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
I did it. I got sucked into computer-land for too long. And when that happens, I peel myself away – brain slightly sizzled – and instantly try and find something to do that will ground me. Baking bread has always been one of those things. It’s a reminder to me that I’m living. And that
I don’t know when it happened. But it happened. And as much as I hate to admit it – well, here I am. Admitting it. Lettin’ it loose. Slippin’ the lips. Confessing to the world… …friends, I’m a coffee snob. I remember back in college, sipping on my pre-ground Folgers, thinkin’ I’d hit the good
Something about having a baby makes me want to entirely redo my house. Like immediately. Urgently. Like somehow I’m supposed to have it perfectly designed and constructed and cleaned before the madness of a new child arrives. Some may call it nesting. I call it a sickness. Because only a sick person would attempt to