My vacation is down to just a weekend now. I'm a little verklempt. Monday morning is going to hurt. But I don't care – I have a couple more days to sleep in, putter about, bake. It's good. (Today, it's good. Ask me Monday and you'll hear whining.)
Got the kitchen roughed in. We gained a five-foot counter with six drawers and two cupboards, and a baker's rack to hold big old lard cans and gallon jars full of staples. Opened the space up, too. I was disappointed to find that none of my salvaged upper cabinets would work, so I guess I'll do a couple of sets of open shelves. Em and Richard gave us the new counter. It's a nice one, maple, I think. Half of my Craig's List cupboards are solid wood with panel doors, but in awkward sizes. The rest are 1970s wood-grain contact paper over particle board. Gah. I'll keep looking for some decent cabinets to replace the baker's rack. It's a work in progress, you know.
Earl doesn't like the new kitchen arrangement. He keeps catching sight of his reflection in the black fridge, and barking like crazy. Idiot.
So the kitchen will be better. Tomorrow I'll slither around in the crawl space and run water to the ice maker, then see what kind of open shelves I can throw together, and try to find everything a home and put the pantry back together (I dumped everything nonessential there while moving kitchen furniture). Or maybe I'll sit on my butt and read and eat chocolate-chip-and-oatmeal cookies. Who can say.
I can hear C. talking to Smokey in the bathroom. He's back there permanently since one or more of his offspring tried to rip his throat out. They all have little nicks and scabs from little squabbles – no big deal – but Smoke had a big gash on each side of his throat. We trimmed the fuzz away from his wounds and slathered on Neosporin. We have some farm antibiotics if the situation becomes desperate, but the rabbit gut is a delicately balanced thing and it's better to leave it be. I like Smokey. He's a good boy, quite housebroken and friendly, and I'm happy to have him back. C. brought Marty over to spend few days with Smokes, since he was being picked on, and while he's friendly and sweet, he's a terrible pig. Litterbox? What's that? I'd go in to pee, and feel like I was curling – broom in hand, sweeping furiously toward my goal. I'm old, and I'm in a hurry! So now Smokey is lone lord o' the loo, Marty is back home with the group and his brother Plumb Bob is in a cage until he can stop being a bully.
The big animals are fine. They have the run of the barn, snowy pasture and garden, and come over and greet me when I feed the chickens. Or maybe they're lobbying for treats. They have 16 bales of grass hay left, and that should last about four months – I think we'll make it to spring. I should start making fodder for them to stretch the hay supply. But I'll probably read and eat cookies.
OK. I have to go stay up late now. I'm on vacation!