Belle Grows Sick of Rye

I opened a new paddock up for Belle yesterday, a section of rye perhaps not quite as fertile, a bit more sparse and not quite as high, but nicely headed out for all that.

Apparently she was not as grateful as she might have been, as she burst the bounds (somehow) and was found wandering the land. Isaiah closed the gate to the road, and she roamed at will all afternoon: the apple orchard, the greenhouse, down near the bees. At milking time we found her in the big blue barn, eating old hay off the ground. Happily, she headed almost directly back into her enclosure and stood pretty well for milking.

I remembered today that resting my head in the crease between belly and leg (is that the flank? Or is the flank the leg itself? I don't remember) both keeps kicking and movement to a minimum, and gives me a split second more warning that she might move. That felt more restful.

On a totally different note, I have had a craving for French fries, so I made some today: good organic potatoes and coconut oil and Celtic sea salt. I ate the first plate and offered successive plates to the boys, unsure if five pounds of potatoes would be enough to satisfy us all for dinner.

Apparently, the boys' pickiness has no limits. After sampling the delicious golden fries, they decided they were too ... something, and left the last three plates untouched.

It's hard to fathom.