Harvest

Matteas helped me plant these seeds, carefully tracing his finger in the soft dirt to make a trench, mindfully sprinkling in the seeds, then gently covering them like he was tucking very small children into an earthy bed.  He is also a faithful little waterer, and as the spinach and lettuce have come leaping out of the ground he declared "Look mama!  It's because I did such good watering!"  Last night we had a salad, all the greens for which came from our own garden.  Matteas desperately wanted to help me cut the arugula, and when we came to a baby leaf he begged me not to cut it. 

He finds it easier to collect eggs, now that he understands there is no chance that any of them contain a baby chicken.  This morning we slipped on our boots and headed out to the chicken coop together, and he let out a yell of joy when he saw four brown eggs nestled among the wood chips in the milk crate we use as a nesting box.  I love that gathering eggs is something we do every single morning, but it hasn't lost its magic for Matteas.  Or me.  There is something mystical about picking up a still-warm egg in the early morning sunshine, the way the curve of it fits perfectly into the palm of your hand, the satisfying weight of it.  I love that we can get breakfast from our own back yard, literally.  We haven't bought eggs in months, we just use our own eggs when we have them and go eggless when we don't, which doesn't really happen.  We get at least three eggs every day, and during a week when the boys are interested in other things for breakfast it doesn't take long to accumulate a dozen.  And that's how we know it's time for cake.