What do the H's in 4H stand for?

I've been trying to keep the kids as busy as possible, which is not easy for me since I am not a huge fan of organized classes for kids.  I am of the "Go outside and play" school of child rearing, but that instruction usually results in three boys sitting on the deck waiting until I tell them they can come in again.

It was really pissing me off this summer when they would not ventrue outside unless I told them exactly what to do and play out there.  Don't these kids have any freaking imagination?  I finally realized that they have never gone outside on their own in their entire lives.  In the city they were basically drones waiting for instruction.  They couldn't say, "Hey Mom, I am going to the park." Since we lived in Midtown Manhattan, that would have meant crossing 9th Avenue and some of the worst traffic in the city.

I cannot tell you the number of times we almost got run over by some asshole with Jersey plates while trying to cross 9th Ave. My poor children have been marched over to many a driver's side window to witness their mother scream at the jerk behind the wheel to, "Pay attention to the light idiot or better yet, stay in New Jersey." 

That probably pales in comparison to watching Dad jump out of the car to pour soda all over someone's windshield while calling him all sorts of colorful names for trying to beat us out for the spot in front of our apt building.

Basically the boys are newbies at the whole just go out side and play theory so I had to succumb and become that mom who drives everyone hither and thither to lessons and soccer practice.  I don't mind the classes that they are all involved in.  Tennis:  I get to hit the ball against the wall myself while occasionally yelling, "Good shot Scrappy!"  Swimming:  I get to chat with friends or read while occasionally yelling, "Yes I saw you go underwater James Dean!"

The classes I hate are the ones that only one of them participates in.  James Dean decided to play soccer.  Scrappy is too little and Prince would rather put a hot poker in his eye than play soccer. He is more the tennis, swimming, boating, horseback riding kind of kid.  You know, the things that cost a shit load of money to do.  Maybe he really is royalty?

Every soccer practice involves Scrappy Doo trying to play soccer on the sidelines while Prince continuously steals the ball from him.  Scrappy screeches at the top of his lungs.  I tell Prince to leave him alone.  They stop for two minutes and then the entire scenario is replayed.  Talk about Dante's Inferno. Now I want to put a hot poker in my eye.

With swimming lessons coming to an end I needed to find another activity for all of them.  Scouting is out.  We tried that a few years ago with Prince.  I thought it would be all about hiking and nature and how to avoid the pedophile troop leaders at scout camp, but it was really pretty boring.  One meeting that I attended was an hourlong session on how to fold the flag.  Man, there really are a lot of hot poker in the eye moments while trying to be a good parent.

After much deliberation I decided on 4H.  It was all the cool stuff of scouting without the freaky patriotism aspect, plus there were animals.  The kids were all into it. Prince was especially excited when he discovered you could win cash prizes if your animal wins the county fair.

I wasn't sure how it worked.  Did you need to pick the animal you wanted to 4H with or did you join 4H and the leader would guide you through raising and caring for your animal?  I found out there was a 4H informational meeting and we all went.

There are many different 4H groups out there.  I don't know who started this organization, but they rock.   There is gardening, horse showing, gun shooting, sewing, dairy cows, bunnies, chickens, dairy goats, sheep.  Name your farm animal and there is a 4H club out there for you.   What I didn't realize was there are also geeky science kid clubs.  When we walked into the information session, these two pimply faced, dorky hairdoed, glasses wearing teens were doing a demo of what they do in 4H Robotics.  I saw Prince's eyes light up.  Unfortunately, he was too young so we continued looking.  We did discover that there is a group in our town but Scrappy Doo is too young for this particular group and my one criteria for this adventure is that they all participate.

The other problem is that the group here doesn't really have a theme.  The leader lets the kids decide what they want to do which is great unless there are a bunch of kids who want to do sewing and you want to shoot guns.  I was starting to worry that  I was either going to be driving them 30 miles every week to the 4H group of their choice or they were not going to do 4H.  I had already decided that every city kid who moves to the country must do 4H.  Plus, maybe they will be able to teach me a thing or two.  I was determined to get them all signed up.

I spoke to the woman in charge and she had a great idea.  I could just start a group of my own!   WHOA WHOA WHOA!  Me become a 4H leader?  I don't even know what the H's stand for in 4H.  What the hell could I  teach them?  How not to grow a tomato?  I am sure most of these kids know way more about farm animals than I do given the fact that I failed both the "Name the Parts of the Chicken and the "Name the Parts of the Cow" quizzes some 7 year old was handing out.

Organic cooking?  I could do that, but my boys wouldn't come to the class.

There must be something I could do that would both make my kids happy and attract other cool kids.  I will be damned if I can think of it though.  Maybe I'd better just put lifts in Scrappy Doo's shoes and hope the group in town chooses anything but sewing as their project.  Lord save me from the quagmire I may be about to step into.

The chicken that laid the golden egg

Well, it finally happened.  Chicky Rivera laid an egg.  I couldn't have been more proud if I had laid it myself. I have a new affection for her, which I certainly did not have previously.  Let's just say, she is a bitch.  Don't get me wrong.  I love bitches.  Show me a sarcastic smack talking woman and I will show you my new best friend.  Chicky Rivera is just plain mean.  

When poor little Kyle the Rooster tries to eat, she comes out of nowhere and tries to rip his feathers out.  When I feed him separately she will come out of nowhere again and chase him away.  He backs down every time.  She is a bully. Kyle doesn't stand a chance of ever being the dominant bird in this brood. I now have a visual definition of the term, "pecking order."

I named her Chicky Rivera because she is really beautiful and pretty flashy looking. She reminded me of Chita Rivera.

I probably should have named her Sarah Palin though because even though she is pretty and tough, she is mean and a little bit dumb.  

I see my new found love of Chicky as a life lesson.  If I could learn to love this nasty bird maybe I could learn to love some of the people I don't like.  Maybe I could learn to love Sarah Palin?  I bet if you get a few drinks in Sarah she is a lot of fun.  She certainly knows how to make snarky remarks.  Although, not so sure if she has the wittiness for sarcasm.  Plus, there is the whole hatred of gays and that lying thing she does so...probably only if she lays me an egg too.

Anyway, I digress. I was watching Chicky last week and she kept pausing from her constant pecking to sit down.  She was looking a little uncomfortable.  I recognized that look.  I had it myself on many an occasion throughout my three pregnancies.  She was about to lay an egg.  Low and behold, I found her in her nesting box a few days later sitting on an egg!  

I screamed for the boys who came running outside.  Prince took a picture of me holding the egg.  Scrappy Doo was praising Chicky up and down. James Dean begged to hold the warm little brown egg himself.  Just as I handed it to him while saying, "Be careful" he promptly dropped it on the floor and then promptly burst into tears.  I console him and tell him we can just scrape it up off the floor and cook it up right then and there.  He calms down and I quickly throw the egg away while he is not looking and scramble one up from the carton of eggs in the fridge.  

The boys all gather around, looking at the plate like they were staring at a golden egg.  Frankly, with the amount of money we spent to produce that egg ( the one in the trash; not on the plate)  it is probably worth more than a golden egg.  They each have a little taste and declare it the best scrambled egg they have ever eaten.  If only I could get them to feel that way about the homegrown chard.

A Farewell to Amish

Well, the barn is done and it looks awesome!  The husband had to go back to the city before construction was supposed to be completed.  He was heartbroken.  The last day he was here, I got to go with him to drop all the guys off.   I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry or burst into laughter with the awkward farewells.  It really was sad.  I mean, it wasn't like the husband could invite the guys over to poker night or to watch the game on TV.  Unless we come up with some more cash to fund another building project, there is really no reason for them to hang out together again.  

Dropping Eldin off was the worst.  I could tell he was as sad as the husband to say goodbye.  Talk about your pathetic endings to a summer romance. There were hopeful promises of seeing each other again.   It was like something out of a bad Nicholas Sparks book.  Wait, is that redundant? 

I may have to get the husband a new puppy just to cheer him up;)

They slowly finished unpacking Eldin's tools when I see a lightbulb go off in the husband's head.  "I need you to take me fishing one day and show me some of your tricks."

Eldin had begged off of work one day to go fishing with his brother who showed up in town unannounced.  He caught a couple of nice bass which he of course bragged about the next day. I could see the smile forming on Eldin's face.  "Oh yeah.  Sure!  That'd be good."

We headed home but not before a stop at the cattle auction with Phillip.  Phillip has hopes of becoming an organic dairy farmer and is always on the lookout for Jersey calves.  I read in the crazy Welshman's book that they are the best milk producers . Eldin is constantly ribbing Phillip about the Jersey cows.  He of course thinks  Holsteins are far superior.  They kid around a lot like this What's the best type of chicken; cow; horse and what is the best grain to feed them.  It is kind of like how English guys give each other shit about why the Yankees are great and the Red Sox suck and vice versa.

We get to the auction and all that are left are itty bitty bulls.  Oh my god!  They are so cute! They have all obviously been taken from their mothers way too soon and the littlest guy is all skin and bones. They are selling him for $5.  I give the husband a pleading look as I pet the sad little thing.  He pretends to not see me.

There is one guy who is looking them all over.  Phillip informs us that he is buying them all for veal.  The husband thinks this might be a good business for us.  Talk about your popcorn bowl moments.  If the boys were hysterical over the death of a couple of chickens, can you imagine how they'd feel about these beautiful little bulls going off to the slaughterhouse?  "Mom, where are all the cows?" "Oh, they are on their way to be turned into veal."

We have talked about where meat comes from and that it is actually better to raise and kill your own than to buy it from one of the evil factory farms.  They have even filmed our neighbor disemboweling a pig which they deemed, "Awesome."   I just don't think we are ready to do the whole meat thing yet.  I know.  I am a hypocrite. BTW, sorry to all the parents out there whose unsuspecting  7 year olds thought they were going to watch a Youtube video about how to make a lego Southpark character but actually saw a pig being sliced opened.  Not really sure how that mixup happened.  The video has been taken down.

On the way home the husband is beaming.  He has a kick-ass barn for a very reasonable price and a new set of friends.   He also informs me that he told the guys I was going to make them lunch on their last day of work.

You would think I was cooking for the President.  I spend the next three days planning what to make.  I want it to be something they may never have had before but nothing  too weird that they wouldn't eat it. I settle on lasagna because pretty much everyone likes it.  They eat the whole thing along with the blueberry cobbler. I am not sure how they manage to avoid the bathroom (they will use the indoor plumbing to take a poop), but they did.

At the end of the day I go out to see the finished barn.  I am blown away.  I thank them for everything and tell them how wonderful it was to meet them.  There is no response of, "Gee, it was great meeting you and you are the best cook ever.  Can you come teach cooking classes to our women?" No, they all take the opportunity to sing the praises of the husband.  "We really loved meeting the husband."  "He is the nicest guy we have ever worked with."  Blah Blah Blah.  Since I am the one people usually like, I sulk a little.

Eldin informs me that there are a couple of things they have left to do and wants to know when the husband is coming back up.  I see where this is going.  I tell him Wednesday.  Perfect.  They have a job the next day but can come back on Wednesday to finish up.  I call the husband to tell him.  He is very flattered by the praise.

Eldin and Ernie come back on Wednesday to put in the ladder up to the hayloft and do a couple of other things.  The husband asks me if I can drive the guys to their other job because he has a work call.

On the way there Eldin sighs and starts to wonder out loud, "So, I don't know when he wants to go fishing? The weather might be good this weekend."

I ask, "Do you want me to have him come get you on Saturday?"

Eldin:"I don't know. Do you think he really wants to go?"

Really?  I have to play matchmaker for my husband and his new Amish friend?

Me:  "OK, I will have him come pick you up on Saturday.  I know he really wants to go fishing and so does Prince."

Eldin: "Tell him I will call him tonight from my neighbor's phone so we can set it up."

They go fishing that Saturday at 5am.  An hour Prince has not seen since his nursing days. Eldin is the only one who catches anything.  All is good though because this just means they all need to go again.

The Fucking Dog

When you tell your young sons that they are going to move out of New York City; away from their friends to a small town in upstate New York, it can be tricky.  There were a few tears shed and many promises made.  Most of these promises involved four legged furry creatures.

James Dean and Scrappy Doo were swayed by the promise of a puppy.  Prince took a little more convincing and I am pretty sure I promised him a horse.  He has not asked about it recently but I think he assumes the barn is for the horse.

After the chicken massacre, I sit for hours on the computer trying to figure out the best way to keep the survivors safe.  I still don't really know how the big ass Dodo Bird became extinct and chickens survived.  Everything wants to kill chickens and most manage to do so.  Chickens can't be out in the open for fear of hawks swooping down.  A fox can come out of the woods and snatch them if they are near the woods.  What's a free ranging chicken farmer to do? 

I finally come upon a website by a chicken farmer who says he has tried everything and the best chicken protector is a dog, but not any dog.  It is a Great Pyrenees.   Now I have the ammunition to convince the husband that we need a dog. 

What I really want to do here on the farm is raise sheep and make sheep milk cheese.  It will be the best cheese on the planet.  I will be on Martha Stewart.  Does she still have a show?  At the very least I will make it onto Rachel Ray. My cheese will be on the menu at the finest restaurants in NYC and  The New York Times Food Section will do a story about me complete with photos.  The fact that I haven't the slightest idea how to make cheese is just a minor problem I need to overcome. 

Sheep are well, sheepish though and need a protector.  Historically, the Great Pyrenees were bred to be livestock protectors.  It seems like kismet that I can get one of these beautiful dogs that will all at once make my kids happy, protect my chickens and protect the sheep I will have in the near future. The husband has been giving me some push back on the whole dog thing.  He is not sure whether I want the dog to protect the sheep or the sheep so I can get the dog. He also isn't a big dog lover.  He can't stand the licking and unbridled affection. He finally relents and agrees to the Great Pyrnenees but only after I assure him that the dog will live outside with the livestock, working for his keep.

Let me pause here a moment to offer you all a little advise.  If you have had a couple of glasses of wine, do not go on Petfinder.com.  I am thinking about putting a breathelyzer on my computer and if I blow a 0.05 I will be blocked from certain websites, especially Petfinder or any other website I can end up adopting an animal from.

One night the boys and I are talking about the puppy they want and I decide, with glass of wine in hand, to go upstairs and show them photos of some of the cute little Pyrenees puppies that we can adopt.  They are totally smitten with the little white fluff balls and are even more excited when they see how big the dogs get.  Perhaps I don't need to get the horse after all.  They can just ride the dog.

I end up filling out an adoption form from the Great Pyrenees Rescue.  It seems that every type of dog out there has their own rescue.  Kooky people obsessed with the breed go around rescuing these dogs from shelters and keeping them until they can find them a new home.  An honorable hobby.

A few weeks later I get a call from a woman from the rescue.  She wants to know a little bit about what we are looking for.  I give her my vague, "We want a dog to protect the animals but is good with children and will protect the house as well." She informs me that these dogs are either family pets or livestock protectors.  They can't do both and they don't really have livestock dogs in the rescue program because if they are up for adoption, it is probably because they suck at being live stock dogs and do things like eat the livestock they are meant to protect.  Shit.  How am I going to spin this for the husband?

I am also supposed to have a fenced in yard so the dog doesn't run in the street.  I assure her that I am moments away from getting an Invisible Fence (lie).  When we hang up she is going to look into a couple of possibilities.  I am now looking at a dog that will not protect the chickens and is going to cost me a few $1,000 in fencing.  The husband is not going to be happy.

I get a call the next day and they have a dog for me.  He is 7 months old and is a "love".  He wants to be around people all of the time and likes to give, "puppy kisses" to his family.  Oh how happy the husband will be.  She emails me some photos and I make the strategic decision to show the photos to the boys before the husband so he cannot say no.  With 8 pleading eyes looking at him he says, "Fine, but you'd better train that dog and it better not lick me."  BTW, I haven't quite told him that the dog is going to be spending his nights inside with us and not outside watching over the chickens.

We go to pick up Pepper on a Sunday.  It is love at first sight.  Even the husband is smiling despite the fact that the dog has licked every inch of his face.  I am feeling smug.  A popcorn bowl moment for the family.  Photos are taken with beaming children and cute dog.  All is good with the world.

We bring Pepper home and he immediately shits on the rug.  This is not a dog shit.  It is an elephant shit. One which I promptly clean up and don't tell the husband about. I take the dog out and walk him around the property so he knows his boundaries and what he is expected to protect.  This is what the chicken farmer/Great Pyrenees owner tells me to do.  He sniffs like crazy, pees and poops again and I take him back in.  20 minutes later he has crapped again in the house.  I try to remain calm and take him out again.  That night he sleeps on a bed next to James Dean.  I wake up once in the night to check on him and he is sound asleep.  Early the next morning I hear James Dean yelling, "Pepper!  Get Off!" The dog is on top of him in his bed.

"Pepper!  No!" and "Pepper!  Stop it!" become common phrases in the house.  Even though the dog is still a puppy, he is huge and is constantly knocking Scrappy Doo down. He has torn apart every stuffed animal the kids own and will not sleep in a crate, but he is cute and follows me around like my very own Secret Service detail.

 Prince is great with him.  He walks him every day and spends hours getting the dog used to the chickens.  At first it kind of looked like he was going to eat them along with the cat, whose head I have seen completely in the dog's mouth on more than one occasion, but so far so good.  We get him a toy weasel to play with.  Prince thinks this will train him to kill the weasel if it comes back.  He may not be the best livestock protector but I convince the husband that all the dog shit around that I shovel into the woods will keep those predators at bay. I assure him that once we get the fence and the sheep, Pepper will live outside.  Yeah right.  I guess we will be needing another dog.

Ode to Chard

How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.  While I preen over the tempestous tomatoes who taunt me with their large green fruit refusing to turn red and fret over the flea beetle ravaged broccoli, wooing it's tiny head to grow larger, you stand their chivalrously waiting for me to kill everything else in the garden before I notice you.  You ask of nothing from me.  When the basil bolts because I forget to water or the squash plants turn white and wither from too much rain, and the tomatoes taste like shit because their sugar turns to starch once the temperature drops below 55 at night and I did not know that,  you continue to grow tall and handsome allowing me to not feel like a total failure as a gardener.

I was going to write about the first day of school, but since I am a day late and so many others have paid hysterical homage to that magical day, I decided to skip it.  Here is a synopsis:  The kids went.  I didn't have my act together enough to get them on the bus, but I did get them to school on time.  Scrappy Doo slept 14 hours last night. Now let's talk gardening.

When we had our two year stint in the burbs I had a garden.  It was not a huge garden, but what I planted grew like crazy.  Tons of tasty heirloom tomatoes, greens and lots of herbs flourished in my little patch.  I just dug up the plot, put some seeds in the ground and they grew.  Why wouldn't that be the case at our farm?

The first matter of business after purchasing the farm was to till a huge garden.  The husband has some wacky theory about a class war that I won't get into here, but suffice to say, he thinks we need to be completely self sufficient, which means I have to grow lots of fruits and vegetables and can enough to last us through the winter.  No problem.  I grew enough for half the year in my tiny plot in the burbs.  I will be able to start my own CSA with the size of the garden I now have.  

I read about 15 books on organic gardening including one by this crazy Welsh guy name John Seymour.  He started a self sufficient farm back in the 70's.  I think he knows his shit, but I am not really sure because I can't understand half of what he writes.  He says stuff like, "But once the quickthorn hedge is established it is there, if you look after it, for centuries.  You look after it by laying it.  That is, every 5 years or so, cutting most of the bushes; trunks half way through and breaking them over.  The trunks are all laid the same way...In due course the peaching and the dead stakes rot and disappear, but the hedge puts out new growth and can be very stock-proof"

This is now the husband's bible and he has mapped out exactly where we are going to plant what and how we will rotate the garden each year and the type of compost we will use.  When I plant a seed, I am expected to write it down on the garden map he has designed on the computer and each subsequent year I will make a new map to indicate the proper rotation.  Got it.

I start planting seeds about February.  All I really want are tomatoes, but since I need to rotate my tomatoes with something besides tomatoes, I start some other seeds as well.  I have a whole system of recording what I planted in each row of my little seed starter kits.  The husband is proud of my attempt at organization.  

I spend all of Mothers' Day painstakingly separating my tiny seedlings into slightly larger pots.  Shit!   I forget to write what each plant is on the new pots.  So much for organization.   I assure the husband that I know the difference between a tomato plant and a broccoli plant so it is all good.  Funny thing is, all of those tiny plants look alike so come July I realize that what I thought was basil that I planted in the herb garden is actually tomatoes and I have no idea what the hell is growing where I thought I planted kale. 

We have 80 tomato plants in the garden.  I am going to be cooking with tomato sauce all winter long. Suck on that BPA-laced canned tomato puree. 

The first thing to come up are snap peas and arugula.  I am ecstatic. I make the husband eat arugula and pea salad every day.  The kids won't touch it or even venture into the garden.  I try to entice them by offering them each their own garden plot where they can grow whatever they want.  Prince wants to grown cocoa and sugar cane.   James Dean wants sugar cane.  Scrappy Doo just wants to grow candy plants.

The tomato plants are growing nicely.  The husband studies them daily to see which leaves should be pruned to maximize fruit output. By about the beginning of August we start to get a little worried.  We have lots of green tomatoes but nothing is turning red.  We reassure ourselves that we still have a month left and everything will ripen by then. A couple weeks go by and none are turning red, but many are turning brown.  We quickly check the vegetable gardening bible.  Oy.  Doesn't look good.  We  cross reference with google images and discover we have tomato blight.  All of the plants need to be pulled out and we need to double bag them and throw them in the garbage so we don't contaminate the soil any further.

I slink off to BJ's with my head low to buy a case of canned tomato puree.

It has been a few years since the tomato disappointment and every year I am still disappointed.  No blight mind you but it is impossible to grow a delicious heirloom tomato in your garden up here.  The growing season just isn't long enough.  I have other equally disastrous gardening results.  The garlic is tiny.  The broccoli grows heads so small it wouldn't even feed a mouse for dinner. My promising brussel sprouts get hit by an early snow and die. The beets are the size of a quarter.  The only things that doesn't make me want to stab myself in the eye with my pitchfork are squash and chard.  I don't even think I knew what chard was before I planted it, but it is really pretty and tasty.

I may not have the gardening juju that I thought I did, but I am a pretty good cook, so here is a recipe I came up with for chard and sqaush tamale pie.  It is just as tasty and much easier to use a box of corn muffin mix  such as "Jiffy" or "Hodgson Mills" on top.

      Chard and Squash Tamale Pie with Beans

                                                     For the filling:

                                                     1 medium onion chopped

                                                     2 cloves of garlic chopped

                                                     Large bunch clean swiss chard chopped

                                                     1 small zucchini chopped

                                                     1 small pattypan chopped

                                                     1 can cannellini beans drained and rinsed
                                                     1/2C grated parmesan cheese
                                                     Salt and pepper to taste

Take whole chard leaves and submerge them in bowl of cold water.  Gently pick leaves up and out of water and pour dirty water out of bowl.  Add clean water and repeat process until no dirt is left in bowl. Pat chard leaves dry and chop into bite sized pieces.  Sauté onions over medium low heat in 2T olive oil until soft.  Add garlic and cook for another five minutes.  Add squash  and cook until soft.  Add chard.  Lower heat and cover until chard has wilted (about 5 minutes). Add beans until combined.  Spread mixture evenly in a deep dish pie plate and sprinkle cheese over top.

                                                   
                                                    For the topping: (From America's Test Kitchen)
                                               
                                                    3/4 C flour
                                                    3/4 C cornmeal
                                                    3T sugar
                                                    1t baking powder
                                                    1/4t baking soda
                                                    1/2 t salt
                                                    3/4C buttermilk
                                                    1T melted butter, cooled

Whisk together flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking soda, baking powder and salt in large bowl. In small bowl whisk together buttermilk and egg.  Stir buttermilk mixture into dry ingredients.  Stir in melted butter until combined. Dollop cornmeal mixture over vegetable mixture and spread evenly over surface.  Cook at 450 until cornbread topping is golden brown (about 15-20 minutes)  Let sit for 5-10 minutes before serving.

An Amish Barn Raising

So my mother-in-law lives in New York State near the PA border where there are tons of Amish.  She found this guy to help renovate her old house and her new one.  He is now working on a barn for her as well as a chicken tractor.  He is sort of her equivalent of Eldin Bernecky from the television show, "Murphy Brown."  I know. I am dating myself, but I do have older siblings.

The Husband and I were very jealous of his mom's Amish.  We have tried to hire a few contractors here to do work, but they usually either don't call you back, charge a fortune or just plain suck.  There was one guy who came to give us an estimate on a new chimney.  He was a good two hours late and then started completely talking out of his ass.  I know nothing about masonry or any other type of contracting for that matter, so if  I could tell he was clueless, that is saying something.  We yearned for our own Amish Eldin.

When the Husband went to pick up the car and chickens he got to meet his Mom's Amish and asked him if he would come build a barn for us.  Now the thought of five Amish guys staying with us for a week did give me pause, but how many of my city friends can say they have had Amish stay with them?  Not many I am sure.  I would earn major cool points. Unfortunately, Mom's Amish decided it was too far away and passed on the job, dashing my dreams of doing my best Kelly McGillis impersonation as I poured lemonade for a bunch of sweaty thirsty guys in cute hats and suspenders.

Remember how I told you that the Husband gets fixated on something and doesn't rest until it happens?  Well, that is what it was with his dream of an Amish barn raising.  He went to an auction near a new community of Amish in the area.  He returned with yet another set of screw bits and a big smile on his face.  We had our Amish.

It took a few weeks to get everything sorted out.  It is hard to get in touch with the Amish since they don't have phones.  You either have to wait for them to call you from an English neighbor or just drive out to their house and hope they are there.  Finally the Husband set everything up and there were four guys scheduled to come build us a barn in a week. The Husband was so excited he took the week off from work so he could join the crew.

The morning they were coming,  I woke up at 6am so I could bake them some muffins and put the coffee on.  I changed my clothes a few times trying to find something modest enough to wear.  I soon realized I dress pretty whorey.  I have a pretty big rack for a small woman and all of my tops seem to show some cleavage.  I finally found an appropriate schmattaish shirt and waited.

I am probably going to piss some people off with this statement but, the Amish are adorable. Seriously. From the way they dress to their missing digits to their peaceful manner; you just want to hug them.  I would consider becoming Amish myself if it wasn't for the no alcohol, no tv and most importantly, no NPR. I mean, I love cooking, gardening, and taking care of animals.  I am not so good at the knitting, sewing, quilting thing, but  I would love to learn. Even though I would not be too keen on birthing 14 kids, I obviously don't have a problem with the no birth control thing.

Four guys show up in matching pants with suspenders and straw hats. I thought their shirts were a little flashy for Amish, but what do I know. Three of the guys have beards which they start to grow when they marry.  The youngest guy is unmarried and it is a running joke that he is too dumb to ever find a wife. There are 37 fingers between all four of them and they all have really bad haircuts.  Someone should really think about starting an Amish Barber School.

Eldin is in charge.  I am changing his name not because I am afraid he will read this blog, but because when this thing goes viral I want to protect him from the paparazzi. He is 25.  He walks around like a rooster, but not my rooster mind you who has not quite mastered cockiness.  Eldin would have been the captain of the football team if he had been born into an English family. He loves bossing his guys around, but it is still in a sweet Amish way.  They get quite a bit done the first day.




The husband is in heaven being around these guys. He and Eldin constantly give each other shit.  I am thinking he may quit his job and start an Amish taxi service.  He even offers to drive Eldin and his family to his in-laws house on our way out of town for the weekend.  I am not really sure how we are all going to fit into a seven passenger van, but who could turn down the opportunity to get an insider glimpse at the Amish community?  Plus, they have two little bonneted daughters.  I am not about to miss the chance to hold one.

We were expected at my friend's place around 9.  I assumed our 5:00 start would give us plenty of time to drop Eldin and his family and get to our destination.  The husband forgot to inform me that Eldin needs to stop at about 15 places when you take him anywhere.  I guess this is part of the problem of not having a phone or car.  When someone offers a ride, they take care of all the business they need to do for the next week, but I think it is mostly just Eldin's personality.  He is kind of like the mayor.




We stop by about five other Amish farms either picking stuff up or dropping it off and I get to hold the bonneted babies each time. Upon seeing all of the cute baby animals, Scrappy Doo decides he wants to be Amish.  This is a declaration he will later regret when his brothers tell him he can no longer play Wii because he is Amish.

The funny thing about Eldin is he gets as excited about seeing an Amish buggy on the road as we do and most of the time he is somehow related to whomever is driving it.  One rickety buggy we pass he dismisses as being a hillbilly buggy.  He doesn't know these people.

When we finally arrive at their destination, it is 9:00 and pitch black because there is no electricity on the farm.  We unload all of the people and their stuff including a manure spreader.  I take the dog for a   pee and hear the Husband let out a squeal of delight.  He picks up a tiny little kitten.  The Husband doesn't like many animals, but he is a sucker for a little kitty.  The woman who owns the farm offers to give the tiny thing to us.  The boys all shout, "Really?" at the same time.  I assume they are staring at their father as they say this because I have conveniently walked far away with the dog. I then hear, "If it is OK with Mommy."

We arrive two hours late to my friend's place with an ill behaved dog and a three week old kitten that has an eye infection.  Thankfully she is an animal lover.