Give the Man a Tractor!

As I’ve said previously, my vision of our home on 16 acres that we purchased last year did not necessarily coincide with what my husband had in mind. I thought, Ok, maybe a 20×20 foot garden would be nice He had different ideas. So, I went with the flow.

And the flow kept flowing. Downhill. Into a big stinking pile.

After a couple of months creating an area that was less garden and more sprawling plantation, Brad says to me “I need a tractor.”

“You need a tractor for some tomatoes and green peppers? Why?”

“Because it will make things so much easier on me and my back.”

I know Brad works hard out there and when he plays the “back” card, I generally acquiesce. I know his back is not always in the best of shape, and if I make too much of a fuss, and it goes totally out, I’d never live with myself. So I made peace with myself that I’ll live with a guy who rides a tractor. And gleefully Brad set forth finding a tractor that would work for him, with a price that would allow us to actually keep the home and property for which the tractor was needed.

Luckily (maybe?) he had a buddy who had the perfect tractor. A buddy like Brad who “needed a tractor” because he was going to move to the South Pacific and wanted to use it on his property. He never moved, and so the tractor stayed in a shipping container, at his California home, for 5 years. Brad got a killer deal, and a payment plan.

All we had to do was pick it up. And for that, we’d need to buy a truck in which to haul it. Because renting a  U-Haul for the job would cost almost a much as the tractor itself. And so it started…

Bait and Switch.

Because we didn’t have the funds for both purchases, we opted for the barter system. We had property we didn’t want in Utah. A Utah man wanted it, and had a truck. The perfect truck.

We did the switch, Brad flew to Salt Lake City, met with a mechanic who gave the truck his gold seal, and the “good Christian man” who traded pink slip for property deed.

20 minutes out of Utah, into bum-flock Idaho, the truck broke down. It had to be hauled to the nearest town (a loose translation) where the mechanic deemed it dead as a doornail. Dead as carrion. Dead as our checking account because it needed a whole new engine.

“But now, really Susan, we have a whole new truck. So it’s not entirely a bad thing.”

Bait and Switch.

Hauling the tractor back from California to Western Washington, Brad basked in the praise he got in every corner outpost we stopped. Someone along the way would inevitably stop and say “wow, that’s a mighty nice tractor you got there. I remember riding one of those in oh 4.” Around the tractor trailer they’d circle, talking the merits of Kabota over John Deere … “you know, Kabota makes their own engines and parts, John Deere doesn’t.” As I’m furiously snapping photos on my phone and sending SOS emails to my friends on Facebook. Get me out of this hell I’ve landed.

I have to admit, as tractors go, this one was pretty. It’s a damn good looking man on a damn good looking tractor…

DSC_0426

So, when we get the tractor unloaded at the house, and Brad’s ready to suit up for his inaugural ride, I ask him, “hey Farm Boy! You gonna plow some fields?” And he says to me “I don’t have a plow.”

Hello?

“What do you mean you don’t have a plow? We’re going to be paying monthly on this beast until the end of times, and it doesn’t plow the fields? What does it do?”

“Well, we got a lawnmower attachment, and a shredder chipper that we didn’t even pay for – it was included in the price.”

Which is a big yippee except that we already had a riding lawnmower that came with the house, AND we had a shredded/chipper that Brad bought from my Dad.

“But these are bigger more powerful. I will be able to cut to cut the lawn so much faster.”

Because, of course, he has those all important corporate meetings to attend. With Neighbor Bob, Neighbor Les, and Neighbor Matt. So they can sit around, drink beer, and talk about tractors.

Bait and Switch

Last week Brad said that we “needed to” rent a rototiller. “But we have a rototiller” I said. “Yes, but it’s not big enough and strong enough for this soil.”

“But what about the tractor?”

“It didn’t come with a rototiller.”

Bait and Switch.

What exactly did we “need” the tractor for? “To move dirt.”

Ahhh. Moving shit. I get it. If you have a pile of shit in one place, are bored and need to move the pile of shit around to another place, you can sit on a tractor and be one of the guys. Makes perfect sense.

So far the tractor has moved chicken shit to the compost pile. It’s moved pig shit to the compost pile. And it’s moved goat shit to the compost pile. AND it’s moved the compost pile to several different locations. It doesn’t plow, it doesn’t dig post holes, it doesn’t till or scrape or do anything but allow movement of shit from one location to the other.

Because of this shit movement, I see my husband only when the sun is down. Because shit moving must be either A. fascinating or B. terribly important and time consuming. Coupled with the grass mowing and the leaf shredding, it’s a full time job. My husband went from gentleman farmer to shit mover.

And the other day he came home from the farm store with black suspenders.

I’m getting scared.

Halloween Confessions

I was born to a clever woman. My mother was crafty and creative. Which unfortunately skipped a generation in me. Every Halloween Mom dragged out the old Singer, and set up to create a one-of-a-kind masterpiece.

Unfortunately, I was a child of the 50s and 60s. Whilst now I appreciate the detail work of her authentic Hungarian gypsy costume (complete with bangles hanging off the skirt and vest), what I really, truly wanted was “normal.” Being not so much, I felt that a costume like “everyone else had” would help to nudge me towards a bit of normalcy. I mean, really, I didn’t want to be a circus rider, I wanted to be a princess. With a plastic mask. And with the prepackaged, cheaply sewn, tacky material came a rhinestone encrusted tiara. Sigh. Halloween Perfection!

vintage-halloween-384042218307148816

Mind you, I’m the child who was disappointed when my parents were buying their first house, and they didn’t choose a home with a rock roof. The height of modern design in my book. AND – if you added a rock garden, I’d be in 60s heaven …

rock roof

Basically, what I’m saying is that, as a child, I had zero taste. With the exception of wanting to be what everyone else in our white bread neighborhoods deemed to be “normal.”

Fast forward to adulthood. My sisters and my mother embraced the whole Halloween thing. As adults. They’d dress up, drive around town in full regalia. For me, I hated dressing up. I hated adult Halloween. I worked in a creative field (advertising) and every year the agency would have a costume  and pumpkin carving contest. People would go all out. And costumes were “required” to show spirit. Our department (print advertising) was especially competitive. As such, they hated me on Halloween. I’d show up in jeans and a sweatshirt. “Where’s your costume?” they’d ask. “I have it on. I’m Susan On The Weekends.” It didn’t fly.

When I married my first husband, I bought tickets for us to go to a Renaissance Faire. He was so excited, and asked “are we going to dress up?”

Huh?

“No, um, I don’t think so. We going to the faire, not participating in it.” Undeterred, he dragged out a jester’s costume with tights. Tights? My new husband liked to wear tights? OMG what fresh hell had I landed myself in? I told him “you can wear the tights, but you have to walk 10 paces behind me and never reveal that you know me.” He left the tights at home.

The following year he stated that we had to go to the company Halloween party. The company he worked for was NBC. So we HAD to dress up. Out came his tights, and I stared sullenly at my closet, picking a big blousy top, pirate style, that was popular in the 80s. Put on some pants, wore a scarf on my head, and stood by the chips and onion dip for most of the night,

When I had children at home, Halloween was spent taking my kids to houses with the greater chances of having Baby Ruths, Butterfingers and 3 Musketeers bars. My kids? They got the Sweet Tarts.

Back then, the parents stood on the sidewalks while the kids walked up to the houses and rang  the doorbells. The “clever and creative” parents carried bota bags. Nowadays it’s a whole event. If you don’t, as an adult, dress up as the living dead, complete with makeup created to look as if your skin was dripping off your skull, you were an epic fail. Parents with children would have a whole theme going. If you had a storm trooper, as a father you best be chewbaca, and as a Mom you’d best coil your hair in true Princess Leia fashion. It’s all about the theme, baby …

costume

So I thank the heavens that Brad is just not into donning a fantasy persona every year on the 31st. We have the best of both worlds. We live in the country, in the farmlands of Washington State. We have one neighbor with children. Which means we buy one bag of candy. Give as much to Little Bodie and Baby Carson as they want, then we get to eat the rest, wearing our best “Brad on the Weekend” and “Susan On Her Way To Bed” costumes. And not sweat over how creative and clever we can be.

IMAG1176

But, wouldn’t you know it … here in the Washington farmland lives another Creative Mom. I’m having sweats and flashbacks. And desperately looking through ebay for a plastic princess mask for next year.

Tales of a Reluctant Chicken Wrangler

My work history is littered with different stops and starts in my lifetime. Before I settled into a full time career as a writer of sorts, I jumped around to different positions that seemed “fun” at the time.

I started out as a dental assistant – forced on me by my step father, who was a dentist. It was cheap child labor for him, and something to keep me busy in the summers during high school. I entertained thoughts of becoming a dental hygienist. The hygienist my father hired worked 3 days a week, and spent the other 4 days skiing in the winters, surfing in the summers. It seemed like a great career until I found that I actually had to clean people’s teeth, which I considered vile, and dropped the thought like a hot potato.

For two summers during college I was a lifeguard/swim instructor. Too hot, too many kids. I followed that for a year running a ticket booth in a music store. Selling tickets for concerts, plays and events in the LA area. Highlights were that I ran the booth solo, the music store was staffed with people who became my best friends, and that I got free tickets to see anything, basically, that I wanted. From the Chinese Acrobats of Taiwan, to top Broadway plays (I saw A Chorus Line twice!).

I did a stint as a spokesperson for the small city I lived in, doing ribbon cuttings, hosting functions, singing at events, and even competing in the Miss California Pageant. Yes, I was considered a hot ticket in my 20s, believe it or not.

During this time I got my first job as an honest to goodness writer. I think the paid me minimum wage, but I remember when my Dad asked me “what is your pay?” I said “I don’t know, but they are actually going to pay me for writing!”

But none of these work experiences prepared me for my latest career move – as a Chicken Wrangler.

Yes, it was a busy day yesterday on Reluctant Farm. AKA Foggy Mountain Farms. After 5 months, the chickens had literally demolished the pen that Brad had set up for them, and we decided that it was time to move them down to a proper pasture, so they can forage as nature intended.

Not to say they didn’t enjoy their pen, but all grass was gone, and as much as they enjoyed us throwing hay into the pen for them to scratch in, It just wasn’t enough. They had started looking for a way out – to greener pastures.

12000975_957574877640442_1653544557942339312_o

Plus, it became a muddy mucky mess once the inevitable Washington rains came. Their feet were always muddy (and they didn’t take too kindly when I tried to towel them off) and for some reason, their necks were dirty. Not their bodies, mind you, but their necks. How? I truly don’t know, but you don’t ask chickens why they do what they do. They look at you with their chicken eyes, jump on your back and cling on like scared kittens, or start pecking at your shoes. They really don’t like being questioned. 2015-07-30 15.40.03

So, it became a clear reality that the hens needed large pasture areas we could rotate so that their little chicken feet would always land on something green.

It seemed like a simple process. Brad had fenced the three pasture areas, and thought that it would be easy to just close up the coop at night, then move the coop, chickens and all, down the 1/4 mile to the fenced pasture. I would stand on the house deck and wave to him while he tractored the coop, and later bring goodies (a big tray of oatmeal with shredded apples) to the hens as a reward for their relocation trauma.

Plus we have neighbor Bob. Neighbor Bob is our secret weapon. He’s always  there to help out. Because he has a huge heart, and I think, because every now and then he needs the comic relief from people who don’t really know what they are doing.

There’s an easy way to do something, and there’s the Reluctant Farm way to do things. And the two are not the same.

I saw the coop go down the drive. BUT – I saw the chickens in their old pen. I watched the coop go down the drive, off the drive, and into the bush. I saw the coop go back down the drive, and off the drive again. Most of the morning the coop moved about as fast as my Labrador retriever when I try to get him to go outside when it’s raining. Which is about as fast as I could crawl on my hands and knees over a gravel path. 1/4 mile took 4 hours.

movethatcoop movecoop

When it was finally in place my jubilation was brief as I saw that the chickens were still in their old pen. Brad was walking up to the house, solo,  and I realized my time as a cheerleader was up. I would be recruited to help wrangle chickens.

I’m a person of solutions. I am always trying to think of a better way. Brad’s idea of putting two hens in a big Rubbermaid box, and one in each of our laps, in the car, seemed like a long, slow and slightly annoying and stressful situation. “Why don’t we just put them all in the campershell in back of the truck and drive all 20 down at once?” I thought that seemed infinitely quicker and seamless. I’m a smart, college-educated girl, we can do this in one trip – done and done.

“How are you going to get them out of the camper?” Brad noted. “You open the door and they’ll all either rush out. We can’t get the truck into the pasture, so they’ll run all over and we’ll have to chase them, unfenced. OR they’ll stay at the very front of the camper and I’ll have to crawl in and get them.”

Oh.

So we started the Great Chicken Round Up of 2015

When you have 20 chickens, the first few chickens go pretty easily. I am, after all, a chicken whisperer. I talk sweetly and quietly, they kind of crouch down, I pet their little fluffy backs, pick them up, tuck them under one arm and away we go. This worked well for the first run.  Put two in the box, had one under my arm, one under Brad’s, we drove to the coop and pasture, and in the coop they went without protest. We returned to a different scenario.

Chickens are a lot smarter than they look. I could see their little chicken brains doing a quick tally. “Oh, look,” they seemed to say, “Henrietta took a ride.” When we drove back, empty handed, they scattered. Clucking “oh, shit – Henrietta’s gone! everyone – RUN.”

Brad was running around the pen, arms splayed out at his sides, trying to corral a chicken. I’m trying to gently convince them to let me pick them up, and they are scattering like Henny Penny when the sky falls. Brad is a man of limited patience, and he grabs one by the feet and holds it upside down in what I’m sure he thought was very farmer-ish. “OMG STOP THAT” I yelled to him. He says to me “that’s the way they hold them Susan.” I said ‘No Brad. That’s the way they hold them after they cut their heads off and they’re dead. They don’t hold live chickens upside down for God sakes.”

We get one in the box, try to get the other one in, and the first one pops out. Then the first one, armed with the knowledge of what waits her if she’s caught, runs around the pen even faster than before.

“Please Brad” I begged. “If we can’t put them in the camper in back of the truck, can we just put them in the car? Then we can crack open the door and get them out one at a time?” But the thought of 16 chickens in our Ford Escape, pooping and flying at us wasn’t something he was willing to chance. Plus I think I have a use by date for solutions until he simply tunes me out. So for what seemed like eternity, we chased chickens, transported chickens, got scratched and pecked and got major chicken attitude, but eventually, got chickens housed in their new, better environment.

Today, they seem a bit more appreciative. They have their regular coop, and a penned “entryway.” From there they go out gates to any one of three additional huge pasture areas. They love it.

DSC_0331  DSC_0319

Except when some of them get into the larger pasture, they’re not quite sure how to get back to the coop. So instead of finding their way to the open gate, they run back and forth by the fence, in a heightened state of stress, trying to figure out how to get to the other side. Until we go in and walk behind them, once again wrangling them through the gate and back to the safety of the coup.

I call this job security. And a good work out. Walk up and down, several times a day, making sure chickens get back into the entry way, where their food and water waits.

As my college professor always told me, always accept any job challenge that comes your way – it looks good on your resume. Dental Assistant turned Hometown Queen, turned Writer turned Chicken Farmer. I’d say my work here is done.

The Trouble with Piglets

My refrigerator is full of eggs. Lovely, organic eggs. But really, that’s all we can fit. I have about 18 eggs coming every day. I’ve thought of making quiches and freezing them, but why? I mean, why bother freezing them when I can make several fresh ones daily and not even make a dent. So we’ve just hung a sign outside our drive to hawk our “farm fresh eggs.” Which I guess means I can’t wear my fuzzy lounge pants all day anymore, and I”ll actually have to start brushing my hair in the morning. Otherwise, my husband is afraid I’ll scare potential customers away.

To go with all those lovely eggs, Brad has suggested we get some pigs. Bacon or sausage to go with scrambled or over easy.

So we went to a pig farm, and brought home two piglets. With a stern reprimand from Brad, that these are “meat, not pets.”

He says this because my 20 chickens are egg producing pets. They shall never find their way into my pot. So I am not to develop any kind of relationship with our “meat pigs.” “Do not engage in any kind of pet-based activity Susan. Because these will NEVER be pets.”

“I’m not stupid. I understand. I’m not going to get attached to pigs, for God sakes.”

 But, you know, I HAVE to feed them. Yes, they get grains. But I have to also bring them by snacks. Stuff that is left over. After all, we are sustainable. We don’t waste anything. It’s all about recycling, reducing, reusing. So, with that in mind, I brought down some tomatoes that were on the edge of rotting. I didn’t look the piglets in the eyes. I simply plopped a metal bowl in the pen, brushed off my hands, and said ‘there. Go eat.” And walked smartly away.

This went on for a week. Then I noticed something. The damn things were actually looking forward to my daily visits. They would no longer eat scraps that Brad tossed into their pen. They only wanted food fed to them by me, in their silver bowl.

And, I realized, they were no longer running away from me when I went into the pen. They were walking with me. And I committed a capital offense. I looked them in the eye.

DSC_0108

OMG are they the cutest things ever? They run around like little dogs, so excited to see me. The run in circles, clicking up their little hooves in joy. And they wait for me to put down their almost rotten tomatoes, so gleeful that I’m giving them treats.

So today I made them oatmeal, soaked in a little goat milk, with some chopped apples and a bit of flax seed for omega 3s. I mean, yes, their lives with us is only a short 6 months, but shouldn’t they experience daily joy for those 6 months? Really?

And, then, I pet them. They let me pet them. Between their little twitching ears, as their little piglet curly tails wagged back and forth.

I’m totally, unequivocally screwed. And I don’t know how I”m going to tell Brad

Name that Farm!

It’s about that time. Test garden is in full swing, I have 90 eggs in my fridge and that doesn’t count the 15 or so that I will be getting in today’s coop. We just got ourselves two piglets, are in the market for a couple of goats, and later next spring, a cow or two.

So, I’d say the farm is damn near a real “farm.”

It had come to Brad’s attention that we now have to trot our little selves down to the government offices and make ourselves official. But the question is, what do we call ourselves.

Plans for next year include building cabins/bungalows (only 3 to keep it manageable) and opening it up as a B&B Farm Stay. Keeping that in mind, I thought we should keep Reluctant Farm.It’s cute, it’s quirky it speaks to who we are.

Brad says no. Says Reluctant means we’re not totally in it all the way. “Who wants to visit a farm where the people really aren’t into it?” he said.

Well, I would. I would find a kindred spirit. We’d drink wine and laugh about the pig crap and goat crap and chicken crap and drink more wine and ignore it.

But – that’s me. He’s more staid. And thinks that “Sustainable Earth Farm” reflects more of our values. But truly, I have no values. You bring me chocolate, tell me you like me,  you’ll be my new best friend. And if you brought me a really good bottle of Pinot Noir, or even a cheap cab, we’ll be friends for life.

In an effort to be fair, I said I’d open it up to the public. So – public – please cast your votes. there are two choices, but to be honest, we would love suggestions. And in the “write in” section, please do NOT put Donald Trump…

Keep in Mind – Chickens, Eggs, Goats, Pigs, Cows, Bed and Breakfast, One Reluctant Farmgirl and a Gung Ho Farmer …

Reluctant Farm
Sustainable Earth Farm
Anything Else but the above two
Your suggestion please

AND – as a special prize, we’ll send you something if you come up with a winning name that we like better than ours. I don’t know what it will be, maybe a jar of jam or salsa (it’s totally good) but I feel compelled to give away something if someone is truly creative. Because I’m not. Creative. In any way, shape or form.

Much Ado About Poo

Everyone is excited about fair season here in Washington. Seems every other week there’s a county fair, state fair, city fair. But the best event of all is … wait for it … the upcoming Fall Fecal Fest. No shit. No, I am not shitting you. It’s a festival of poo.

It’s obviously a big deal because you can’t just go and purchase the doodoo, you have to put your name into a lottery. THEN you have the chance to purchase an alarming amount of zoo doo – ranging from hippo, giraffe, zebra or if you want mass quantities, elephant feces. If you want a big old pail – 4 gallons – you can only get it during the holidays, and it’s aptly named “Holidoo.” I’m rushing to the site right now to put my name on the waiting list.

New this year is worm doo. It’s more pricey than Holidoo – which goes for $20 for the 4 gallons. Worm doo is $10 a pint. You must be able to pan for gold in worm poop. All that excitement over excrement makes this former city girl’s head spin.

I am learning but I still cringe when Brad wants to take our truck and trailer over to the cow farm to get ripe manure. I think, dear God, the neighbors will shoot us if we cover our 16 acres in a steaming mass of … well, you get the picture. But no. They cheer him on. I keep trying to tell them “do NOT encourage him” but they think it’s a grand old idea and even encourage him to go to the sheep farm down the street, because sheep really make superior fertilizer.

I’m all over having a productive garden. I haven’t had to buy vegetables in a month. And I think that’s grand. I think Brad should make use of all the poo our chickens produce. And chickens do poo. Lots of it. But it’s all mixed in with straw and doesn’t smell. I’ve driven past the sheep farm. Sheep poo smells to high heaven. I just can’t get past that gag factor.

But poo has become a major topic of discussion around these parts. I am truly trying to assimilate, but there are some things I just can’t make myself do. I can’t call our creek a crick, and I can’t carry on long conversations about things that should remain unmentionable.

When we first “set aspell” with our neighbors after we moved here (it’s a year  since we moved to Washington country and started Reluctant Farm) our neighbor said “oh, I’ll have to make you some worm tea.
wormteaNo. Really, thanks but no. I mean, it’s nice of you, but please no. I really, really love tea. I mean tea is, well, my cup of tea.

my-cup-of-tea

Please please please don’t ruin it for me…

A week later we were gifted with a worm bin, from which to extract worm tea. I haven’t participated in the extraction process, as I truly feel my strengths lie elsewhere. Anywhere else. But Brad adores his worm bin, faithfully feeds it coffee grounds every day, and uses the worm tea for the garden.

So my visions of sitting on my veranda, sipping my elegant Lady Grey tea, looking out at the sunrise and rolling green hills on our property has taken a back seat to the harsh reality of sitting on the porch, breathing through my mouth because my whole front yard will smell like sheep shit.

Because Christmas comes but once a year, I have a scathingly brilliant idea for Brad’s gift this year. Because I love my husband like crazy. And yes, it’s bigger than a bread box …

holidoo

 

I’m SUCH a Nerd!

Wandering around the coop, my husband said to me … “it’s about time these damn chickens start laying some eggs and earn their keep. Otherwise, they are going to find their way onto the barbecue grill!”

I thought this was quite insensitive. I mean, what was HE doing at 4 months old? Blowing spit bubbles and pooping himself. “Well you know they are probably nervous and stressed. They see you stomping around threatening to turn them into tomorrow’s special, and it makes them anxious. And besides, my chickens are my entertainment. I pick them up and pet them and watch as they clap their little wings when I feed them pasta salad.”

It’s true. When he told me that all 20 chickens would probably not produce eggs all the time, and some would have to become stew or chicken stock, I understood. “This is a farm – it’s not a chicken retirement home.” I know the circle of life. I like Elton John and all, but he MUST also understand that there were one or two chickens that would live with us until their last feather dropped. And those were the two chickens who would automatically lay down by my feet waiting to be pet, picked up and loved. Who would climb on my back when I bent over.

Brad agreed – and went to get the tags so we could sort out which ones would live out their entire lives with us here at Reluctant Farm.

But a funny thing happened between that discussion and the day when we went to get the leg tags. I walked into the chicken run, and the chickens dropped at my feet. Not just my two little black and white barred rocks, but some whites, some Rhode Island Reds, and two more barred rocks. It was like they were all overcome with the vapors. And that’s when I realized … Chickens KNOW. They are spiritually, emotionally and soulfully connected to Mother Earth. Chickens know things we will never be able to grasp. And that’s when I said realized – we WILL become the first ever chook retirement home.

After this assurance to my girls, a few weeks later we did our normal routine of checking in the nest boxes. Starting at one end, counting – nope, nope, nope, nope … then all of a sudden – the skies opened and a golden egg appeared – not from a goose, but from my favorite barred rock chicken!

I swear, you would have thought Ed McMahon himself rose from the grave and knocked on my front porch with the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes check for $1 million dollars. In fact, if he was on my doorstep I would have run him over looking for my camera to take a picture of our very first egg.

I think I took more pictures of that first egg than I took when my first baby was born. I had to get it from different angles …

Cupped in my hand to make it look bigger …

IMAG0882

In my Indian woven basket as an art piece …

IMAG0883

Nestled in a kitchen towel for effect …

IMAG0884

We were so excited we immediately scrambled it up for breakfast and shared one tiny egg between us.

When we’d run down every day to the coop to see if we have any other little gems waiting for us, there would be anywhere from 3-5 eggs daily. It’s the miracle of life!

The chickens were obviously not as moved about the whole experience as I am. Most of the time they seem a bit irritated that I keep raising the lids on the next boxes. They look at me and I’m sure they’re thinking … “hey, do you mind? I’m doing my business here? Can’t a hen get herself some privacy?”

IMAG0928

I kinda felt like I had caught someone in a compromising position in an outhouse. I’d say “oh, sorry” and back away.

So I skipped to my lou yesterday, with my egg basket, only to find SEVEN eggs. Seven. It was a new record! But now I have this …

IMAG0948

Yep, 20 eggs. And this is AFTER I gave a dozen to the neighbor. And BEFORE I go down to the coop this morning.

Now every morning Brad asks me “do you want me to make some eggs for breakfast?” And after omelets, scrambled eggs and three quiches, I’m a big egged-out.

I’m thinking of making a couple of angel food cakes. Maybe some soufflés. Lemon curd? Or maybe I’ll just leave a dozen on various doorstep and run away. Like a farm girl version of Kris Kringle.

With the eggs, the copious amount of swiss chard, tomatoes and cucumbers that are sitting on my kitchen counter, awaiting culinary creativity I just can’t seem to muster, I think I will, perhaps, drive to the city, see a movie, preferably a double feature, eat Baby Ruth and popcorn. Then when I come back it may all be a hazy memory.

Or a recurring nightmare, like the one where I can never find my house, or am sitting in my 8th grade classroom naked. Either way, there is no escaping Reluctant Farm.