Sunday, February 20, 2011
How Do The Simple Folk Live?
Well, if there's anything more pleasant than weeding your garden on a warm day in February while your chickens scratch around you, helping you with your project and taking delicate bites off the collards as you work, I don't really know what it is.
Mr. Moon and I worked together, both of us listening to our various books on listening devices but chatting now and then, here and there, as we worked towards each other to meet in the middle for one nice, cleared place for the potatoes to go, perhaps. Mr. Moon and I have different gardening theories and as far as I can tell, despite years and years of doing this, neither one of us really has a flick on the right way to do anything.
If he had his way, he'd get in that garden with the tiller and just turn it all under but to my mind, if you just leave all the weeds in before you till, you're not doing a damn thing but spreading them. Of course, no matter how much I weed, the weeds come back so what the hell?
But I think that mostly I just love to weed.
Anyway, there we were and the chickens came in and started their scratching and nibbling beside us and we agreed that it was amazing how natural it feels to share our world here with the chickens. That we never knew how much we'd love them.
"'Bout time for us to be finding snakes in the hen house," I said, and then sure enough, not an hour later we checked for eggs and there was a little oak snake and Mr. Moon grabbed it up and in trying to figure out where to put it, the little sucker bit him but no big deal. Well, not for Mr. Moon. I would have freaked and thrown the damn snake as far from me as I could have but it's a moot point in that I do not grab snakes. Ever.
But here he is, holding the serpent.
I'd bite something that much bigger than me too, if it grabbed me.
No one died, including the snake but here we go again. Damn snakes just love eggs and I don't mind sharing a few but they are greedy and numerous. Plus, it scares the bejesus out of me, walking in the hen house and reaching for something and realizing I'm about to grasp a snake.
Well, we share our world with a lot of things here. Bugs and weeds and snakes and some of them are beautiful and some of them are ultimately helpful and some of them are just pests and we try not to senselessly destroy any of them. Well, tomato hornworms, perhaps, but "senselessly" doesn't enter into it. I hate those suckers.
They are ugly and they eat my tomato plants. Damn the tomato hornworm! They piss me off! They can mow through a row of tomato plants like Sherman through Atlanta. Or one of those generals. Whatever. You get my drift.
Here's what they look like and no, I did not take that picture.
Well, anyway, it's martini time and then I'm going to cook quail. I have never cooked quail before but yesterday Mr. Moon went out and shot some and brought them home and cleaned them and it is my duty here on earth to cook them and eat them.
Last night when we got home from the Opera House at midnight I asked him what that bag hanging from the wisteria trellis was.
"That's where I put the heads and wings and feet," he said.
I have been looking at quail recipes and they range from the gourmet to the southern-fried and I'm thinking I might just go to the southern-fried end of the situation. I haven't been to the store and I don't have mushrooms or bacon or anything like that. I do, however, have flour and milk and salt and pepper and Crisco and lots of salad greens and nice little tomatoes and some wild and brown rice mix and I believe we can make do with such meager fixings.
Yes. I do believe we shall survive nicely.
But now we're going to do a walk-around the property and check out spring-growth signs and that will be lovely.
It's been a lovely day all the way around. I wouldn't have traded it for anything. And I still have that walk and the quail to look forward to. And this man to share them with.
Oh yeah. I am so fucking rich you can't believe it.
I got it made.
And I know it.