A delicious promise

FarmWife is away visiting relatives in misty moisty New England while I am stuck at home with only two goats, two house sitters, a flock of poultry, and the world's prettiest minimule for company.

(Now that I say it like that, I think I'm doing OK. It could be worse.)

Before FarmWife left, I told her I would have liked to have gone along. FarmWife said I would not have fit under the seat in coach class and that I would not have been comfortable in the depressurized luggage compartment and that it would have been terribly expensive to fly me business class.

I told her I would have liked to have driven, and that she needed merely to buy me a nice new horsevan, and that we could have detoured past the Grand Canyon and Mount Rushmore on our way east.

She told me that horsevans cost more than one can earn selling commissioned poetry and newspaper articles and that the Grand Canyon is not on the way to New England and that Mount Rushmore is disappointing, anyway, because it has no mule faces on it.

I told her to have some respect, and not to forget that George Washington was instrumental in establishing mule breeding as a successful American enterprise.

This week, FarmWife is sending home pictures and stories about all sorts of delicious things from New England: maple syrup, pumpkin cookies, and apples as far as the eye can see. She promised to bring me one from a nearby orchard, which left me feeling just a little better about missing Mount Rushmore.

My tummy is grumbling just thinking about it.

Ears,
FenBar