A Warrior has arrived on the farm. Although I’ve only known him for a few days, I don’t think he has evil intentions. In fact, he seems quite peaceful. He’s about 3 feet tall and welcomes treats laced with molasses. He’s gray, with spots, and has a luxurious mane. His feet are a little rough, though. And doesn’t speak much – unless, of course, he’s responding to an ornery alpaca call every now and again.
Oh, and he loves his hay. He is, after all, a mini-horse. What do we, at Orchard House, know about keeping horses – no matter how small? Not much. Don once had a pony. And it ran away to a neighboring farm the first chance it got. And, to be honest, I’m afraid of horses. Recently at the State Fair, Don stood next to a horse that was twice his height. Who takes care of a beast like that? He could eat me. His shoe size was bigger than mine!
Horses are unpredictable. I expect mini-horses to be no different – maybe just a little less unpredictable. If they kick, it won’t be as hard. There’s something very magical about having a kind-of real life My Little Pony prancing through the fields. We’ve got a lot to learn however, and the journey forward will be an interesting one.
Sometimes things never go right in the kitchen, no matter how hard you try. Off days happen. For instance, I mistakingly bought block butter the other day. I know you can measure amounts on scales and be precise. That’s a lot of work. Instead, I love the age old guess-timate. It worked for the pioneers, so why not me?!
Well, it didn’t work. They make recipes for a reason. And it’s because measurements and proportions are important. If you could just throw a bunch of ingredients in a bowl, stir it all up, and have delicious cookies, you’d be genius. But I don’t think it’s possible. So, I had a bad day. But we pull our selves up by the boot straps, throw out our wretched creations and take another sip of Pinot Grigio. We won’t be deterred.
Cookies can always be purchased.
Power is a valuable thing. A loaded statement, I know. I’m referring specifically to electric. Without it, we live like our ancestors. And while that’s not a bad thing, it can inconvenience the hell out of you.
We lost power this past week for about 36 hours. It wasn’t horrible, truth be told. The temperature was so low at night we’d probably have the windows open anyway. The spoiled food gave us a chance to cleanse our refrigerators, and hence our diets, for a new era of healthy living. And because we had so much rain the weeks previous, plants and animals didn’t require any watering – good as the water pump requires electricity. And the generator was broken.
The generator is always broken. It happened during The GREAT Power Outage of 2012. I was alone for a few days. And was pouring oil in the anti-freeze. Whoops. But we finally have someone who seems able to fix all our generators problems. Once the parts have been ordered and installed.
Over this whole experience I noticed one thing – at night, nature can be loud! When temporary pools pop up, it seems frogs don’t hesitate to seize the water. And they cheer for hours (and hours) to show their appreciation to Mother Nature. And then the next night, it’s all over. The noises aren’t bad, they’re just loud. And now, with the electricity back on, I’m hearing the Golden Girls and the frogs are distant memory. And I’m not so sure I’m the better for it.
When today I drove past a flock of chickens too close to the road and I thought to myself, “Get away from the road Copper Marans!”
Here’s what’s wrong with that thought – that’s a rare breed of chicken. It’s not a Silkie or a Rhode Island Red. And truth be told, I was too far away to verify if they were really Copper Marans – but for even that thought to come to my mind suggests I may 1) have spent too much time on chicken websites and 2) have officially earned my farmer badge.
It’s a new day when one acknowledges their truth. I’m coming to terms with mine. While my skills in detecting the latest Burberry pattern may have waned, I can point out a hair sheep with a 3 second stare and can maneuver a flock of ducks to go where I want them. These talents don’t come from a website, but take real world experience. And I guess, if I need to to know the S/S 2013 patterns, I can just Google it.
The season of the bottle baby has ended. Today, Prince received his last bottle. At 67 days old, he has become a man, errrr, ram. In April, we knew nothing about raising a lamb. And now, just look at us. We have a little, very needy, horribly socialized little sheep that runs around the field with alpacas while shunning the other lambs. But he’s our little crazy baby.
Luck for us all, he has a little friend. Our surprise lamb, Gaston, has taken a liking to Prince. Mind you, Prince could care less. Sure he’s happy to run around the field with lil’ Gaston, but never does he search him out. He’d much rather chew on the grabs at the fence line, contemplating life or, rather, why grass is green. He’s very philosophical. For a sheep.
We wish you luck in the barnyard baby Prince. No matter how crazy you get, you’ll always have a home at Orchard House. Just don’t start head-butting people. I really hate it when rams do that.