From a life in the corporate world to a small farm. My new work colleagues eat grass or lay eggs. I've got a lot to learn about things that just seem to happen when nature becomes your new boss.
Tuesday, 11 April 2017
How do you like your mouse tails, poached or fried?
It's officially mousing season according to our Head of Farming and Chief Mouser, Minnie. We know this by the array of headless corpses displayed by the back door mat every morning. Perhaps she thinks she is required to produce evidence in the form of mouse tails to receive food and lodging. Vigilant as she is, it does appear that one may have escaped her. Have you ever smelt that dead mouse somewhere smell? I have, and I've never forgotten it. And somewhere around the kitchen wall or in the ceiling there is a hint of rotting rodent that will either go away eventually or temporarily sent us away eventually. The colder weather has brought them out as Autumn gears up with some much needed rain. It's also moulting season for the chickens as our back garden starts to look like someone has lost a fight with a doona. The raw chicken neck is not their greatest look and the egg laying has come to a sudden halt. With currently about 40 odd chickens of many breeds, including some I think we've invented, I still only have one egg in the fridge. I'm putting the lack of eggs down to the season but I may be wrong about that. It could also be that we've moved the chook pen around to face the other way to give the ground a bit of a rest. This means that their indoor outdoor room is now not facing east, and hence they can't watch the sun come up. It could also be that we've introduced Guinea Fowls into the flock who don't assimilate at all and aren't the slightest bit interested in dinner time protocols about girls eat before boys. To them Fowls eat before everybody. It could also be that the Head of Farming and Chief Mouser has now taken to sleeping in their laying boxes in the old shed. The other day I headed out to hear Doris clucking hysterically in the doorway of the shed protesting that her warm, dry laying box was now occupied. We'll need to move it. While the tail count is admirable, we can't exactly have them poached on toast.