Got a new camera & lens from an old friend. Spent the day playing.
Behold!
1. Pig Daddy Kane loves mud.
2. Goat eyelashes are quite the thing.
3. The funny thing off the turkeys nose is called a SNOOD. It both shrivels up into a little unicorn horn and elongates well onto their necks, when the boys are showing off. (I KNOW!)
4. Meeps is pretty much the cutest thing in the whole history of cute.
5. My dog is not very cute at all.
I had planned on taking pictures of everybody this morning, but we spent an hour hanging with the goats and then my camera battery died. When we went out to do chores, I heard some tired little blats. I usually do goat chores last because I like them the most, but I decided to start with goats to investigate. Turns out that all of the goats and sheep had gone out to the back pasture, Suki included, leaving little Cindy Ray behind.
We hung out with Cindy Ray for a bit, while she pogoed on and off our backs, ate our shirts, did skateboard tricks and yelled for Mommy. I tried to take some video of her on my head with my little Flip camera, but it proved impossible. Suki was off eating grass, ignoring her baby, so I called her name and immediately she (and the rest of the gang) came thundering into the goat yard.
I wish there was a ruler beside these two girls, to give you an idea of scale. Alva, who is on the left, is now over a year old. She is about the size of a cocker spaniel. Cindy Ray is minute!
This is Eunice the sheep, my favourite of the two. I will be sad to eat her, she is now very friendly (you get mugged for treats going into the pen) and I like her big dark eyes. I am definitely sold on sheep. They are so… pleasant and sheepy. Goats, as I have mentioned many times before, have a tendency to jerkiness. Which also makes them hilarious… and on occasion, a tremendous (and literal) pain in the ass.
Bob did not want to leave the goat pen this morning.
Totally unrelated, here is a picture of my darling Meeps spraying Scott in the face after a 16K run. Something as you can see, she thoroughly enjoyed. We all do actually, and take turns soaking him.
Remember all that beautiful garlic I harvested recently? I left it out to cure, congratulating myself on such a nice haul this year. Oh, what a great job you did! I thought to myself. Ho, ho!
Well. I brought it into the kitchen. Where it proceeded practically overnight to grow a coat of mould. All over every head. That’s what I get for being uppity. So, I’ve been peeling off the mouldy paper and freezing the individual cloves. Which (believe me) I know is less delicious, but it’s really the only option. I’ll be using it to cook with anyway.
Speaking of cooking, I must admit to subscribing to Martha Stewart Magazine, and her little accompanying food mag this month had a super simple recipe for gnocchi, which I cannot waiiiiit to try out. This gives me an excuse to go to the Amish store and buy a potato ricer, and ogle all of the beautiful stainless steel, manual kitchen accessories which make me ever so giddy. I recently bought a “Whirly Pop” stove top popcorn popper there, because I was tired of making popcorn in a pot and WOW. Totally consistent and I have yet to burn any, which says a lot as we eat popcorn almost every day, and I am generally half a disaster in the kitchen. Enthusiasm only gets you so far, I have learned.
This will only mean something to one person, who may or may not read this, whose name I don’t know, and who I have never met.
Thank you for helping a fellow Kincardinite with his faulty generator. If you’re ever up this way, please get in touch! Thank you for your kindness and for reading my blog. And for giving us a good laugh tonight when we heard the story!
In case you needed 9 reasons to stop buying eggs from industrial egg producers… may I present you with the following link from the DAILY BEAST.
We are very lucky to have our own happy, healthy henny pennies. I know not everyone does. Happy healthy eggs, if you are shopping out of the grocery store, are not necessarily more expensive. A dozen eggs from my neighbour (whose chickens lives outdoors in non-winter and in the biggest hen condo I have every seen in the winter, and eat organic food and of course have never been medicated) cost $2.50. Buy from her mother and you pay a whopping $2/dozen.
And speaking of price, if touring over to a farm to buy your eggs, or shopping via a co-op is not an option for you and good eggs from the store are extortionate, may I simply propose you eat less eggs? To quote Michael Pollan: “eat food, mostly plants, not too much.”
As I have mentioned on here before, there is lunacy out there, disguised as “healthy” and “green”. Like “vegetarian” eggs. PS people, if a chicken can’t eat a bug, it’s not outside. And chickens LIKE to eat bugs. They need protein. Also, just because it’s “organic” doesn’t mean it got to walk around.
We have somehow abdicated our food rights. For the sake of the animals who are lined up in droves to give us their lives, not to mention our own health, put a little bit of leg work into reading the labels on your food. (That is if there is a label on it). Or do a little leg work and find a farm whose practices you can get behind. Or build a chicken coop.
I’m no angel. I am not so staunchly home grown that I refuse to eat eggs in a restaurant. But it’s not hard at all to ensure that the bulk of my animal proteins are harvested as ethically as possible. I mean, I don’t want to eat that shit. It’s literally shit. (How could anyone eat industrial chicken again after learning what a stunning percentage of it’s packaged weight is literally fecal soup from water baths?)
Yeah, life is suffering. But with little effort, there can be just a little bit less of it.
This is an agricultural concentration camp and there is no need for it. (Only greed).
My first ever quilt block! It’s not exactly a block I guess, since it’s not exactly square… but my heart was in the right place.
Thank you to Film In the Fridge & Anna Maria Horner.
In other news, had a fairly horrendous morning. Scott went out to move a bag of feed over to the turkey tractor for me, and I come downstairs to see him walk by the front window with the axe.
Turns out some nasty predator tried to pull one of our turkeys out of the tractor through a 2″ space under the side. Got teeth and claws in and just started pulling. Until there was no skin left at all on the back of the turkey.
As I have previously blogged, poultry have a penchant for cannibalism, so its buddies were eating it when Scott came out. To make matters worse, it was still alive. Hence the hatchet.
I roasted the breasts and legs after cutting off the deep gashes out of the thighs. Incredibly deep. I feel so bad for that poor bird.
Feeling like I have to make the most out of every last second of summer as the warning shot has been fired. Yup. In my mailbox this week was the local Fall Fair booklet. Bob has been busy practicing writing his name so he can submit some art into the “Under 5″ craft category. Fall fairs, like leaves turning, signify the end of the summer season. I can’t believe it’s almost done. Life disappears so quickly now.
I’m hoping the Amish who took 120 cord of wood out of our bush over the winter are going to fulfill the rest of their end of the bargain by stacking it cut by the house, something that was supposed to be done months ago. Time will tell. And we have some wood to sell, if anyone is interested, email me.
Turkeys are all spoken for, but I have one half a pig for late fall still available, as well as half a lamb and two goats. Please email me if you are interested in any of the above.
I got dressed up last week for a wedding. That was nice. Makeup, hair, clean clothes. My husband on my arm. We went to the Harbour Brasserie and they do such a frigging fantastic job, top shelf. They get the DOUBLE rock on.
I feel so thoroughly disconnected from my body after children, despite the perfect atmosphere for ridiculous dancing, I cannot engage. It’s just not a body that I know how to move. It’s my body, yes. Certainly still looks like the same body! But everything is different. Seized in some places, joints threating to let go in others. I am working out (Jillian Michaels, P90x and of course, the farm) but not moving any manner that is comfortable. Ha. Hoping with the Grandfathers both retired I may have some time this fall to take a ball room dance class with Scott or something. That would be so awesome.
Here’s my painted and laquered going out Fancy Face:
Most of the garden is out now. Peas, beans, raspberries, strawberries, leafies. I’m trying to beat the hornworms to the tomatoes. The kids sit and eat them in between helping with morning chores. The kids help move waterers and the hose, they gather eggs. It’s sweaty work, but totally sweet. (My apologies for the horrible photo, they were so badly back lit but it was too cute not to use).
Here’s the Music Garlic laid out for washing like music itself. (Garlic from Al Cowan’s Garlic Farm, can’t recommend enough).
Really hoping to go the Montreal Tattoo Convention with my husband this year. We’d be gone from September 9th to the 14th and I am wondering if anyone reading this wants to farm sit or share farm chore duties with other friends and family. Again, please email me if you’re interested!
I get asked a bunch what camera I use and do I have any tips. I use a Canon Rebel, with a 20mm 1.8 lens on it. I like the lens because it lets so much light in I can grab quick pics of the kids in the house or shade without any issue. The downside is that in bright light, shit just gets blown right out. I’m no photographer. I don’t usually take the time to make my horizon line level (see garlic above). My only tips are: try to avoid using a flash; don’t be afraid to get close to your subject; take a squidrillion pictures so you actually have a chance of getting a good one; get aquainted with Photoshop or something similiar so you can at least rotate, crop and remove red-eye. Just think about what is in your picture. How it sits in the frame, what the basic composition is. Oh yeah, and let me repeat: take advantage of the digital world and take a squirillion pictures so you have a chance of getting a good one.
Garden, garden, garden. Meat birds in the freezer. Pickle. And then pickle again. Meeps has 2 sleepovers! Goat chores. Baby goat up my back. Bonfire. Move the turkeys. Garden. Bandage laying hen leg. Move hens. Chores, chores, chores. Camp in tent in front yard. Tomato fucking horn worn invasion. What I see right now is two children who want the same thing. Pet sheep. Curse Bucky. Garden. Chores. No hitting with sticks. Gentle smashing. Jam and more jam. Laundry. Wipe noses and bums. Can I not sit down for 2 minutes? Haul pig feed. Try not to get run over feeding slops. Dishes. Bonfire. Wiping. Chores. Garden. Chores. Wiping. Laundry. Please stop hitting each other. Please don’t hit the dog. Spit goes in the sink. Shut the door please you’re letting in the flies. Chores.
Cindy Ray looks like QuasimoGoat because she had gotten disbudded the day before. Her eyes are thankfully no longer swollen. I know there are a lot of people out there who want to potty train dwarf goats. I know this because my STATS function coughs up a surprising number of Google generated hits with those key words. Let me take this opportunity to make something perfectly clear:
Goats belong in barns and not in the house.
1. You cannot toilet train a goat. (This coming from a woman whose babies were no longer pooing in diapers by 4 months of age, remember).
2. If your goat comes to think it’s a puppy or a member of the family, WHEN the time comes you no longer want it in the house, it’s going to have a serious adjustment problem when introduced back to other goats. That little bit of entertainment gleaned from having a goat in the house would be nixed 10 times over. Goats are farm animals and not pets. Making your farm animals into pets is a mistake in my opinion. A pony sized horned and hoofed animal (a.k.a. BUCKY the Chief Jerk of JerkCity) with a sense of entitlement, even if benevolent, is a physical threat to children and adults alike. For the sake of the animals and the people in your life, keep your farm animals where they are happiest. (Pooing freely on fresh grass).
And so why is my goat in the house?
1. Bandage change and wound wash in the sink in the house which has (a few) less flies than the goat shed.
2. Hilarious one off photo opportunity.
3. To annoy my husband.
Got me some bifocals today. Yup. Wish the picture was better (used the camera on the computer) so you could see the terribly sexy LINE across the lower half. I was overjoyed to discover while watching 10 loads of laundry dry today that I could actually read a magazine comfortably. Can’t wait to sew with them.
My husband went to Toronto today to get tattooed. He took the Exploder because the 4Runner has a head gasket problem (just like last year) and has been sitting at the mechanics for a month. The same Exploder whose tire went on the highway in the middle of winter and nobody stopped for the lady waiving her hands in the middle of the snowstorm at night… that Exploder. The one whose tie rod end went on the highway this summer. The one whose tire was fully flat (ditto the spare, I thought we had replaced over the winter) tonight after his tattoo appointment. In Toronto.
I mean, I guess that thing has done alright by us, I did roll it once and drive it away.
BUT IF he drives that godforsaken vehicle home from the Big Shitty I am going to light it on fire.
So if you see a blaze out in Kingarf way, bring over your marshmallows and weenies, she’ll be a good burn.
My husband is the stuff of legend.
He has rugged good looks and a wicked glint in his eye. His hands are strong and capable, becoming increasingly battered by use. His freckles are each one a delight, his tattoos made sexier by the full body of fur over them. My husband is very much a man. His humor is crude and continual, effective and endearing. He can fanagle and fix just about anything we need fanagled or fixed. His artistic skills are awe inspiring, the man can just sit down and draw…anything. He has tremendous patience with our children which balances out his deficit of child proofing skills. He has helped make my dreams come true, one kid at a time.
I could not possibly be more in love with him.
His hard work and dedication to our family are evident in every minute of his absence.
Which is a good thing. Because much like those tremendous folk tales of yore, some days I feel like I know of him only from memories, from stories of his interaction with us.
Anyone else out there have a partner they don’t get enough of? How do you deal with the loneliness and the potential for resenting their extracurriculars? How do you stifle your excitement about them finally coming home so you don’t come across as demanding?
Being perturbed by the person you have missed so dearly because you’ve missed them so dearly is some predicament.
