One chick has hatched!
Its stumbling around in there like a drunk sailor. Its almost as if we've set Godzilla free and she's smashing into all the other eggs, knocking them around. Hey in there! No smashing around! Gentle stumbling, please.

OHMYGOD!!!!! (I shout as if I have earth-shattering shocking unbelievable news.) I am hearing chirping coming from the incubator. I HEAR CHIRPING. Which makes me so excited I'm nearly in tears. Even though, yes, we did expect this. Eggs were carefully put into an incubator for this one purpose. Still, I didn't really believe quail would grow in there and become strong enough to make a noise able to penetrate an unbroken shell and a styrofoam incubator. Life is a miraculous joyous fantastical gobstopper of unlikely yet wonderful. Imagine if the little yellow plastic Easter-peeps forgotten behind your couch from the last egg hunt at your house suddenly animated. I JUST HEARD ANOTHER CHIRP. O.M.G!

 My favorite piece of jewelry, a bracelet my daughter made years ago.

 Also from my girl, a tiny sculpture made of the wool I washed earlier this week. Wool a friend gave me from her sheep that she rescued from a farm down road, from a farmer who has grown to old to care for sheep any longer.

When you begin sourcing your life as locally as possible, you begin to notice a lovely reflected layering and depth. Everyone has their bit to contribute. It all matters. Connectivity is implicit, comforting, tangibly real, reliably genuine. When you know where it all came from, that creeping mystery most Americans spend our lives trying to ignore is simply wiped away. All the crap we collect, our stuff, our relationships, our will, creates what we see around us, what we eat, how we love, and what gets passed around. Everything has its own history, which will dictate its quality and which influences the quality of your personal and our collective future. 

When I close this computer in a few minutes, I'll drive over to a local farm for weekly groceries. I'll be greeted by the farmer, his two dogs, and if I'm lucky, his adorable fat brown-eyed toddler.  I'll pickup our milk, some cheese, any meat they happen to be processing this week, and some fresh shitakes. I've seen where the mushrooms grow, in a fairy village of production in the forest behind his house. We will chat, trade goods for money, and I'll drive back home. The whole thing will take 20 minutes. There is no parking lot. There will be no other customers. I'm not going to a store. A profound sort of serenity will replace the normal low grade stress and stink of buying boxed food from China. I will bring home zero packaging, no waste, and no mystery. 

While picking up our food, I'll compare the farmer's fig tree to mine, wondering which will ripen faster. I'll mentally note his cow's udder, the quality of her pasture, and her condition this season. The only way to improve the sensuality, the deliciousness, the simplicity, and the sustainability of my weekly grocery shopping, would be to ride a horse there and back. Imagine such a life! If I could do that, I would wear my fuzzy kitty bracelet as I rode. 

I have two new fleeces to skirt and scour. A black one! This brings my total up to Three Bags Full. I'm going to get right on my sheepiness, just as soon as I wash and sterilize 14 milk jars. And turn the quail eggs. That's the only sensible progression: sterilize milk jars first, then fill kitchen with sheep shit. In case you've been wondering, I've confirmed it for you. French Garlic Broth, forgotten a few days on the counter, smells even stronger than raw sheep fleece, forgotten a few days on the floor.

Its been the weirdest weather I've ever seen. Last summer the weather was strangely cool in our southern state. It stayed in the low 90s most of June. I talked about it with friends and among the ones who grew up here, we were all unanimous. The weather was strangely not hot. It should have been in the high 90s to low hundreds. This summer we're well into July and it hasn't gotten out of the high 80s yet. It has rained almost daily. The weather is so strange no one is discussing it. Our lack of discussion reminds me a bit of tourist tsunami footage where the beach is silent and peaceful with no detectable foreboding as the water recedes. I'm afraid my figs won't ripen if it doesn't warm up. Tomatoes are pouting. Other veggies are drowning.

I got to help a friend this morning. She and I rolled a large round bale of hay uphill, through 10 inches of mud, through a nearly bale-sized door, and into the barn. It was grand good fun. At one point I was almost sure it was an impossible task. As we pushed, our feet slid backwards. I'm amazed neither of us fell. But somehow, we rolled that heavy bale in. The animals were grateful. We were filthy and victorious. And I can't think when I've had a nicer time. I crave hands on, and would rather help slop your pigs than go for dinner out. When did I become this person?

No one really knows what's going on with the weather nor how to predict future seasons. Will fall scorch? Are we headed into a rain forest climate or dramatic cooling? No way to say. But come what will, its good to know people who know how to get things done. And I find I get along better in a barn.

Bondathon 2013 

James Bond movies back to back till 20 teens surrender

What I bought: 8 loaves of sunflower bread, four packages of sliced meats, four packages of sliced cheese, an industrial sized tin of tuna, various chips, four bags of cookies, some lettuce.

What they ate: 3 and a half loaves of bread, 2 packages of meat, 2 packages of cheese, half a jar of peanut butter, half a jar of my friend's mother's freezer jam, a few tuna salad sandwiches, some lettuce, a lot of the chips, and all of the cookies.