Thursday, August 11, 2011
When the Dogtor Comes Home
It's not my finest feminist moment to say so, but I wait all day for the Dogtor to come home. The hours between 5 and 7 are chaotic. We often grab dinner out of the garden and then attempt to cook something reasonable while managing a tired alpha toddler and a hungry infant. But every night we set the table and try to make something a little special out of dinner. (We are both lucky and unlucky that there aren't many restaurants around).
Sometimes special is a clean table with a perfectly cooked meal. Sometimes special is Fray crying into her faux chicken nuggets, throwing broccoli, and me swearing under my breath at a pan with a burned bottom.
Above - some photos of what happens in that wild window of time.
For example - tonight - a storm comes. Corn is shucked. Beagle eats corn when we aren't looking. Fray throws corn husks to goats, then rides the goats for sport with the Dogtor's help. Chickens and dogs argue over what the goats don't want (no one steals food from a big Nubian).
Nightly, we collect eggs from the chickens while feeding the barn. Tomatoes are picked (only the red ones, Frasier!), then a pepper, some beets and carrots for the salad, arugula, and a handful of herbs.
All must be washed. I usually am too spineless to kill the bugs that ride in, so I chuck the caterpillars, beetles, and spiders outside. Then the cooking begins...and these days is usually something along the lines of a frittata, stir-fry, quiche, giant salad, veggie burrito, or pizza.
Then the dishes must be cleaned and cleared so that Little Z can take a bath in the sink. One of us takes Fray (who is usually raising hell) up for a wash. The kitchen afterwards looks a little like a war zone, and then suddenly the babies are in bed and it's quiet, very quiet. And I enjoy it for about five minutes...then miss the happy chaos of the girls.