According to my editorial calendar I had intended to share a Cranberry Scone recipe with you today, and if we’re judging by the unused carton of cranberries in my fridge, that sounds about right. Unfortunately, intentions are not nickels. Because if I had a nickel for all of my intentions I’d be blogging about yachts and some kind of top shelf liquor I’ve probably never even heard of before, not random thoughts from the scrambled mind of a middle class mother.
Or, actually, I’d probably be blogging about Cranberry Scones, because Cranberry Scones would be all I had to do with my time. And frankly, that just sounds boring.
You see what I did there? Tricked myself into believing being a trillionaire would suck. Damn, I’m good.
Oh, Look! A kitten!
You see what I did there? I distracted you from the fact that this blog post isn’t going anywhere with a picture of a kitten. He could have been cuter, but what do you want from me? Cranberry Scones?
The first seed catalog of the year showed up in the mailbox this week. You’d think after the horrendous year that was this past one I wouldn’t be even the least bit giddy over its arrival, but you’d be wrong. The pages are already dog-eared and scribbled upon. The freedom of not running a CSA out of the garden this year is intoxicating. No one will notice if there is no chard, or I skip radishes altogether, or the cucumbers never make an appearance. I could plant seventy-five varieties of tomatoes and not a thing else and no one would say a word. I won’t, of course, I’m far too smitten with squashes and beans to exclude them entirely, but I might come close.
I mean, so far the must-grow-or-I-will-die tomato list stands at only twenty varieties, but the planning season is young. There will be plenty of time for me to wrack up life-savings sized seed bills after the holidays.
And that I will.
After a bit of down time we’re expecting our next litter of pigs on the nineteenth. Sows usually start bagging up — that is, showing development of the teats as the mammary glands enlarge and the teats fill with milk in preparation to give birth — a few weeks before farrowing. The teats get progressively larger as the due date nears and I generally end up feeling rather sorry for the gals in the final week leading up to farrow, but this poor sow is already quite large and her vulva has begun swelling to boot.
Watching the livestock go through gestation and birth never fails to remind me why I’m not having anymore babies myself. There are always plenty of adorable piglets to cuddle, after all, and no one frowns on it when I make them sleep outside. The same cannot be said for human kids.
Until next time…