domestic bliss
Nov. 21st, 2018 09:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7via https://ift.tt/2KofpXK
southern brother in law showed up at 6 to go out and hunt deer. the dog barked at him.
farmkid and i watched as her parents moved the hens. i found some discarded eggs that had been laid under the pasture unit, and went and fed them to the breeding stock. PB the Useless Boar was the only one sharp enough to figure out what I was doing when I showed him the egg and laid it down on the ground in front of him. He munched them contemplatively, and then the sows screamed at him because they wanted whatever he was eating, but they didn’t understand what he was eating.
I sang the Boar’s Head Carol to him. I don’t know what the recipe would be, for such a thing, but we had it as part of a pageant at my high school, and there was a papier-mache prop of a boar’s head resplendently arrayed.
The boar’s head in hand bear I
bedecked with bays and rosemary
and I pray you my masters, be merry
quot estis in convivio!
Caput apri defero
reddens laudes domino (x2)
Twenty years on, I still know three verses of it, in their entirety. Farmsister vetoed any attempt to serve PB’s head for Christmas.
The Southern Niblings arrived, and the puppies, who are nearly full-grown now, and want so badly for Farmdog to let them love her.
Farmsister went outside to harvest brussels sprouts, and the middle Southern kid went with her (he’s newly nine), and did a great job and was very helpful and she offered him a job whenever he wants.
My mother has now been sitting at the kitchen table fixing brussels sprouts for like. Oh, two hours? Three? I was needle-felting some patches onto my wool clogs, but I finally felt useless and got off my butt. I’ve now mostly made the stuffing, and filled the woodbox in preparation to building a fire later. It’s only in the mid-twenties now, but it’s going to plunge overnight, and I’m expecting we’ll want to be snuggly tonight.
We’re not going anywhere for dinner tonight: it’s pizza at the farm for everyone. My dad, my poor dad, has been alone up the hill working on the barn all by himself, because Southern BIL dug a couple big holes and that was it, he’s back to hunting (fair enough), and farm-BIL has been frantically trying to deal with the accounting from turkey day and just arrived home.
My-dude texted that he was leaving Buffalo around noon, so we’ll see him around dinnertime.
I finally lit the fire in the woodstove myself; I’m the most ignorant about it, but I was also the only person left inside. The children are sledding and we can see their cheeks getting pinker and pinker out on that hill. Dude texted from Utica, which is our traditional check-in spot. Southern Sister has gone up the hill to help Dad, and so has Farm BIL, and the dogs, left behind, are making a terrible racket.
Our stew’rd hath provided this
in honor of the King of Bliss
which on this day to be servéd is
in reginensi atrio!
(Your picture was not posted)
southern brother in law showed up at 6 to go out and hunt deer. the dog barked at him.
farmkid and i watched as her parents moved the hens. i found some discarded eggs that had been laid under the pasture unit, and went and fed them to the breeding stock. PB the Useless Boar was the only one sharp enough to figure out what I was doing when I showed him the egg and laid it down on the ground in front of him. He munched them contemplatively, and then the sows screamed at him because they wanted whatever he was eating, but they didn’t understand what he was eating.
I sang the Boar’s Head Carol to him. I don’t know what the recipe would be, for such a thing, but we had it as part of a pageant at my high school, and there was a papier-mache prop of a boar’s head resplendently arrayed.
The boar’s head in hand bear I
bedecked with bays and rosemary
and I pray you my masters, be merry
quot estis in convivio!
Caput apri defero
reddens laudes domino (x2)
Twenty years on, I still know three verses of it, in their entirety. Farmsister vetoed any attempt to serve PB’s head for Christmas.
The Southern Niblings arrived, and the puppies, who are nearly full-grown now, and want so badly for Farmdog to let them love her.
Farmsister went outside to harvest brussels sprouts, and the middle Southern kid went with her (he’s newly nine), and did a great job and was very helpful and she offered him a job whenever he wants.
My mother has now been sitting at the kitchen table fixing brussels sprouts for like. Oh, two hours? Three? I was needle-felting some patches onto my wool clogs, but I finally felt useless and got off my butt. I’ve now mostly made the stuffing, and filled the woodbox in preparation to building a fire later. It’s only in the mid-twenties now, but it’s going to plunge overnight, and I’m expecting we’ll want to be snuggly tonight.
We’re not going anywhere for dinner tonight: it’s pizza at the farm for everyone. My dad, my poor dad, has been alone up the hill working on the barn all by himself, because Southern BIL dug a couple big holes and that was it, he’s back to hunting (fair enough), and farm-BIL has been frantically trying to deal with the accounting from turkey day and just arrived home.
My-dude texted that he was leaving Buffalo around noon, so we’ll see him around dinnertime.
I finally lit the fire in the woodstove myself; I’m the most ignorant about it, but I was also the only person left inside. The children are sledding and we can see their cheeks getting pinker and pinker out on that hill. Dude texted from Utica, which is our traditional check-in spot. Southern Sister has gone up the hill to help Dad, and so has Farm BIL, and the dogs, left behind, are making a terrible racket.
Our stew’rd hath provided this
in honor of the King of Bliss
which on this day to be servéd is
in reginensi atrio!
(Your picture was not posted)
