I promise, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth! What I have been doing is moving a zillion animals, children, and boxes from here to kingdom come. And by kingdom come, I mean about 1.5 miles down the road from our old farm. But Lawdy – who knew that moving 1.5 miles from
I don’t partner with too many businesses here on the homestead, so when I do, you know I mean business! And by ‘mean business’, I mean I love them desperately. Such was the case when I hopped back over to MightyNest (as I often do…) to purchase a few more Bee’s Wraps (remember when I
My friend Angela has always been a classy woman. The girl was reading about Princess Diana’s fashion when she was 12. I mean – come on. I was still wearing platform shoes, flared jeans, and rhinestone belly tanks. “Classy” has never really been a word that I would use to describe my style. Wait, Shaye,
Remember, way about when, when flies didn’t bother us? (Well, rather, flies didn’t bother Adam and Eve…) Can you even imagine what that must’ve been like? Yes, I think of those times… when Adam was in the Garden, milking his sweet Jersey cow, frolicking in meadows of green grass, squirting milk into his perfectly clean
Remember that beautiful chicken run that we built a few weeks ago? It’s still lovely. The honeysuckle is growing. The chickens are sun bathing. The gardens aren’t being eaten. But. But there are three…four…or five gangsters that refuse to play by the rules. They come out. I throw them back in. They come out again.
Tis the season, my friends. For greens. Though… let’s face it… it’s pretty much always the season for greens. Greens in the fall. Greens in the winter. Greens in the spring. Greens in the… see where this is going? We’ve got greens coming out of our eyeballs and sprouting from our ears. Mustard greens. Kale.
I’m sorry Joel Salatin, but I’ve gotta disagree with you on one very, important point. That is, that the aesthetics of the farm DO MATTER. At least, they matter to me. I can’t help myself. It all began with Project Feminize that reared it’s head a few years back in an effort to rescue my
I hate free range chickens. There. I said it. Let the stoning begin. But first, perhaps I should clarify. Let’s just say that I lived out in the middle of a seventy three acre pasture. In said pasture, there was nothing but native grasses, and perhaps one bovine. I lived in a hut with no
Man. Man, oh man, oh maaaan. Do I love my husband’s beard. I know. Not everyone out there is a beard-lovin’ woman, I just happen to be one of them. I think my love for beards first came from my love of Ray LaMontagne, a singer who continues to pull at my heart strings with
Many homesteading skills are best learned through experience. And that I say from, well, experience. Most any of the tasks that we so desperately desire to take on as homesteaders require a sense of adventure – of focus – of determination to make it work. It was the same situation this past August, when I