Follow Your Gut Not Your Stomach

For the risk of putting out bad karma there are a few things that need to be said regarding our recent trip to Fiesta Mexican Grill and Cantina in Oneonta. 

After a week of being home and not risking traveling too far for concern over the impending weather (that never came to fruition) we decided to have a nice afternoon lunch date.  Not just eating out after we ran some errands, but a trip made specifically to our destination in hopes of having a couple of cocktails and good food, and just basking in the love that we share. 

We really try to give places an honest chance before we write them off for good.  Let me backtrack a few years…  Our last trip was not a memorable one, except for the violent reaction to the obviously pre-made red dye #40 pomegranate margarita.  I can handle my drink, but while grocery shopping at Hannaford after our meal I was overcome with what felt like a binge drinking episode.  I was dizzy and nauseous.  I felt completely drunk!  The trip home was marked by periodic pit stops to orally relieve myself of the nasty concoction.  As I said, that was a few years ago.  After all those years we figured we would give it another shot.  There really isn’t much buzz from locals about the place.  A few of our friends have been and seem to have enjoyed themselves, so we thought, “why not?!”  We set off to try the only Tex-Mex restaurant in a 50 mile radius.  Here’s where the “follow your gut, not your stomach” comes in…  We saw the specials at The Autumn Café and decided to go there instead.  But, being a decent Saturday afternoon there was a wait.  A pretty substantial wait.  It’s obvious why The Autumn Café is always packed and with a waiting list – the food is real, fresh, and knowledgeably and creatively prepared.  We could have waited around walked around a bit (a lot), but instead decided to embark on our original destination.  Coulda, shoulda, woulda… hindsight is 2020, go with your gut…

We ventured to Fiesta Mexican Grill and eagerly went in.  We saw friends there and were able to responsibly chat with them for a bit before we sat down at the table we were given.  They spoke highly of both the food and the drink.  Good, my hopes were high.  There was a basket of chips and salsa waiting for us when we finally went to our table.  But then we waited.  And waited.  Our waitress finally came over to take our drink order.  She was a little older, and not knowing her circumstances made me feel kindness for her, hoping she’s doing this because she doesn’t want to be home and be bored, and not because someone of her age has to work extra hours or an extra job to make ends meet.  Either way – being a server should mean having a solid understanding of the menu and what is available from the kitchen.  It also means having a decent personality, or, at the very least the ability to fake it.  The salsa was tasty, but super mild.  It was good, but bland, so hubby asked if there was anything hotter.  The disinterested waitress suggested that he add the hot sauce from the table to the said salsa.  No thank you.  But, whatever.  Upon her return he asked her about the spicy red sauce he saw on the menu.  She said we would have to pay extra for that.  Ok, fine, but when we asked about something hotter the first time she never mentioned it, only saying that what we were given was the only salsa they had.  She brought “spicy red sauce” of course being a little dish of pico de gallo.  Moving on…

We ordered the “tapatizer” bacon wrapped jalapeno poppers.  They were presented to us with creamy Italian dressing as the dipping sauce.  Italian dressing?!  And maybe because she was still thinking of our request for a spicier salsa brought a mini Corelleware bowl of the original salsa with the freaking hot sauce mixed in!  During this time we did get our drink order.  I asked for a house margarita with light salt.  I was excited.  I love a good margarita and our friend had just told me how good they were!  I don’t know what the hell landed on our table, though!  I have never had a fizzy margarita on the rocks.  There was something off with it.  It just didn’t taste right – so I had to send it back.  We didn’t drive 40 plus minutes to be let down this early on!  The waitress, which we realized was also making the drinks brought a new margarita and proclaimed that she made it from scratch because their house mix does have some fizz to it.  Oh my goodness.  I wasn’t about to send back a second margarita, so I did manage to slurp it down even though it was too sweet and again, just not quite right.  About this time we got a call from the lovely and gracious hostess at the Autumn Cafe.  There was a table ready if we still wanted it.  Oh, if only we had waited!  Our lackluster meals took forever to get to us.  We were pretty depleted and feeling sorry for ourselves by the time the food did arrive and the lack of any actual taste drove home the fact that we should have followed our gut and not even come.  I did make a plea when I ordered my burrito for NO CILANTRO.  I said I understood if it was mixed in with some things and I would survive, but please please please no garnish or extra cilantro on anything.  Well, there were plenty of chunks of the devils ass weed sprinkled on the burrito under the perfectly melted cheese.  The burrito came to me swimming in a lake of green sauce.  Not what I expected, but sometimes it’s okay to be surprised.  I had just never seen a burrito served as this was.  Hubby’s meal was very basic with no yummy juices or sauces on the over priced fajitas.  I actually had to go ask the waitress for a plate for him to prepare his fajitas as I was sure she wasn’t coming back to us any time soon.  We were asked if we wanted another round of drinks and as sad as it was, I had to quickly decline having another margarita.  I don’t think I’ve ever had to turn down a second margarita.

I can handle mediocre food when accompanied by good service.  i can tolerate mediocre service with outstanding food.  Neither applied in this case.  Having spent many years as a server I know what the scene is like, but I also know how to be attentive and intuitive – my tips always reflected that.  I’m not one of those falsely generous people that will tip well no matter what.  No.  I had to work my ass off for the good tips I got.  Be decent.  Ask questions.  Do what you can to make an obviously unpleasant situation better.  Do better.  I tip according to service – and I do prefer to be generous. 

We enjoy eating out.  We enjoy good food prepared with good ingredients.  We expect pride to be taken in the preparation and the delivery.  To say we were disappointed would be an understatement.  We were left feeling more than frustrated, maybe just short of anger?  Maybe the anger should stay directed at ourselves as we’re the ones that did in fact not listen to our gut to begin with. 

A Morning On the Hill

  A nice, cool and breezy morning.  It would have been nice to sleep in, but instead I got right up and paid a visit to the early morning damp garlic.  We're getting close to cutting our ramps, so it's important to keep the garlic as weed-free as possible to allow the last burst of bulb growth to have the most umph.  
  I did not even take the time to make myself coffee, also I did not take the time to feed the cat.  This was apparently a problem.
  Scatt usually comes to the gardens with me.  He's my little garden buddy.  In the early years when he used to care he would even scare away the snakes for me.  Today, though, I feel like he came to the garden just to yell at me for not feeding him before starting my morning.  Sensing that I wasn't going to drop what I was doing to trek back in just to feed him, the jackhole resigned himself to staying with me.
  While weeding I noticed Scatt licking himself, or maybe eating grass - I wasn't sure, but it was repetitive and almost frantic.  Then I realized I smelled a sicky-sweet smell.  "What weed was that?" was my first thought.  It was a familiar, not unpleasant, but somewhat unsettling smell.  While those brief thoughts were bouncing around in my noggin it occurred to me that Scatt was absorbed in his fetish of licking ANTS!  The little shit was licking ants!  I had observed him doing this only once before and was easily able to redirect him.  This time, though, it was all about the ants!  I had to physically remove him from the spot.  He proceeded to flop down next to me on my garden towel, purring as loudly as Scott's rototiller.  He continued to flop back and forth, whoring himself for any attention I would give him.  He tried again to go back to the ants and again had to be removed.  
  My conclusion- my sweet little kitty boy was flying high on an ecstasy type trip!

  I finally got the jackhole settled down and continue my task of weeding the garlic.  Just short of frantically, Scott calls me to the chicken coop - HURRY!  FAST!  My mind is racing and I'm trying to keep my short little legs from tripping over the fencing, clumps of weeds, dogs, other chickens, and goodness knows what else between the garden and the chicken coop - at the complete other side of the property.  Before I could get my stumpyness to the other side of the homestead I implored hubby to use his words, "what's going on?!"  "Baby!" is the only response I get.  Being the ever-emotional husbandry pragmatist I am, I ask, "dead or alive?"  Thankfully and miraculously his response was alive!
  I say miraculously because the wee little chickie was out of the cozy little crate nest I had made for Mama.  The little poop-head could easily have gotten too chilled and died, got eaten by any of the other chickens in the coop, or, as hubby opened the coop door, trampled to death by the dozens of eager chicken feet waiting to get out.

We ogled and ahhed over the little cutie and got it nestled back in under Mama's warm and safe fluff.  I did pick away the tiniest bit of shell on it's emerging sibling.  And, in fact by the time I secured the holes in the door of the crate, worked a little more in the garden, and took a bit of a break to write a little, the next wee little chickie had hatched.

  Today was a good day.  
  

Masterpieces

Masterpieces from our friend Jim Seymour. We all seem to have a little extra time on our hands right now, but Jim is spending his time better than most!

From top then clockwise: 

Fluffy - the half blind almost 8 year old rooster rooler of the front yard special needs chickens

Lucky - our incredibly spoiled, toe missing, first house chicken, addicted to cheese doodles and gin

Bunny - another front yard special needs chicken that is no longer special needs, the most indignant and entitled hen you could ever meet, one hell of a garden buddy with no tolerance for the dogs' shenanigans 

  

        and of course our magnificent goatie girl, Morgan Marie

A Flock Story

Hector, the Good Boy

Our chicker peckers free range on most nice days.  They're usually very good at staying close to home.  There is, however, a small inner-flock gang of delinquent hens that does like to wander down to the road.  The road has the allure of winter's snowplow debris build up that makes for a delightful dust bath.  Our road has been a little busier than usual with bored people out for a Sunday drive, of course on a Tuesday afternoon.  I get it, they want to get out of the house and ride around.  We do the same thing.  The difference is that we go slowly and are respectful.  Unfortunately, the fools tooling around on our our dead end road fly by kicking up the dirt and dust, and probably wouldn't have time to stop for lounging chickens.  So, because of this, I try my best to keep our girls out of the road.  When I notice them lollygagging around chitting about goodness only knows what, I let loose my signature call of 'snacker-doodle-do!'  They come running.  They usually come running.  Almost all of them usually come running.  But, one hen in particular has been deaf to my pleas this Spring, the allure of a good dust bath obviously more important than following the flock.  I call and the good girls come running followed by their dutiful roosters... except for Blondie Mama.  Blondie Mama, I could see, was busily preening all by herself in the road near the end of the driveway.  I called again, just for her.  Nothing.  I looked at our newest flock member, a beautiful large white yearling rooster, Hector, and asked him to go get her.  I'm thinking to myself, yup... I've lost it, asking my boy to go retrieve his girl.  What happened even surprised me!  Instead of coming to the porch stairs to have a snack with the rest of the fluff-butts, Hector makes his way to the end of the driveway and scoots the stubborn hen all the way back up!  "What a good boy, Hector!  I cannot believe you just did that!" I exclaim as I try to give a reward snack just to him.  He kept his distance, keeping a watchful eye on the girls as they scratched and pecked for the last of the seed treat I tossed for them.  What a good boy, Hector, you belong with this flock.

Mud.  That’s where we’re at - Mudville, NY.  Season - mud, mood - mud, dogs’ paws - mud!  The calendar says Spring, but really, it’s just mud!

Soon, though, my dear, sweet, super-zealous husband and I will be arguing about how, when, and where to plant our hundreds of dollars worth of seeds.  To make a point here, we do not yet have a greenhouse.  You better believe that’s on our short list of to-dos!  Our greenhouse will be a work of reclaimed, reused, and repurposed splendor!  But, because we do not have the splendorific greenhouse yet, our precious little seedlings, the ones that won’t be directly sown, will occupy all available, and some not yet available horizontal surfaces in our teeny tiny little cramped home.

    My aforementioned dear, sweet husband is an over-er.  He has a tendency to over-tighten, over-plan, over-anticipate, over-think, over-plant… and this season over-order.  Seeds are usually sold by weight, not by a set amount.  Because of that I could only guesstimate the actual number of seeds we have to contend with.  I’m not going to do that.  That would make my head hurt!

    We have always had a jam-packed beautiful garden, but I’m more than a little worried about where all these seeds of bounty will find a place to call home, to lay down their reaching little roots.  

    Some soon-to-be seed starts will certainly require more sun than others.  And, what about the climbers?  We don’t have enough trellising to accommodate all the climbers - but shall I say, yet.  Where will they all go?

    I draw the plots. I label the plots.  I agonize over what should go where and why.  My partner, my solid and strong (muscled and willed) gardening man has already made up his mind where everything will go - probably before the actual seed order has been placed. Nope, I have to have all the varieties laid out in front of me.  I have to know what I’m working with.  I have opinions on what should go where.  Sometimes, sometimes my garden-partner will listen to me.  We usually have great results when he does give in and do things my way… but then, of course, it was his idea all along!

Cheers and Happy Planting!

Go With the Flow

  Each of us would benefit from remembering to go with the flow.  All of it.  Even what we, at the time, may perceive as a nuisance. 

  For this instance the flow of which I speak is accepting and knowing life is not coming to an end because the goat ate our new nursery purchased basil plant. To be fair, the goat didn't completely eat the basil baby, just gave it a nibble and must have decided to move on to something else.  Regardless, it was enough of an herb-eating scene to draw the attention of darling husband. 
 
  Mister Mild Mannered is easily irritated by the goat.  Even though he does worry about her and she adores him, her very existence grates at this core. 

  Thinking that his heavy Mennonite made straw broom is the natural antagonist of chickens and goats alike, out he marched to save the seedling and banish the goat back to her pen.  I guess this would be a good time to mention that we allow Morgan, the goat, to free-range during the day when we're home.

  Funny how they, (you know, "they" I had drinks with "them" just last week) say "everything happens for a reason..."  It may be a hard sell to some, but I'm pretty much on board with it.
 
  Here's how we flow:  Because, if we hadn't gone on our seasonal trip to the nursery and bought more than we needed we wouldn't have left the flats of plants on the hood of our car...  If I hadn't let our goat-girl out to free-range she wouldn't have nibbled at the basil.  If she hadn't nibbled at the basil, darling husband wouldn't have rushed off the porch with his broom of banishment.  And if he hadn't rushed off the porch (and me following to help guide the un-banishable goat) we would not have heard the rustling in our otherwise babbling brook.

  If we had not been there, right there at that very moment, we would not have seen for the first time ever in our creek a sleek and stunning pair of beavers!

  We watched them effortlessly glide through the shallow water and around the rocks, under the road through the culvert and into the deeper water.  They circled around a couple of times, slapped their tails at us and continued to ease on down the creek.

  I don't know where they came from, or where they were headed.  But, I know that I am grateful they graced us a visit, however brief.  I had never seen beavers this close before - they were so elegant.  I could almost feel the love they had for each other.  This is a memory of gratitude and abundance that will stay with us for many years to come.

Thank You Meaties

Today, twenty-six large white beautiful birds will lose their lives for us.
 
We are so grateful to have them provide for our family.  They have been loved.  They have been well cared for.  And, they are appreciated. 

I don't even want to sully their existence or my reverence for today, but I don't want to forget either.  A part time neighbor, almost in the old-lady category stopped down, thankfully while I was gone.  Upon seeing our meaties, as we so lovingly call them, in our front yard, she commented to my much- more-tolerant-than-me husband that it was like a concentration camp for chickens.
 
That hurt.  Had I been there I would have had to walk away.  But, this is what I would like to have been able to tell her:  We have given these chickens the best life they could possibly have, given their breed and reason for being bred.  They have been pampered with green grass and yummy treats, plenty of water and ample space, shade from the sun, and a secure coop at night.  Every night when I put them to bed I would thank them and tell them they were loved.  It's true.  They were with us but a few weeks, but we loved them.  Loved watching them, loved caring for them.  We loved watching them grow.  These meaties were as happy as any bird could be I suspect. 
 
Our ten year old daughter understands why we raise our own birds.  She loves chicken.  And she loves chickens.  This little child understands where her food comes from.  I would hazard a guess that she's more in touch with where her food, and food in general, comes from than most adults out there.  Almost-old-lady-neighbor being no exception.
With that, I guess we can only feel badly for the majority of people that are out of touch with their food.  If this old lady thinks that our healthy happy chickens represents a concentration camp, can you imagine if she saw how supermarket and food industry chickens (and beef and pigs and and and) were raised?!
 
Our freezer is stocked for well into the Spring with big, plump, natural chicken.  There are no mystery substances pumped into them, no antibiotics lingering in the carcass, no broken bones because of inhumane or improper handling and slaughter.  Every single time we pull one of our own meaties from the freezer we send up a thank you.  Our lives and our hearts are filled with appreciation for these dear creatures. 
 
And, you know what - they actually taste like chicken!