Sorry, I am running out of time for a real post today. So, here are some recent pictures of the Mang Farm. Enjoy!
PS: LEAVE A COMMENT ON YESTERDAY'S BLOG FOR A CHANCE TO WIN SOME AWESOME KNIVES! I WILL DRAW THE WINNER ON FRIDAY!
---------------------------
| |
|
I was blissfully sawing logs thanks to the shot of NyQuil I took at bedtime, when the sound of Maggie growling roused me from my slumber. However, after a few seconds of sensory recovery, I heard it too: chirping, clicking, and mumbling coming from the backyard. Blearily, I stumbled into the living room and found Tim sleeping on the couch after a long night of work. For a second, I thought maybe the sounds came from his laptop, but Maggie lunged towards the patio door, ears pointed all the way up to Red Alert.
I opened the door, and she dashed away into the night towards a bush in the corner of our yard. There were signs of struggle, some yelps, and then I saw them: 1...2...3 raccoons raced up the telephone pole in our yard, terrified of the fox-faced, haggis-shaped creature lunging toward them, despite outweighing her by at least 20 pounds each. She growled at them to stay there, goddammit, if they knew what was good for them. They waved their eerily human-like fists at her and growled back, "Next time, you mangy mutt!"
The two smarter ones jumped into the yard next door, foreclosed on and abandoned a couple months prior. The third stayed up there, whimpering pathetically, not wanting to take the chance to run to safety, in case that corgi knew how to scale walls and climb poles too.
My heart sank when I saw that the chicken coop door was wide open. We stopped closing it months ago, since the hens had shown us they were much happier going in and out as they pleased. But now I was cursing my soft-heartedness, since raccoons are notoriously evil chicken torturers and thieves, imagining the bloody scene awaiting me. By then, Tim stumbled out with a flashlight but no glasses, so he somehow missed the 50-pound creature finally scampering into the neighbor's yard to join his brothers, but despite the fact that he probably thought I made the whole thing up, he nonetheless agreed to check out the coop because I could not bear to see them. He is good-natured and useful in that way.
Thank goodness, the raccoons were on their way TO supper, not on their way out like I had feared. Apparently they were so excited about their meal, they could not shut up about it on the way there, maybe swapping recipes for chicken fricassee. I could see them gesturing with their freaky hands how they would twist our girls' heads off, pluck their feathers out one by one, then sling them behind their shoulders like sacks of loot back to their burrow, where a Dutch oven and a warm fire awaited them. But at least for today, their plans for a feast were thwarted by an iron-hearted corgi with a moderate case of hip dysplasia and a major case of chutzpah.
I couldn't decide how to show my appreciation, since she usually considers herself well above displays of sentimentality and gratuitous affection, so I patted her head and told her she was a good dog. She accepted the compliment with what I can only describe as proper British stoicism, so I think the message got through.
Oh, the neverending adventures of the suburban farm!
--------------------------------
I see that it has been a full month since I last blogged. We shall have to remedy this.
| |
|
Oscar wakes up this morning at 4:47, whining to go outside. This is an hour early for him, but I throw on a sweatshirt and pick him up. The motion sensor spotlight attached to the garage clicks on to greet us. The chickens grumble at our intrusion from inside the coop.
The rooftops are covered with frost, the grass crunches underneath my slippers, palm fronds litter the streets, Oscar's pee steams like coffee...now and for the next couple hours at least, it really feels like winter here in Long Beach.
My heart is heavy because my friend lost his dad yesterday after a long fight with cancer. I am acutely aware of how the air feels when I breathe it, sharp and cold as it goes in, yet warmed up by the time I exhale.
And for now at least, I am so grateful to be here, for the opportunity to experience the quiet before the flurry of life and activity that commences when the light strikes the horizon. I tell myself to remain grateful once the flurry does commence.
---------------------------------
PS: So many things have happened since the last time I truly wrote on here. Emi is at yet another new school, Tim has a time-intensive new job, Isaac is struggling with making and keeping friends, I am very busy trying to juggle an increased workload with the increased domestic responsibility. I'm also not feeling very reflective as of late, therefore my radio silence. I steal blips of material comfort from food, Facebook, and retail therapy. If left to my own devices, I will turn into one the passengers of the Axium in "Wall-E." I need to metaphorically get off my hover chair.
---------------------------------
PPS: Tim and I are deep in the grips of LINsanity. We spent our Valentine's dinner reading up on his game that day, watching this clip over and over again:
Wow, right?
He's amazing. He will continue to amaze. And he went to HARVARD??? Be still my ajumma heart!
Tim is absolutely in love. He even has LINsomnia; he stays up to ungodly hours devouring articles, watching game clips, learning about basketball and how Lin approaches it. It's cute to see him get into sports.
---------------------------------
PPPS: How YOU doin'?
| |
|
Post-Birthdaypalooza come-down in full effect here, ladies and gentlemen. Regret, aka the Grey Dog (i.e., Depression the Black Dog's bitch half-sister), has decided to hang out for a bit.
I only had 2.5 days until Tim would leave for Japan, and I messed up Tuesday night and Wednesday morning by being a total Doomsday Douchebag with him and the kids. Tim will come back home on Monday, and I will try to make amends, if he'll still take me.
I especially missed my friend Renee today. A woman of wise words and indomitable spirit, she always knew how to slap some sense into me then hug me right afterwards. I needed her guidance, so I visited her blog.
I found this, to this day the best treatise on marriage I've ever read. I seem to have forgotten that daily I must choose to love my family. Kind of too late for yesterday; I will start today, though.
I also found this, which made me laugh through my tears:
God, she totally would have sent me this if I had told her I had chickens, along with a note asking if she could crash at my coop if she ever were in town. She had a wicked sense of humor, that one.
I miss you, lady.
| |
|
Every morning at sunrise, Rosie walks over to the patio door and croaks for her breakfast. During the summertime, that means she wakes me up around 6. However, on Monday morning, I woke myself up at 6:30. Rosie was around, hanging out behind the coop, but she just didn't do her normal routine. When the same thing happened on Tuesday morning, I knew something was wrong.
Her eyes were still alert and she didn't look thin, but she was very quiet, acted hesitant to walk anywhere, and the small feathers under her cloaca were streaked with white. After some research, I guessed she was egg-bound, which means there was a traffic jam inside her, starting with a deformed or too-large egg, which blocks other eggs and poop from leaving. If I didn't do anything quick, she would die in a couple days.
I coaxed her toward me, and I could tell it hurt her to move. I took her inside, soaked her bottom in a sinkful of warm water, rubbing her underside like a midwife, and placed her underneath Tim's desk with some towels, some feed, some Greek yogurt, and water. I covered the entrance with a sheet and left her alone. She acted so strange, standing stiff and still as a statue, not daring to sit, not even complaining from the pain. I wrapped a hot towel in a plastic bag and placed it in with her, in case that would help with the pain, and left her alone for a few hours.
When I checked in on her after lunch, there lay a cracked, empty shell. It was thinner and more brittle than normal, but at least it was out. Rosie was in better spirits, now croaking and clucking like normal. On her own volition, she walked out to the backyard and climbed up to her normal nest box. There she lay another egg, this one very thinly-shelled and cracked, but with a yolk. After that, she seemed 90% back to normal, foraging for bugs in our tomato garden.
There was no egg yesterday, but hopefully we'll see one today. Otherwise, I may have to do this all over again, which isn't that big a deal, but the worrying is the hardest part. For now, Rosie seems just fine, passing the ultimate Rosie Personality Test: she croaked for her breakfast, and when I finally got it for her, she ran towards me like a puppy, her legs pumping ridiculously in circles like the Looney Tunes Road Runner. It was such a blessing and relief to see that, I couldn't help but cry.
Image from How Not to Draw
| |
|
(based on the iconic "Skateboarding is not a crime" slogan, illustrated here and here)
I've recently joined the fight for fair chicken laws in Long Beach (there is an online petition here). Currently, the laws are poorly written. First it says you are allowed hens...then it states you are allowed ONE hen with a 20-foot setback from all dwellings (who owns just one hen?). You need a 50-foot radius for two or more hens. We're lucky to live in a neighborhood that is made up of small houses on relatively big lots and our immediate neighbors did not rebuild their homes to fill up their whole lot, but that is certainly not the case in most of Long Beach.
I'd like to simplify this law to just set a maximum number of hens per household, or at least relax the setback. Here is my letter to the Sustainable City Commission of Long Beach:
To whom it may concern:
My name is Julie, wife and mother of two children, and I have lived in Long Beach for 4 years, 1.5 of them with two chickens.
I am writing to you today to describe just a few of the great aspects of backyard chickens.
1. Egg-laying hens are a great step towards affordable, fresh, local, sustainable food, along with planting a backyard vegetable garden. Chickens aerate the soil, provide fertilizer and composting starter, help you with your weed and pest problems, and are more than happy to eat your vegetable scraps and grass clippings. The city of Long Beach has already done so much to help its citizens with environmentally sound practices (the plastic bag ban, the composting program, farmers markets, and community farms and gardens, etc.). Allowing a small number of hens per household with no setback restrictions will continue the great work done so far.
2. Nutritionally, humanely-raised hens lay far superior eggs, full of protein, vitamins, and Omega-3s. Even my 4-year-old can taste the difference between our eggs and the ones sold in stores. Also, with all the salmonella breakouts and egg recalls over the last few years due to horrific conditions at factory egg farms, I feel great knowing the eggs I eat are not only more delicious than store-bought eggs, but the hens that provided those eggs have access to a varied diet, lots of sunshine and fresh air, and a stimulating environment.
3. My children have already learned so much from the chickens. They have learned where part of their food comes from, and how important it is to take care of the animals who work for us. Seeing cracked corn and seeds turn into delicious eggs is nothing short of miraculous, and it occurs daily in our backyard!
4. Contrary to popular opinion, as animals go, chickens are relatively easy, clean, and quiet (especially compared to dogs and kids!). Everything associated with their care (leftover food, soiled bedding, even their poop) can be used as fertilizer either by turning it into compost or even put straight onto the ground. Nothing gets put into the trash can; nothing is wasted. I don’t think I can say the same for my own poop, or my dog’s. :)
I cannot imagine life without my hens and the fresh eggs they give us. Our family of four would love to have a small flock one day (up to six hens), and we hope that we will be able to do that without fear of doing something illegal. Let’s join other great cities by enacting fair, sustainability-focused chicken laws.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
If you would like to know more about the Urban/Backyard Chicken movement, check out these links:
The article that was my original inspiration for getting backyard chickens
Old NYT article on some Bay Area chicken owners
Susan Orlean's "New Yorker" article on raising backyard chickens
Madcitychickens.com offers tips on how to organize for fair chicken laws in your city.
| |
|
What is it about summer that brings out the extremes in things?
Take my garden, for instance: birds, butterflies, and bees flit and flutter past in pairs, reeling under the influence of nectar and hormones. Every flowering plant is a-flower, every fruiting tree is a-fruiting, and if you stopped right there, you'd be able to write sonnets about how full of life summer is.
However, my eyes see danger and doom. Our grass has browned, and our chickens miss nibbling on it. The grapes and tomatoes can barely keep standing under the weight of all their leaves and not-quite-ripe-yet fruit. Once the fruit ripens, the grapes' leaves will fall and the tomato plants will die. Food spoils faster both inside and outside the house, thighs get burnt on car upholstery, sweat and oil clog pores and flatten hair. And of course, the heat is inescapable: it is in the air, the ground, my skin, my eyes.
The sun, giver of light and life, also doles out pain and disease. I got sunburned on Monday playing in the pool with the kids, and now I feel flu-like symptoms as my skin starts to peel.
I feel sorry for my kids: they love the outdoors and don't mind the heat. Meanwhile, I feel like a BBQ pork bun about to burst.
Maybe this is why I went through a goth phase, and why I enjoyed living in Seattle when I was 20. Oy.
Where do you stand on summer?
| |
|
Tim was out of town almost all of last week for business, which is usually not a big deal. However, around 4 am early Friday morning, I awoke to the sound of our garage door being manually opened or closed. Our garage door is made of some kind of flimsy pseudo-metal that even Isaac, a 60-pound 7-year-old, can just lift up with his hands. I assumed whoever was doing this wanted to take stuff, but honestly, there is nothing in there except some of our Christmas decorations, a ping pong table, our bikes, a bunch of crickets, and our chicken supplies.
I debated on whether or not to bother the police, but since the sound was so unmistakable, absolutely no good reason for anyone to mess with our garage at this hour, and I was alone with the kids, I did end up calling. The dispatch lady stayed on the phone with me for the two minutes it took the 6 cop cars to pull up. I must live in a good neighborhood for the police to not be busy at that hour, no? They poked around and checked out the garage and found no sign of anyone. Whoever it was didn't even take our new bikes! I almost felt offended! What, our stuff wasn't good enough to steal?
My best guess is that this wasn't the work of a professional thief, but rather some punk kid spotting the Mercedes in the driveway and thinking there might be some cool stuff in the garage. But unfortunately for him/her, we do not keep our gold bars and extra iPads back there, and our bikes probably aren't as nice as the one they came on, heh.
Nothing happened except for Long Beach's finest boys in blue getting a peek of my nightgown, but because of this incident I've decided to up the security around here. We'll be installing a motion-sensor flood light back there as well as a latch for the garage door. In the meantime, a jumper cable clamp looped through where a latch would normally go does a good-enough job, and hopefully that punk kid stays out of trouble from now on and I can resume sleeping well soon.
PS: The next day was the chickens' hatchday! They turned 1. Where has the time gone?
Rosie and Cheep Cheep at about 3 weeks old
| |
|
Usually when Tim asks me how my day went, I say "Fine." And if he asks what I did, I say "Oh, nothing." But I decided to log my day on Thursday, just to see what "Nothing" looks like:
7:30 am: Yikes, the kids and I woke up 30 minutes late! Tim had already left for work. Needless to say, there was a slight rush to get them fed and ready for school.
7:45 am: While feeding the chickens, I discovered a dead squirrel in the backyard. After showing the kids and shooing Maggie away from the carcass, I decided to leave it there until the kids were in school.
7:56 am: Dropped Isaac off at school, then headed to Emi's preschool and drop her off.
8:29 am: Drove home and tried to work out squirrel strategy. Tried knocking on a couple neighbors' doors for advice, but no one was home. Then it dawned on me that I had completely forgotten Emi's yearly doctor's exam which was supposed to be at 8:30, so I called to reschedule for 10:30.
8:30 am: Wearing two pairs of gardening gloves, I scooped the squirrel up with a shovel and wrapped him in 3 trashbags and put him in the trash. Mentally noted that squirrels, at least dead ones, were heavier than I would have guessed. I also threw in a few sheets of lemon-scented antibacterial wipes to hopefully deal with the smell (garbage truck doesn't come until Tuesday).
8:35 am: Finished 3 hours' worth of work in 1.5 hours, then shower while brushing teeth to get ready for Emi's doctor appointment.
10:15 am: Picked up Emi, waited 5 adorable minutes for every single kid in the preschool to hug her and wish her well on her appointment, headed to Kaiser
12:00 pm: Turned out that the cold she's been fighting was actually an ear infection, so no vaccinations today. Instead we have 10 days of antibiotics to look forward to, then shots in 2 weeks. I dropped her off at preschool again, and dropped off her prescription.
12:15 pm: Gobbled down some pho (my preferred mix, rare steak, brisket, and tendon) while writing work emails, picked up prescription.
12:30 pm: Home; 30 min. of work.
1:00 pm: Picked up Isaac from school.
1:10 pm: Performed last-minute packing for the boys' trip to Missouri; more work.
2:00 pm: Headed off to the airport.
2:45 pm: On the way home, made plans and reservations, arranged babysitting for the next couple weeks.
3:15 pm: Did some major fire-fighting for work. Feverish typing.
4:00 pm: Went early to Emi's school for their annual art show. Stuffed $20 into a shoebox for some gorgeous watercolors Emi made. Ate 2 Fig Newtons.
5:30 pm: Girl's Dinner Out with Emi at Ruby's. Introduced her to the wonder of the chocolate banana milkshake.
7:00 pm: Played with fairy and unicorn dolls until bath/teeth/PJ/storytime. Read a chapter of "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" per request by Emi. Then, silence. Ah, silence!
8:30 pm: Worked for another few hours in bed, caught up on Facebook, played a few rounds of Words with Friends.
10:00 pm: Heard from Tim that they made it to their hotel okay. And I thought I had a long day!
12:00 am: Oh, blissful unconsciousness.
| |
|
Today, nothing much to report except I roasted a chicken to reward Isaac for giving props to my chicken roasting skillz on his Mothers Day essay. And to tell you the honest-to-god truth, I was observing Rosie wandering around yesterday and noticed her nice muscular thighs and her wide chest, and started drooling. NO, I'm never going to eat Rosie, but I did feel like some chicken.
Just *look* at those thighs!
And yup, just tried some and it tastes good. I had my piece outside in the backyard. Rosie jumped up onto the picnic table to steal some, but I just felt like that wouldn't be kosher. Friggin' Rosie.
Later, the kids will be bouncing their faces off with their buddies. Actually, these buddies are the same kids I wrote my very first guest post at Kimchi Mamas about...yes, we became great friends.
| |
|
|
|
|
|
