Jun. 15th, 2017

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A more cheerful Farm Life post: 

Every Wednesday and Saturday, the members of the CSA come to the farm to pick up their shares. Most of the shares are picked for them, laid out in the farmstand for them to come through and pack them up into their baskets or bags or whatever. (Everyone has their own carrying system, it’s sort of cute. One guy picks up on a motorcycle and has a whole saddlebag arrangement worked out. People have elaborate baskets or shitty plastic shopping bags, but it’s the same every time.)

The rest of the share is in the picking garden. There are herbs and flowers, and later in the season, cherry tomatoes and the like, things that it’s labor-intensive to harvest and not everybody might want them so you can just go get your own. It’s the garden in front of the house, and a big triangle down next to the house, which they’re converting to no-till this year. Anyway. Perennials up top, annuals down in the bottom. And the trailing corner is a little fairy garden, with toadflax and a morning glory arch and little fairy houses that members can build and play with (many bring children).

One of the farm cats, a gorgeous floofy tortoiseshell girl named Beans, loves pick-up day. She goes out to the picking garden and flits through it, presenting herself to be admired, and very, very occasionally, deigning to let someone pet her. 

By the end of the night tonight, she was so overstimulated from all the adoration that she didn’t know what to do with herself. I petted her and she got very excited and put her teeth on me, then followed me around begging for more pets and winding through my legs. (I relented, and pet her some more.) 

Really, CSA pickup time is Beans Adoration Hour, and everyone needs to get on board with this.

(Conversely, the Social Anxiety Dog has to get shut in the house, because she doesn’t know what to do with all the people.)

Now I have to find a photo of Beans… 

Such majestic floof. Now if only she wasn’t such a jerk to Whiskey the tiny yurt cat… Note the singular butterscotch foot, it’s one of her fashion statements. 
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Farmbaby snippet:

“I was mistaken when I said that chipmunk was a squirrel,” she says to her mother, then corrects herself, enunciating delicately: “Actually, I misspoke.”

She is three. Who talks like that?
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A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Jun 15, 2017 at 5:12am PDT

Fresh pasture for both eggmobiles! Willa helped release the hens. (at Laughing Earth)
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writing advice: never italicize words to show emphasis! if you’re writing well then the reader will know and you don’t need them!

me: oh really??? listen up, pal, you can just try an pull italics from my cold, dead fingers



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