Baby animals are universally adorable and delightful, but baby chicks have a special place in this suburban homesteader’s heart—especially since they’re really the only baby animal I have as of yet. When they arrive in the mail, they’re one-day old, and I promptly send out text messages to all my friends with small babies and, well, all my friends to invite them over for chicken cuddles. Everyone seems equally excited to hold a small baby chicken that peep peeps away into their hand before settling cozily into their hands and looking content and even drifting off to sleep.
I love planting native flowers in the garden, and I have two large flower beds devoted to them. Unfortunately, the rabbits have enjoyed the prairie clover I bought nearly as much as I would’ve if they’d ever allowed them to grow large enough to flower… or grow much at all. I probably should’ve been more aware that all the neighborhood rabbits would enjoy clover (of all plants), but I didn’t put that together when I ordered them. Due to their overindulgence, the clover has struggled, and I think this last winter finally did the vast majority of them in.
Our chicken arrangements have not been harmonious since we first attempted to integrate new baby chicks into the flock. First, Fortunata nearly died, so Fortunata ended up in her own penthouse suite. We tried to sneak Fortunata back in with the next round of baby chicks, but that didn’t work. Next we corralled most of the bully chickens into the penthouse suite (redubbed the henitentiary). The bully chicken remaining in the main coop became a tyrant that laid few eggs at this free-reign opportunity, so we ate that bully chicken (so, long Scissor beak). The two bully chickens remained confined to their henitentiary, and the chickens in the main coop partied on. For a hilarious albeit short-lived time, Fortunata was even top chicken.
I woke up yesterday with a dull ache at my right temple. I could feel the migraine coming, and I would have taken my onset migraine medication right then except if I take my migraine medication at the same time as my fibromyalgia medication, I’m destined for a day on the couch or in bed. Yesterday was not supposed to be a day on the couch. I made my choice and waited to relieve the pain.
“Why would you pickle a perfectly good strawberry?” My mother asked me.
Moments earlier, she’d been telling me that I had become a better cook than her (which I protest—adamantly so), and I had texted her a picture of my latest project: pickled strawberries. In the jars, the strawberries looked like rubies against darkness of the balsamic vinegar. I had been rather enamored with their appearance, which is what prompted me to send her the picture. Without knowing what was in the jars, she suggested that the picture was proof I was a better cook. (Again, proposition rejected!)
Once I told her what I had done to those 2½ pound of perfectly good strawberries though, I lost all credibility and comments about my cooking prowess ceased.
I am beyond thrilled at my forays into cheese making, even when the cheeses end up a little more on the not-quite-right side than the shazam! one. I’ve now tried enough cheeses from the One-Hour Cheese book that I decided to add another specialty cookbook to our growing stash. My husband has his pile of artisan breads while I have canning, cake, and cheese ones. We are running out of space for our cookbooks in our too small kitchen.
If you read my sewing-machine drama post, you’ll know that my sewing machine and I have been more on the outs than on the ins. This is unfortunate for many a reason, not the least of which is, of course, that I like to sew. I spent awhile troubleshooting my machine in a bid to determine the problem.