I'm molting

not melting,

I'm molting.

Lately I have been collecting mini sized eggs from my hens. Not only that, but only one or two eggs a day (compared to an average of seven awhile back). I actually had to buy white eggs from the store to keep up with my family's breakfast order, which kinda freaked the kids out. "Mom, what's the matter with this egg, it's white?!"

I thought my chickens might be sick, but turns out they need a "reset" time. It's called "molting." It's normal for chickens to stop laying eggs for a bit this time of year. They put all that egg-makin' energy into rejuvenating their feathers and bodies. Less daylight and colder weather tell them it's time.

Maybe it's the time change, the cold weather, the shorter days, but it feels like I'm taking that big deep breath before hunkering down for winter too. Time to wind down from harvest, and step into the snowboots.

Just molting.

rent a daddy

What was the mama goat's favorite t.v. show?....The Nanny

What do you call a goat that's floating on the water?...Billy Bob So right now we are renting a "billy goat" (I use quotes because the word billy is sometimes frowned on in the goat community) We're hoping he will get frisky with our goat girls and in 5 months...voila...kids. One sniff of our rent-a-daddy and you would understand why we rent instead of own. PeeeeUuuuuu!! I gag when I'm out doing chores and the wind comes at me just right. Bucks have a really strong smell that helps send the does into heat. One of the reasons they stink so much is that they pee on their own goatees....the ladies must dig it...yuck again. I was lucky enough to witness it within 5 minutes of our goats introductions.

Last year we did purchase a buck, Tuffy, from a very kind neighbor. We got a deal on him because he was recovering from a dog attack. He was one sad sight, but we were assured he could "do the job." Well, he killed over mid winter, poor guy. "At least he went out well," we thought. Five months later I was expecting kids. Apparently Tuffy did NOT get the job done. Shucks.

...and a few more lame goat jokes for the road:

What do you call a goat that isn't moving...Billy Idle

What do you call a goat that lip-syncs?...Billy Vanilli.

What do you call a goat that is a professional comedian?...Billy the Kid

written by a disgruntled mother

Remember the story of the little red hen? Now that I'm a parent, something is very obvious!...

mama hen: "oh look at all this work that needs to be done for dinner tonight. Who will help me plan dinner?"

children: "not I"..."not I"... "I've got homework"

mama hen: "who will help me set the table?"

children: "not I"..."not I"... "I've got stuff to do"

mama hen: "who will help me peel these potatoes"

children: "not I"..."not I"... "not me either, mom"

When the delicious dinner aroma spreads throughout the house you can guess who starts showing up for the meal. Suddenly all the un-interested, "busy" or otherwise occupied parties are happy to volunteer assistance...as taste testers!

...So back to what is now so obvious to me. This story was written by a disgruntled mother! One who was only trying to teach her children the value of hard work and probably never had the heart to send her moochy slackers to their room when they would not chip in. Perhaps by threatening them with this story that mother did get a little bit of payback while she slaved solo over the hot stove.

Harvest Moon

Last night the moon was so bright it lit up my bedroom. How convenient I thought, because as I looked across the fields I saw the headlights of a dozen tractors. The sun was long past setting, it was around 10 pm, but these guys were still working, also appreciative of the harvest moon.

You see, right now is harvest. Around here harvest is a serious verb. It's crunch time - most of the crops are out of the ground and into the cellars, but the sugar beets are last on the list. What are sugar beets you ask? Well they make sugar...but that's for another blog.

Anyways, it's a rush around here because wet weather is on the way and if the fields get too muddy, the tractors get stuck. Stuck tractors...no more sugar beets...not good! That's why it's so urgent that all the work get finished up. The tractors get diggin' before sun up and aren't finished until after dark. I'm not a real farmer, but I am fascinated with this stuff. Many of my friends are the real deal (i.e. they make their livelihood by it) so I dedicate this post to them and to their lonely families that are anticipating a post-harvest reunion :) I love living in a community that prays for a safe and productive harvest!

FYI, during a "harvest moon" there is less time between sunset and moonrise. Harvest moons were said to help the working farmers bring in their crops. They could continue being productive by moonlight even after the sun had set. thanks wikipedia

calling in sick

Do you ever feel like calling in sick with housework? Sometimes it's so tempting to push it off 'till the next day. When I feel like complaining I try remembering the old days when women could NOT get out of chores and wouldn't dream of pushing anything off until tomorrow because each day was so packed.

Imagine an era without microwaves, dishwashers, washing machines, dryers, vacuums, mixers, or TV aka free babysitters to keep 'em busy so you CAN get work done ... Suddenly our "to-do list" doesn't look too bad, eh?

My mom grew up in the 50's. Her family farmed in a rural area outside Boise. Their lifestyle was pretty common for families of that area, but it was a lot more down to earth than my dad's upbringing in the city during the same time. Sure, new inventions were making housework more convenient, but they were also a luxury that wasn't available for everyone yet. Routines varied with individual families, of course, but for most homes the housework routine was pretty set. A schedule might look something like this...

Monday - all day wash day. My mom remembers washing all the loads of laundry in the washer on their porch. They used the same soapy water for all the loads...eww. After agitating, the soapy clothing was moved to a new rinse bucket with attached wringer-roller (no spin cycle, see the photo above). During nice weather the clothes dried on the line outside, but during the winter they hung them up inside the porch. Tuesday - Ironing day. If I had to devote a whole day to ironing I think I'd wear wrinkled clothes. During my current life stage, I avoid buying any high maintenance material that requires an iron, so the ladies of yesterday must have had a lot more class than me. Following laundry day, all the clothing would need to be ironed. Remember, no fancy steam irons, just pure hard work.

Wednesday - Mend and sew day. My grandmother laughed when I asked her what it meant to "darn a sock." Maybe that is where the saying "oh, darn," came from. Anyways, essentially darning means mending, reweaving the knit, etc. etc. Just ask someone who went through the depression about mending and you'll get their soap-box about how our generation has become so disposable and doesn't know how to make do with anything. True, we're sure lucky. I leave any mending for when my mom visits and con her into doing it for me.

Thursday - Clean house. I wonder if those skilled homemakers knew the trick to getting the house clean all at once, all on the same day. This is an impossible task for me to do with all my little blessings running around.

Friday - Baking day. Without a fancy mixer, I think I'd get carpo-tunnel from making enough bread to feed my family for the week! I always thought it was a joke, but my mom really did grow up eating bread and milk for dinner.

Saturday - Go to town day. I hear stories from my senior neighbors about how the whole town used to be packed on Saturdays. It was the day to visit with everyone while you walked up and down mainstreet doing your shopping. How'd they keep track of all the kids without one stop shopping?

Sunday - Church and big family dinner. Hopefully mom got a nap in because....

...Monday it started all over again!

a frontier girl

I ran across a novel excerpt in a magazine the other day and can't wait to get my hands on this book: Half Broke Horses, by Jeannette Walls. It's the story of Lily Casey Smith, born in a Texas dugout in 1901. The cover photo caught my attention- I'm obsessed with the lives of homesteaders during this time period.

Lily's tales of a wild west childhood include spending the night in a tree with her younger siblings. At ten years of age, she saved them from a flash flood and kept them secure upon the limb of an old cottonwood tree until the water calmed enough the following morning and they were able to search for their parents. On another occasion, Lily broke a fall from their horse with her forearm and split her bone in half. Back in those days, a bone was set at home using a paste concoction whipped up by her father.

Lily and I would have been friends. A little rowdy and hair brained, this cowgirl ended up running a huge ranch with her husband. A true frontier girl.

adios amigo

Last spring, I mentioned our rooster's days were numbered. It got to the point that our kids would not to go outside because they were afraid of being attacked by the mean thing. I tried shackin' him up with the hens again, but he pecked one of their eyes out (now she looks like a pirate hen). I had enough...it was time to turn Mr. Rooster into Sunday dinner.

I remember seeing my grandma butcher a turkey when I was a little girl. I was so grossed out I had a hard time eating any of it. It's funny how we have become so disconnected with our food. I seldom think about the origins of the food I buy at the grocery store. When I buy a carton of eggs, I don't imagine them coming out a chicken's butt...I just eat them! However, when I started collecting eggs from my own chickens it was hard to eat them. Coming out the chicken's butt was the ONLY thing I could think about!

There is nothing thrilling to me about killing an animal so please don't report me to PETA. I expected the chicken to run around after it was butchered, but nothing too exciting happened.

In all, it was a very interesting day. It made me realize how lucky we are to have so much food at such convenience. Count your blessings that you don't have to go chase down a bird in your yard when you have a taste for chicken dinner.

The first few bites were a little strange when we realized WHO we were eating, but in all it was a rewarding feeling be eating something that we raised ourselves. Thanks Mr. Rooster!

FYI, someone told me chef, Gordon Ramsay, is a big fan of raising your own food too - does that mean am I as crazy as he is?!