Dirt in my toes, dirt up my nose, I’m a perfect curse to pest control

By on Mar 27, 2015 in Hyperbolics | 1 comment

When we last left off, we’d sent our Sweetie Pig to go visit the boar up the hill for some good grownup fun, only to discover that she hadn’t quite let down her hair enough to get comfortable with the idea. The ensuing slapstick is already well-documented. We got a call some weeks ago:  The Boar Had Died, leaving Sweetie Pig a virgin still.  The story of the boar’s death is for another medium, perhaps, or a more bourbon-soaked post at a later date, but the point was: Sweetie Pig had not even been immaculately conceived, it was a little late in the year to consider a backup plan, so she’s going to hang out with us for some time, and we’ll have sleepovers, and braid each others’ hairs, and talk about boys and what to do with them.  Maybe we’ll practice on pillows together, now that we have time. Of course, now that she’s not happily...

There’s a party up there all the time, and they’ll party until they drop.

By on Jan 30, 2015 in Hyperbolics | 1 comment

This year’s Pig Slaughter came and went, and was something less of a redneck riot than last time.    Notably, though, in the interest of slowly extricating ourselves from the hallowed land of cash capital, we kept alive a breeding sow, and sent her up the hill to the lady farmer neighbor with a passel of stiffied boars. We’d kept this particular sow because she was so wonderfully even-tempered; The Native had christened her Sweetie, and she was the one of the bunch of seven who could be pat, and who wouldn’t try and eat you on sight. But maybe seeing your friends murdered, plucked one by one over the course of two days, then being spirited away up a country road in a four-wheeler’s trailer and dropped in a muddy pen with a boar several times your size who immediately smells your heat and responds accordingly… maybe this is more than the porcine mind can...

We live in the soap commercial

By on Jan 1, 2015 in Big Dummy, Hyperbolics | 1 comment

For people as dirty as we think we are, we go through no small amount of the foamy stuff, and the latent chemist in me was curious enough to take a plunge into soapmaking.  I mean, if you screw it up, it can explode in a glorious toxic flume!  You can inhale lye and poison yourself!  Or the little squirrel (now fully 2-and-a-half-where-has-time-gone?!).  And even if you do manage to successfully get your ingredients in the pot and have it everything go right, you can still not let the lye saponify just so, and burn the everloving shit out of your skin when using the stuff!  Very exciting, and very exclamatory.  ! I made several batches, way more than even we’re capable of using, and varying the recipe each time.  The secret, for us, is a hard bar, and with a good abrasive.  I tried coffee grounds (new and used), corn meal, the crushed bones of fairies, and hand-cut oatmeal....

Watch where you straying, my friend

By on Oct 21, 2014 in Hyperbolics | 1 comment

  We took in a stray, a sweet little tabby with its tail chomped off, and set her up all nice and cozy as a barn cat in our shop teeming with mice and chipmunks, both of which she’s done a fine job dispatching and snacking.  The one breed of critter she didn’t banish from the bins of grain, though, is the goat itself.  They’ve become fast friends and she’s proven herself a bit of a sap.  Like all of us.

I’m Going Back to New York City I Do Believe I’ve Had Enough

By on Oct 17, 2014 in Big Dummy | 3 comments

  Have I mentioned we’re raising pigs again?  This time doing it our way, rotating their pasture and letting them till up vast swaths of our new and erstwhile untouched, unkempt land?  Have I mentioned this results in lean, fast, noisy fuckers, who pile mud atop the fence when out of space, and use that vulnerability to bust free and free range on the property?  Have I mentioned that this is what I saw when I opened the door to dash out for an errand this morning? I don’t eat pork, but it will be so satisfying to start with them.

I like these torture devices from my old best friend

By on Oct 8, 2014 in Hyperbolics | 0 comments

We never set out to be goat farmers, never really.  They were more or less dropped at our feet, or on our land, through a series of negotiations and musical-goat-swapping with neighbors up the hill. We’ve been rotationally grazing them through a tangle of net fencing, and recently, with the garden on the wane and new pasture going with it, have been letting them free range, for the most part.  First they cut back our perennials, then they did a great job pulling the carrots, whose fruits they left to dry uprooted and detached from the greens they preferred.  Then they wandered inside the shop, in search of their anise treats and other sundries.  But they abused the privilege when nipping my sunflowers, and are now banished back to their pen. Looking outside to find wandering, munching goats hanging out in my front garden seemed odd, but is, in fact, not too different from looking...

Its fruits are tasting strange, The apple tree is shaking

By on Sep 23, 2014 in Look at My Big Garden | 1 comment

We got a little overexcited at the apple orchard, which left me with a bushel and a peck of apples, which, in modern measurements, translates to a Half a Metric Cubic Shitload.  This meant a lot of applesauce, because our Squirrel, now 2, subsists on the stuff. It was, sadly, more than my beloved apple corer/slicer could stand, and the handle snapped right off.  Which makes me lucky to live with this guy. (Yes, I know, I’ve been gone for a year and instead of updating you on huge gardening and canning success, nor the introduction of pigs and goats and an additional 13 acres of land on which to enjoy these things, I’ve returned to a sad elegy to my dog and a vertical video.  Sit tightly on your hands, remaining two readers!)...

Shake your hair girl with your ponytail takes me right back When you were young

By on Sep 20, 2014 in Hyperbolics | 0 comments

When we first started courting, we’d drive to VT on weekends in the bumpy truck, every weekend, and back to NYC on Sunday nights for work work work. One such weekend, we decided to spend a day fishing from the fold-up canoe. She Doggie wasn’t a natural swimmer by any means, but if we were in the water, She’d jump right in after us, nervously swimming circles around us with this little whine entreating us to get back to dry land. Herding instinct. Not yet understanding the intensity of that instinct then (because as cityfolk I’d largely been free of swimming with her), we, on this day, put together the canoe and left the dog at shore while paddling out, thinking She’d happily frolic and chase squirrels and watch us and wave with her non-opposable digits. We got pretty far into the reservoir before looking behind us to find the dog padding in after us, quite...