It was a sweet, long summer here at the farmette, with some moments more bittersweet than others. We've savored laughter from friends, with friends, from ducklings, chicks, and our dependable gaggling hens. Even Rooster Rooster - our not-like-Big-Bird-who-attacked-me - rooster who lovingly (sometimes with a little "extra lovin") shepherds his girls around and doesn't so much as puff his auburn feathers at me, has contributed his fair share of joy with his confidently broken crow (ala teenage boy). But as one might expect, there has also been some death on the farm, right alongside our own string of miscarriages.
I'm in the middle of a spinning vortex of business planning (I'm legal!), fruit sourcing, fall and winter garden sowing, preserving summer's excess, and trying to enjoy the bountiful fruits of our labor with garden curated meals as often as possible. As much as I'm stressed, it feels really good not to have a case of the Monday's come Sunday night. Instead, I'm excited for the week ahead and what I will learn, cook, harvest, and sow. And in times of heaviness, of which we've had plenty this year, I appreciate the lightness --the laughter, the humor, gaggling chickens, and the "I still can't believe we live on an island and raise ducks" and "Am I really starting a jam business?!" Exciting, yes, but do I often throw myself into tizzy of radical doubt still? Absolutely.
We've taken a big step here at Minnow Creek Lane. I clean chicken poop now. And chickens poop a lot. Add that to my resume. Sells well on Wall Street.
Living in Manhattan did I ever dream of chickens? I can't say that I did. Maybe hot wings with bleu cheese dressing. Never the live kind. But here on Orcas, where everyone raises chickens, things are different. We have a stable, begging to be used for something other than Gerry's second shop, and I don't fancy myself a horse lady, despite looking quite at home in a pair of riding boots. Chickens seemed like the natural introductory choice for a couple of city slickers. Easy, right?