Foolery

Grocery Shopping in Fooleryland

Do you know how embarrassing it is to buy three quarts of Miller High Life? I made sure to buy $56 of other groceries, including fruit, vegetables, two boxes of lasagna noodles, three cartons of sugar cubes, and ice cream. Oh, and a bottle of Malbec and two bottles of tonic. I swear it's the first time a store employee in the produce aisle has ever walked up to my cart, looked into it, and then looked at me. True story. I should have told him, "Weirdest party EVER," but I didn't think of it until just now.



As for the Miller High Life? It IS the Champagne of Beers, you know. Believe it or not, I need it for a project I'm doing, and I can't say more in case someone I know is reading this. Oh wait, that won't happen -- okay, I'm making party invitations for an organization I belong to, and I need three flattened beer cans, the taller the better. I had forgotten they even made quart-sized cans (we're a bottled beer household) so imagine my glee at discovering these! Then I remembered the lyrics of every rap song I've ever sat through, and my heart sank as I realized I was buying big-ass beers -- AND STILL HAD TO TAKE THEM THROUGH THE CHECK STAND. In my local grocery store. On a Sunday. On which I did not attend church. Sigh.

As for the Red Herring Groceries, if you've ever been the parent of a 4th grader, and you live in California, you know why I needed three cartons of sugar cubes and a metric ton of lasagna noodles: it's time for Sparky to make  a huge mess in the kitchen  her mother cry  her model of the San Rafael Mission out of glue, sugar cube bricks and tears  as much floral greenery as we can get away with. Oh, crap, I forgot the glue.

Should have rounded out the weirdness and bought two jars of black shoe polish and a hair net, just to confuse nosy clerks.

I Went to the Red Bluff Bull & Gelding Sale and All I Brought You Was This

Who says we don't have traffic issues in the rural West? Daryl, how do you folks solve this problem in Manhattan?

Tractors: Not Just for the Back Forty Anymore

This is a tractor.



Pretty much what my dad's tractor looks like, minus the poop de pigeon and cow.

This is my dad, also sans pigeon and cow poop, maybe.

(Photo by Steve Davis)

But that's not what I came here to tell you about. I told you that so I can tell you this:

Dad has a new TV.

I KNOW, RIGHT? It's all making sense to you now.

Tuesday night I came home from work to this news: "Mom, Grandma and Grandpa -- well, Grandpa -- got a new giant flat screen TV!"

Whoa, Sailor, calm down.

"And he's giving his old one to US!"

Really. "Oh-h-h-h-h no," I said. "I don't want it."

"But MO-O-O-OMMMM!" they whined, "Dad wants it!"

Really.

It isn't possible to take a single photo of this TV. It must be scanned by satellite from space and the resulting several photos stitched together into a collage. Lucky for you, I have the technology:



And, for scale, here's musician and raconteur John Roderick, who is almost 8 feet tall, pretty sure:



So we've established that this is a large piece of furniture.

"Can we put it into the play room, Mom?"

"Oh-h-h-h-h no," I said. "It's a projection screen and could be broken by flying Barbies. Plus, I don't want you two holed up in there watching MORE TV, completely unsupervised. Also, we don't have a satellite hookup in the play room and I don't think we can get that thing through the narrow play room doorway." That covers it.

"But MO-O-O-OMMMM!" they whined.

Wednesday night I came home from work to this news:

"Mom, Dad says he wants Grandpa's giant TV and he's gonna put it in the office. We get satellite TV in the office, and he's gonna make a Man Cave!"

Really.

"Well, that's okay," I said, "As long as he doesn't want it in the living room. I'll talk to Dad tonight." And I peeked into our unused office -- unused because the air conditioning and heat don't reach it and it's either Antarctica cold or Sahara hot. We shove crap into the office, mostly. Also, my brother Mantel Man is storing a bunch of his large neatly-packed tubs of lead in there. And those leaden tubs were all now moved to a completely different wall, the two-ton plaid monstrosity of a couch standing on one end, and a space cleared out against the far wall for Dad's behemoth charity TV.

Great, Chas is nesting.

Thursday night I came home from work but stopped by Mom and Dad's house to deliver something before heading home. "There's a TV at your house," Mom informed me.

"I figured there would be," I said, "But how did they get it over there?"

I tried to imagine the scene. My father at age 78 is basically indestructible, and his younger brother Ken was here and available to help, and of course there's Chas . . . but still, I couldn't picture two white-haired guys and my husband with a bad back loading the world's tallest television into the back of a pickup and unloading it without at least one death occurring.

"It was really something," said Mom. "They got it into the tractor scoop and drove it over to your house!"

Really. Now that's something I'd watch on TV.

"Tell me someone had the presence of mind to get video!" I gasped.

"Oh, we should have, darn it," said Mom.

"No pictures even? Really? And you have a blogger in the family?" HAVE I TAUGHT YOU NOTHING?! I wanted to scream.

Nada.

So you're left with this, amigos, plus your healthy imaginations. I'm sorry I didn't get video, but it would have been grainy and far away, anyway. The TV's too big for the lens.

Another Walk in the Moonlight With My Chicken, Part 3 of The Chicken Diaries

Due to internet troubles this epilogue has been delayed, so sorry. Parts 1 and 2 of The Chicken Diaries are at these links: Why the Chicken Crossed the Road, Part 1 and Chicken Herding, Part 2. You really should go read them as they are both masterpieces.


(Moon photo used with permission of Rhys Jones, Wikimedia Commons)

You may think it unfair that I would dump a chicken into my father's coop in the middle of the night without asking. You'd be right if my father weren't known around Fooleryland as The Chicken Fairy; he has dumped several chickens into my coop without asking. One of those dumped birds was Chicken Dinner, the rooster who terrorized the hens into a molt from which they haven't recovered. My lovely old Buff Orpington Caramel stayed in the stifling hen house most of the summer, and decided in September to live outside. Chicken Dinner had to go so I could bring Caramel back to her rightful home.

And I did, Thursday night after my Beta Sigma Phi meeting. You didn't know we have Beta Sigma Phi in Fooleryland, did you? Well we do. And I was still wearing a dress but I ditched my heels in favor of Crocs -- wearing heels to carry a chicken down a long gravel driveway in the dark, now that's just silly.

This time I involved my parents, who were expecting me. Dad held the flashlight while I . . . well, I chickened out. I couldn't tell him but I am far too arachnophobic to crouch down (in my dress) to stick my arm into a dark  spidery chicken coop to pull a sleepy chicken off her roost, flashlight be damned. "Never mind," I said and ducked out of the coop. "Caramel can stay another night. I don't think I can get her."

"Oh, it's easy," said Dad, who stomped past me into the coop, bent down, swept Caramel from her perch and handed her to me. "See?" The Chicken Fairy still has lessons to teach us.

I headed back down the driveway under the brilliant moon, Caramel pressed to my ribs, resting what should be her chin upon my arm. She was the picture of contentment and trust and I patted her silky feathers all the way home. And she was going home.

Chas came out to hold the flashlight for me while I put Caramel back into her old hen house.

I made him go first in case there were spiders.

Chicken Herding, Part 2 of The Chicken Diaries

I recommend you go read Part 1, "Why the Chicken Crossed the Road," so you're caught up with the rest of the class. Go on, read it, but hurry back. We'll wait.

 

Tuesday evening I walked into the house after work and Chas had dinner almost ready. I volunteered to go round up the kids, so, still wearing my dress and heels, I went outside. On the road halfway between my parents' house and ours I saw Sparky with her grandmother, patiently leading a chicken down the road. "What are you doing?" I asked as I approached.

Mom had a cup of chick scratch in her hand and was throwing handfuls of it onto the road's edge. "Oh, we're just chumming Caramel with this to get her home," Mom answered. And it was working. They had that crazy hen almost home, all the way from Mom's house. But all of a sudden Caramel realized what was going on and turned around. She dashed into the ditch to try to get around us and head for the open road, back to Grandma's house, or at least away from us. Into the ditch I went in my dress and heels, cutting off Caramel's escape. "HA!" I yelled, which works with cows and apparently not with chickens. For all of my experience herding cows in high heels I had no experience herding chickens down the road, in any attire. The bird and I dodged and parried and dodged again, and finally I had had enough.

"I'm done," I announced. "Sparky, it's dinner time. Caramel is on her own." We left that crazy hen beside the road, happily pecking the chick scratch from the dirt. She spent another night on my front porch and was gone before first light again, across the road to Grandma's house.

There are places in this world -- many of them in my own neighborhood -- where sneaking a chicken into a neighbor's hen house by the light of the moon would get a person shot full of buckshot, or worse. Fooleryland isn't one of those places. And so Wednesday night at around 10:15, on a sudden whim, I found myself cradling Caramel in my arms and walking her down the road under blazing moonlight to my parents' chicken compound. If that's where she wanted to be then I would move her there. She would have to sleep in the hen house with the other chickens, which would be a little bit traumatizing for her, but nothing as bad as being jumped by Chicken Dinner ever day or being stalked by a fox.

I approached my parents' house, unsure what do to. With arms full of bird and a cardboard box in one hand I couldn't open their door, and I was afraid I would wake one of them if I rang the bell. So I sneaked quietly past the house to the chicken compound, unlatched the gate, and deposited Caramel on the floor of the coop. She was sleepy from our walk and made no attempt to flee, so I clapped the 3-sided box down over her and she stayed put.

Thursday Chicken Dinner was stuffed into another box and taken to the feed store to be given to the first person who asked. I'm guessing he was swimming in gravy that night.

Check back tomorrow for the epilogue.

Why the Chicken Crossed the Road, Part 1 of The Chicken Diaries

(Original photo stolen from this site)

Caramel, the oldest of our hens at about five years, decided she had had enough of her hen house. Perhaps it was the frenzied attentions of the rooster, Chicken Dinner, who streaked across the yard at full speed to rape whichever hen was unlucky enough to catch his eye. (I never wanted a rooster, and you can read about how Chicken Dinner came to live with us here.) So about two weeks ago Caramel started hanging out under the bottle brush bushes outside my bedroom window. She could not be herded back, nor would she allow me to pick her up to move her. I worried that she would forget where food and water were (chickens have remarkably small brains) so the kids and Chas, with their somewhat larger brains, wisely set up special feeders for Caramel.

She then made camp on our front porch.

Every night for nearly two weeks she slept a few inches above the ground, on the step. I tried putting a 3-sided box over her for shelter from the morning dew, but she crawled out to sleep next to the box.

I worried about the fox.

While a fox would never come up onto our porch, even before dawn, I knew that Caramel would get an early start on the bugs and seeds in the yard and near the road, where the fox would dare to venture. One day Caramel would definitely wake up too early, shuffle out to the road, and meet the fox.

I thought that day had come Tuesday morning.

I looked out my window at first light to see if Caramel was on the lawn, and I saw feathers in the middle of the road. Fluffy downy feathers, the ones that are closest to the chicken's skin and keep her warm -- the ones you don't see unless a predator has yanked them from a hen and spilled them all over the road. I thought my hen was surely gone. But in the afternoon my mom called me at work to update me. "Caramel is at our house," said Mom. "She's been over here all day, and she's fine." Mom and Dad live across the road, about an eighth of a mile walk, hen house to hen house. That chicken had covered some ground.

"Oh, thank goodness," I said. "And she doesn't look beaten up -- like a fox took a chunk out of her?" I asked.

"No," said Mom, then added with a twinkle in her voice, "Your father said she showed up here with a dead fox in her mouth."

This is farm humor. I like it.

More tomorrow. You can't have too much chicken information in one day. You have to pace yourself.

"Hi, It's Me."

(Original photo used by permission from Wikimedia Commons)

"Hi, it's me. Now don't get mad. I'm okay. But . . . "

Unrestrained chuckling through the phone, nervous laughter from my hosts.

" . . . and the car is okay, mostly, but it's in a ditch. Stop laughing! Well, the back wheels are, anyway. It's not THAT funny. But don't worry -- I called Triple A --"

-- all by myself, with only a little help --

"-- and I'm here with Don and Lillian and I want you to come wait for Triple A with me."

Silence. Possible heavy sighs.

"And you can't call my cell because I left it at work, so that's why I'm borrowing Don and Lillian's phone to call you. And the inside of the car smells like salad. Ready for the address?"

The address was easier told to my husband -- who has a quick mind, an astonishing memory and better than average directional skills -- than to the Triple A lady in Detroit or Baltimore who did not believe that  "1447 County Road D 1/2" was a real address, and who balked at the idea of a gravel driveway that wrapped around a small field, bordered by ditches. One of which I didn't know was there. So.

"Once they remove the car from the ditch, Ma'am, will you need it to be towed anywhere?" she asked.

"Not unless I broke it," I answered, truthfully. "I think I'll be good to go."

And I was, though after the day I had I did NOT need more public humiliation or personal distress. But that's what wine is for, right?

The names have not been changed because I suspect no one in this story is THAT innocent. Addresses have been changed because these good people need to be protected from weirdos. But the 1/2 on the street address is REAL.

Even Death Has a Bye Week Once in a While

The boy who stayed at our house last night last night informed me, after the kids had been sacked out for ten minutes, that he sometimes starts coughing when he's asleep. "Not too often," said Ralph [not his real name]. "Maybe once a week, or twice." This didn't seem important enough for all three kids to get up to tell me.

"Okay," I said.

"You don't understand, Mom," Smedley interjected.

"Yeah, when Ralph coughs he needs water right away, Mom!" said Sparky. Still no reaction from their unconcerned mother (me).

"And if he doesn't get water, he passes out," Smedley offered. Passing out while lying in bed -- what's the problem?

"All three of you have water, right?" I asked.

"Yes, but Mom? If he doesn't get water in time, he passes out!" Sparky reiterated.

"I heard that," I said, but I was cut off.

"And I could die," Ralph stated flatly. Then he coughed.

"He could DIE, Mom!" chorused my daughters.

"Really," I said, but I was thinking, that would just be our luck, right? "Well, how do you handle it at home, Ralph?" I asked. This would have been good information to have a handle on before 9:30 p.m. And he told me that one or another of his siblings was always in the room with him, to wake him up so he could drink water so he wouldn't pass out so he wouldn't die.

"Oh," I said.

"I have a plan, Mom!" Smedley exclaimed. "When Ralph starts coughing I'll throw my inflatable ball down at him -- the one with sand in the bottom that I got at the circus? -- because I'll be up above him in the bunk bed."

"Good plan," I said. It's good to have a plan. "Okay, goodnight everybody. No coughing, no passing out, and no dying tonight, okay?" A chorus of goodnights.

All three kids were at the table for pancakes this morning. I like to think it's the lure of my homemade pancakes that kept Ralph alive, but I think it was probably just a bye week for Death.

Chickens Have Their Reasons

This is a Rhode Island Red hen.

(Photo used with permission) 

We had two hens of this breed, until a few days ago. Their names were Penny and Not Penny, but your guess is as good as mine which was which. They were both terribly ragged, with clumps of feathers missing -- victims of Chicken Dinner, The Rooster I Never Wanted (he was dumped upon us by The Chicken Fairy, and you can read that story here). Neither Penny nor Not Penny was particularly photogenic in their beaten-down state, so I opted to use a photo of the supermodel pictured above.

Penny had had a bad year; she was never the same after being mauled by A Beagle Who Shall Remain Nameless last summer, and almost dying. Against the odds Penny survived, but ever after all of the other hens picked on her (probably sensing her weakness) and she became a loner. She avoided the coop during the day, preferring to lay her eggs in the storage room or behind my car tire, and she wandered far afield by herself and seemed to enjoy the solitude. Last fall I was driving down our road with my sister in the car, and there in the middle of the road was Penny, not budging. I pulled the car up inches from her, rolled down the window, looked down on her bedraggled head, and said, "Go home, Penny." To my sister's great amusement, Penny went home.

When Chicken Dinner, the aforementioned rooster, matured in the fall, he began to bother Penny, so Penny started bunking on a four-inch shelf in an open-air shed, five feet in the air. It couldn't have been comfortable, but she preferred it to the coop. I knew something was wrong and started paying attention. One evening around dusk I plucked Penny off the shelf while she dozed, walked her into the coop to gently put her on a perch, and locked her in. Within a few minutes Chicken Dinner had roused himself from sleep, hopped down from his perch, chased Penny into a far corner, pinned her to the dirt on her side, and was savaging her for no discernible reason. I marched into the coop, picked up the terrified hen, backhanded Chicken Dinner, and whisked Penny back outside to the shed to sleep on her shelf. "I'll never make you go in there again," I told her, and I didn't.

That shed shelf bedroom would be Penny's undoing. Penny always rose with the sun (unlike the rest of the chickens, who stay locked up until midday so at least some of them have to lay eggs in the nest boxes instead of the garage). She would hop down to start her endless search for seeds, bugs and veggie scraps. The other morning our new fox neighbor was waiting for her.

This is all that remains of Penny.

Or, it could have been Not Penny -- I'm not sure. Either way, they're both gone, and so is the Buff Orpington hen who made a beeline for the pasture every day. I don't know why she did that; chickens must have their reasons. In any case, McGillicuddy also became a to-go meal for the fox.

Just after sunset tonight I saw the fox from my kitchen window as he trotted west along the berry hedge. He disappeared behind the big hay barn, but on a hunch I went outside and stood by our fence, watching. Sure enough, in a minute he reappeared, trotting toward our yard. He was coming surprisingly close for a bright orange animal in the half-light of dusk. I called to him.

"No chicken tonight," I taunted. He didn't hear me and kept advancing. "Go on, beat it," I shouted again. This time he heard me, and froze in his tracks. One more word from me and the fox sprang back toward the berry bushes, covering a great distance in a few leaps. He's gone, but he'll be back every day until he gets all the chickens. I'm afraid their carefree days of freedom are over, poor babies.

Except maybe for Chicken Dinner. I think I'll let him out nice and early.

Taking Photos From the Haystack Again

Spring storms are the best. The colors become as electrically-charged as the air.

Shafts of sunlight become spotlights, illuminating objects you didn't even know were there, though you see them every day.

Still, for all its beauty, a spring storm cannot make me a better photographer.

And around here, there's always a pole cow in the way.

Finds

These tiny treasures were hiding beneath the common detritus of life here in Fooleryland.

I had carefully cut and saved the label from a package that was under 2010's Christmas tree.

And the little clothespin ladies are some of Smedley's curious little creations that I find all over the house. She has the greatest sense of proportion and whimsy.

I really miss that Booze Fairy, though. When's she due back?

Emergency in Fooleryland!

It happened today. My eyelids gave out under their own weight and one fold swallowed another fold, like an accordion.

This is an unretouched photo. No makeup, no PhotoShop magic. Just unvarnished horror.

The windows to my soul now have venetian blinds.

Not happy.

Expensive snake oil helps a bit, however. I'm grateful.

Just Like Normal People

Here is my fancy-schmancy new handbag, which is actually a feed bucket for horses.

As promised to my friend Brian, who said he wanted to see it full of Skittles, here's a look inside:

Sorry Brian; no Skittles. That would just be weird. Where do you get these ideas, anyway?

Good Samaritans on the Rampage

The doorbell rang at 10:00 last night. I had forgotten that we have a doorbell, frankly.

It was the neighbor, Lupe, and her granddaughter Miranda. They are lovely and thoughtful and were simply telling me that the dome light was on in my car, thus saving me a dead battery today.

However. When the doorbell rings it sends our two dogs into an absolute frenzy. The kids were asleep. Chas was asleep. I was watching TV and bolted out of the chair.

“Hi? Just a minute!” I yelled through the window of the front door. Lupe and Miranda could hear the howling and yapping of The Demon Dogs, who were not the least bit interested in getting into their crate so I could open the door. Of course not. But at least they were far away, over by the bay window, when I opened the door --

“Hola,” I said, as Wally shot between my feet through the doorway and out into the night.

“Hi Laurie,” said dear Miranda, speaking for her grandmother. “The light is on in your --”

“Just a second, honey -- WALLYYYYYYYYY!” I called frantically, knowing it’s useless to call any kind of hound when his nose is busy (and it’s ALWAYS busy). As I hustled past them onto the lawn, sock-footed, Miranda kept on, undaunted: “-- in your car, so we wanted to tell you, so . . .”

“Thank you so much!” I enthused, distracted by the whuffling beagle I was trying to outsmart by pretending not to give chase. Wally had rounded the front of the house, headed for the pitch black back yard and then . . . THE PASTURE. If Wally got to the pasture there’d be no catching him tonight. “Wally, c’mere boy,” I called weakly, hoping not to spook him. Miranda suddenly understood my distraction.

“C’mere, Wally!” she called brightly. And do you know, that dog -- who has never come when he’s called, EVER -- trotted calmly up to Miranda for pats and scratches? I scooped him up as nonchalantly as I could manage, and thanked Lupe and Miranda profusely for everything, then carried the still sniffing Wally into the house and bolted the door.

A dead battery wouldn’t have been so bad, would it?

Pretty Sure There's No App For This

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

I'm a bit spun in a circle with Sparky's theater performance this weekend, Thanksgiving and two house guests next week, and throwing a family party for 50+ people that Saturday night, all while we are going through a mouse infestation with three dogs in the house. My house smells like mouse poop and regret and looks like an Occupy Wall Street encampment.

Someone please tase me a drag me off to jail.

The Grades Are In

(Original photo from Wikimedia Commons) 

Sparky and Smedley had outstanding report cards today. Smedley called me to tell me about hers after school. I found out about Sparky's on the ride home. We drove up Grandma and Grandpa's driveway to go get Smedley, who had been hanging out with them.

"Go into the living room, Sparky, and tell Grandpa about your report card. He's got something for you," said Grandma. Into the living room went Sparky, dragging her feet in advance of the ceremony to come.

"Here's a nickel for math, and here's a quarter for reading," said Grandpa, dropping coins into Sparky's hand. "And here's another nickel for being lucky, and here's a dime for not having hair in your eyes. A dime for not being married. Here's a penny for being lucky again. A quarter for a trip to Hawaii, and here's a dime for not having a stinky diaper tonight, and here's eleven cents, for no reason."

Report card season is always interesting in Fooleryland.

First, Identify the Problem

Uncomfortable in these clothes. Bloated, moving slow. Grumpy and snarly. Sleepy. General malaise gives way to blazing anger. Not feeling well -- headache-y, tired. Driven to distraction by hunger. Playing the What Can I Eat Next? game all day.

Wait -- of course. I know what it is.



I'm turning into a bear.

A Cock and Bull Birthday Story

For the original Chicken Fairy story click over to my other blog, Reasonably Educated Bumpkins. Don't miss it; it's one of my favorites. But then, can you really trust me?

About a week ago my father, The Chicken Fairy, announced that one of his seven pullets (teenage hens) was probably a rooster. "You want it?" he asked.

"No thanks," I answered, leaving no wiggle room.

"Why?" he asked. "Those roosters are beautiful birds. You should want one; they're interesting to watch. He'll make his first crow in about two months, only it won't sound like a crow. It'll sound squeaky until he learns how, this fall."

"As tempting as you make that sound, Dad, he's not a chicken, he's a chicken liability," I answered. "He won't lay any eggs, but he'll be another mouth to feed. He'll crow in the middle of the night, he could be mean to kittens and people, and it'll be that much more chicken crap on the sidewalk. No rooster -- no thanks!"

I was very clear. Still, I didn't bat an eye when I got the news last night.

"Mama, Grandpa gave you his rooster for your birthday!"

"He did, did he?"

"Yeah, and Grandpa put the rooster in with McGillicuddy and Li'l Supper [I don't know their real names but these are my go-to names for chickens] until they get old enough to run free."

"Super." *sigh* So now I have a rooster. Happy birthday to me.

Later, as I was putting away the birthday cake, Chas approached me conspiratorially. "Listen," he said, leaning in. "When you tell any of your friends in the blogosphere that you got a small cock for your birthday, I hope you'll articulate exactly what that means." *Chuckle, chuckle*

Blink.

Blink.

"You do know this is going in the blog, don't you?"

"I am suddenly aware of that, yes."

Happy Pastel Day

Another successful egg-dying event on a Saturday night with Auntie Beth and Grandma. We ate like kings, cleaned up, slept some and then ate again. Food, fun and family; this is what a good secular celebration should be about.

 
While our family is not religious, I am fond of saying our own secular grace. At every meal someone says, "I'm thankful for this nice [dinner], are you, Sparky?" And then each person lists one other thing he or she is thankful for. Whether or not we attribute our fortunes to a greater power, I think it's good for us at least to recognize our blessings. And so today, over egg salad sandwiches, I asked, "I'm thankful for this nice lunch, are YOU Smedley?"

Yes I am.

"And what else are you thankful for?"

With a knowing nod and eyebrows raised, Smedley said, "Pagan holidays." And took a bite.

A Daylight Savings Time Fooleryland Brunch for Losers

Here's a photo of Sunday brunch the way it was intended:


(Photo stolen from these guys*)

Inviting, right? Note the presence of eggs, and juice, coffee, fine linens, preserves, cold butter, leafy greens to laugh about later, and forgiving lighting. Not shown but almost definitely present include attractive, witty conversationalists and a buttload of alcohol.

This is not quite how Sunday brunch goes down in Fooleryland. To wit, my most recent attempt at the Leisure Culture . . .

Sunday morning I woke up at the crack of Forgot-Daylight-Savings-Time-My-Grandmother-Would-Be-Appalled. Pulling on some plaid jammie pants, bright pink socks, a sweatshirt and an orange headband, I headed for the kitchen.

Coffee started, I pulled dry ingredients out of cupboards and prepared my mise en place, which is a snooty way of saying I pushed a bunch of crap aside to make room for biscuit dough. Each child had to cut a few biscuits, of course, so -- let the dogs out -- after making them wash their hands again -- let the dogs back in -- all biscuits were cut and popped into the oven.

Dicing up onions and mincing garlic seemed to take forever -- put Wally out again to stop the barking -- but eventually they were sizzling in olive oil as I chopped last night's potatoes. Beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep! The biscuits were done. Time to -- let Wally in and now Rilo wants out again -- make the girls' Ovaltine. Don't judge me. Six tiny marshmallows in each cup and -- you're judging me, aren't you? -- the milk was almost heated. Is that coffee ready yet?

Into a bowl went the biscuits, wrapped in a linen towel. Girls, please set the table. Girls. Girls. GIRLS!

BING! Coffee's ready . . . thank GAH. Put the Ovaltine and coffee on the table and --

knock knock knock

Barking ensued. Lots of barking. Oh hi, Brian! What? You say the cows are out? Wait, lemme grab my boots. And turn off the burner.

Pink fuzzy feet and plaid legs jammed into rubber boots. Looking good, Foolery, looking good. Out the door into a light rain. Of course. The cows, which were not ours, numbered only two. One was wearing a padlocked chain like a necklace. THAT'S gonna be fun for someone to get off of her. Brian and I pushed them across the road to a food source (which they promptly ignored in favor of freedom) while my daughters called the right people.

Remembering my appearance I said a quick thank-you and goodbye to my helpful neighbor and slunk back into the house. Burner: ON. Girls, did you put the butter on the table? Girls? Girls? GIRLS!

Potatoes done, juice poured, dogs crated, it was time to sit down to our feast. "I'm thankful for this nice breakfast, are YOU, Sparky? What else are you thankful for?"

Dig in.

Finishing first, I jumped up to wash dishes, since I had quite a mess to clean up. The girls straggled in with their plates and headed off to their rooms. I listened to NPR in peace.

Until.

Until Smedley found the linen towel on the floor under the dining room table. "Mama, why is this on the floor?" she asked, bewildered. "Did you eat all the rest of the biscuits?"

"No, of course I didn't, I --" Oh crap. The dogs. The dogs ate all the biscuits.

"Will it hurt them, Mama?" Smedley asked, terrified that we, as new dog-owners, had just accidentally poisoned our new dogs.

"No, they'll be fine," I answered, not at all sure I wouldn't find piles of, well, let's leave it at piles, around the house over the next few hours. "But I need more coffee."

The clean-up was brutal. As I was finally finishing, Sparky sidled in to check on me. "What's for lunch?" she asked.

I don't think I need to make brunch again for a few more years.

*I originally tried to steal this photo from Mark Pantsari's wonderful blog post "What White Chicks Cherish -- The Unofficial Guide to Things White Girls Officially Love: Sunday Brunch," but lost my nerve and asked him for permission. I think he was sufficiently charmed by my directness that he let me link to him. Really hoping he'll mail me a mimosa. (You HAVE to go read his post, or any of his posts -- they're a scream.)


(Photo stolen from these guys)