Hoeing Makes Clean; Flowers Make Pretty

Morning milking saw another teaspoon of milk: after Fern kicked me in the arm and put her dirty hoof in the bucket. Perhaps it's not proper animal husbandry, but I slapped her flank and said, "No!" very sternly. Is that animal training? I don't know. She looked a bit chagrined.

Evening milking, though, was a breakthrough! I got to her at 6:30pm, before Charlemagne had taken all her milk. I brought her a handful of grasses from weeding, and she allowed me to hook her up and clean her off. The little guy came over then, and he nursed a bit and I milked a bit, and when it came time to release her, I gave her another few handfuls and undid her lead.

Four cups of milk won't win any production awards, but I had the thrilling feeling of squeezing a full teat and pushing the milk out. And four cups is enough for a smoothie!

Also, with the break in the heat, the hens laid ten eggs yesterday, instead of the four or five of last week. Good, good news.

And gardening, though it has its downs (cabbage and broccoli won't head, although they have lovely enormous leaves), also has its ups. It's hard to fathom a vegetable as beautiful as chard. And while I prefer the taste of kale, I prefer the look of chard.

And although we're perhaps a little premature, we continue to enjoy fresh Rose Gold potatoes. Abraham had his first today and said, "These have the most buttery yellow insides I've ever seen!" Rose on the outside, buttery on the inside.

We had a friend come and help today. He and Phil moved chickens, and then he and Phil got to work in the market garden, which Phil hasn't been in much at all. They weeded and killed potato bugs, hilled some potatoes, and hoed the asparagus patch, so it actually just looks like asparagus growing, instead of a lawn with some asparagus thrown in. Nice.

I have been so lackadaisical in my gardening maintenance, I didn't see any real benefit or point to hoeing. But, with the patch cleaned, I could see it: a weeded patch looks smart, like a person cares for it. Phil and I did a patch ourselves, later on.

I have been noticing lately how that same lackadaisical attitude has crept into my life. I'm working on cleaning up, whether the house or the kitchen, or even my clothes. The shorts with holes from battery acid? In the trash. The five-year-old dearly beloved shirt with a hole? Done.

Although it may not be possible to live in the mud without stains, it should be possible to live without holes. That's where I draw the line.

And I can make sure I have flowers. My globe amaranth has gone crazy, happily, and I experimented with a couple bouquets.

I shall look at them and think pretty.