For years the raised beds have been a dismal gray dusty failure zone, inhospitable to carrot, beet, potato; acrimonious to buckwheat, oat, alfalfa.
Oh, the ramshackliness. Mid-torrent, the mf had struggled mightily to erect a shelter for his drenched hens. Plan A had not panned out. The hens were so wet, they were walking chicken soup. How they felt about being so wet was, the mf inferred, perturbed. They would like not to be this wet nor soContinue reading “The Mushroom Farmer, Chapter 17”