And so it goes...

And now, a year after the abduction of Mrs. Kravitz, our world has grown by leaps and bounds.

The chicken coop is now twice as high. All three hens now live in it. Mrs. Kravitz (sometimes Gladys) is still judgy but gifted us with fourteen eggs last summer before she realized we LIKED her offerings and therefore decided to stop.



Agnes and Gertrude have grown up quite a bit.







The Garden blossomed last summer and blessed us with zucchinis around the time that Mrs. K was laying eggs.



Copious Zucchini Bread was made...



That all stopped and the poor birds had to overwinter the snow storm on little red farm. 2'+ of snow was dumped on Virginia and these birds had NEVER SEENS SUCH A THING.



We all felt as though spring was never going to come... until just now, when the lady birds have been laying for the last week or so... except for Agnes. Who is ornamental. But Mrs. Kravitz and Gertrude have been at it quite a bit:





Anyone have any good recipes?

Alien chicken...

Well, after having Mrs. Kravitz for a few days, we became rather convinced that she's actually an illegal alien cross-dressing chicken. Illegal alien because, well, chickens ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN TREES IN WOODBRIDGE. And cross-dressing because we couldn't figure out if she was a boy or a girl or a s/him or what have you. Apparently she had some rather, uh, well, ANDROGYNOUS qualities to her. And it's not like there were eggs falling out of her bum. We consulted multiple folks that are more chicken-knowledgeable than ourselves, but they just suggested that it was totally possible that she might be a Mr. Kravitz.



Trying as we were to be good chicken owners, we spent a nice spring day building her a palace. Or a coop. Whatever.



Wings is an outstanding coop-building helper.



From our chicken-knowledgeable friends, we learned that we needed to get Mrs. Kravitz a friend so that they could live in happy hen harmony. We hit up craigslist til we found Farmer Paul and Margie and I embarked on a trip to New Baltimore, Virginia.



Enter Agnes.

Mrs. Gladys Kravitz, upon meeting Agnes for the first time, immediately recognized the little yelping bundle of hat-wearing chicken (look at her sassy white feathers) and proclaimed her ENEMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!




After Mrs. K tried to kill Agnes, Margie rescued her and kicked Gladys into the barn and Agnes was ensconced in the coop. We traveled once again to New Baltimore and brought back a friend for Agnes.



This was named Gertrude.

A big week on the farm...

I don't know if I ever posted the story of Mrs. Kravitz the chicken.

Mrs. Kravitz was found in a tree in Woodbridge, Virginia.

As I’d wanted chickens for a long, long time – ever since meeting my sister’s chickens in Colorado – and Margie had responded with a resounding NO, NO, NO.

Until one day she was sitting out in the sunshine enjoying her yard when the neighborhood children came running up asking for her husband. “He’s got to get a rooster out of a tree!!” they said.

Rooster? Woodbridge? Those who have been to Woodbridge, Virginia, know that it’s not the sort of place where livestock runs freely.

Margie determined that it was not a “rooster” in a tree but was most definitely a squawky little red hen.



Mark arrived via dually pickup truck and he walked up the street to the ornamental cherry tree. As he headed up the parking lot, a swarm of children followed a la the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Mark went back into the house and arrived back with a dog crate, nets, and other implements of Chicken Catching Paraphernalia and headed up the street.




Now, having never been involved in a Great Chicken Capture before, they had to "wing" it on our own. Come up with a plan, etc. Suggestions to throw sticks at it and knock it down were quickly eliminated, as was heaving a football at it.

"We don't want to hurt it or chase it, we want to sort of shoo it down and pop the net over it" she explained as I tried vainly to get the kids to back off a bit.

Mark climbed the tree.



The onlookers pushed closer in a circle around the tree. The chicken let out a disturbed "Gobba gobba gobba bock!" and the crowd retreated as if performing some bizarre maypole dance. The chicken flew higher up in the tree.

Not to be defeated, Mark continued his climb.

The chicken took flight across the parking lot and landed in a tall oak tree.



We’ve got to give it to him, he sure is tenacious.



The neighbors stared. The chicken retreated to an even HIGHER tree. Mind you, they’re only supposed to be able to fly about 2 and a half feet.



This keeps going on for a while.



Several days later, Mark finally captures the chicken, who we name Mrs. Kravitz, for the nosy neighbor in Bewitched. And boy, is she JUDGY. We didn’t really think that chickens could be so judgmental, but my, we were incorrect.

In which we "make pasta..."

Upon being recently gifted with an All-Amazing-Superfabulously-Hawt-KitchenAid Mixer, my first thought was somehow that I could totally make pasta. Can't be that hard, I thought, it's just dough... I can make dough... and homemade pasta would be so... homey! interesting! so very... from scratch. Because I'm cool and good at making things from scratch. Perhaps I could even come off as looking talented.

Naturally, I'm not THAT good and for some reason, despite the fact that I bake my own bread on a regular basis and cook all the time, I don't own a rolling pin and am more prone to using large cans of the dog's green beans or whatever is in my cabinet when I'm trying to roll something out. So I tried to find the Kitchenaid Pasta attachment.

I googled and found little plates that you can attach to your meat grinder, which came complete with reviews like "caused kitchenaid motor to smoke like crazy" and the ilk and then, found reviews for the Kitchenaid Pasta Maker... which cost nearly as much as the mixer. Bah! I'm not spending hundreds of dollars on a pasta maker, sez I.

So dad and I impulsively went E-Bay shopping and the first thing that popped up was the Atlas Regina, circa the early 90s and made of plastic. We totally missed the all the other pasta makers on ebay, because the Atlas Regina promised to make SHAPES! SHAPES! None of the other pasta makers made SHAPES!

Drawn by the promises of homemade fusili, we ponied up for the Atlas Regina:



In all of it's completely weird-ass glory.

and then Brother Ari came over for an evening of pasta making.

First the All-Amazing-Superfabulous-Hawt KitchenAid mixer churned up Dough Batch One...



and Brother Ari kneaded the dough...



We have dough...



We have no idea what dough is supposed to look like... but it weighs a TON!



OMG! LITTLE BITTY PASTAS!!!



It's called an "extruder."



See them extrude?



Like... um, fuck, worms. Flour dusted worms. Unfortunately, they were too dense to really DO much with... Ari and I ate a few of them and they were reasonably pasta-like, just... very very dense. And very very sticky. Which is why we floured them.




WORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

We will try again through a proper pasta roller. Meanwhile, does anyone want a Atlas Regina?

Deep thoughts, by Coleridge.

My friend's cat is on Twitter. Surely Sarah's dog, Matlock, must be soon to follow.

Locally Grown Mexican Mangos

In which our local grocery store attempts to capitalize on the expanding "local food" movement, in support of small farmers and communities nearby.



Except freakin MANGOS don't grow in Virginia.

Come on, safeway, WTF? Product of Mexico? Mexico isn't local to Virginia either.



I also spotted some local plums (product of California).

palinized... or just patriotic?

Old Town, Alexandria, is a wonderful place. It's also deeply historic and thus deeply patriotic.

Sometimes it goes a little bit too far.

Like when this is in a shop window.