Once More Unto the Breach

Spring has come! And so have the wretched ants.

Yes, the arrival of warmer weather heralds the arrival of dozens of tiny black ants in the downstairs bathroom. I set out the Death Jelly for them yesterday in there and haven't seen any today.

Unfortunately, the ants are venturing further afield this year. Specifically, into Charlie's room.

I didn't know they were in there until last night when I went to put Charlie to bed. He's having some Issues With Teeth lately (very screamy issues, unfortunately), so I gave in yesterday afternoon and dosed him with some medicine. Which is, of course, acetaminophen dissolved in sugar syrup. I was holding him in my lap in the big chair in his room when I gave him the medicine and not having anywhere else convenient to set the dropper thing after I dosed him, I just set it on the floor next to the chair.

When I retrieved it that night to wash it out, it was covered with tiny ants. GROSS.

I washed all those ants down the drain, and then crawled around the floor, peering closely for any remaining ants, which I crushed with my finger.

I'm all about live and let live, unless you are an insect in my baby's room. In that case, you're dead.

Luckily, the ants usually disappear from the house when it gets truly warm outside, but in the meantime . . . here ants. Have some delicious jelly.

Suckers.

The King Is Dead, Long Live the King

A few weeks ago, the rooster that survived a fox attack disappeared. We figure a hawk probably got him. Or maybe the fox came back for seconds.

Whatever was his undoing, there was no doubt our small flock was rooster-less.

Hens will lay their eggs without a rooster around, obviously, but if there's to be any hope of fertilized eggs for natural reproduction? Yeah. Gotta have that rooster. Plus, roosters kind of keep free-ranging hens in order, herding them around and making sure they all go into the coop at night.

We didn't make any great efforts to secure a rooster immediately, however, as there was no urgent need. Plus, it is a great truth in the chicken world (and really, in any animal world) that there is always a surplus of males. It's not exactly hard to find a rooster someone wants to get rid of.

Sure enough, last week a woman who rides the bus with the MiL mentioned she had four roosters. That's three too many. She got them from another woman who couldn't bear to kill any of them.

We're all about eating our excess roosters, but not everyone is so pragmatic, I suppose. And lucky for us, because that's how we came to be the new home for a pure-bred Welsummer rooster.

The Welsummer is a Dutch breed, which is funny because A.'s family is very, very Dutch (ancestrally speaking, that is). And did you know the Kellogg's rooster is a representation of a Welsummer rooster? I didn't, but I do now.

There is no doubt the new rooster is very striking. Luckily, he seems to just be visually striking, and not literally striking. Rooster spurs are no joke, and there's always the possibility that the reason a rooster is being given away is because he's a mean bastard. I haven't seen any sign of that yet, though, so we can hope we got another good, safe rooster.

And of course, he sure is purty. You know, for a bird.

Look out, ladies; there's a new sheriff in town.

A Lesson from the Tortoise

I'm sure you're all familiar with the fable "The Tortoise and the Hare," in which the plodding tortoise beats out the lazy-ass hare by virtue of persistence. The moral of that story is "Slow and steady wins the race."

I need the tortoise to come paint my bathroom. If ever there was a job for a slow but persistent person (or, uh, reptile), this is it.

Unfortunately, I am neither slow nor steady. Damn it.

Back story: A. decided this winter to put up insulation in the bathroom to keep it from being cold and wet and mildew-y and all the other things you just don't want a bathroom to be. He put the insulation up. Yay! It was warmer! Problem solved.

And then we had silver insulation covering the walls in the downstairs bathroom. Futuristic and eye-catching, but not really in keeping with our decorative scheme. (That scheme being "not naked building materials.")

So after a considerable delay, A. put up Sheetrock. Yay!

And then we had dark blue Sheetrock imprinted with the reassuring "Mold-resistant" covering the walls in the downstairs bathroom. Still naked building materials.

After an even longer delay (A. really, really hates fiddly home improvement stuff, much preferring to build things with rocks or construct hand-operated cranes . . . which is a story for another day), A. got the trim up.  This involved some very exacting measurements of angles and cutting and fitting and a LOT of swearing. But he got it done.

Which just left me and the paint. Shit.

I hate painting. From the very first time I did it at about age sixteen when my parents had me paint my bedroom, I have hated it. I still hate it. And that is because I am not a detail person. I am not patient. I am not good at being slow and careful and painting trim. And I really suck at beading.

But A. did his part of the job, and now it's my turn.

Unfortunately, thanks to my day (and night) job of child wrangling, I have very limited time to do it. I have to do it when both kids are asleep, obviously, because OH GOD the HORROR of Cubby around paint is unfathomable. So, usually about an hour out of the day.

That's why I'm painting in stages. Ceiling first. And then the dreaded clean-up of the brush and roller and paint-smeared newspaper and so on. Today I did the first coat on the walls. And then the dreaded clean-up again. Next nice, dry day we have, I'll do another coat on the walls. And then clean-up.  And THEN, FINALLY, I can do the trim.

God help me.

But it's coming along, slowly but surely. Very slowly, and not really very surely, but coming.

Sure could use that tortoise, though. You know, one with opposable thumbs that can hold a paint brush.

To Each His Own

Today's Sunday Family Fun was a walk to the woods to dig ramps. Except I was the only one who dug ramps. While I was digging the ramps, A. was walking around in the stream with a fish spear, hoping to see a sucker fish to spear and bring home to cook.

He was also wearing Charlie in the pack at the time. A.'s definition of childcare is maybe a little different than most. Whatever. Charlie seemed happy enough.

Cubby was also walking in the stream, in his rubber boots. For a little while. Then he announced he wanted to go wading. It was 47 degrees. He is crazy. I know this. I also know he is quite cold-hardy.

So I said he could go wading.

I helped him undress. I tried to convince him to keep on his underwear and long-sleeved shirt, so he would have SOME protection should he fall. No, he says. Just underwear then? No, he says.

So I dug ramps, A. looked for suckers, and Cubby climbed around fallen trees and up stream banks buck naked.

I got my ramps*. A. did not get any suckers. Cubby did not go wading, instead choosing to just run around without his clothes on for about ten minutes before asking to get dressed again. Charlie got to get out of the pack and sit on the forest floor wallowing in dried leaves and playing with sticks for awhile.

All in all, a good outing. If a little weird.

* I chopped some of them tonight and added them to sliced potatoes baked in milk and cream, to go along with a brisket I made according to the recipe in The Smitten Kitchen Cookbook. The brisket was okay. The potatoes were AMAZING. YUM.

Rustic Charm

The daffodils and hyacinths are in their full glory right now, filling the border around the lawn outside the kitchen door with the sight and fragrance of capital "s" Spring.

We were supposed to get some strong thunderstorms this afternoon, so I thought it would be nice to bring some of the flowers inside to enjoy before they got beaten down by this hypothetical torrential rain. I figured Cubby would be into it, so I asked him if he wanted to help me pick some flowers.

And then I got a lecture about how flowers are only for looking and smelling, NOT for picking. Thanks a lot, goody-goody episode of "The Cat in the Hat."*

After a little discussion about how these were our flowers and we had lots of them and as long as Mommy or Grandma said it was okay we could pick some to bring inside, I managed to convince him that we would not be wreaking havoc on the flower population or endangering the survival of any animals by cutting a few of the hundreds of daffodils currently blooming on our property.

And of course, once Cubby realized that "picking" flowers actually means cutting them with shears, he was all for it. I grabbed an empty canning jar to stick the flowers in and we got to cutting.

I was going to put them in a real vase when I brought them inside, but they looked so nice in the canning jar, I just left them there. We're all about the accidental rustic charm.

Meanwhile, I had abandoned Charlie to his own infant devices on the grass, but he wasn't totally unsupervised.

A boy with three dogs is never alone for long.

The heavy thunderstorms have yet to materialize, but the little spring bouquet does look awfully nice on the dining room table. Smells good, too, thanks to the hyacinths. 

With all due respect to "The Cat in the Hat," flowers around here are for looking and smelling both outside and inside. So there.

* "The Cat in the Hat" on PBS is actually a pretty good show for little kids, and one of the few I allow Cubby to watch.

What's a Guy Gotta Do To Fix a Tiller Around Here?

Just dodge two lambs, two dogs, and one overly helpful three-year-old. 

Business as usual at Blackrock.

Eureka

I was all set to tell you about my educational encounter with ants that absolutely reeked of Lemon Pledge--it's a thing; read about it here--but then, as so often happens, food trumps all.

As I was washing five millions dishes this evening, I found myself considering a snack before bed. We had soup for dinner. It was quite good as soups go, but it was . . . soup. Which is not entirely filling. Frankly, it's the bread that usually accompanies soup that is really satisfactory. But we don't eat bread.

So. Snack.

I always find popcorn to be almost mandatory after a soup dinner. But I kind of wanted something sweet. I considered adding chocolate chips to the popcorn after popping it, as several people I know do, but that seemed awfully messy to eat. Then I thought maybe I should just add some brown sugar in with the melted butter before pouring it on. That would be kind of like caramel corn, right?

And then, as I was wiping the counter, I came across the maple sugar.

DINGDINGDING! We have a winner!

The maple sugar came to us courtesy of Mr. Jason, who is given to experimenting with maple syrup. That's what happens when a single man ends up with multiple gallons of syrup. He made the sugar and gave us about a pint of it to try. I hadn't figured out what to do with it so far, but its extremely fine consistency--almost like powdered sugar--made me think it would mix well with melted butter.

So after I popped my popcorn, I melted the butter in the still-hot pan and added a little bit of the maple sugar. Not too much, because I didn't want it to be too thick and clumpy. Then I drizzled it on the popcorn, added salt, and mixed it all up with a spoon.

You know what I made totally inadvertently? Kettle corn. Maple kettle corn. Is there a better popcorn on earth? No. There is not. It was an entirely welcome surprise on a random Tuesday night and just the right thing to cheer me up after a not-very-cheery day.

So, should you ever find yourself with maple sugar, now you know what to do with it. You're welcome.