* * *
Did I mention that with the first three eggs that were laid (lain?) by our chickens, I made Fred an egg sandwich? He declared that the eggs were not, in fact, “too eggy”. Actually, he said they were the best eggs he’d ever had. Sunday morning he found an egg and told me I could have it.
(I know the days are coming when we’ll be saying “You need to eat more eggs! We’ve got too damn many of them!” to each other, but those days aren’t here yet.)
I scrambled it with a little salt and pepper, and I have to agree with him – that was one damn fine egg. I’m looking forward to eating more of them!
* * *
I’ve made so many goddamn pickles lately that I’m not sure I need to see another cucumber for two years. And yet Fred keeps on bringing those bastards in. Not only does he bring them in, he put forth the idea that since they grow so quickly he could plant a second batch (since the current cucumber plants are infested with vine borers), and apparently my brain was on vacation, because I was all “Okay!”
NOT OKAY.
After making yet another batch of dill pickles over the weekend, I said to him “Did you actually plant another row of cucumbers yet?” and he said “Yeah, I did. Why?” and I said “Except for pickles, I do not even LIKE cucumbers, why the fuck are we even growing them?” and he said some bullshit about “learning to like” cucumbers, but I bet if I convinced him that cucumbers give me horrid gas, he’d be out there ripping those fuckers up in a heartbeat.
Just because we CAN grow something doesn’t mean we SHOULD.
I’m going to cross-stitch that and hang it in the (not yet built) garden shed to remind us of that little fact next year.
(I still haven’t given the order to rip up the cucumbers, though. It seems so WASTEFUL.)
* * *
I am sad to report that Gilligan and Spanky were still at the pet store yesterday morning. Not only that, as soon as I walked through the door, they both zipped into the litter box and hid there. I sweet-talked them, I let them sniff my fingers, I tried petting them, and nothin’. They don’t remember me and they don’t want anything to do with me. The only time they showed any sign of anything other than abject fear was when Jack Frost (who still hasn’t been adopted) wandered by their cage. Spanky ran over to the bars and looked lovingly at Jack Frost (these kittens, I’m tellin’ ya, they really love the grown-up cats), but when I went over to open the door to the cage, Spanky zipped back into the litter box.
Probably a good thing; Jack Frost has no use for little kittens. Or any other cats at all, really.
I’m going back to the pet store on Wednesday, covering for the Wednesday evening cleaners (who are on vacation); I’m hoping that they’ve been adopted before then by some soft-hearted
sucker cat lover.
Maryanne – or “Little Miss”, as Fred calls her – pretty much has the run of the house these days. We put her in the foster kitten room at night, then Fred lets her out when he gets up at the crack of dawn, and she stays out all day. She’s a quiet thing, and every once in a while I have to go looking for her just to make sure she wasn’t “accidentally” killed by one of the big cats. She prefers to spend her time upstairs, sometimes on the cat tree in the foster room, sometimes on Fred’s bed, sometimes just hanging out on the stairs.
* * *
It always starts out sweetly with these two, usually a grooming love session in the kitchen.
::licka::licka::licka::
(It totally looks like Sugarbutt is nursing, here. He’s not. I swear it! It’s all innocent grooming. Apparently Tommy is a dirty, dirty boy.)
And it always degenerates into kicking and biting and yowling in about ten seconds flat.
Brudderly love. Nothin’ like it.
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