The chickens really liked the home-grown oats the mf and his grown-up daughter took turns flinging upon the compost heap.
I proclaim this current door a huge improvement.
“I do my best,” he protested. “I try hard.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But you don’t know what you’re doing.”
The mf thinks, “It’s okay, this will teach them that science is built on failure.” However, this is not a history of science class. It’s an ELD class, where you’re supposed to be building well-defined skills such as supporting a claim with details.
I can see him now, the last lingering emanations of sunset fading, faded; the mf still out in the wayback of the yard, getting repeated facefuls of chicken wing while struggling to secure the temporary coop.
Clucky, the prettiest hen; Clucky of the golden feather necklace; Clucky the most chill bird…
There could be no mistaking the mf’s excitement about impregnating dead, soaking wet banana leaves with golden oyster mushroom spawn. He was all but twitching. Grinning, yes. Beaming, yes. Agog is a good way of putting it. He had covered the soggy dead bamboo leaves with a plastic sheet to help keep them moist. NowContinue reading “The Mushroom Farmer, Chapter 5”
Sometimes she lets me scratch her neck. I get in there under the feathers and sure enough, her neck is thin but I don’t think of it as scrawny. I think of it as lifeline.