The Pig Dog is starting to show some instinct. It’s terribly exciting. I mean terribly, terribly exciting. The kind of exciting in which a split second can make your whole day. Last night he held a wayward laying hen to the fence like a boss. Like a BOSS. I cannot wait to see what he’s going to be like on stock.
This month is flying by. I don’t even know what happened to the first half of it. We’re launching the CSA season later than usual, but I still feel rushed. Funny how tasks always expand to fill your time.
We managed to get most of the post-mole/vole/dog-fiasco replanting done this weekend. Now we wait. And water. And weed. But mostly wait. I hate the waiting.
The Small Humans have been picking Wild Black Raspberries for about two weeks now. Just a trickle of them at first; a handful here, a handful there. They eat more than they bring into the house, especially early on. Next it was by the pint, and then the quart, and now? Now there’s almost two full quarts in the fridge from just one patch and promise of more in the morning. They’re small this year, but not terribly so, and still scrumptious. These berries aren’t usually ripe until the middle of July and yet, here we are, mid-June and we’ll be putting up the first few jars of “Black Cap” jam.
I haven’t been feeding the momentum lately and I feel a bit like I’m screeching to a halt.
I don’t keep enough fresh flowers in the house. And by that, I mean I keep none, but probably should keep at least one bunch around. Everyone should. That and white linens. You should keep white linens. I read that somewhere. Can’t remember where, but I agree. I wouldn’t have, agreed that is, but I’ve come to appreciate the all-encompassing power of a good capful of bleach in my “old” age. You can’t bleach striped sheets, no matter how sweaty your husband gets at night.
You also can’t take back cheap towels after you’ve washed them once and they’ve shed another towel’s worth of lint all over your house. Lesson: Buy good towels. Even for your grimy kids.