Hat Trick

Bullwinkle J. Moose has nothing on Mrs. Bunny. 

I have been familiar with Mrs. Bunny's offspring for the last four months.  I knew the older kits and the younger ones.  I had counted them all, compulsively, and knew their exact number.  Four older kits, two younger ones.  I caught and sold six kits yesterday.  Thank God, I said, for some quiet time for Mrs. Bunny. 

I went about my evening.  After returning home from the meeting, I went out to make sure there was enough food and water out for Mr. and Mrs. and what do you think I saw?  Another bunny.  C'mon!  It was a two month old, not a new one, but I just want to know where it has been hiding!  Where, Mrs. Bunny?  You don't even have a hat to pull it out of!  (Yes, I know, ending a sentence with a preposition is improper.  Deal with it.)

And don't lie to me, Mrs. B.  I know it didn't grow in the corn patch.  Did it?  Did you peel away the husks and there it was?  Sounds like a hare-brained story to me.  And you're a rabbit. 

Cats and Dogs and Chicks, OH MY!

Where to begin, Dear Reader?  We have been very busy, relatively speaking, here at Good Enough Farm.  We have been walking, watering, feeding, tearing out stupid corn that blew down for the third time, planning our mid-August planting, cleaning, organizing and car shopping.

We will begin with big announcements:  I now have a non-jalopy to run around in.  It's a used Mercury Mountaineer which I will be tagging tomorrow.  I will now be traveling in an Abbreviated Vehicle.  It has A/C, AWD, C/con, E/m, E/seats, TW, VGC, V8 and IDK what else!  Oops, I forgot a blessing:  It has headphone jacks and controls for the radio which can be operated from the back seat.  If you know Craig, you understand this, if not, count your blessings.

I'm looking forward to some adventures in it already.  (I don't know why, but as I write that I get an image of myself as Lucy Ricardo and Ronny as Ricky telling me 'I have some 'splainin' to do'.) 

Moving on to smaller events:  Chloe and Kitty have begrudgingly accepted each others existence in the same household.  This is normally not an issue since Kitty lives outside 98% of the time.  But this week Kitty has decided he would like some A/C, and this has caused some small bit of ruckus.  They will get close to each other now, however, with assorted hissing and strategic retreating. 

 

 

Way back behind the white chair, yeah, that's Kitty at a distance he deems acceptable.

In exciting Obedience Training updates, Chloe has got "Stay" down flat.  I'm talking "Chickens walking around not three feet from her" Stay. 

She will not come through this gate unless invited.  Look at the beauty of her Avoidance stance!

Baby Chicks are getting to be big little chicks!  We opened the door to the Brooder Side and inserted a window screen so they can get fresh air but cannot escape.  Brilliant. 

We end our news broadcast with a touching story of an adventurous chick whose bravado was bigger than its brains.  In the above picture you can see the 'roost' for the baby chicks.  One of the yellow ones had flown up to it and was happily perched upon it. She went to fly back down, but landed inside the feeder.
Poor little Peep.  The feed level was low so she was stuck in there until I showed up to refill it.  I'll bet that's something she doesn't forget for a while. 

What I Did Today

I've never been diagnosed with anything like Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or Fibromyalgia.  Just simple Dysthymia   Medication enables me to live a fairly normal life, but there are some days where I'm in pain or just exhausted for no good reason.  Today was one of them.  I diagnosed myself with Tiredness and treated with Colloidal Silver (why take chances?) and a nap. 

I still did the necessary things so no one starved, and there are dishes to eat off of, and clean clothes waiting to be put away.  The dog was walked and the trash was taken to the dump.  The rabbits got fed--oops, no they didn't.  But that was on purpose because we're doing a herd reduction tomorrow.  But, I gotta tell you:  If you could lose weight from dragging your body around all day, I would be thin. 

These Jelly Clogs Were Made For Walkin'

It will be two weeks this Sunday that we have had a dog in the household.  Since she is my dog, I walk her.  First thing in the morning I roll out of bed and throw on some clothes and out we go.  We've been doing a mile in the morning and another mile at dusk.  Today, however, circumstances encouraged us to add some mileage. 

Picture a quiet country road.  It's about 8 AM and no one is around but you and your dog.  It's humid and there is no breeze to speak of.  You are walking a brisk pace, your dog is panting at your side and all is right with the world.  Until you see that your path is going to cross with a colorful gentleman who is walking up the road in your direction, wearing his pajamas and talking loudly to himself.  Okay.  Crossing the road is not enough distance between you and him.  But, look, the only side street for several miles is just ahead and would be a welcome detour!  So off you go, climbing yet another hill, then down around the gravel cul-de-sac and back out to the main road.  Thankfully, he has gone down a driveway somewhere and you can finish your walk and go home. 

While it was The Voice of Caution which dictated this change of course, it happily added a half mile to the daily total.  Then this evening, strolling down by the bridge (under construction and limiting the mileage and scenery available to you on your daily constitutional), you throw caution to the wind and detour down a dirt track through the woods to see where it leads.  It's the kind of thing that your husband would wring your neck over if he knew you were doing it, and finally you decide you should turn around and go back out to finish your regular course.  Between Caution and it's Polar Opposite, you have added a mile to your route. 

And what do you have to show for all this walking and sweating?  Hmmm?  Well, for myself, I've gotten to know several of the neighbors by sight, which is something I wouldn't have accomplished otherwise, since we live sort of spread out.  And the colorful gentlemen of the morning wasn't so scary by evening, mostly because he was very mellow due to the copious consumption of  'branch water'.  But I think the most important thing I have to show is less of myself.  Yes, kiddies, I have inadvertently lost seven pound along the trail.  If you find it, feel free to keep it.  I don't need it anymore.  

The Great Chick Escape

In the spirit of  great films such as Stalag 17, The Great Escape and Chicken Run, thirteen small chicks used their collective miniscule brainpower to devise a method of escape from the brooder yesterday.  I shrugged when I saw six of them out in the yard and said, "how bad can it be?"  Then when I looked out later and saw the entire mass of peeps out in the woods I realized that I had been entirely too nonchalant. 

I called Craig for assistance and we went out to try to herd them back through the fence.  They seemed to have figured out our strategy and I was forced to employ methods perfected by the Great Generals of the Past to get them back in.  Of course, before I could get back up to the gate they had gone out through the fence in another spot again.  I must admit to an unchristian oath passing my lips.  I think I bit the words as they came out I was so angry.  I decided that desperate measures were called for. 

I herded them back into the Hen Yard, and scared them under the coop.  Quick as the wind, I grabbed a long sheet of plastic from the bed of the truck and blocked up three sides of the under-coop.  I dragged two logs in and closed off the front of the under-coop except for one small area.  This would be the only way out for them.  I cackled and sat there on an overturned bucket, sweating and waiting.  Every once in a while I would walk around the perimeter and tap the house with a stick to startle them away from the sides and back.  After about an hour of this sort of  psychological warfare I retrieved the last stubborn chick and confined them all to the brooder area again.  I pinned a bed sheet half way up the wire coop wall through which they had escaped earlier, allowing for air circulation while eliminating their ability to, quite literally, 'fly the coop'. 

The fact that it took only 13 baby chicks to outsmart and outmaneuver me, a college educated adult, should be a humbling thing. I'm onto them now, though, and they won't get by me again.  I took one of the chicks aside and brain-washed him last night, so I have an informant in their midst.  I'd call him a stool pigeon, but he's a chicken. 

Structure

Ronny likes to ask me the same question every day.  "What are your plans today?"  Plans?  Plans?  I always answer the same way.  "I don't really have any.  I like my day to just happen to me."  This is, of course, an utter and complete lie.  Not that I don't have plans, that's probably true.  But that I like my day to just happen to me?  Lie.  As Bald faced* a lie as the top of Bruce Willis' head, if that makes any sense.

In fact, I crave structure.  I just want someone else to create it for me.  I'm severely undisciplined.  I want someone to set the parameters of my day for me, to schedule it on my behalf for my benefit and general welfare.  *sigh*  This has never happened yet, so I struggle on with half-hearted lists, notations on the refrigerator dry-erase board, and rules that stipulate 'dress before noon' and such nonsense.

Feeling rather out of control and depressed one evening, with dirty dishes from two days back adorning the kitchen counters, I set up a membership to Flylady.  I get lovely emails with schedules and encouragement and rules about 'dress all the way to the shoes.'  I have yet to Swish and Swipe.  I do not wear shoes in the house.  But I did a 15 minute "cleaning".  I scanned some of Allison's homeschool work in preparation for putting it onto a CD to send to her.  I scanned it and threw it away.  I did two days worth of dishes and cleaned the sink and threw all the nasty sink junk on top of the homeschool pages that now lived in the trash can.  Later that day I went to look at the scanned files and guess what?  They wouldn't open.  There was an error.  They were lost in some sort of document limbo.

There was nothing else to do but pull the pages out of the trash, clean them off and re-scan them (using Adobe instead of Windows stupid PDF complete).  All of this was just to teach me a lesson of some kind, I'm sure.  Structure is overrated.  Trash is Messy.  Shoes are uncomfortable.  A stack of old homeschool papers on the floor is worth two in the scanner.  Take your pick.  They all work for me.  

*For an interesting discussion on the word "Bald-faced"  see this link.

Instead of Giving Them To The Neighbors

I've had people tell me on occasion that I am generous.  I, myself, happen to know that this is untrue.  I am greedy, selfish and clutching.  As an example, I have more tomatoes than I know what to do with.  Will I give them to my neighbors?  No.  In spite of the fact that years of eating grocery store tomatoes have ruined my appetite for tomatoes.  So, besides putting some in a salad, or slicing some for sandwiches, what is a person to do with tomatoes?  Craig voted for making ketchup, but I have a secret fear that homemade could never match the glories of Heinz.  So I voted and it was a landslide victory for Tomato Sauce. 

Confidentially, I've never made sauce from scratch.  Shoot, I've never made sauce by combining canned tomatoes and tomato paste.  I'm a Prego girl from way back.  But I soldier on, undeterred by ignorance.  I went to Pickyourown.org and followed the tutorial for preparing your 'maters. 

Step One:  Have tomatoes.

Step Two:  Boil water in a big pot.

Step Three:  Add the tomatoes to the boiling water.  Count to 60 or 75.  Remove tomatoes from boiling water and put them into cold water.  (Ice water is best, but I'm not wasting my ice on tomatoes, thank you!)

You may be able to see the skin peeling away from the tomato.  That is the point of this exercise.  We are removing skins.  Which is in fact,

Step Four:  Remove skins. 

Step Five:  Now comes the tedious part.  Quarter your tomatoes, removing the stem area.  Squish through those babies and get out all the seeds or bruises or anything you look at and say "I don't want that in my sauce."  I don't have a picture of this because my hands were messy. 

Step Six:  You should now have something resembling this:

Drain any remaining liquid by placing the tomatoes in a colander.  The reason for this is that any excess liquid will just have to be boiled out later, so you really save time by draining it now, capito? 

Finally, Step Seven, in which we are tired and say "I am saving these tomatoes for later and having a frozen pizza for tonight."  Thus, we break out freezer bags and we evenly divide the fruits of our labors into bags, squeezing out as much air as possible, and pop them into the freezer. 

In anticipation of that future day in which I will make actual sauce out of my real tomatoes, I have been forced to look online, since I have lost my mother's recipe and I refuse to call her up and get it out of pride.  So, I will be using as a loose guideline http://simplyrecipes.com/recipes/basic_tomato_sauce/.  

One thing I know I would do differently than the recipe is that I would make and add meatballs like Grandma Nora used to make, with raisins in them. For that, I don't need a recipe.  It's written in my heart. 

All This For That?

This is my pumpkin plant. 

I actually had the nerve to say to myself when I planted it, "If I only get one pumpkin, I'll be happy."  The picture is rather dark, but I am safe in saying that there are 50 blooms old and new on that one plant.  But, don't count your pumpkins before they're grown.

 This is the only pumpkin I can find.

I think it has something to do with male and female flowers.  Do I have to artificially inseminate my pumpkins?  It just sounds kinky to me.  I could be happy with one pumpkin....

Busy As A Bee

Getting a phone call at 6:06 AM is not my preferred method of waking up, but since I was expecting it the shock was not so brutal as it might have been.  It was the Concord Post Office announcing the arrival of my box of chicks.  I threw some clothes on, combed my hair, tossed on a jacket to ward off the chill and trucked on down.  5 minutes later found me in possession of a box of cheeping babies, wishing I had set up the feed and water last night so I could just crawl back into bed when I got home.  I performed the necessary tasks for the babies, dipping beaks and making sure all were in good condition.  I counted several times, difficult to do with sleep starved eyes, and went back to bed.  Awakening an hour and a half later, I set about the normal daily tasks:  water the garden, feed and water the animals, walk the dog, make breakfast.

At some point I decided to finally undertake a chore I put off for months:  pruning back the driveway trees.  Our driveway travels a narrow tunnel through overgrown trees, branches brushing the sides and dragging across the roof.  I assigned Craig a much desired privilege.  He got to drive while I stood in the bed of the truck with a pair of pruning hooks, cutting on the sides and above my head.  It didn't take me long to feel sick from the exertion, but I pressed on.  I enlisted Craig's help for some more stubborn branches, and then we drove back up to the house with the bed full of pine and oak branches. 

After a Poison Ivy Prevention Plan which includes washing all clothes worn for pruning and baths with Poison Ivy Soap, I pretty much felt like I had earned my supper.  Chicken pot pie, starring one of the spring broilers.  I think there may be some spectacular late summer releases:  Red Broiler 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. 

Chloe hopes that at least one of the 'releases' is fit only for the dogs.  Don't hold your breath, sweetie.

My Name Is Laura And I Am Passive-Aggressive

I've been doing a lot of reading since I sneaked brought the dog into our family.  Being a Rat Terrier, she has specific strengths as well as specific weaknesses which are, um, specific to her breed.  She's a working dog, liking to be active at something she perceives as purposeful.  A brisk walk with no sniffing allowed just screams "I'm working here!"  A trot around the chicken yard (on leash, thank you) makes her feel protective of the juicy little morsels.  Even an examination of the rabbit pen (on the other side of the fencing) is an exertion of self control, as barking will not be allowed to pass without a squirt from the hose.  She gets rewarded for a lack of aggression.  So I have to catch her doing a desired behavior and then reward it with praise, a fur rub or a tiny treat. 

She is, however, a slyly manipulative little devil.  She will bring her Pig up and squeak it with her teeth, knowing that this will make you want to play with her.  But she tricked you into it.  She will let you hold her Pig, but then she will push your hand with her little muzzle, encouraging you to play Tug of War.  I won't do it with her because I see the little wheels turning in her brain.  She's trying to demonstrate to me that She is the Boss.  She controls playtime.  She pulls the Pig.  She decides who gets barked at.  She is a Passive Aggressive dog.  She uses her Adorableness as a Tool to Get Her Way.

The truly shocking thing about this 'revelation' was that I recognized myself in these descriptions of dog behavior. 
I do the same thing. 
I am a passive aggressive dog individual. 
I am exposed for my true nature by Cesar Millan and his stupid show. 
If Ronny ever becomes a Calm, Assertive Pack Leader I'm dead. 

Introducing Chloe

Sunday afternoon, after my husband had conveniently left for work for a day or so, I saw a Rat Terrier listed on craigslist for free.  F-R-E-E.  The ad was brief and left much to the imagination.  I e-mailed.  I e-mailed a 'sorry to bother you, but' and then finally made contact.  By about 6:30 PM on Sunday I was driving away from a lovely family with a new member of my own family in the truck with me. 

She came crate-trained, house broken, with her favorite toy, food, treats, collar, leash, crate and towel.  Did I say she was Free?

 Now, I will confess that I, um, forgot to tell Ronny that I was looking for a dog.  Or that I found a dog, or that I brought a dog home.  I determined that it was best, having 'forgotten' to do any of these things, that it was best to just have him come home and find a dog in residence.  History will record the effectiveness of such a strategic decision.  He took it better than I had anticipated, but he did say "no."  He did a lot of head shaking and walked away.  He gave me reasons why we shouldn't have a dog.  He explained how the dog would just run away, or poop in the house, or shed all over the furniture.  An hour later he was sitting on his couch, watching television, with a dog sitting next to him. 

Look at that face!

Chloe is much more persuasive than I am, I think. 

Insert Clever Title of Your Choice

At Good Enough Farm, there are currently three types of bread that are made:  Survival Bread, Good Bread, and Adventure Bread.  As you may be able to discern, Survival Bread is sufficient for its purpose, also having the advantage of not needing much kneading.  (he-he)  It's for when I just don't have the energy to knead a lot.  It makes good toast and is adequate for containing sandwich fillings.  Then, there is Good Bread.  This is a step up from Survival Bread in both flour and kneading.  You see, Survival Bread is made with any old flour left laying around because we just don't care.  But Good Bread is made with King Arthur Flour.  Ah, yes, the Kingly Flour!  And Good Bread gets kneaded rather creatively:  You knead it for three or four minutes, clean out and grease your bread rising bowl while the dough ball 'rests', knead it again for three or four minutes and let it rise for an hour.  Then you knead it again for a minute or two.  You have to have energy and motivation for Good Bread.  The results are certainly worth it, but still, if you haven't the strength you just haven't the strength.  Then there is Adventure Bread.  This is Bread which is new and different in some way and we're not sure if we'll like it or hate it.  Maybe it only makes one loaf after all your effort that would normally go into two loaves.  Maybe it has strange and exotic ingredients, like Rolled Oats.  (Okay, it's not exactly exotic, but I don't like oats as a whole.) 

Last night I made Adventure Bread, more properly known in this instance as Oatmeal Toasting and Sandwich Bread.  

It makes one loaf.  A nice height to the loaf, although it also took two hour long risings to get that.  Nice Texture.  Good toast.  I could not really tell about the flavor, however, as it had the disadvantage of competing with Orange Marmalade, butter and English Breakfast Tea.  I'll have a piece later and judge it on it's own merits.  It'll be a sacrifice, but someone has to do it. 

Truck Troubles

My Giant Black Beauty of a Truck has been giving me troubles lately.  She has started smelling gassy.  'Not,' as I explained to Craig, 'the flatulent kind, but the fuel kind.'  Although, given the right circumstances it could go either way.  Anyway, I made the mistake of telling Ronny and he immediately revoked my driving privileges.  I suppose he envisions flaming gas tank explosions and incinerated corpses and such.  But I've watched MythBusters and I know that it's a lot harder to do that than Hollywood would have us believe.  Somehow the watching of television shows does little to accredit me in Ronny's eyes, so I have been housebound. 

I'm not terribly broken up over it, but sometimes I do like to go for a 'breath of fresh air.'  Why that involves the production of Carbon Monoxide and a little bit of sulfur I can't explain, but it does.  Don't tell, but I took Craig out for a bit of a cruise so we could blow the cobwebs out of our brains.  We traveled down to Appomattox, enjoying the humid cloudiness as only people suffering from cabin fever can. 

I've been suffering from PMS and Delayed Gratification, so any change is a good thing.  The PMS will pass, and my baby chicks will arrive next Friday so that I can pour out my maternal excess on their little fluffy butts.  Chicken Butts always remind me of those frilly diaper pants that I used to put on Allison when she was a baby.  With rows of lace across the back, even double cloth diapers somehow manage to look adorable. 

Of course, baby chicken butts have an unfortunate tendency to get a wee bit crusty and that minimizes their adorability on occasion.  I wonder if they make Butt Wipes for baby chicks?  I've seen chickens in diapers, so it might be that they do.  Is there a large market for chicken undergarments?  These are the things that go through my head when I'm stuck at home.  I really need to get out more. 

Guest Blogger

Pictured Above is our Guest Blogger for this evening.  He has earned this privilege by helping me with all the vegetable garden associated chores today.  Take it away, Craig. 

I helped her peel the beets and cut the carrots.  And green beans.  My favorite part is cutting the beans.  The beets can be a little bit hard to peel, but the gloves made it easier.  

Some of the carrot-tops were very easy and sometimes I do have a hard time cutting the tops off.

Cutting the carrots are okay and I have a great time doing that.

The beans were very easy to cut 'cause now you have something easier to do, like cutting the carrots, cutting the beans, and cutting the beets.

Thank you, Craig, for being our guest blogger and our photographer for the evening.  All pictures remain the property of Craig Little.  (Although he says you can share the pictures with everybody.)

Making Progress

Having slept in today to catch up on all the lost sleep from this weekend, I then fulfilled a promise I made myself that I would harvest some veggies.  I did a few test pulls of the carrots and have firmly concluded I planted them way too close for their own good.  I will get baby carrots, however, so it is certainly not a loss or a failure, just a lesson. 

The Beets, likewise, may have been too close, but they still look lovely. 

I think I might start a career as a vegetable photographer.  But I need to take some classes in misting first.  There definitely should have been dew-like drops of water on those colorful roots.