Because You Don't Know Until You Do

 It's been a busy couple of weeks in our house.  In Homestead news, one of our chickens developed a prolapsed cloaca.  Don't google images of that, it's disgusting.  I think it was because she was low on calcium, which can cause a chicken's muscles to lose tension and things that ought to be on the inside of them start hanging out on the outside.  Then these things need to be cleaned and swabbed with a mixture of honey, preparation H, and Neosporin, before being tucked back on the inside of the chicken(a lot of research went into this, I didn't just jam preparation H in there mindlessly).  I've never been so grateful for gloves.  We had to isolate the chicken during her treatment because if other chickens see anything that looks like blood or innards, they will go crazy and peck at the affected chicken until they have cannibalized her.  We told the other chickens she was at the spa.  For the past week she's been in a cozy little house of her own in the garage, and during the first few days of this the other two white chickens would stay outside the chicken coop long after dark, looking for her.  At least that's what I told Aaron I thought they were doing.  Yesterday everything stayed inside that ought to, and then she laid an egg and everything still stayed inside.  Today I let her outside(outside of the chicken run) and she kept pacing along the fence line of the chicken run like she wanted to get back in there real bad, and since her bum was back to normal I decided to let her get reacquainted with her sister chickens.  I was worried they might peck at her after all that time away, but no one really seemed to notice and then Pluck(that's what we've decided to name her after witnessing her heroism throughout her ordeal) went straight into the chicken coop and hopped into the nesting box.  I know because I followed her. 

What's interesting is that before, I could only tell one of our white chickens apart because she has a spikey comb while the other two have soft, floppy combs, but I couldn't tell the difference between the soft floppy two.  After a week of close contact with one of the chickens, she now looks as indivudual to me as if she were painted bright purple.  When you've shared certain intimacies with a chicken, you can pick her out of a crowd.  That sort of thing creates a bond, you know?

All of this was not very picturesque, so I decided to post some pictures of a table Aaron built for a breakfast nook.  Not our breakfast nook.  We don't have one of those.  I told him I might not be okay with him building furniture for other women, because when I saw this table I thought "Damn, no wonder I've had that man's babies." 

Here's the sexiest part: there is no metal hardware in the table.  Aaron made the whole thing from hand-chosen pieces of walnut, and no screws or nails.  Just his bare man hands.  It is satiny smooth, sanded down layer by layer using the entire range of sandpaper grit.  Also: this was Aaron's very first table.  So we are both doing things we never have before, and I like when life's challenges teach you new skills because you don't know how to treat a prolapsed cloaca until you do, and then it's knowledge in your back pocket for the next time you find a bulging mass of inside stuff on the outside of a chicken. 

We also got our carpet cleaned a few days before Thanksgiving, and all this new and improved grooming is putting a little extra spring in everyones' step.

I have some thoughts about Thanksgiving which I will share a little later because I'm making more turkey.  This year I used a dry brine, and even though I only had 24 hours instead of the prescribed 72 AND I overcooked the turkey, it was still the best turkey I've ever had.  So I'm doing it again for the proper three days and hopefully not overcooking it, and I'll report back here.  For now I have to go obsessively vacuum my carpet.