Recalculating

My original calculations for the broiler chicks were to butcher at eight weeks, which will be May 7th.  They are certainly large in comparison to a "normal" chick as you can see in the picture above.  The dark colored chick is the same age as the broiler chicks.  But as large as those young pullets look, I know that most of it is an optical illusion.  They are very puffy feathered and this misleads the eye.  Additionally, since they are enormous pigs, their crop is always full and this deceives one into thinking that a lovely Roast Breast of Chicken awaits them.  I have to weigh these observations against the fact that their legs are really wonky.  While they get a good deal of exercise as they run here and there trying to keep up with Cagney, their legs are just not really good at holding their weight.

The size of their legs, which seem like young saplings, belies their strength.  Thus they walk or run a distance and simply fold up onto their legs.  It's slightly amusing to watch and reminds me of myself, unfortunately. 

Factoring together their age, their size, their wonkyness, dividing by seven, multiplying by Pi(e), I'm thinking I may give them another week or two.  No sense in rushing things.  As long as they do not seem to be laboring to breathe or laboring to walk, as long as they still seem to be enjoying themselves as they run up and down Compost Hill and sit in the shade of the Rabbit Hutch, I think I'll let them live. 

Lacey says "Thank you." 
No problem, sweetie. 

In the Night Garden

I started my garden long enough ago that I should be seeing some growth.  And, in fact, there is plenty growing in my garden.  I'm just not sure what some of it is.

I know that's corn. 

I'm positive that's a bean. 

The marker says 'carrots.'  And I'm totally sure they're in there somewhere.  Any hints?

I need to go online and get a Newborn Plant Identification Guide.  I weeded the corn, beans and peas in confidence.  But the beets and carrots have stumped me good.  If I wait a little longer I'm sure I'll recognize the pattern that I planted the seeds in.  But I hate to let the weeds grow with the wheat, if you know what I mean.  God is a much more patient gardener than I am. 

Stinkbug Infestation

It may come as a surprise to you, Dear Reader, but it is possible that I exaggerate the facts on occasion.  Just a teensy.  I prefer to think of it as "verbal embroidery."  But I can state with absolute honesty and accuracy that my home is the subject of a Stinkbug Infestation.  What began two years ago as a minor annoyance has now become a daily plague.  If we had a dime for every stinkbug that we have killed within our pleasant domicile We could pay off the National Debt.  (See, now that's an exaggeration.  We really could only save Social Security.)   We used insect foggers under the house recently, thinking that would kill them where they lived, before they could come up into the house.  I am happy to announce that the crawlspace is littered with the carcasses of the vermin, but unhappy to announce that any decline in the number of insects crawling up the walls and flying around the lamps was short-lived and negligible.  Today, after the Master of the House awoke to what he says was a bed-full of stinkbugs, I put a more aggressive approach into action.  I caulked anything that looked like it could be a point of egress or ingress or any sort of -gress at all.  I went through three tubes of caulk.  I think I could safely purchase another six tubes and use them all.  Airtight we ain't.  I prepared the house for fogging, set off the nasty little chemical containers and fled the premises.  I threw another set of death-dealing chemicals under the house and went to town.  Literally.  

After the requisite amount of time, we came home and found maybe a dozen or so dead bugs.  I compulsively cleaned for the next two hours, during which a mass exodus of bugs hinted at the magnitude of the problem.  There was squishing and splatting and the sharp tang of stink until I thought I could not take it any more.  

There are more measures to be taken to stink-proof this house.  Some adjustments to the exterior to eliminate entry points.  A new screen door.  Some screening over the bathroom and kitchen vent fans.  More caulking.  If all else fails, I have one last resort.  

The above image is from The Lizard Negotiator.

Balancing the Scales

Most of us have probably never used a set of scales like that pictured above.  One of the nice things about a scale like the above is the visual, physical comparison of one thing to another.  On one side we set one thing, and on the other side we set another and we see what happens.  Is the weight equal or greater or less?  We can see and touch the things being compared and it gives us a sense of confidence and security in the outcome of the weighing. 

It is a harder thing when measuring thoughts or beliefs.  We cannot set them physically upon a scale, nor type them and weigh the resultant pages against each other as if the sheer volume would prove one side or another.  Yet in law there is the phrase "preponderance of evidence."  The "weight" of the evidence on one side is more convincing than the evidence on the other side.  But what is "weight"?  Law dictionaries set it out as "the measure of credible proof."  In essence, one side is simply more believable than the other. 

I come to this post today by way of an interesting facebook interaction.  Poor Mrs. G innocently posted a quote by CS Lewis and found herself surrounded by staunch supporters of varying opinions.  It became a discussion of Who Christ Really Was?  Was he God, god-like, or a great moral teacher? 

Bibles and brains were dusted and brought into the discussion.  It is possible that tempers flared a bit.  One of the most interesting realizations I came to was that bias is a two edged sword.  If a scripture can have multiple meanings, how do we determine the true one?  Am I biased or are you biased?  How do we decide?  We put our verses on the scale, as it were, and they have equal weight.  The only thing to do is add things to each side in support and see which side has the most credible proof. 

That is, in itself, a tricky thing.  How do we define 'credible'?  Occam's Razor ("Simpler explanations are, other things being equal, generally better than more complex ones")? The deductive reasoning adored by Sherlock Holmes ("When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth")?

But in matters of Faith, such things seem so useless.   Faith is so often equated with 'credulity', blind belief.   The book of Hebrews gives it far more credit, however, stating that 'Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.'  You would think there would be a way to lay out everyone's beliefs on the scales and see The Substance, The evidence that outweighs all else.  We don't seem to be able to do that, however.  For we all see Our Side as being the Winner.  It's a frustrating thing, to be sure. 

But this is where I stand.  I'm putting my 30 years of Bible study and research on one side of the scales.  And I'm putting Everlasting Life on the other.  I stake my life on it that they balance. 

Basic White Bread Recipe

I have the most basic white bread recipe in existence.  It is so simple that even I can do it, and it works even when I don't measure although I then get HUGE loaves.  Put on your listening caps, children. 

2 cups hottest tap water.  You can use milk, but then heat it carefully so it does not scald.
(Most people have their water heater set no hotter than 120 degrees.  This is the maximum temperature for proofing your yeast.  You do not have to heat water on the stove.  As a total side point, when plucking chicken, you can use the hottest tap water you have as well.  All this stuff about heating huge pots to 140 degrees is unnecessary from my experience.)
Place your hottest tap water in a large bowl. Stir in 2/3 cup of sugar until dissolved .  This is yeast food and does give your bread a slightly sweet taste.  I suppose you could alter the amount if you are sugar averse.  But why deprive yourself of one of the joys of life? 
Add one packet of Active Dry Yeast.  Please use a good brand.  It does make a difference.
Cover and let sit for ten minutes.  When ready the yeast should be foamy and deliciously yeasty smelling. 
Pour in 1/4 cup of oil or melted better. 
Mix one teaspoon of salt into your first cup of flour.  You will probably be using up to five cups of flour all totaled, including the flour that goes on the table for kneading.  Add the flour until the dough pulls firmly away from the sides of the bowl and is kneadable.  Sprinkle some flour on your table and turn the dough out for kneading.  Knead by pushing into the bread dough with the "heels of your palms", sort of fold the dough at the top of the ball back onto the ball, turn it 1/3 of the way around and knead again.  Some people recommend kneading for 10 minutes.  I do not have the stamina for this, and I knead til the ball is smooth and elastic.
Clean out the large bowl you used for mixing, oil the sides, place the ball in the bowl and kind of turn it so that the top of the ball gets oiled as well.  This prevents it from 'crusting' over a little bit.  Cover the bowl and put in a warm place.  If you heat your oven to 170 degrees and then turn it off, the bread will rise quite nicely in there.  Let rise for One Hour.
When you take the bread dough out you should have a lovely risen mass.  Now the fun!  Punch that dough down and knead it again for a few minutes.   Divide it in half.  Oil two loaf pans.  Shape your loaf however it pleases you.  Some people just pat it to get into a loafy shape.  I am old fashioned and I roll it out with a roller, getting the air bubbles out.  I roll it into a loaf shape like it was a jelly roll and pinch the ends to seal them on the underside of the dough loaf.  I always make one cinnamon raisin bread loaf and one plain sandwich loaf, so this is an efficient step for me.  Cover the pans, place back in the warm spot for 1/2 hour.  When the half hour is up, place the two uncovered pans into a 350* oven for 1/2 hour.  You may like to brush the top of your loaf with butter or milk prior to baking.  That is purely according to personal preference.

As long as you follow these directions you will always end up with edible bread.   Always use a trusted brand of yeast.  Always proof your yeast.  If it does not foam and give off a wondrous aroma of yeast it is not good enough for bread.  I'm not sure what it is good for, but not bread.  Always measure your salt and add it in with your first cup of flour, not sooner.  The voice of experience speaks here. 

This bread lasts only as long as it takes your family to eat it.  It makes wonderful grilled cheese sandwiches.  It makes a fabulous breakfast toast with homemade jam.  Use it for French Toast with your home grown eggs.  Oh, and I suppose you can use it with peanut butter and jelly.  If you like that sort of thing. 

Basic White Bread Recipe.  So simple a fool can follow it if she will only measure the salt.  To quote the iconic Mistress of the Kitchen:  "Bon Appetit!"

Eyeball Baking

Eyeball baking is not the gross thing it sounds like.  Rather, it is the art of baking by 'eyeballing' the amount of ingredients.  It is summed up well in the immortal words of my grandmother, Lenora Famiglietti:  "Use a piece of butter the size of an egg."   However, under the patient tutelage of Betty Crocker,  I grew up entirely out of sympathy with such vague directions.  To measure out 1/2 cup of Crisco, for example, one would take a graduated measuring cup, fill half of the cup with water, add the Crisco til you hit the one cup mark, and voila!  Crisco measured to perfection that slid right into out of the cup with no muss, no fuss.  I even measured to the bottom of the meniscus.*  It was only in my dotage that I began to discard my strict adherence to such precise measuring.  My recipes began to resemble my Gramma Nora's oral  instructions.  I became fearless in my disdain for measuring. 

"Elton Brown actually measures his flour when he bakes bread,"  I scoffed.  "Why, if you can't tell you've put in enough flour by the way the dough feels, then you must be a sorry cook!"  I left my cups and spoons in the cabinet when I made bread because I, Laura Wonder Chef, certainly had no need of them.  "A teaspoon of salt?  I'll just fill the little hollow in my palm when I cup my hand and call that a teaspoon.  A fourth of a cup of oil?  That should be a good fast pour and then 'Hello, Mama!'  Yeah, that's good."  All was grand in the world of Laura Land. 

Until my bread started to do this weird thing.  It started to rise so much during the baking that it ripped its sides, like unwanted stretchmarks on a pregnant woman's belly. "Well, that's odd."  I said.  "I wonder why it's doing that?"  Laura Land began to shudder on it's foundations.  And why not?  They were built without a proper recipe for the mortar mix! 

I am both abashed and discomposed to admit that measuring is important.  Okay, Accurate measuring is important.  Baking is not magic, where one can stand over the mixing bowl throwing eyes of newts and wings of bats--
"I thought you said there were no eyeballs in eyeball cooking." 
"There aren't.  That's my point.  No eyeballs."  
"I'm confused." 
"No eyeballs.  Only Measuring spoons."
"You swear?"
"Pinky Promise."
"Okay."
--Baking is Chemistry.  It is a blend of elements that when combined react in predictable ways to produce a desired result. But the results will be unpredictable if the elements are not combined in proper proportions.  This requires the use of measuring utensils.  Yes, actual utensils that measure. 

I acknowledge this only because I discovered that Salt is Important.  When baking bread, Salt plays a critical role.  It inhibits the growth of yeast.  Now, I know that you are thinking, "I'm making bread.  I want my yeast to grow, not be inhibited.  Repressed yeast needs a psychotherapist and I don't have that kind of money!"  Ah, but you want your yeast to grow in a controlled manner.  That's why you don't add salt right to the rising yeast, but you wait and add it with the flour.  If you add it too soon you will get a loaf that doesn't rise well.  If you add too little of it, your yeast will grow too much and your bread will need cocoa butter for those stretch marks. 

"I like butter on my bread."
"Not cocoa butter, you wouldn't."
"What do you know?  You don't even measure!"
*Sigh*  



*Look it up.  It's good for you to learn new things.

Archeological Excavations

Monday morning dawned with a sense of energy and motivation.  After breakfast I went out to do one simple chore:  rake the front dirt patch which is our yard in preparation for seeding.  Easy enough.  It's not that big since the woods come up so close to the house.  But I could not find the rake.  After a thorough exploration of everywhere I could think of that I would be if I were a rake, I decided to imagine where I would not be if I were a rake and there it was!  Clever girl.  Unfortunately, in my explorations I saw several things which required attention.  Excavation, if you will.  Archeological Excavation.  Shaken, not stirred.  So, I excavated.  (I will not tire you with tales of cuts or holes poked in perfectly good chore boots, or pruning shears used entirely inappropriately for cutting buried chain link fencing.)  These are the results of that fine morning: 

Okay, we do not have, nor have we ever had, a pool. 

Nor have I ever used over 100 feet of black plastic.  Nor a television antennae which was nestled snugly inside said black plastic.  It could have been a dead body, so I suppose I should be grateful for small blessings. 

A trip to the dump so they can bury it for someone else's archeological excavation. 

While this is certainly all trash, there are treasures I have found buried on this plot I call mine.  True beauties, beyond price. 

Is it a skink?  A newt?  A salamander?  I only know it's beautiful.  With delicate toes. 

Absolutely stunning.  Black with yellow.  A symphony of legs playing in order.  A graceful curve when cradled in the palm of the hand.  

This, however, is my favorite find of all.  The cup and the spoon were in the back, buried with assorted marbles and a cache of copper pennies.  I think of some long ago little girl who played with her brother in this very same yard.  In my minds eye I see her drinking tea with the fairies, her white pinafore atop her dress, her two long braids tied with red ribbons.  Her brother sits on the ground nearby in his knee-pants and newsboy cap, counting his pennies and playing marbles.  Her sad loss is my great gain and I assure you I appreciate it with every cup of Constant Comment tea.  I think I'll have some now in her honor.  I dedicate this dig to you, little girl, whoever you were.  

What?  You mean that cup isn't that old?  Spoilsport. 

Almost Done

I spent this morning puttering around the house, organizing cabinets and clearing off the tops of things like dryers, kitchen counters.  The end of my kitchen counter always seems to attract stuff.  For the past week it has had seed packets and veggie markers tucked into a straw basket sitting on top of an SFG book.  It has been surrounded by Bible Activity coloring books, a pile of recipes to transfer into my recipe collection, a 6-pack of toilet paper and apathy.  But today we put everything in its place.  We put all my baking supplies in their glass jars.  I stepped back to survey the magnificence which is my clean kitchen and accepted the responsibility of putting all the seeds "away" in the ground today. 

So I spent my afternoon in full "Farmer Brown" mode:  running my hands through the loose soil in the unplanted squares, making the appropriate number of holes in each square and loosely covering the seeds.  Everything got a nice shower of cool water to start itself off with.  I had to make a quick seed run for onions and pumpkin.  I know now that I want a sugar pumpkin for cooking with.  That was a tidbit learned last year when I made my first pumpkin pie from an actual pumpkin, not a can. 

Home again and done but for about six assorted squares, I photographed my accomplishment for posterity. 

Tomatoes and their markers

Mistress Laura, Hey, how are ya?  How does your garden grow?  With tomatoes, carrots, peas, beans, onions, corn, lettuce, lavender and pumpkin all in square foot grids.  And I do not apologize to Mistress Mary.  She's rude and an inefficient gardener.

Carl Larsson's "Home"

Encouraged by his wife, an artist in her own right, Carl Larsson put scenes of domestic bliss and the pleasant country life his family enjoyed onto paper where they invoke the spirit of a bygone age. 

I admire the fortitude and spirit of his wife, who, dressed from head to toe, endeavored to create a welcoming atmosphere even in the outdoors on family outings.

The larger picture embraces the whole family at table outdoors.  The tiniest details did not escape his eye and they remain for our  perusal. 

The humblest of home chores becomes a thing of beauty and comfort in the right hands:  both Carl's and his daughters. 

I know it has nothing to do with homesteading.  But it's a book that never fails to make me smile.  I love looking at the pictures and picking out things I love.  I desperately love their house!  I want the pinafore aprons for myself and a braid just that long.  Okay, and the pig.  I want the pig.  Yes, everything is really just a cover for Pig Lust. 

Victory Garden

Today I planted a Victory Garden of a different sort.  I overcame the enemy Anxiety and went to my favorite local store, Carson's. I picked out some tomato seedlings of the Beef Master and the Better Boy varieties.  I did not allow myself to worry about heirlooms or hybrids or open pollination or seed saving.  I just did it.  Emboldened by this act of utter defiance, I went inside and stood before the Altar of Seeds. 

This is normally a place from which I avert my gaze,  It intimidates me with it's air of secret knowledge.  It knows that I don't know anything.  It sees straight into my heart of seed ignorance and mocks me.  But today I went right up to it and LOOKED AT IT!  I was not struck dead.  People did not whisper about me behind my back.  Instead someone came up and said, "You need some seeds?"  I acknowledged that that was the case and that I wanted sweet corn.  The Priestess of Country Hardware chanted the secret names of mystical seeds:  Bodacious, Serendipity, Peaches and Cream. 

I was mesmerized.  I whispered one of the names and asked for a pittance of the treasured kernels.  The Priestess stepped into action now, scooping out the hallowed grains and measuring them into a paper bag.  I received it solemnly and bowed my way out.  When I got home I dared to look upon these magical objects: 

Peaches and Cream sweet corn kernels

Having ventured this far into the battle, I set about making seed markers out of some craft supplies.  I had agonized over how to do this previously, but now I simply got out my paints and did it.  No second guesses, no doubts, no fears. 

I got out my seed packets.  I referred to the marked pages in the Square Foot Garden book.  I boldly went out into the backyard and Planted.  I planted the tomatoes.  I planted beets.  I planted carrots.  I did not die.  I was not killed nor mutilated.  The earth did not stop turning.  Environmentalists and Legislators did not flood my garden and tell me about the evils I was inflicting upon the earth, future generations and the deficit.  The only squawking came from the chickens as they fought over which side of the coop the little chicks could sleep in. 

Having achieved such a monumental success, but having simultaneously run out of daylight, I came inside and lit a candle to mark the occasion.  Today I planted a Garden of Victory. 

Countryside Magazine Rabbit Issue

Rabid Readers will remember that I submitted an article to Countryside magazine for their rabbit issue.  I got said issue today in the mailbox and flipped through it frantically, looking for my submission.  There it was, in all it's glory and misprinted email (my mistake, not theirs)!  I can die in peace now.  I've been published twice:  Once for an article on squirrels carrying plague infection in the Army Times newspaper, and now for a rabbit colony article in Countryside. 

My hubby made me read the article to him and then he patted the magazine.  I think he was proud of me. That makes two of us.  Craig had his mind blown when he recognized the pictures of our rabbits.  The idea that our small world could be seen by other people in a magazine was almost too much for him to handle. 

I showed the article to Mr. Bunny and he was unimpressed.  I think it takes a lot to impress Mr.  Bunny.  Just ask Mrs.  She knows. 

Moral Quandry

They're enjoying it so much.  Should I tell them that it's Chicken Noodle Soup? 

Broiler Beauties

BFF Cagney and Lacey having lunch together. 

So pretty, little broiler chick.  

I love these little girls.  It's too bad we're eating them, because they are the friendliest things.  Does anyone know if that's a trait of the Cornish hen or the Plymouth Rock?  I would like to get more chickens this sociable. 

I am glad too for the good influence that Cagney has on the broilers.  It is due to her, I believe, that they go out and forage and run around.  It's true that their legs are a little wonky, I see what people mean about that, but they seem to be fine.  They are free range, so they can run around in a fairly large area.  They just don't seem to have what I could call "stamina."  But then I don't either, so I don't count it as a fault, particularly. 

If I was selling them on the open market I would probably have to put that on the label:  Free Range,  Low Stamina, Pretty Broilers.  Good thing they are only for home consumption.  I don't think they could walk to the open market anyway.  *he he*

Fowl Farewell

Today Mrs. Duck joined in the animal exodus from Good Enough Farm.  Like Mr. Duck before her, like the Golden Comets and the Goats, Mrs. Duck packed her pool and left for Life in Gladys.  Her new family came to get her with their new collie puppy in tow and the two were introduced to each other with no fuss at all.  Mrs. Duck had her legs tied, just to ensure a calm ride for all concerned, and she was placed gently in the back seat while puppy rode up front.  Everyone here at Good Enough waved fond farewells, although I could swear I heard the little chicks mutter "Good Riddance!"  Or maybe that was me, under my breath.  Either way I'll never tell .

Blues

I love Southern Rock. 
I love Southern Blues. 

I love this song: 

"I gave you a brand new Ford
But you said, "I want a Cadillac"
I bought you a ten dollar dinner
and you said, "Thanks for the snack"
I let you live in my penthouse
You said it just a shack
I gave seven children
And now you wanna give them back."

I could listen to it all day, drivin' around in my truck with the windows down and  the volume up. 
Sing it, brother, sing it! 

Let's Talk About Chicks, Man

The Cornish Rock Cross chicks will be one month old tomorrow.  I've missed having chicks in the house, but because of their size they needed to go outside so much earlier than normal. 

They are surprisingly sociable little things, and like me to rub their bellies/breasts.  Ron says, "I'll rub your bellies for you, with some butter and garlic!" 

The one "normal sized" chick in the bunch is about half the size of the others.  But isn't she pretty? 

Don't you just want to give her a kiss?  Mwah!

Optional Step in Mixing Soil for Raised Beds

Let me state right now that I am not perfect.  I know that this may come as a shock to many of you, but it's true.  I am sinful and prideful and a handful.  It manifests itself in the strangest ways sometimes.  One of them occurred today. 

We were mixing the soil for the beds, and I wanted to add some of my compost that has been working itself into a good state for about six months or so.  Ronny suggested that we just add the compost on top, water it so that the 'compost tea' gets into the soil and then scrape it off.  He suggested that we didn't want to leave it in the mix because it's just wood shavings and poop, even if it's broken down and why would I want that in the beautiful soil I have now? 

Apparently, the answer is "Because I want to, I want to, I want to!"  And what's more, 'you try to ruin my projects all the time, and I never get to do what I want, and how come I have to do what you tell me to do anyway?'  The amazing thing is that he stood there and let me totally have a hissy fit and didn't say a word.  He let me fill up some buckets and calm down and then 15 minutes later when I was able to be coherent again  he listened to me as I confessed my real frustration.

Hold on, because it's a doozy:  I'm really frustrated because I'm a woman.  I'm the weaker vessel physically and I hate that.  I want to do it by myself and I can't because I'm not strong enough.  I'm the weaker vessel emotionally and I hate that.  I want to be able to do all this work without help and I can't so that makes me whiny and cranky and mean.  I hate that.  I want to do it by myself.  I don't want anyone to help me.  I hate that I am a woman sometimes. 

This man that totally drives me insane sometimes listens to me say all this and then says, looking down at me as I'm squatted on the frame of one of the beds and crying, "I know.  I know you hate that.  But you have accomplished everything you wanted to do today.  We did it the way you wanted, except for the compost.  I know you want to do it yourself, but whether I helped you or not, you got to do it your way, didn't you?" 

I hate it when they pull that logical cr*p on you.  So, that is the optional step in building raised beds.  I would recommend skipping it unless you really feel the need for a good catharsis.  I have to say that Mel completely missed this step in any of his books, but then, he's a man, so what can you expect? 

Mixing The Soil for Raised Beds

As if shoveling all the soil into piles in the yard had not been enough work, today we mixed the soil together to make our planting mix.  In a very scientific calculation, *snort*, I took all the extra buckets laying around and filled them with either topsoil or mushroom soil.  Five buckets of one, five buckets of the other all poured into the center of an old canvas tarp.

 This was actually the only part of the New Square Foot Garden book that we followed exactly.  Once all the soil is in the center of the tarp, we stood opposite each other at one of the ends of the canvas, picked up the corner and walked to the other end of the tarp with it as if we were folding it.  The soil in the center of the tarp mixes itself as you do this, spinning bottom over top, similar to a cement mixer.  We repeated this about three times, then filled our faithful buckets with the mixed soil and started pouring it into the beds.  Each bed took 5 buckets of topsoil plus 5 buckets of mushroom soil times 3.  Yup, 30 buckets.  Each bed.  That filled them virtually to the brim.

I was convinced that we did not have enough topsoil.  We had gotten 1 cubic yard, which is one tractor scoop, shaken not stirred.  I'm greedy and I kept thinking, "I can't believe he is shaking off the mounded soil!" and I was convinced we had been cheated.  I made Ronny ask him, "Is that really one cubic yard?" to which the man replied, "It's a little over, but we won't tell anybody."  We took my greedy self home where I lamented that we would be short on soil and have to buy more and why is it so expensive anyway?  But I was completely wrong.  We used ALL of the topsoil, to be sure, and 1/2 of the mushroom soil but we filled the three beds completely.

The darkened empty spot in the left foreground is where the topsoil was.  The pile in the background in mushroom soil. 

Ronny says we should buy some more lumber and build some more boxes and buy one more load of topsoil and do three more beds.  But my fingers hurt and I'm whiny so I don't want to think about it.    I will confess to the full extent of my whiny-ness in my next post, which I suppose is Step Three of Raised Beds, although I would consider it an optional step which need not be repeated.

Raised Beds, Step by Step

I have owned the New Square Foot Garden book for at least two years.  I look at it every year and say "This will be the year I do this."  But I don't.  I usually don't have the money for the whole process.  But this year I made a nice little pile of change from livestock sales and it was reinvested into the farm in the form of raised beds. 

I will admit first off that I am not doing it by the book.  I think the 4x4 box is a little small, I think 6 inch width on the boards is too short.  I like a long look.  And I don't like to stretch.  To address all these concerns, we bought seven 2x10x12 boards (non treated) and put them together into frames.  That gives the beds a nice depth, a narrow width, and length that I like visually.  They came out like this:

Ronny says they look like graves.  He wants me to write our names on the ends.  I don't think he is taking this seriously, do you? 

That was Step 1.  Step 2 required Mel's Mix.  But I'm not doing it by the book.  I'm kind of doing a jazz riff on the theme.  A new friend told me of a Mennonite man in Phenix who had mushroom soil for sale.  If you have not been acquainted with mushroom soil, let me explain:  Button mushrooms are grown in "houses".  These houses have growing bins full of mushroom compost made of dirt, manure, perhaps straw or corn cob, and compost from other sources.  Once the mix has been used in the house to grow mushrooms, it is all scooped out and sold.  Ideally, you obtain it after it has fully composted, thus having only a pleasant, earthy smell and being loose, crumbly and deliciously dark.  Being slightly concerned that the mushroom soil may be too nitrogen rich, we are mixing it with some purchased topsoil and some aged compost from my hens and rabbits.  Not the goats--that has to sit a little longer.

Monday afternoon I purchased a truckload of the mushroom soil.  Tuesday morning Ronny and I shoveled that out into the backyard, picked up the topsoil in Lynchburg, shoveled that out into the backyard, leveled the frames out and then collapsed.  It is my intention upon recovering to do the mixing and fill the beds.  That may occur on Wednesday, because I feel a nap calling my name. 

The mushroom soil is a little chunkier, and a little darker than the topsoil.

The topsoil was screened, which was nice.  

If all goes according to the best laid plans of mice and men, then tomorrow the beds will be full and warming in the sun until it is planting time.  I guess I should start some seeds now, huh? 

Silly Sunday

I absolutely adore anthropomorphic imagery.  Whether it be The Wind in the Willows or Beatrix Potter, I completely embrace the Universe In Which Animals Are In Fact People and they dress in lovely clothing, much more impeccably than I, and sit at table with exquisite china and manners to match, discussing the events of the day. 

David Peterson's vision of the immortal characters.

 

Samuel and Anna Maria Whiskers set upon Tom Kitten

A scholarly cat

The only thing better than a Watercolor of said Universe, is the occasional photograph which captures the crossover of one of these creatures into our own Universe.  I dare say they don't stay long, for once they have been spotted, *poof*, off they go.  But they are wondrous sightings to be sure.  For some reason, cats seem more often to be caught by the intrepid photographer.  But I think that may be due to the fact that cats are well known for not caring what people think, so it is surely nothing to them if a human happens to entrap their soul onto film.  Everyone knows a cat has an excess of souls, so if a few should go missing it is of no great concern. 

One of my most secret dreams is to share tea with these travelers. I should bring some Raisin Tea Biscuits and a proper pair of gloves.  I would nod my hat-bedecked head politely toward my host, "Yes, thank you.  Earl Grey would be splendid."  Splendid, indeed. 

Planning a Chair

The day I ranted on about Why More Men Write and More Women Read I capped off my afternoon with the purchase of a large rocking chair.  It's not the most attractive thing in the world, but it's very comfortable, it's "curling up" wide, and it was cheap.  I was thinking about not posting a picture of it until it was remade, but I decided to let you see the before. 

Whoever owned it previously wrote the date of purchase on the inside of the matching ottoman.  It's from 1976.  It has more than stood the test of time.  The fabric is not worn at all.  The wood has some nicks and scratches, but that just gives it personality.  The color of the fabric is kind of ooky, but I'm thinking it was awesome in '76.  Or not. 

The plan is to spray the chair down with a bonding primer as there is no way I am going to strip that thing down.  It has all these intricate spindles and stuff.  Not happening.  After I apply one coat of bonding primer, one coat of regular primer and one coat of Glossy white, I think I will have made it more acceptable to me.  Then the cushions need slip covers and I quite fortunately have some curtains I made a few years ago that will be easily converted into slipcovers.  So this is the Planning Phase of the Chair. 

I hope that I am seeing it accurately.  Sometimes I am overly optimistic.  I thought about painting it black, but I'm really not a "cool, trendy" person.  I'm more like "Oh, your great grandmother used to have that?  And you're giving it away?  I'll take it!" kind of person.  What do you think?  Is my vision for the chair a good thing, or do I need my mental eye examined for glasses?