The Rewards of Just Being Yourself

Soon I will have many quarts of chicken stock made from a 100% free-range chicken that I did not have to raise myself, and all because of my unashamed woodchuckiness.

See, what happened was, I was talking to a couple of other mothers at the St. Martin's Day celebration at the preschool this week, and one of the women mentioned that her daughter's young chicken flock is turning out to have a few roosters. Chickens are often sold in what's called a "straight run," meaning the hatchery just gathers up a bunch of chicks without trying to figure out their sex (which is kind of hard to do at only a couple of days old, anyway) and you just wait for them to mature to see what you end up with. 

So this flock is just now getting mature enough to tell the sex, and there are some roosters. There is one particular rooster that is of course the prettiest one, and also of course is the most obnoxious. This seems to be a corollary for males of every species.

Anyway.

The woman mentioned that this rooster had been stalking the home inspector who came to their house and kind of scared the man, though the rooster had not yet displayed any signs of aggression to the family.

So I told her about our ill-fated Welsummer rooster and how the aggression only escalates. I also mentioned the roosters we were given by the MiL's co-worker for disposal after they had gotten too difficult to handle.

Basically, I announced that we are the final resting place for all asshole roosters. Or rather, my stockpot is. 

I am the master of party conversation, yes.

It's cool, though, because this woman's mother is the MiL's cousin, and I happen to know that one time a rooster jumped up to spur her--the mother--while she was walking across the yard, and she grabbed it in mid-air and broke its neck. 

Bad. Ass.

I figure if you grow up with a lady like that, you're not going to be disturbed by the fact that I enjoy cooking mean roosters.

Anyway again.

Two days after this conversation, I got an e-mail from the chicken owner saying the rooster had started getting aggressive with her and wouldn't back down even when she kicked it, so we could have it if we wanted it.

YES.

Now my chicken stock supply for the winter is assured, and all because of my total ineptitude with polite small talk. 

Woodchucks win again.

The Bearer of Meat

Tonight is yet another St. Martin's Day celebration at what is now Charlie's preschool and, as always, there's a potluck beforehand. Also as always, when we were asked to tell the teacher what we would bring for the potluck, I replied, "A large quantity of meat."

The main reason I bring meat to every kind of potluck is because A. always attends with me. And pretty much all he eats is meat. But not a lot of people bring meat. You'll have your pick of pasta dishes or desserts, but not much meat. So I bring meat so A. has something to eat.

As I said to A., when it comes to potlucks, you should be the change you want to see. That is, bring what you want to eat yourself.

Also, braising a large hunk of animal flesh is a lot easier than, say, chopping all the stuff for a big salad.

Tonight's large hunk of flesh is even larger than usual, a truly impressively sized sirloin roast. It was so big I had trouble finding a pot big enough to cook it in. But there are going to be forty or so people in attendance at this event, so I bet it will all be gone by the end. I've never yet had any leftovers from a meat offering at a potluck, as a matter of fact. I don't expect this one will be any different.

Now I just have to remember to remove the string . . .

Hello, Monday! Can I Go Back To Bed?

I'm very sore this morning. That's because I spent quite a bit of time yesterday stacking wood and raking, shoveling, and wheelbarrowing a very heavy mess composed of bark from the firewood plus walnuts and leaves that had dropped on said firewood.

But! Almost all of the wood from the storm-felled trees has been neatly stacked, the part of the driveway where that wood has been is now almost entirely cleaned up, and we have a LOT of BTUs ready to go for the winter.

If you need me, I'll be resting my aching muscles by the blazing woodstove. (Except not really, because I have to be where the children are, and the children should not really be by the blazing woodstove. But I could if I didn't have to supervise Blackrock's WWE display every day.)

The Futility of Fall

I spent about twenty minutes raking the lawn right outside the dining room door before going to pick up Charlie from preschool.

Sadly, this is the "after" picture, though I know it looks more like most people's "before." And I've already raked this lawn twice in the past week.

This is the pile I raked up in those twenty minutes.

And this is what was still above me. Curses.

So pretty. So much work. Must be fall at Blackrock.

From the Cameras of Babes

Cubby commandeered the camera again, and through its lens managed to capture the quintessence of parenthood:

Early morning exhaustion with big-ass cups of coffee. Nailed it.

Oh, right. Costumes.

I was supposed to post the requisite "cute children in adorable costumes" photo yesterday, wasn't I? Eh. Here it is:

Cute children (courtesy of me), adorable costumes (courtesy of my mother). Plus a dog.

As you can see, Cubby decided to be a fighter pilot. Actually, he wanted to be a parakeet, but there is no such thing as a non-creepy parakeet costume, so I sold him on fighter pilot by saying he could be like Baca. Baca is my dad. He was a fighter pilot for many years. Cubby's suit has a patch for the F-117, which I found out was the Nighthawk. My dad never flew this plane, but I don't think there was an option for an A-10 fighter pilot costume on Amazon.

Charlie wanted to be a bull. This is a very cute costume. Though I did make him promise before I put it on him that he would be a nice bull like Ferdinand. Not that Charlie would ever dream of charging at anyone while in his bull costume.

Especially not his baby brother the lamb.

Jack is dressed as Cubby circa 2010. Because the third child always wears the hand-me-downs, even in costumes.

And one last Halloween note: When A. was offered the Halloween bowl to choose his treat after dinner, he chose Sweetarts. Really. Out of all the chocolate in that bowl, he chose Sweetarts. That's like the garbage candy I always tried to trade away first as a kid. Given our basic incompatibility in matters such as these, it's amazing we've managed to stay married for over a dozen years. Or maybe that is the reason why. Sweetarts for him, Kit Kats for me, and everyone's happy.

Happy day after Halloween, my lovelies.

Bring on the Sugar!

Cubby got off the bus yesterday with a small bag that had been presented to him by his bus driver. It had a picture of a grinning jack-o-lantern on it, and the innocent child thought it was filled with balloons or something.

Isn't it nice he's gotten to five years old without understanding the true candy-fueled nature of Halloween?

He was delighted to discover it held candy, which he of course wanted to eat. I let him and Charlie pick out one piece each to eat before dinner, and then dumped the rest into the bowl I dubbed "the Halloween bowl*." I decreed they can each pick one piece for dessert after dinner.

I am the most un-fun mom ever, yes.

Both Cubby and Charlie are going trick-or-treating in the village with their schools today, which means more candy for the Halloween bowl. Cubby has not yet come home with the wondrous news that you can go trick-or-treating on the actual day of Halloween and get bags full of candy, but he'll eventually learn that at school. Because it's not just botany he learns there.

So we'll see if he insists on trick-or-treating on Saturday. If he doesn't, I'm not going to suggest it. We have plenty of years for that in the future. And anyway, I'm sure he's going to be flying high as a sugar kite when he gets off the bus today, so the traditional Halloween sugar gorging will not be denied him. Along with the traditional Halloween sugar crash.

Should be a fun afternoon.

* This bowl, actually. We probably have the classiest Halloween bowl in the country. Thanks, Dad!