I remember watching the TV show "Green Acres" when I was young, never dreaming I'd be "Farm Living" myself one day. I don't know anyone with a pet pig. I take that back...I do know a lot of people who had pet porkers but none that lived in their house. Pet pigs are adorable until they get to be about a year old. Seems that's true with a lot of animals, cute until the hormones kick in, then they become obnoxious. Knowing this, I named my pink piggies "Roast" and "Ribs".
When the day came, I took the 1 hour drive to the city and went shopping at the mall. Shopping can get my mind off most anything. Returning to the farm at night, I would find the chest freezer full of neat packages wrapped in nice white paper. The butcher was used to dealing with squeamish people like me so he assured me it was NOT my pigs he had left for me. It was years later when I discovered he told everyone the same thing and it WAS my pet porkers I was BBQing. Now I'm glad he lied because I never would have been able to even cook a piece of that meat, let alone eat it!
This Granny has another gripe. Why, in this day and age, is boxing legal?
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
BY THE WAY:
When living on a farm, you NEVER crack an egg directly into a mixture in a mixing bowl or a pan that already has something cooking in it. Farm fresh eggs are delicious but sometimes they contain surprises!
I always take eggs out of the fridge the night before I'm going to cook them. Room temperature makes them crack easier and cook better. If a speck of poop won't wash off, use a piece of fine sandpaper to buff it off. Brown egg yolks are a little darker than white ones but they taste the same.
Chickens are a hoot! A couple years ago, I brought home cute little fuzzy babies and had them all named, they followed me around as I clucked to them. When I turned over a piece of wood alive with earwigs and other creepy crawlers, the pitch would be high with frenzy. Later in the afternoon while lazing in the rocking chair, I would make low crooning clucks and they would all gather around, pulling their feet underneath them and doze. I loved those chickens!
Then one night, it started. Terrible screeching sounds "help me, help me!" in chicken language, blasted from the hen house. I grabbed the trusty .22 cal. rifle and ran out to find the girls in an uproar and a only few feathers in Ellie's nest box. She was gone.
Night after night this would happen. A beloved feathered friend would disappear and I would again reinforce the fence, making it higher and stronger, making sure every little opening into the building was sealed. Still, the massacre went on, again and again. Alice, the lone survivor, followed me around all day. She talked non-stop and I knew she was frustrated because I just didn't GET it!
I placed her in her box that night. She was nervous because she knew it was her turn but she trusted me. I piled fresh hay in the corner and planned to sit there all night, armed with the 22 and a flashlight. Finally, around O dark thirty, Alice alerted me "the beast is here!". Turning on the light, I see 2 very fat raccoons lifting a board and crawling out towards Alice. I blasted them both with snake loads, over and over again until they got the point. They both retreated back under the floorboard, I secured it with a old heavy crock.
When it was light enough to see, I pried off all the flooring in the chicken coop and found I had created a coon condo with an all you can eat smorgie! They even had feather beds to sleep on for them AND the babies! I made their home safer for them by walling other predators out.
Being the softy I am when it comes to animals, I plucked out all the miniature bb's, stuffed the whole family in a gunny sack and transported them to lovely Mt. Spokane which is far enough away for them not to find their way back to the "Raccoon Regency".
I always take eggs out of the fridge the night before I'm going to cook them. Room temperature makes them crack easier and cook better. If a speck of poop won't wash off, use a piece of fine sandpaper to buff it off. Brown egg yolks are a little darker than white ones but they taste the same.
Chickens are a hoot! A couple years ago, I brought home cute little fuzzy babies and had them all named, they followed me around as I clucked to them. When I turned over a piece of wood alive with earwigs and other creepy crawlers, the pitch would be high with frenzy. Later in the afternoon while lazing in the rocking chair, I would make low crooning clucks and they would all gather around, pulling their feet underneath them and doze. I loved those chickens!
Then one night, it started. Terrible screeching sounds "help me, help me!" in chicken language, blasted from the hen house. I grabbed the trusty .22 cal. rifle and ran out to find the girls in an uproar and a only few feathers in Ellie's nest box. She was gone.
Night after night this would happen. A beloved feathered friend would disappear and I would again reinforce the fence, making it higher and stronger, making sure every little opening into the building was sealed. Still, the massacre went on, again and again. Alice, the lone survivor, followed me around all day. She talked non-stop and I knew she was frustrated because I just didn't GET it!
I placed her in her box that night. She was nervous because she knew it was her turn but she trusted me. I piled fresh hay in the corner and planned to sit there all night, armed with the 22 and a flashlight. Finally, around O dark thirty, Alice alerted me "the beast is here!". Turning on the light, I see 2 very fat raccoons lifting a board and crawling out towards Alice. I blasted them both with snake loads, over and over again until they got the point. They both retreated back under the floorboard, I secured it with a old heavy crock.
When it was light enough to see, I pried off all the flooring in the chicken coop and found I had created a coon condo with an all you can eat smorgie! They even had feather beds to sleep on for them AND the babies! I made their home safer for them by walling other predators out.
Being the softy I am when it comes to animals, I plucked out all the miniature bb's, stuffed the whole family in a gunny sack and transported them to lovely Mt. Spokane which is far enough away for them not to find their way back to the "Raccoon Regency".
Saturday, March 1, 2008
THE IDIOSYNCRASIES OF FARMLIFE:
If you have a farmhouse, nobody uses the front door. It's like it doesn't exist. UPS, neighbors, everyone, comes to the back door. Not only to the back door but right on through the closed-in back porch to the kitchen door. It took me about 6 months to get used to this. The doorbell by the front door didn't work when I moved in, probably from lack of use and I just never got around to fixing it, would have been a waste of time anyway!
At the beginning of each new season, I would decorate the front porch with enthusiasm. My favorite was Autumn. The grapevine wreath I wove at my mother's home in Sonoma County, CA., with fall colored leaves, adorned the front door. A scarecrow sat in the old wicker rocker with a pumpkin and a basket full of Indian Corn on his lap, stuffed crows on his hat. Bundles of shocked corn stood here and there.
It was all in vain, not a single human eyeball ever glanced toward the front porch on their way to the proper "farm house" ingress - egress.
At the beginning of each new season, I would decorate the front porch with enthusiasm. My favorite was Autumn. The grapevine wreath I wove at my mother's home in Sonoma County, CA., with fall colored leaves, adorned the front door. A scarecrow sat in the old wicker rocker with a pumpkin and a basket full of Indian Corn on his lap, stuffed crows on his hat. Bundles of shocked corn stood here and there.
It was all in vain, not a single human eyeball ever glanced toward the front porch on their way to the proper "farm house" ingress - egress.
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