a Cajun. 
• Cajuns can cook like crazy - men and women. Lafayette just won top honors in Rand McNally's Best Food in Small Towns in America and when Anthony Bourdain visited for "No Reservations" in June, he said the crawfish bisque and pork backbone stew rivaled anything he'd ever eaten at Spain's E Bulli - considered to be the best restaurant in the world at the time. And these dishes were made by home cooks. Cajuns can catch, clean and cook any fish or game, grow vegetables and are more self-sufficient as a group than most any other in America.

• Cajuns are recognized as a legal minority due to a 1980 court case, Roach v Dresser Inc., where a Cajun man was discriminated against because of his heritage, his perceived low capabilities, was called derogatory names, and lost his job. He was the engineer that reported faulty equipment made by the company he worked for that caused the Three Mile Island incident.
• While there are some Cajuns in New Orleans, New Orleans is not considered a Cajun city. In fact, very little Cajun food is found there. Cajun culture mostly thrives in the southwest portion of Louisiana, southwest of New Orleans, and the very eastern edge of Texas.
• CODOFIL (The Council For The Development Of French In Louisiana) was formed in 1968 to re-educate the youth in Cajun French, which was a dying language.
• Traditional Mardi Gras in Cajun Country is much different than the debauchery of the big parties and huge floats in New Orleans. The old fashioned Mardi Gras involved the "courir" or "the run". In modern times, it involves teams of people on horseback, or riding on flatbed trucks, usually with plenty of music playing. The riders go through a planned route, visiting local farms, and asking for a donation to the evening's meal. Usually, the farmer will offer a chicken, if the party can catch it after setting it free in a large open pasture, some rice or other ingredients, or sometimes a small cash donation. The farmer and family is then invited to the big dinner. The dinner is usually a gumbo, large enough to feed the entire crew.