Baby goats.

Not one baby goat, but two....... and they're twins. That was the surprise in the pasture on the neighbor's hill. He has been raising goats for years, so the other neighbors tell us, and the goats get out from time to time, which we've seen for ourselves. I have chased those goats down our hill and up their own on a lot of days last summer.

The adult goats are a bit of a pain, but the babies are as cute as puppies. (No, I do not want one.) The twin babies, born just a week or so ago, are all white, with brown spots on their heads. Totally cute, totally identical, and their sad little cries can break your heart. (No, I do not want one.)

The saddest part of the neighbor's goat herd is that he raises them for the meat. The large brown goat that was always getting his head and horns stuck in the fence-- he's no longer in the pasture. I guess the neighbor got tired of pulling him out from between the fencing. The grass is always greener on the other side, even to a goat. Except I think that particular goat ended up on the grill, poor thing. I try not to think about that part of the neighbor's goat-raising.

You can always tell when there's a new baby goat on that hill because you can hear it crying... and you would swear that there's an abandoned just-born baby in the field out there, when you hear those tiny goat babies calling to their mama. (No, I do not want one.)

The other day, as the mama goat was feeding her twin babies, there were five vultures sitting on the fence posts, just keeping an eye on the tiny goats. Were they waiting for one to fall over and take its last breath? The mama goat kept her eyes on the vultures, all the while keeping those babies underneath her. I was tempted to walk down the hill and shoo away the vultures, but there's a huge pecan tree out in that field and the birds would have just flown into the tree, getting them even closer to the baby goats. Then I thought of calling the neighbor and telling him that vultures were too close to the twin goats. I nixed that idea as soon as I thought of it.... he's not exactly sympathetic to his animals and their daily doings....... all he's interested in is the meat that comes from them. And he's not the only one up here.... more people than I can count are living off of their land and everything either growing, hatching, or walking on it.

I watched the vultures through my binoculars. They eventually got tired of being pranced at by the mama goat, and I guessed they realized that the twin goats were both healthy and not likely to be bird-food anytime soon. The vultures were huge, by the way... nearly the same size as the baby goats.

I could never eat an animal that once walked on our pastures. I can't even eat meat that comes out of a package in the supermarket. Forget the fact that it had been living and breathing and walking.... heaven only knows what they were feeding it from birth till death. The meat in your supermarket wasn't exactly once roaming freely around a green pasture gobbling up healthy greens.

But... the baby goats. As I type, I can hear them. The entire herd is in the neighbor's pasture right now, and I can see them all from our front porch. With the binoculars, I can watch the new twin babies as they follow their mama around the pasture and into the shade of the trees. So cute. Like tiny puppies. (No, I do not want one. Neither a goat nor a puppy.)

Zucchini Pie.

Our friends C and R used to bring their famous zucchini pie to all of our parties, and if you were lucky enough to get to the buffet table early, then you got a slice of this delicious pie. If you went up for seconds, all of the pie was gone, even the tiny crumbs. When they came here during Thanksgiving week last year, R brought all the ingredients for the pie and she made it as part of our pre-Thanksgiving Day dinner. Totally delicious, as always, and she wrote down the recipe for me. I've been meaning to type it in here ever since.... just kept forgetting to do it.

The crust--- it's made from a package of Pillsbury Crescent rolls. I always buy the low-fat package. After spraying a normal-sized glass pie pan (not deep-dish) with a non-stick spray, you roll out the Crescent dough and press the triangles together to form the crust. Easy to do this right in the glass pan, not on the counter. Once the dough is all formed and set into the pan, you brush it all with a couple of teaspoons of Dijon mustard. Don't omit this part, if you go to "tweaking" the recipe, because the mustard (Dijon is best for this) really makes a difference.

Into a large skillet--- use either two large zucchini, or three medium-sized ones--- wash the skins, cut off the top and bottom, then slice the zucchini into very thin rounds. Again, spray the skillet with non-stick spray-- you can add a little butter if you like. Once the zucchini is all in the pan, cut up a small to medium-sized onion... chop it up into thin one-inch pieces and add those to the zucchini. Keep watch on the skillet because you'll have to keep turning and tossing until everything gets lightly browned and happy together.

Spices--- when the zucchini/onion mixture is more than halfway done, add in one teaspoon of oregano, one teaspoon of basil, and a quarter of a cup of chopped fresh (FRESH!!) parsley. Then add two teaspoons (more if you like) of minced garlic. Let all of that saute in the pan and get even happier. (Dried parsley somehow doesn't work as well in this recipe.)

Into a large bowl-- beat two large eggs, two cups of shredded mozzarella cheese, 1/4 cup of shredded parmesan cheese, a bit of pepper. Mix all of that up in the bowl.... the mixture will be thick. When the zucchini/onions are done, add that to the cheese mixture and gently fold everything together. Pour that mixture into the prepared crust. Put the glass pan on a cookie sheet with a bit of foil underneath--- you will want to turn up the foil so it's protecting the edges of the crust. (Otherwise, the crust edges will get too well-done before the pie mixture is cooked.)

Into a 375-degree oven it goes..... for about 35 to 40 minutes, depending on your oven. Check the center with a toothpick or a knife. The center should be a tiny bit moist, not dripping. Then let it sit on the counter-top for at least five or ten minutes before you slice it.

Since C and R gave me this recipe, I've been making it once a week, without fail. I've tweaked the recipe quite a few times, adding spinach instead of zucchini -- good, but not as good as the zucchini. I've also used half the amount of zucchini and added in about a cup of cooked and flaked salmon-- totally delicious. This recipe was a Pillsbury Bake-Off winner years and years ago, and that's where R got the recipe in the first place. The original recipe called for cooking the zucchini and onions in one stick of butter. No one, absolutely no one, needs that much butter in an eight or nine-inch pie. I've cut out all of that butter for the cooking, just using the non-stick spray, and when the zucchini and onions are just about done, I will add a tablespoon of butter for the flavor. With all of the cheese that's in this recipe, you do not miss the butter. I have to admit that when R was here and added in that whole stick of butter, I just cringed. I knew right then that I'd be making that pie myself without all the added fat.

In our recently-planted vegetable garden, we have zucchini growing, as well as parsley and oregano and basil. We're planning on summer-long home-grown zucchini pies. The fresh parsley is a must in the above recipe, and I plan to use fresh oregano and basil as well. So far so good with the garden.... everything is growing and happy and I'm hoping for some delicious vegetables.

Spring stuff.

We think Spring has finally sprung, even though this past weekend brought a winter-y blast of wind with temperatures fifteen degrees below normal for this time of the year. The winds were so strong that we heard them howling in every direction outside, and heard them from every room in this house. Sounded like we were in the middle of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I watched as the chickens were trying to move around the yard and at times it looked like they were being blown side-ways.

This week, however, is a carbon copy of last week (minus the weekend days). Blue skies, lots of sun and warm temperatures..... makes you really think that this part of the state was carved out of the proverbial heavens. Some of the bluebonnets and Indian paint-brushes have begun to bloom, and within the next couple of weeks, this house will look like it's sitting in the middle of a ocean filled with bluebonnets. Our neighbor across the road is waging a war against the yellow dandelion flowers. I don't mind the dandelions-- especially after going to Germany a couple of years ago. As we drove along the German roads, there were countless fields filled with yellow "butterblooms," as they called them. The butterblooms are a weed over there, but they are so bright and yellow, so prolific and hardy, that the Germans just let them take over the fields in the Spring for the simple reason that they're beautiful. Make dandelions, not war.

Scarlett, our red hen, is still sitting in her favorite nesting box. When she began her hatching odyssey nearly two weeks ago, she was sitting on an egg laid by one of the other chickens. As Scarlett got into her must-hatch mode, her own production of eggs ceased. Her one-egg-a-day routine was all but forgotten by that determined hen. She is determined to hatch, no longer determined to lay.

The chicken books all said the same thing-- don't let her sit on an unfertilized egg that isn't going to hatch because it's just going to get rancid. I was able to get that egg out from under her after two days, but Scarlett continued to sit in that nesting box. Then I started lifting her out of the box every morning and placing her on the floor of the coop near her food and water. The books also said that a hen determined to hatch her eggs (whether or not she's sitting on eggs) will sometimes not eat. So I did that every morning, and Scarlett got used to the routine because she quit fighting me so much after the second day.

After a week of that, I got to feeling sorry for poor Scarlett.... sitting in that nest without an egg underneath her. The books said we could use a fake egg..... something that would get warm as she sat on it and something that would satisfy her urge to sit on an egg. Into the box of Easter decorations I went..... and found an egg made of stone that I has spray-painted gold a few years ago for an Easter egg hunt that we hosted. (We hid all kinds of eggs around the house that Easter Sunday, but the person that found the golden egg got a special prize.)

So there I was one morning, lifting Scarlett out of her nesting box and setting her down by the food dish. Then I took that gold egg out of my pocket and put it into her favorite nesting box. She's been sitting on it ever since..... and because it's made of stone, it gets as warm as toast underneath her and she seems quite happy. According to the book, when she realizes that it isn't going to hatch, and when her hatching-hormones calm down a bit, she will just abandon that egg and go off and peck around the yard all day again. Needless to say, I will save that egg for the next hen who gets into a must-hatch mode.

The cats have all been going outside every day, and I have to admit that they love it. I also have to admit that I'm not loving it, but once you let them out, you can't take away that freedom. Mickey Kitty especially, who has missed the screen-porch from the old house, is running all over the yard and is determined to inspect every inch of the property. Sometimes he gets too far from the house and if I see him off in the fields I go out there and call him back. He always turns around and heads back towards the house, but one of these days for sure, I won't see him wandering off, and I'm hoping he has enough sense to turn himself around and not get too close to the woods at the perimeter of the property. Curiosity killed the you-know-what.

Sweet Pea's favorite thing to do is climb the big mesquite tree in the backyard. From the upper branches, he leaps to the roof of the house and walks around looking at his kingdom. He can get down from the roof by leaping back into the tree, but if I hear him meowing up there, I let him in from one of the upstairs balconies. This little cat has a heart murmur, according to the vet. The way he jumps and leaps and climbs, I find that hard to believe.

And Gatsby, our gentleman cat..... while the other two are running and exploring and chasing the chickens, Gatsby sits in his chair on the side porch and just watches. "Been there, done that. Seen that, chased that." Gatsby just sits and watches, or he's sound asleep. I'm always looking for Mickey and Sweet Pea, but never for Gatsby because he's almost always in the same spot.

I think the chickens turned around and chased Mickey one day because now Mickey goes out there and does what the other cats do with the chickens-- he ignores them. With all the other yard birds outside, Mickey is never at a loss for something to run after. When he comes into the house (by knocking his paw up against the screen door in the kitchen) Mickey flops down into his favorite chair in the TV room and sleeps for hours.

It's a cat's life here on the ranch.... and a chicken's life in Scarlett's nesting box. I'm keeping track of just how many days that hen is going to sit on that golden egg.

Hullabaloo

We drove into a tiny town called Wellborn yesterday, and stopped at a vintage silver chrome diner that was shipped there from Albany, NY. They named it The Hullabaloo and it was on the list of stops for "Diners, Drive-ins and Dives." We had lunch there, sitting in the booth underneath the photo of Guy (from the "Triple D" show).

My husband ordered a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich, and I had the vegetable omelet. Totally outrageous omelet, light and fluffy, filled with sauted onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, green peppers and swiss cheese. The omelet came with a biscuit (which I ate) and home fries (which I didn't). The home fries were delicious, but the omelet and biscuit were filling enough without adding potatoes to the mix. The omelet was so over-the-top fluffy that I'm guessing they put some heavy cream in with the eggs. Definitely worth the extra calories, but I wouldn't do that at home, and I didn't eat dinner last night. I don't even want to calculate how many calories were in that omelet and the biscuit.

The inside of the diner was all chrome and pink and gray, complete with the original vinyl-covered stools in front of the long counter. There were old 45 records tacked up on the walls, oldies music playing in the background. Outside and in the back of the diner was an outdoor eating area that was set up, complete with a view of their chickens (fresh eggs daily!), their cats (one blue-eyed cat caught my eye), and a huge gorgeous peacock strutting his feathers for all to see. On the bar in the outdoor section, there was a bust of Elvis, complete with black hair and long sideburns, and a leather jacket... along with a sign saying "Please don't touch Elvis."

What a terrific find in the middle of this tiny town in the middle of practically nowhere. With all the extra seating they added on to the outside of the diner, we guessed that the weekend crowd is a big one. And with the "Triple D" recommendation, that could only bring still more people driving to Wellborn looking for the silver chrome diner plopped down in a field across from the freight train tracks.

If any place can be said to have character, "The Hullabaloo" certainly qualifies. What a great place. I'd go back just to see that blue-eyed cat and the peacock again.

Raining on the Kitty Parade.

Today is our first rainy day in quite some time. We have been enjoying summery days, with lots of warm breezes and hot sun. Thankfully-- normal weather for here.

The cats are having a blast out in the yard, and Mickey Kitty has discovered and explored every little bit of the property between the house and the garage, the cottage and the barn, and everything inbetween. I always know when he's been in the barn because he comes back to the porch smelling like the barn.

It was just drizzling a little bit this morning when Mickey wanted to go outside, so I let him go, along with Sweet Pea, and Gatsby (who was already out there since yesterday). As the morning went on, the rain got a little harder...... and a little harder still..... and before long, Mickey's whiskers were getting wet. He flew up onto the porch and gave a loud meow by the back door. No sooner had I dried him with a towel and brushed him down a bit, and there he was by the back door again, wanting to go outside. I let him out the back door and all he did was run around the porch to the front door and there was his little face, looking in through one of the glass panes of the front door. His mouth was opening into a meow but I couldn't hear him through the glass.

I'm still not comfortable with the cats (especially Mickey) being outside by themselves, but so far, it's been working out. Mickey is such a small cat and when he's outside, he looks minuscule. Sweet Pea has climbed the pecan trees in the side yard and used them as a stepping stone to the roof of the gazebo. Both Mickey and Sweet Pea have climbed up the mesquite tree in the back yard, but only Sweet Pea went all the way to the top of that tree and then jumped onto the roof of the house. Without front claws, I doubt Mickey could have gotten up that far. Sweet Pea spent over an hour exploring the roof of the house, then the breezeway roof, then the roof of the garage, then the roof of the coop...... jumping from one to the other like a feline Spiderman. (Spidercat?) The vet had told us that Sweet Pea had a heart murmur. Watching him scaling the roof lines and jumping from one to the other doesn't suggest a murmur at all. (My husband says that I will be the one with a heart problem if I don't stop worrying about the cats when they're outside.)

One thing I can say-- the cats are no longer bored and restless. They spend so much time outside and use up so much energy that when they come in, all they want to do is get something to eat and then curl up and sleep. Mickey hasn't had an "accident" inside the house since we started letting him go outside.

Our dog Gracie has been confused since the cats have been allowed to go out. She has always "herded" them away from the doors... she just somehow picked up on the fact that we didn't want the cats too near the doors and we didn't want them outside. Now when she sees all of them out in the yard, Gracie will look from one to the other, then back to the first one again..... sort of like she's trying to figure out which one to chase back to the house first. What usually happens is that Gracie starts playing with the cats out in the yard.... it looks like a Norman Rockwell painting at times.

The dog.... the cats..... the chickens. Once again, I am so thankful that we didn't get those horses last year. I don't know what I was thinking, but I'm glad I came to my senses.

Broody Scarlett.

That's the term for a hen who just wants to sit in the nesting box on the eggs--- a broody hen. And that's exactly what Scarlett has turned into this past week. I managed to get underneath her early yesterday morning to get the egg out from under her-- and I was amazed beyond words to see that it wasn't even her own egg. Scarlett lays brown eggs; the egg she had been sitting on for two days was a pale blue/green egg, which is Audrey's. And that amazed me also because Audrey didn't lay any eggs at all last year, and now she has been building up to laying real hard-shelled eggs about twice a week. Her first attempts were soft Jell-O consistency eggs that we threw away. Her last three eggs have been perfect enough (and hard-shelled) to keep.

Scarlett wasn't too happy yesterday when I set out to get that egg from her. I was going to just let her be, but the chicken books and the Internet articles that I read all recommended that she needed to be parted with the eggs (unless they were fertilized and we wanted her to hatch baby chick-- no to both). So there I was in the coop yesterday morning, wearing a heavy jacket of mine, heavy ski-gloves of my husband's, and I had a thick plush feather-dusting type of thing with a wooden handle in my right hand and a plastic scoop in the other hand. I know that chickens don't have teeth to bite, but their beaks can give you a nasty pecking followed by a black and blue mark.

I took the feather-dusting thing and stroked Scarlett on her back a few times, all the while talking to her and telling her that she was the most beautiful red hen in the coop. (I neglected to tell her that she was the only red hen in the coop, and I resisted telling her what a royal pain she was lately.) When Scarlett seemed to be soothed enough, I put the feather duster right underneath her and just lifted her up with it. As my right hand was doing that, my left hand went underneath her with the scoop and I was able to get the egg on the first try. As soon as I saw the blue/green shelled egg, I said out loud Scarlett! This isn't even your own egg! When I got back in the house, I checked the book again and it did say that a broody hen will hatch any and all eggs, no matter which hen laid them.

Scarlett wasn't too happy with me once she realized that egg was gone. After I set her back down into the nesting box, she could feel right away that nothing was underneath her, and she let out a few little coo-ing sounds that sounded very sad. Everything I read said that unfertilized eggs needed to be taken away from the hens or else they would get into the habit of spending more time in the nesting box than out of it. Scarlett flew down from the nesting box within half an hour and spent time with the other hens, walking around the yards and searching for bugs and worms.

This morning, Scarlett was back in the nesting box..... I checked twice, but she isn't sitting on an egg. The other three have laid eggs today (even Audrey-- that hen is on an egg-laying roll lately). Before I lock up the coop tonight, I will go in there with the fluffy feather duster and pet Scarlett's feathers and tell her how beautiful she is, and lift her up so I can see if she is indeed sitting on her own egg this time.

Needless to say, that feather duster will never again see the inside of the house.

Mickey Kitty.

Our sweet little Mickey Kitty spent the entire day outside today. It wasn't something that I really wanted to do, but his behavior lately has left us very few choices.

Mickey is only five years old, but in that time, he's been accustomed to living his little kitty-life a certain way and he isn't at all comfortable with change. (Is any cat?) Between the move from the old house (with a screen porch) to this new house (without a screen porch)....... and then the "disappearance" of AngelBoy and then ShadowBaby...... and then the addition of the two found cats (Gatsby and Sweet Pea)....... I guess it was all just too much for Mickey Kitty-- especially after we took ShadowBaby to the vet for the last time a few weeks ago.

Mickey, who was the poster-kitty for a good cat, started "thinking outside the litter box." Had I not seen him with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it. But he did. More than once. In more than one room. Our solution was to confine him in the cats' bathroom which is connected to our TV room. Mickey wasn't happy, but at least I didn't have to keep cleaning up his accidents. (Accidents-on-purpose would be the more appropriate term.) When he used his litter box in there, I let him out into the TV room only if I had the time to keep an eye on him.

As always with me, I can take and take and take things..... and then one thing will happen and I just can't take one thing more. And that's what happened with Mickey Kitty, when he had one of his "accidents" right in front of me. Being that my husband was the one who found Mickey in the park five years ago and carried him home, I asked him what he wanted me to do with his cat. My husband's solution was to put him outside with Gatsby.

What? He's an inside cat! He has no front claws! My husband didn't think there would be a problem. He said that Mickey would stay close to the house, we didn't have to worry about the road, and we could bring him back in before dark and let him sleep in the bathroom. He made it sound like the perfect solution, but just the thought made me cringe. However, the thought of carpet-cleaning made me cringe even more.

So this morning after breakfast, I opened the door and let Mickey Kitty go outside. We even let Sweet Pea go outside with him. And Gatsby was already outside, so that made a cat-party of three. And if anyone had a party out there, it was indeed Mickey. He was all around the porch, the deck, the garage, the yards. He didn't go out into the pastures, he didn't go into the chicken coop, he didn't go anywhere near the road. He jumped up on the railings, he chased the chickens till they squawked at him, he watched us digging the weeds out of the garden patch, he sat in the shade, he stretched out in the sun, and when he needed a nap he jumped up into a chair on the side porch and fell asleep.

On the other paw, Sweet Pea wasn't too thrilled with being outside. At the first chance we gave him, he came back in the house, ate some dry cat food, ran upstairs and slept on the little pink sofa in my sitting room. He stayed away from the doors after he woke up so I didn't make him go out again.

Before it got dark, I made sure to bring Mickey back into the house. How would I have found an all-black cat out there in the pitch-black of night? Mickey was not happy. He meowed, he circled the TV room at least 37 times, he tried to open the back door with his paws. He wanted out. Period. I asked my husband what he wanted me to do. He didn't think it was a good idea for Mickey to be out there after dark. Too many wildlife possibilities-- huge raccoons, bobcats, coyotes. And Mickey is not street-smart (pasture-smart?) like Gatsby is. Gatsby has been an outside cat all along (except for the weeks of cold weather that we had). So we just let Mickey be unhappy inside the house, and we will let him outside when we get up in the morning.

It breaks my heart to let him outside at all, but the other alternatives aren't much better. In fact, they're worse. Cats. I am so done, done, done, done, done with cats. No matter how many changes there have been in Mickey's life, I still can hardly believe that he has been misbehaving.

Gatsby is a very good outside cat who was a perfect gentleman-cat inside when the cold weather started. Sweet Pea is a very content and well-behaved inside cat and he seems more than happy to look out of the windows instead of walking out of the doors. Mickey has missed the screen porch since Day One in this house, and he seemed to just love being outside today. So I guess he's going to be an inside/outside cat... but when he's inside now, his world will consist just of that bathroom where his litter box is. And it's a huge bathroom, filled with comfy cat-sized furniture, so it isn't like he's in jail. (Time-out, maybe, but not jail.)

Cats. We are done, done, done, done, done, done, done taking in new cats.

How does your garden grow?

We have had beautiful weather since last week. Just as Winter came howling unannounced through this state, Spring has arrived without warning and most days are more like Summer.

One of our goals this Spring was to plant a vegetable garden, and that's what we did today. The previous owners had dug out a vegetable garden and when we bought this house last Spring, we had tomato plants growing out there that we enjoyed for weeks and weeks till the temperatures got past 100 degrees and stayed there for three months without a drop of rain. No matter how many times we watered those tomato plants, the sun and the excessive heat still burned them up. Even the more experienced vegetable growers at the local Farmers' Market couldn't keep their gardens thriving-- the Market closed within a few weeks of the heat wave that never wavered.

So this morning, my husband and I were out in the yard pulling up the zillions of weeds that had sprouted up in the vegetable patch. When all the weeds were out, my husband put down that black sheeting that keeps the weeds at a minimum. And then we did the plants..... four tomato plants, two zucchini plants, plus basil, Greek oregano, and Italian parsley. We also planted about a dozen strawberry plants, but those are in a basket-planter that's hanging up near the deck. I have seeds from last year's Thai eggplant, and I'm going to plant those in little cups and hope that the seeds will take so I can add those plants to the garden.

When we were buying the plants at Home Depot the other day, we forgot to buy green beans, so we'll get some of those when we go into town and add those to the garden as well. We have to keep our fingers crossed that the skunks, raccoons and rabbits keep their paws out of the garden after the sun goes down. If we discover that the wildlife goes vegetable-shopping after midnight, then we'll have to put chicken wire all around the garden patch.

WWPRD? (What would Peter Rabbit do?)

Scarlett's eggs.

My red hen Scarlett sure is one determined hen. With her egg yesterday, she sat on top of it in the nesting box all day long, not getting out till it was nearly time to lock up the gate of the coop. When I went out to the coop as the sun was going down, Scarlett was eating some chicken-feed so I took her egg from the nesting box when she wasn't looking.

This morning, Scarlett was in the same nesting box and she didn't get out of it all day long-- not even in the early evening when the other hens were getting settled on the roosting bar. I'm sure Scarlett laid another egg this morning, and I'm sure she's hoping to hatch that one also. The other three hens laid their eggs during the afternoon, and they left the eggs, left the coop, and went on about their day-- and Scarlett just sat there on top of her own egg.

I read the chapters in my chicken books about egg-laying and egg-hatching. They said that some chickens will never sit on their own eggs, and other hens will sit on a dozen eggs at once, regardless of who laid them. Scarlett, apparently, is a hen who has the patience to sit on her eggs till the baby chicks start to peck through the shells.

How do I explain to Scarlett that her eggs will never hatch into baby chicks? She needs a rooster to fertilize eggs that will hatch. We don't particularly want a rooster right now, so I'm guessing that Scarlett is going to keep sitting on top of eggs that will never be anything more than scrambled, hard-boiled or over easy. Sorry, Scarlett.

Hatch this!

Our red hen (Scarlett) decided today that she was going to hatch her just-laid egg. Scarlett has been giving us an egg a day since we got her, missing only a day here and there along the way. After her egg is laid in the nesting box, she usually does what the other hens do-- gets up, looks at the egg for a few seconds, then walks out of the nesting box and flies down to the floor of the coop. Not today, though. For some reason, Scarlett didn't budge from that box, so I can only guess that she wants it to hatch.

She laid her egg this morning, way before noon-time. Both Prissy and Mammy also laid their eggs, in separate nesting boxes, and they were out of the boxes and out of the coop within minutes. Scarlett just sat there. I had errands to do, so I just let her be, figuring that I would get her egg out of the box when I got home. Scarlett had other ideas. She was still in the box when I got back, and when I looked closer at her (to make sure she was okay and still breathing, for goodness sake) she looked at me with those yellow eyes of hers and blinked twice. (Chicken-speak for leave me alone?)

Hens can lay their eggs with or without a rooster, but none of those rooster-less eggs are going to hatch, no matter how long Scarlett sits on it. I tried to tell Scarlett that when I walked into the coop to lock the gate up this evening. The other three hens were on the roosting bar, settled in for the night. Scarlett was still in the nesting box, sitting on her egg. (I'm guessing there's an egg underneath her. I doubt she'd be in there all day long with nothing buy hay under her.)

Before I left the coop, I tried to pet Scarlett's feathers, but she blinked twice at me, tried to peck at my fingers, and clucked three times. Translation: This is my nesting box and my egg, so go away.

And that's just what I did. I left Scarlett right where she was and I locked up the coop. If she's sitting on that egg of hers in the morning, then I will just let her be and see what happens. I wonder if she left the nesting box to eat or drink anything during the day. These chickens have minds of their own-- particularly Scarlett.


The weather has gone from the "Winter of hell" to the "Spring of your dreams," all within a matter of days. Flowers are blooming (white Lily of The Valley, white Iris--- flowers that we didn't even notice last year during all the unpacking and settling in) and the pastures are greening up even more than they were and getting full of wildflower stems that will be bursting out like a blue carpet before too long. The neighbor's horses are prancing in the field across the road... just running from one side to the other-- they must know that winter is over too. I keep reminding myself to keep my promise: I will not complain about the heat. I will not complain about the heat. I am so happy that this past winter is over that I may never again complain about the heat.

Mark Twain

We went to a little community theatre in town last night, to see a one-man show called Mark Twain. The man who plays Mr. Twain is a former New York stage actor who has been in numerous Broadway plays, and has written a musical review about Cole Porter that still plays around the country from time to time. This actor was the picture-image of Mark Twain, complete with the white hair, the thick mustache, the pocket watch and cigar.

As a true Twain fan, he gave a stunning performance, as well as a reading from Huckleberry Finn. I had no idea that Mark Twain had been so popular around the country for his live readings, speeches, and dialogues. His humor is still very current and funny-- especially the political topics. Twain's views on politicians and government is as cynical and as on-target now as it must have been decades ago.

The theatre itself is very small, with only about 125 seats. We were told that there is a second (even smaller) stage in another part of the theatre, but we didn't see that last night. Everyone in the theatre is there on a volunteer basis, and they're always looking for volunteers for everything from selling tickets out front to showing people to their seats to shopping the town for stage props. We might look into volunteering there during the summer months or the next theatre season, but for now, we intend to go back and see more of the plays. "Camelot" and "On Golden Pond" is on the show list between now and the summer.

The volunteers last night were also handing out small advertisements for a play to be shown at the local college. Its title is "Church Basement Ladies," and it sounds very country, very Texan, and very funny. It has played in other states, and I'm wondering if it is touring the country, going from west to east, before they take it to Broadway. We have made note of that play as well, and we'll probably go see that one when it comes into town.

We miss the downtown Houston area, with the museums and theatres and ethnic restaurants, but we don't miss the traffic and congestion there. "Life in the slow lane," as my husband calls this part of the Hill Country.

Shell-less eggs.

Is there such a thing? Indeed there is, and Audrey has given us three of them within the last couple of weeks. Audrey is the last-chicken-standing from our original group of chickens from last summer. Her other coop-mates met dismal fates last year: Edie tried to catch a baby frog and drowned in the fountain. Dolly, HennyPenny, and Jaye were taken either by coyotes or hawks. And the two Guinea hens-- we gifted those noisy birds to a neighbor who actually wanted them. So that left Audrey, on her own for a couple of months until we got the three new hens-- Scarlett, Prissy, and Mammy.

Audrey never did lay eggs last year, even though Dolly and HennyPenny were laying eggs on a daily basis. Edie and Jaye didn't last long enough to get to their egg-laying stage, and the Guinea hens were too focused on making a racket and pecking a hole in the back door screen.

This go-round with the hens, Scarlett, Prissy, and Mammy are all laying eggs, one each per day, with the occasional exception of Mammy missing a day here and there. A couple of weeks ago, there was a very small egg in one of the nesting boxes where Audrey had been sitting-- which was a surprise in itself because she never got up into those boxes. When she left the nesting box, the egg in there was half the size of a ping-pong ball, with a soft outside that split open as soon as I touched it. The inside of that rubber-y shell was half-filled with what looked like a normal egg-white. A week later, there was Audrey in the nesting box again.... and within an hour she left another rubbery-soft egg, a little bigger than the first one. The inside was again filled with the gooey white stuff. A few days later-- another soft egg from Audrey-- but full-sized, and this one had a yolk along with the white. I didn't want to cook that egg-- I wasn't completely trusting of those soft rubbery shells. When I was telling my friend J about Audrey's mysterious eggs, she said they might be "menopausal" eggs because we thought that Audrey was an older hen, past her egg-laying days.

I searched my chicken books and the Internet. Both talked of these "shell-less eggs," laid by hens who were either too young to lay "good" eggs, too overweight, or too old. I don't think Audrey meets the first two requirements. Yesterday, there was Audrey in the nesting box again. When I checked half an hour later, there was a pale blue/green egg in the box-- this time with a hard shell (a "real" egg) but with sort of an odd shape. It was wider at the bottom than the top (which is about the norm) but the top came nearly to a point, and there was a crease running around the width of it, about an inch or less from the top. The shell was definitely hard, a real shell, and the color of the shell is consistent with her breed (an Araucana).

I haven't cracked open Audrey's first hard-shell egg. I keep the eggs in numbered cartons, and use the oldest ones first. When it's time to use the eggs from this week, I'm sure Audrey's blue/green-shelled egg will have the usual yolk and white inside of it, regardless of it's misshapen form. I have no idea why Audrey has decided to lay eggs again. I still think she's an older hen than the other three, but maybe she's just trying her best to use up whatever eggs are left inside her, menopausal or not.

Lily of The Valley.

I have loved these tiny white flowers since I was a little kid. They grew around our big house in Woodhaven, next to my mother's tulips, and they grew in both of my grandmothers' yards, and their aroma was unmistakable and unforgettable. I don't know which was more magical to me when I was little-- their thick green leaves or their teeny-tiny white blooms. I loved them so much that it was all I could do not to pick every single stem as soon as they popped up in the Spring. In my Grandmother's yard in South Ozone Park, there were so many Lily of The Valley plants that Grandma would let me pick a big bouquet as long as I "picked nice" and didn't tear the plants to shreds.

Since we've lived in Texas, I've hardly seen Lily of The Valley blooming in front yards. There are lots of older homes in The Heights and as we had driven by them in years past, I thought I saw teeny white flowers growing along the rim of flower beds, but I was never sure if they were the minuscule Lily of The Valley blooms.

Over the years, as I've gone to antique shops and resale stores, I have found Lily of The Valley teacups, and of course I bought just one. I found a delicate china Lily of The Valley coffee-mug at a yard sale years ago, and I use that for tea sometimes when just a cup isn't enough. One of the nicest finds was a Lily of The Valley pin that I discovered at the bottom of a basket filled with vintage costume jewelry in a consignment shop...... the oval faux pearls look like the tiny white blooms, and the intricate clump of leaves at its base looks like the pin had just been plucked out of a garden. It was just a few dollars, but it looks like a fine piece of vintage jewelry and I just love it.

So.... there I was this morning.... out in the yard with Gracie, checking the mailbox and watching the chickens pecking in the ground by the gazebo........ and I saw those tiny white blooms surrounding the bases of the pecan trees. Couldn't be........ could it? I forgot all about the mailbox and walked over to the gazebo..... and there they were--- those thick green leaves, the tall thin stems, those teeny white Lily of The Valley blooms........ I just couldn't believe it. I had seen the green leaves coming up after the last freeze we had, but I didn't give them another thought........ I just guessed they were some sort of border-plant for the flower beds around the trees.

Of course, I had to pick (nice) a bouquet of them and hold them up to my face so I could get that remarkable unforgettable aroma from the blooms. And, of course, I took it as yet another sign that we were meant to be in this big old hundred-year-old house. The Lily of The Valley blooms are sitting on my desk as I type. The stems are in a tall champagne glass, each tiny white flower
curtsy-ing down towards the lace runner on the top shelf of this bookcase-desk. As I look at them, I can hear my mother telling me not to touch her tulips as I pick the tiny flowers in front of our house, and I can hear my Aunt Dolly telling me not to pull the roots out of the ground when I pick the stems from Grandma's garden. Pick nice. Nice and easy.

I'm not going anywhere today, but after I put the Lily of The Valley into the champagne glass, I took the faux pearl pin out of my jewelry box and pinned it on my sweater. Just for the heck of it, in celebration of the teeny tiny white flowers that I discovered so many years ago in Queens, and re-discovered just today here in the Hill Country. What a great surprise....

Scarlett.

Chickens. Scarlett in particular. This group of three hens that we bought from Watson's farm were named correctly, that's for sure. I named the red hen Scarlett, and in keeping with the "Gone With the Wind" theme, I named the other two Mammy and Prissy. Their names seem to fit them--- Prissy is a thin and energetic black-feathered hen who holds her head up high as she prances around the yard, following me wherever I go. And Mammy, with her black/brown/white feathers-- she looks like she's wearing an apron around her wide middle, and she stays close to Scarlett as they walk around the yard. Audrey, the last-hen-standing from the original group of chickens, is sometimes the leader of the hens, and sometimes a follower of Scarlett.

Yesterday, I went out to the coop at about 5:30 with their "good-night, see-you-in-the-morning" bread and vegetable scraps. As always, Prissy was the first to hear me calling the hens and she came running across the yard to be first in line for the bedtime treats. Mammy was right behind her, followed by Audrey and Scarlett. That bird has a mind of her own... Scarlett takes her time, never runs or walks in a straight line, but takes the longest way possible to get from Point A to Point B in that yard. While Scarlett was dawdling around the backyard deck, Gatsby walked to the arbor near the coop and just sat there. The three other chickens were already in the coop with me, and when Scarlett got near to the arbor and saw Gatsby there, she wouldn't walk past that cat by herself. I called out to Gatsby and he walked over to me, but that still didn't satisfy Scarlett and she turned herself around and walked back out into the yard. Are you kidding me, Scarlett?! It's time for the coop!

I tossed the bread and lettuce bits to the hens already in the coop, closed the gate, and took off to gather up Scarlett and steer her towards the coop. Trouble was, I was wearing a heavy shawl that I sometimes toss over my shoulders when it's cold, rather than putting on my coat-- which I am getting tired of wearing day after day in this godforsaken never-ending string of cool evenings. As the wind was blowing, so was my shawl, and I swear that the flapping flying ends of the shawl scared Scarlett. I don't know what I must have looked like to her, but she took off running around to the front of the house. The two of us circled the house twice, with Scarlett trying to hide underneath the back steps, the front steps-- whatever little spot she could find, she would get herself in there and then run out the other side. It's a good long way around the entire house, and Scarlett was getting tired because she was slowing down as she went around the corners.

What I really needed was a fishing net, the long-handled kind that Mr. Watson uses to catch the chickens at his farm. The closest thing I had was a crab-net, which I knew wouldn't work but I got it out of the garage anyway. I also went into the house to get my husband's help-- I figured we could both walk towards Scarlett from a different direction, and get her to walk towards the coop. Fat chance. The only thing that did was send Scarlett underneath the guest cottage. And there she stayed. She must have gone under the very center of the cottage because we couldn't even find her with a flashlight.

We came back into the house, thinking that Scarlett would come out of there and get herself into the coop with the others, and as soon as it got dark, I could just close the gate and that would be that. I had opened the gate of the coop-- the three other hens were sitting quietly on the roosting bar, but they were wide awake and probably wondering what all the fuss was about. Go, Scarlett, go! Free Scarlett! Free Scarlett!

Half an hour later, just as it was getting dark, I went back out to the coop. Three hens still on the roosting bar, all with their eyes closed. Not a sign of Scarlett, who was probably sleeping by that time in her hidden spot underneath the cottage. I couldn't leave the coop open.... any raccoon or bobcat or coyote could just walk in there and take his pick of the hens. One? Two? I'll take all three! I locked the coop, called out to Scarlett and told her she was on her own for the night, and all the way back to the house, I was saying "Damn chickens... don't know what's best for them.... sleeping under the cottage and what's Scarlett going to do if a raccoon smells her under there?"

And when I shut the kitchen door, I shut Scarlett out of my mind for the night. After the losses in the first group of hens that we had last year, I've learned not to get too attached to those birds. And it worked. I slept just fine, not worrying about that silly red hen underneath the cottage.

First thing this morning, though, I looked out the kitchen window--- and there was Scarlett. Just standing in the courtyard by the coop, looking straight at me as I stood there shaking my head and saying out loud what a lucky hen she was last night, not to have been taken away by a hungry coyote or raccoon and turned into a late-night chicken dinner. I went outside to open the gate of the coop and let the other chickens out, and Scarlett ran away from me. I made sure to put my coat on, not the long shawl, but she still ran away-- not forgiving me for the twice-around-the-house chase of last night.

When I went outside after lunchtime to check the nesting boxes for eggs, Scarlett was right there with the other hens, waiting for bits of bread and lettuce. Apparently, she has forgiven my sins against her red-feathered self. I have a new strategy for tonight, and all other nights, though. I don't intend to go out into the yard and gather up the hens and have them follow me into the coop before we have our own dinner. From now on, the hens can just take themselves into the coop, get up on the roosting bar when they're good and ready, and I will go out there just before dark and lock up the gate.

That must have made a ridiculous picture last night-- a red hen running in front of me around and around the house as I went hurrying after it, with my long pink shawl blowing in the wind and scaring the egg yolk out of that poor bird.