“You’re five minutes away almost there, mi’ja,” says a fireperson who will pass us in her very cool red Mustang convertible a few minutes later.
Our arrival throws the resident flock of chickens into a panic. They cluck and run as if voracious predators were in hot pursuit. We are not that hungry. The goats are, but they usually stick to a vegan diet. The chickens are safe. So are e as long as we keep our hands to ourselves. Starbuck, an overenthusiastic fan of raw human blood, rushes to the fence in the fond illusion that we will forget that last time we met he thought my hand with a tasty tidbit. I considered waving a borrowed blood donor card under his nose. He favors O pos.
I cast an envious eye on Sally's asparagus and strawberry beds while she fetches fresh eggs from the chicken house. The chickens are not amused. They cluck the Internationale. e ignore them. Sally gives us a gallon of milk. Later in the day, the infanta ill make make a batch of herbed chevre. The following day she ill collect the hey and soak the cheese in brine so that it will form a substantial rind. Friday we will be bake whey bread for a gathering at Murdoch Mountain. We hope that Doug will be there with his cello and that Berto will be there to tell jokes in Nabokovian English. We know that the hummingbirds will make an appearance and that we will be able to pick ripe wineberries when we hike to the lake. We will come home at dusk to watch the fireflies bathe the heart shaped leaves of the catalpa tree in flickering greenish light. We will have a bit more chevre, bread and a glass of wine and we will forget the difficukties of getting to Sally’s place.