It pays to have a name around here.

Somehow, I missed the fact that Freddy the Bearded Lady was gimpy.  That is, until she was really gimpy.  By then I realized that there was something seriously wrong with her foot.  But what?  I headed to my favorite source of how to fix serious things - Leigh's blog.  I ran down the handy resource listing on the right and found what I thought it was -- Bumblefoot.  For crying out loud - who came up with that name?  I read the information thoroughly and came to the conclusion that I had missed the early/easy stages, and that some foot surgery was needed.  And I was NOT going to do it myself.  I do know my limitations.  Most of the time.

What to do.  I picked up the phone this morning and left a message for Doctor Rod.  It went something like this, "Hi, there Doctor Rod.  You may remember me - the one with the huge, fat cat that had both his canines extracted?  The one that could only catch one of her other two cats?  Well, I have another small problem with...with...a chicken.  I am very fond of her and she has injured her foot and could you possibly find it in your heart to do some minor surgery I will be glad to help." (I figured I had more chance of success by running it into one long sentence before the true nature of the call registered.)  I left my cell phone number and hung up.

While I was sitting in a loooong line of non-moving traffic this morning on my way to work (they had, through some amazingly stupid choice, closed four lanes of freeway into one during rush hour), my phone rang.  I looked quickly around to see if anyone would notice I was going to answer my cell phone - ha.  Everyone around me was yakking away.  It was Doctor Rod!  Sure, he would do it.  Did I need to bring her in today?  Was it an emergency?  Have I mentioned lately how much I love my new vet?  We set up an appointment for Monday morning.  I will have to help, as his vet tech is out.  He asked if I would mind if we wrapped her in a towel and I held her during the procedure.  I said that I wouldn't, and didn't feel I needed to mention that, less than a week ago, I had been pulling billions of feathers off her nameless, headless brethern.  TMI!!!

The Terrors and Joys of Driving on a Country Road.

Sometimes, they are one and the same.

While driving to work the other morning on my favorite non-winter road over the mountain, I was doing my usual musing:  "If I won the lottery, what would I do with all that money?" Or, the ever popular, "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall..."  I came around a curve in the road just in time to see a tiny, spotted fawn totter into my lane.  The squeal of my brakes and the string of unladylike commentary, did not phase him/her.  It just blinked at me with grave little fawn eyes and tottered back up the bank towards Mommy.  Meanwhile, my heart was doing the Bosa Nova.

Later that day, on the reverse trip, musing about other things - like the idiot who was tailing me at a half-car length - I come around another bend in the road and BINGO, there is a teensy turkey poult, headed determinedly in the opposite direction of its mother - and into the path of my car.  I was not aware that I was capable of such quick thoughts.  But, through my mind flew the following - "okay, tiny bird, big car, bigger idiot too close behind me, shineola."  Then I started tamping on my brakes, blowing my horn and gesturing wildly into the rear view mirror.  And, no, it was not a rude gesture.  Luckily, the driver got the hint and we both squeaked to a stop - me within inches of the poult.  Her within inches of my back bumper.  I believe we both took in a big gulp of air at the same time.  The poult's mother clucked frantically, and the little squirt wisely did a u-turn and headed back to its mother.  We continued on, this time the tailgater was a respectful distance behind me.

This morning, as I was hesitantly inching along the same road - you could say I was a tad gun-shy at this point - a young porcupine waddled confidently and with purpose...into my lane.  Luckily, all my synapses were on full alert and I was able to slow down and enjoy the view without risking limb or paw.  There is nothing like a small, fat, prickly animal taking his/her good, sweet time because they know they can.  Figuring that I was now in the clear, I picked up the pace a bit and was promptly dive-bombed by a red-tailed hawk less than a quarter mile down the road.

I mean, really!

Where's my napalm?

It's WAR, I tell you!  Between the slugs and chipmunks, I will be lucky if I get one goshdarn strawberry.  I opened the front curtains this morning and, lo and behold, there sat a fat-assed chipmunk chewing away on a strawberry.  Right in front of the window.  And he/she was staring at me in a very cheeky manner. 

The Victims.  If you bigify, you will see where their nasty
little rodent teeth chewed little bits off my strawberries.

I immediately went into the laundry/gardening/tool/storage/everything else room and got my bag of organic blood meal.  Looks like I will have to sprinkle the perimeter of the strawberry bed every other day.  They already got every. single. one. of my red currants.  Apparently, they either don't care for the black currants or haven't fastened their beady little eyes on them yet.  I have put up bird netting and now liberally sprinkle blood meal around them.  Next up is the barbed wire and vicious dogs. 

The chicken wire fencing did keep the rabbits out of my cold frame and herb bed and all the raised beds (except the garlic, which they apparently don't care for), and I almost had myself convinced (deluded is more like it) that it was safe to let the chickens out for a free range in front.  Good thing I read Carolyn Renee's post first.  It might have tipped me over the edge.

Enough of the ugliness of gardening!  Let's move on to something more heartening - like flowering things!  It always seems to happen the same way: everything just pokes along and you fret over it, then one morning you come out and everything is in bloom.  Here's some of what's blooming on the Little Lucky Farm:

Cucumbers are flowering.

Taters are flowering.

Love my geraniums!

Martha Washington Geranium.

Curly parsley and nasturtiums.

I take the geraniums inside every winter and then plant them in a big pot outside my front door.  There's nothing like something pretty at the door to perk you up!  The Martha Washington geranium is new to me this year.  Seems like they are the "hot" item locally.  Of course, having almost zero willpower in nurseries (or anywhere else), I bought one - they are pricey, as are all 'hot' things.  I am pretty disappointed.  It will be my first and last.  A friend has a scented geranium that I love - it's Citronella.  I may pester her for a cutting or two.  I am trying edible window boxes this year - I have to check the drainage, however, as the foliage is looking a bit peaky.    I will do a more 'comprehensive' garden post later this week.  That is, if I don't wake up some morning and find everything's been eaten to the ground.

Monday Musings.

I was musing about what a worry-wart I am.  And I think I can follow the trail of 'worry' beads back to when I was just a tadpole myself - a blissful 8 year old with nothing to think about but school, cleaning my room, hiding my field mice in a shoe box, and feeding my beloved guppies.  It were the guppies that done me in.  My mother was not one for 'pets', although she did agree to a dog.  A small dog.  A small dog she could train.  You know, that dachshund was the ONLY doxie I have ever met that was truly trained.  My mother said - "Go do your business", and Inger would make a beeline for the pine trees in the back of the yard.  Once, she went within a foot of a rabbit without a sidelong glance.  She knew my mother meant business.  As did we all.

Anyhoo, back to the BGs (beloved guppies).  After the annoying constant whining and crying and carrying-on, she let me get a fish tank and some guppies.  I cleaned the tank every week and picked out some plastic ferns and a little castle and treasure chest.  I loved them.  And I was thrilled to watch as Mama Guppy grew fat with babies!  And even more thrilled when the babies were born!  And then the parents ate them!!!  I was horrified and kept a close watch on my own parents for quite some time.

In the six years that I've lived here, I don't think I've seen my farmer-neighbors without their feed company caps on more than a handful of times.  And every time that I have, I am reminded of the fragility of egg shells.  It must be that most of them are bald as an egg and, since the caps are on about 99% of the time, when the caps are doffed, the bald pates are very reminiscent of those very same things - pale egg shells.  It makes even the burliest of farmers look rather adorable.  I drove by my neighbor's farmhouse this weekend and witnessed such a sweet scene - Old Leo bending down slightly from his stoop, while his daughter gave him a smooch on his pale, bald head.  It brought tears to my eyes.

Despite the fact that the G's are like a bunch of old yentas, gossiping mightily at every occasion - they all perk up when a new victim listener walks into the barn - they are a very tight group.   Cows on the road?  A posse of red pick-up trucks descend (they seem to prefer red pick-ups) and the cows are taken in hand.  Someone not up to snuff?  The same posse descends on the dairy barn and chores are done.  They visit each other often; you'll almost always find one or the other leaning on a red pick-up, chewing the fat, spreading the word.  And they all keep an eye on me and my place.  Leo or Doug or Elmer or Lou will scrap their boot in the dirt and say something like, "You know, yesterday there was a grey car in your driveway.  Hadn't seen it before....." Then I assure them it was allowed and all is okay.  It's nice.

p.s.  Linking to Nancy at Little Homestead in Boise and wishing her a Happy Anniversary!

Summer arrived. And how!

There is nothing worse for a worrier than to hear that the weather is going to be a scorcher.  With heat warnings, red flags, alarm bells, and all that jazz, the thermometer hit very close to 100.  This, on the day that she has to be locked in an auditorium learning about planning boards, zoning boards, soil restoration, and watersheds.  Hmm-mm.  I was up and out at 4:30 and dumped and refilled all the water buckets.  Then I let the sheep into their grassy area until I left for the workshop. Checked the rat-trap (empty - yeah!) and watered the garden, potted plants, cold frame, and anything else I could think of.  Then the dogs and I took a fast walk (or a drag, in Scrappy's case - he hates flying insects and must stop and snap at them every six inches).  I closed up the windows, drew the curtains and turned on the dehumidifier.  And then drove 40 minutes to sit in the workshop not hearing a word that was spoken because I was too busy listening to this:

"OMG, did I remember the Fricassees?  Did I let them out?  Will they be roasted?  Did I fill the chickens' waterer?  If I did, did I remember to uncap the water access?  Will the sheep have enough sense to go into the shed?  Will there be prone bodies scattered all over the homestead when I get back?"  Of course, everyone was fine, although they were staring at their waterers in dismay.  It was so hot, the water was way higher than tepid.  So I went around and refilled all of them.  Much happiness and chicken gurgling.  I even took some time to sit in the shade with the goaties and I gave Chickie a therapeutic whole-body scratch.  He loves those.  He is growing a little beard, the cutie.  My boy is growing up!

I was able to join Sylvie and friends at yet another bon voyage feast last night.  While I wish her all the best and want nothing but happiness for her, all this "good-bying" is starting to rankle.  I mean, I do put on a good face and chirp away, but I really DON'T want her to go.  Just saying.  Full disclosure and all that.  But go she must.  The woman who hosted the 'do' is a very lovely, interesting and talented woman with a beautiful home.  She and I bonded over her bantams while Sylvie's eyes glazed.  Luckily, there were other people there who were not so ga-ga over chickens.  Fools.  (kidding)  I brought a new salad that is now replacing my favorite massaged kale salad - it's a broccoli salad with bacon, dried cranberries, sunflower seeds, red onion and is topped with a mayo/yogurt, agave nectar, apple cider dressing.  Dreamy!  I was very happy that there was some left over so I could enjoy it again for lunch.

Today was a repeat of yesterday - without the workshop.  Out at 4:30, sheep on grass, water in waters, water gardens, walk dogs (drag Scrappy), stare at work wardrobe trying to find something cool+professional.  I gave up and just tried to match.  There's lots going on at work.  And what am I thinking about?  (See paragraph 2.)

Been there. Done some of it.

Such an interesting weekend.  I have noticed, though, that people in my office have ceased to ask me what I did on my weekends.  Wimpy ones.  I would have told them, "Processed a dozen chickens, harvested garlic scapes, helped Sylvie move stuff, drove to Vermont, made hummus, made garlic scape pesto, delivered bee ware, delivered 10 dozen eggs to the local farmer's market, trapped ratties, made dinner, pulled pin feathers whilst watching an Ingmar Bergman movie."

Top that!  Seriously, it was one of my more varied two-days-off.  Luckily, the Universe was smiling on us, weather-wise.  It was a bright, sunny, low-humidity day (both), and there were four of us working with the chickens.  May I inject here that I will never do that many chickens again?  Do you know how many feathers are on a chicken?  Do you?  Well, I do now and it's billions.  Of course, I did completely, willingly and with much thankfulness not witness or participate in the killing part.  And, while I witnessed the gutting part, I did not do it.  I was too busy dealing with the twelve-plus billion feathers and removal of same.  Kay and her husband - a surprise and welcome participant - helped with the plucking.  If it had been just me, I would still be there.  If I was going to do this on a fairly regular basis, I would be the first in line to pony up the bucks for a plucker.  But, I will NOT be doing this on a regular basis.  I retained a breeding group - a rooster and two hens - so that, if I wish for a chicken dinner in the future, I will gather up a few eggs and incubate them.  A few at a time.  All in all, it took us a little over two and a half hours to finish up.  And, by the third bird, I was a lot less nit-picky about the pin feathers (which is why I was watching a dark, moody Swedish movie while finishing the job.  It seemed appropriate.)  Chickens, without their clothes on, are not cuddly and I was surprisingly detached.  It was not how I imagined it to be.  But we know how over-active and fevered my imagination is.  Kidding aside, the experience was sobering and made me very aware and respectful of the source of my food.

After everything had been cleaned up and put away, I zipped home to put the birds in the fridge and drop off the huge bag of garlic scapes I mooched off my neighbor, then drove over to Sylvie's to help her move the heavy things into her POD.  There is an amazing amount of space in these things - and such a great and clever idea.  We got some of the bigger things moved in and there was still a lot of room.  The biggest challenge is to figure out how to best lash everything down so there is as little shifting around as possible when the POD is moved to storage.  I am assuming the POD movers are not related to the USPS and will not fling it about from point A to point B.  But, the best part about PODs is that they don't have feathers.

I then zipped up to VT to get gas and buy my dad his Father's Day chocolates.  Then I zipped home - stopping on my way to see a friend who is not often home but was.  As chance would have it, I pulled into their driveway at 5 minutes to 4.  Four o'clock being their cocktail hour.  It's all in the timing.  I then spent a very nice hour, sitting on their porch with a glass of white wine while we caught up.  It was very nice and civilized and in complete contrast to my morning.  Then I zipped home, did chores, fed everyone, consoled the surviving three fricassees, whipped up a batch of pumpkin hummus for a Father's Day appetizer, and made a batch of garlic scape pesto.  Then I had another glass of wine and stopped.  If I have a day planned like the day I had on Saturday, I don't dare stop before the end. 

Sunday was a blur of delivering of bee ware, cooking, cleaning, and spending a very enjoyable afternoon with my dear daddy-o, mother and Sylvie - who is gracious and listens to the endless-loop conversation - or monologue - of my father while he relives his grade school days, finds her time in France fascinating and grills her mercilessly about her family heritage, background and any other topic that whizzes through his bean while he has her as a captive audience.  I, ungrateful friend that I am, left her there with nothing more fortifying than a glass of iced tea and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

So, as the dark and moody Bergman movie dims and bid us pa Avsluta, I leave you with a photograph NOT of chicken plucking, but of a flourless concoction - Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookies from the latest Martha Stewart Magazine.  Better, no?

No flour.  No fat.  No kidding!

Monday Musings.

As I stood in the blazing sun, up to my elbows in chicken feathers on Saturday, I was listening to the conversation wafting about me.  In amongst the flies.  One of our group of four has lived in the area for many years - since the early 70s.  As he recounted the amazing stories of small-town characters, I realized that you didn't have to travel to Europe or even the Big Apple to write the great American novel.  Or even the semi-great American novel.  You could move to our town.  There was wife-swapping, a bigamist who managed to keep two families within 15 miles of each other completely separate and in the dark, a town inspector who left his wife (and girlfriend) for another girlfriend, and a thriving pot growing business on hundreds of acres (finally discovered by the Feds).  It was amazing. 

Lately, I have been shutting off all noise-making objects (except my refrigerator) and living in the silence.  Of course, it is seldom silent - there are the chickens, who carry-on like no ones' business, the birds, the wind, my wind chimes, the neighbor's cows - fat, glossy things, the sheep - fat, fuzzy things.  There is the clicking of the dog/cat toenails on the floor.  The scuttling of (bloody little) chipmunks through the gutters.  The incessant back-up sirens of heavy equipment, crunch and crash of machinery and gravel, downshifting of dump trucks as they grind to and from my corner.  There is no lack of sound.  It is ALL preferable to the news.

As I was whipping up Father's Day dinner and dessert, I was musing on how all the women in our family approach recipes from different directions.  My mother, German goddess that she is, follows it so closely that she will refuse to make something if she doesn't have the very item called for.  My youngest sister scoffs at recipes and can make amazing things from thin air (or a paltry assortment of pantry items).  My other sister is closer to my mother, but will substitute if pushed.  I start off with the "idea" of the recipe, without usually seeing if I have the ingredients.  Then I ad lib.  Sometimes it works, sometimes not.  But I don't worry about it.  Perhaps I should...  When we were kids, and our chins cleared the top of the kitchen counters, my mother started working on us.  Besides dishes (and the endless fights over who got to wash - done first - and who got to dry - done last), she created "Sunday Chef".  One Sunday of the month, each of us got to create and cook a menu.  The only taboo things were pricey items (my Lobster Thermador got a thumbs down, as did my Pate de Foie Gras), things she couldn't find in our local grocery store and weird things - like Sea Cucumbers.  Kidding.  Those things are so icky they deserve the gold medal for icky.  Other than that, anything went.  We would spend days combing through her cookbooks (Betty Crocker, Fanny Farmer, Joy of Cooking circa 1943 - which I still have) and present our menu.  My middle sister and I were slightly adventurous, but my youngest sister invented fusion.  Think Swedish Meatballs Chop Suey.  Yes, she made it and we ate it.  But the entire process engendered excitement about cooking and food and a lifelong interest in ingredients and nurturing.  Not to mention, for a few of us, a lifelong abhorrence of anything 'fusion'.