Archive for February 27th, 2012

Crazy Quesadilla Attack


Morgan doesn’t “like” to cook, or so she says, but she does love to make quesadillas. Weston came home this weekend, so in advance of his homecoming, Morgan went on a quesadilla tear. She made more quesadillas than I’ve ever seen in my life.

I wasn’t home at the time, and when I got home with Weston (and girlfriend), Morgan proudly presented her chicken quesadillas, talking a mile a minute about her ORDEAL making so many quesadillas, keeping everything straight for the different tastes. (Onions with mine, but not hers, and vegan quesadillas for Mariah.) And THEN, Weston, who has previously been a “vegetarian” who would still eat chicken, announced that he was no longer eating chicken. (He’s a real vegetarian now.) Which meant she had made far too many chicken quesadillas, but luckily she had made a good number of vegan quesadillas, so there was still that.

Now if I can just get her to cook something else…….

Meanwhile, just want to mention that this is going to be an extraordinarily hectic week here, especially the second half of the week, so if I’m scarce later this week, that’s why. Wednesday is the all-day agritourism workshop in Morgantown that I’m going to with my cousin. I will be gone from 5 a.m. until late that evening. (Animals will get fed and watered VERY early!) Friday, Ross is coming in for a four-day weekend. Saturday, we’ll be moving the cows to SarahGrace’s farm.

I’ll have reports on everything as soon as I can!

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Don’t Laugh


We have had a very blustery few days here, and this weekend, I discovered my farm sign on the ground.

Blown off the post! Who was going to fix this for me? Would it be too extreme to call the superboys? Would my sign be down for weeks or months while I waited for someone to fix it for me? When was my cousin going to be over here again??? Such were my helpless, hapless thoughts until–

Oh, yes, until!

I thought, why, Suzanne, YOU CAN FIX IT YOURSELF. HA!

Dubious yet excited, I set upon the scene to investigate.

The sign hangs from two chains that are attached with S hooks to staples under the arm of the post. One of the staples had blown out completely. The other one still had the chain attached, but in both cases, the sign came detached because the wind blew it off the S hooks.

Getting down on my hands and knees, I searched around to find the missing staple, but wasn’t able to locate it. I did find the missing chain.

I trudged back to the cellar to cast about for an alternative. What about a fencing staple?

Raiding the stash of tools left by the previous owners, I got a hammer and pliers, along with my fencing staple, and took off again.

By the way, so far, I have discovered three hammers left here. I have so many hammers! But what does it all mean? Did they have more than three hammers? Who has more than three hammers? Did they leave all their hammers here? Does this mean they never intend to lift a finger again for the rest of their lives, down to not so much as hammering a nail in a wall to hang a picture? What does this say about life on a farm when you walk away leaving everything down to your hammers?

Never mind. Don’t answer that question.

The fencing staple was a whole lot bigger than the other staple, and I couldn’t hammer it all the way in there. It’s hard to hammer upside down.

But when I hung the chain on it, I realized the two chains were even anyway, which made no sense. The sign must have been tilted before and I never noticed. Well, now it’ll be even!

I hung the sign back up–

–and see these S hooks?

I pinched them closed with the pliers.

Now my sign won’t blow off again!

I felt very competent and construction-y. Not a single person drove by on the road while I was wielding the hammer and pliers, which was very disappointing.

But–I fixed my sign all by myself! I’m smokin’ hot.

You just wait till the day I find something to do with that drill I bought last month.

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The Slanted Little House

"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....

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