Saturday morning, my husband and I went on a hike, my one (main) birthday request.

According to the website, it was a three-hour hike but we made it to the top in thirty minutes. (True, I was moving at a rapid clip, ignoring my husband’s pleas to slow down already, but we weren’t going that fast.) It was the most crowded hike we’ve been on ever, including our trip to Acadia (because of the rain, we pretty much had the place to ourselves). We leap-frogged hikers the whole way up the mountain, and when we got to the top it was swarming with people: people taking selfies, people telling stories, people eating.

We found a little spot off to the side where I could eat a sandwich and my husband could stare into the middle distance, but then we didn’t stay long. 

Instead of hiking back down the way we came, we took another route, hoping to avoid the crowds.

Which we did, mostly, but then we had to hike two miles back on the busy road which, ironically, had far more people (all in cars) on it than the trail did, ha. 

My mother had invited us over for supper that night, so I spent the afternoon not prepping for supper, which was half the fun.

She’d made a mountain of food and what a feast it was! Chicken and rice, collards (perhaps my favorite part of the meal), green beans, and slaw. I piled my plate high and then straightaway scarfed it down.

For dessert, she’d made the most delicious cake: nectarine and cream. It was as good as it looks. Maybe better.

My mom’s one request was that no one do the dishes, so after the meal we just sat around the table and visited. It was lovely. 

The next morning my husband left while I was still in bed to track down my breakfast request: 1 glazed sour cream cake doughnut. When I came downstairs, my younger son had set up the breakfast things: 5 boxes of captain crunch (all the flavors because he knows that’s my favorite junk cereal), bread and jam for toast, and granola, even though all I asked for was the doughnut.

(But we’ve been snacking hard on the captain crunch — it makes for a great movie-watching snack.) 

Coffee in hand (the mug was a gift from my mother), I trailed my husband down to the shed for the morning milking, and then I spent the rest of the morning doing fun computer work. My older son (my daughter-in-law was on a work trip) popped in to wish me a happy birthday, and to deliver their gift: a gorgeous handmade mug. 

The lunch hour was rushed so we last minute decided to switch plans: leftover potato soup instead of chef salads. Everyone showered me with gifts, and then we drove into town for Ultimate. 

When we got home, the whole house smelled of chocolate — my younger son had baked a cake and was putting the finishing touches on it. I showered and then, free of all chores and responsibilities, I curled up on the sofa and let people serve me my popcorn and apples. My older son stopped by again and we visited for awhile out on the porch, and then he left and my phone dinged with a text from my brother of his family singing Happy Birthday.

When my younger son came home from rehearsal, we watched a Schitt’s Creek together, and then he blasted music over the big speaker and I danced freakishly all over the downstairs until we woke my younger daughter and she yelled at us to TURN IT DOWN. 

And then my birthday day was over and I still had the chef salads and cake to look forward to…

Which means I managed to stretch the goodness to last three whole days, hip-hip!

This same time, years previous: getting shod, pointless and chatty, 37, she outdid herself, the skirt, warm feet and golden crosses.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Want to hazard a guess?

This homemade butter is growing on me. I’m pretty much hooked (addicted, possessive, etc).

Grape jelly yet and then I’ll be done.

Parbaking: even thrice-rolled, the bakery pastry scraps are still over-the-top poofy.

Mash ’em down and carry on.

Like so.

A real meal.

The after-dinner kick-back.

Coffee tag-team appreciation.

This Tuesday’s YouTube video: cuajada!

Dishing up the cold sides.

Drying the eggs so they don’t stick to the carton because that (apparently) bothers her.

Playing the role of Benjamin in Alice Parker’s opera “Singers Glen”.

Wordle: some days it’s a struggle.

This same time, years previous: Italian chop salad, what we ate, evening feeding, the quotidian (9.26.16), home cut, on quitting: in which I have a come-to-Jesus moment, the run around, a jiggle on the wild side.

For awhile there, my younger daughter was obsessed with getting ducks. We discouraged that idea, though, since we don’t have any water on the property. So then she switched her focus to chickens. She wanted a variety of breeds because her goal, she said, was to have multi-colored cartons of eggs. That plan, we said, was a little more doable. 

Over the last number of months, she’s been buying assorted kinds of baby chicks and then raising them — first in a cage in the barn and then, once they’re big enough, she transitions them out to the coop. 

She’d fixed up the coop, shoveling out the poop, putting down a bed of shavings, making a new ramp, rigging up a little drop-down door on a pulley. Each morning when my husband goes down to milk, he opens the door, and each evening she closes it.

Aside from my husband letting them out in the morning, all the chicken care is my daughter’s responsibility. She buys the feed and collects the eggs, and she’s religious about tending them. She has 18 hens right now, and just a couple weeks ago, she came home with five more chicks, Rhode Island Reds this time. They’re supposed to lay large brown eggs.

I don’t much like chickens, and I can’t say I understand her fascination with them, but I gotta admit: some of these birds are downright lovely. The colors and patterns are picture-book worthy. 

The eggs, when they started rolling in, were eensy small, but now they’re more closer to more regular sized. (Just this morning my husband found one in the sink in the milking shed, plugging up the drain.) Currently, she gets about 13 a day, but the number is rising steadily. The deal is that we pay full price for the eggs but we also get dibs on them, since we’re providing her with the hen house, fencing, and land. As long as she makes sure we’re stocked, she’s free to sell them to whoever. It’s a pretty sweet deal.

For both of us.

P.S. Did you know that my mother wrote a children’s book about chickens? It’s about my brother and his flock of chickens back when we were living in West Virginia. The illustrations are so playful, and in the story, I’m “the girl” — check it out!

This same time, years previous: a kitchen tour, a bakery shift, the quotidian (9.23.19), a day in the life, stop and sink, test your movies!, simple roast chicken.