The Forensic Guinea Fowl

Guinea Fowl are strange looking creatures.  We have four of them.  Two in this lighter grey colour and two that are a more deep bluey grey (very on trend you know!!).  Their heads look like they've been dipped in a bucket of white paint and they have bright pink wobbly attachments underneath.  We don't know if they are male or female as they all look identical so we don't ask any question as they go about their daily business.  We expected that the four fowls would stick together and form a posse of snake protection around our property.  They're amazing to watch as they walk around the perimeters, heads downward, forensically examining every blade of grass and patch of dirt.  If they find something of interest then all hell breaks out and the screaming goes on and on.  It's the sound of someone jumping up and down on a rusty trampoline, great!!  The excitement is usually not much more than a garden hose or something that's been relocated or anything new.  One of the four has decided she's a hen and hangs with the main chook crowd all lead by our main rooster Lewis (formerly known as Lulu until he started to crow).  The other chooks don't seem to mind and are now at the point of accepting anyone a bit odd looking into the fold.  We've got a few of those.  Our neighbours Isa Brown chooks, being the standard, fast laying (short living) battery hen of choice chicken have all but been bred out by our wandering Bantam, Wyandotte, Polish breeds and misfits.  Now  I see their coup filled with bright colours and feathered legs.  I'm just wondering if it's only a matter of time until we see some white painted heads over the fence as well.

Can you keep that noise down, someone is trying to sleep

Not a good start to the day.  Two huntsman spiders in the bedroom.  Count them.  TWO.  I detest these things at the best of times but to sneak in the open window during the night through the tiny space between the fly screen and the window, well that's just un-Australian.  Particularly when you've paid a small fortune for fumigation.  Max (pictured) is no deterrent for these unruly stick invaders. The best he can do is remove one of their legs and wonder why they don't want to play any more.  Max's hunting skills are somewhat lacking.  He loses interest in most crawling things pretty quick and prefers to spend his time embedded in a Laura Ashley blanket.  The chooks are the masters when it comes to tracking down insects.  They can spot a creepy crawly from a great distance.  Could have done with them in the room last night but the crowing thing at the end of the bed would be a problem.  Animals never fail to entertain around here.  Every morning a well loved Ute drives past with two kelpie dogs tied up in the back.  Every morning they both bark and bark with tails wagging as they go past.  And then in the evening I hear them on return still barking, tails still wagging.  I always imagine they are saying "We're off now, we're off to work..." and then "We're back now, we're back..".  Hilarious. I don't suppose they are calling out to Max.  He's busy anyhow.

Cock a Doodle Don't

We're in need of some family planning on our farm.  We don't cull anybody and we don't eat anybody either so if all is left to one's own natural instincts, we get more chickens than we can handle.  The cacophony at the moment around 5am is concerning.  Every rooster trying to out crow the other leaves us wide awake wondering why the most popular spot appears to be under our bedroom window.  I've been attempting to cease the broody hen situation by turfing Patsy out of the nesting box on a daily basis.  Apart from the fact it must be at least 45 degrees in there (it's tin and only insulated with spider webs), every afternoon I pick her up and toss her into the chook yard to eat and drink.  Which she does and then returns the next day.  And more often than not there is not a single egg under her.  I'm at a loss as to why she'd persist with this.  Hens being on some occasions more smarter than we think, then hide a pile of eggs under a tree or shrub somewhere only to emerge about 4 weeks later with a fluffy dozen like the ones in this picture.  And as cute as they are, when they start to crow, not so cute.  The learning to crow stage is pretty funny though.  Some will get up to pitch but fail to hold key.  We've got one out there at the moment that sounds like someone has pulled the plug on him half way.  A bit like the sound of a record player being turned off at the power mid way through the tune (if you recall such a thing).  So the next person that talks about the peaceful life of country living, I will understand - has never actually lived there.

Fruitful and fruit season

It's a wonderful time of year for fruit.  We've got bowls of what was termed 'last of the apricots' in two large bowls on the kitchen bench ready for preserving.  I'm not sure that he meant for ever and eternity but we've probably got enough anyhow.  I've been enjoying working my way through the excess that is Christmas food supply shopping in that we have enough food should the Tour De France happen to swing by for a quick bite, but mostly it's just us.  We ended up having two giant hams (one won in a raffle, the other given in a hamper) so I'm happily doing ham many ways.  Ham surprise, ham and everything etc.  Last night was cooked up ham pieces in a basil pesto made with more than a few missing ingredients.  I savaged our little basil pot that had been doing remarkably well out in the courtyard until the first signs of seeds and flowers...and off with their heads I go.  One bowl of pesto and now a pot of severed sticks.  I didn't have pine nuts as the usual guest at a pesto whizz up but used some local walnuts instead.  I didn't even have any Parmesan (is that the sound of Italy sinking I can hear?) so substituted vintage cheddar.  And when I say vintage, it gained an additional vintage bit from being in my fridge.  I suspect it saw the New Year in.  Anyway.  Some tomatoes were wrestled off the bushes that included Roma, Heirloom and Beefsteak varieties that were roasted in the oven until I remembered them.  All got bung in with some imported artisan Penne pasta (sound of Italy rising again).  A joy of ingredients, a simple dish and other than the pasta, most came from very close by.  We're still enjoying the loads of berries still for sale and am stocking up the freezer fast.  Once I've eaten everything else that I've got stashed in there.

Minnie ain't so mini anymore

I've always been a bit concerned about Minnie's weight.  The vet assured us she was a big cat and that she wasn't particularly overweight.  She's been putting it away ever since.  You see, like most cats she loves here food.  Her dear brother Maxwell couldn't be more different. He has a difficult relationship with food and eats only small morsels at a time.  This would be fine but he won't eat anything that's been in his bowl for more than an hour so it gets wasted.  And Minnie scores the leftovers.  I think they may have hatched some kind of arrangement here and whilst I'm not spending more money on cat food, I'm conscious that Minnie is having trouble holding herself upright when attempting to groom her behind.  We were fine with the prospect of an overfed cat which would be our insurance policy that she wouldn't eat the newly hatched chickens.  She's not pursued any chickens in the garden at all but I think this has more to do with good rooster management than her appetite.  Once a swift and great tree climber, and often seen skipping off into the garden, she now limits her exercise to the only necessary and the broken branches on the tree will still remain a mystery.  We'll have to keep an eye on this one.  She might be in for a new year's resolution somehow.

Carson? It's Max...I've rescued you from the tree

Christmas is officially over.  There.  I've declared it.  The tree was rammed back in its box today and the decorations unceremoniously turfed into recycled shopping bags, and out to the shed they go.  Number one son and cocker spaniel Bennie rushes in to see if Santa will sing one more time but the fluffy fat man in the red suit is silent as his batteries are now removed.  Our pets do well at Christmas time which I think the majority must also do with bits of ham, extra toast from Nanny and more cake crumbs on the floor than usual.  The Dyson hits the rug one more time and the last of the glitter and tinsel wrapped disappointments are put away.  New Year's Eve comes and goes without a bang here.  We don't usually make much of an attempt to stay up for the firework.  Just the one.  That usually goes off somewhere over the hill or behind us.  No resolutions as we know they won't be kept and it needs to be a while before I'm seeing another mince pie.  Woolworths have hot cross buns on display today which was noted by a letter to the editor of today's paper stating 'Don't they know what the cross is for?'  According to supermarket scripture, He was born, and then crucified about a week later.  How gruesome.  And so to another year.  Hope yours is a cracker.

The Christmas list

You can only be in denial for so long.  There are only so many lists you can write until you realise that the Christmas shopping won't come down the chimney with Santa carrying a bunch of Coles bags.  I do my best to avoid it.  I get myself psyched up for an early morning shop.  That way the car park won't be full and I can get in and out early.  What I'm clearly deluded about is the fact that every other household within a 20km radius of the supermarket is thinking pretty much the same thing.  Get in and get out.  The downside to the early morning shop is that there are no registers open and you've got to unload an abundance of groceries that's toppling over the trolley onto a small square space of express lane counter that is really only suited to a small packet of pre-sliced cheese or a packet of fags.  Both, I can guarantee won't make it onto my shopping list.  The list of things to do is as ugly as the grocery list with only a few days to go and enough jobs to classify you a major employer.  You put it all off until the last minute.  No point scrubbing the shower now.  No point mopping floors now and so on.  So the day before Christmas it's assuming that you'll be baking with one hand and scrubbing with the other.  The tablecloth that doesn't get looked at for 12 months gets a dust off and an iron.  It's usually when you just finished the last once over (on a 35 degree stinker of a day) that you realise the Shiraz didn't come out and the brandy sauce looks like it could be there for the next millennium.  Bugger.  You've done the gift shopping at least you thought, until on the very eve of the day someone presents you with that unexpected small token that leaves you guilt ridden, for a short while anyway.  Well that carpark is filling and I haven't got to the shops yet.  I'm stalling.  I need to get off this computer and face it.  Perhaps I'll start a new list first.