Thursday, May 9, 2013


"I don't want realism. I want magic! Yes, yes, magic. I try to give that to people. I do misrepresent things. I don't tell truths. I tell what ought to be truth."  ~Blanche Dubois

The Thoroughly Random and Disjointed Adventures of Foxmorton from Garden to Kitchen,
 in no particular order and with no particular rhyme or reason other than to post stuff I do that apparently amuses me at the moment although you really shouldn't trust anything to turn out edible or take me serious in any way whatsoever.

Verse I


So.  I have always made brave albeit mediocre attempts at gardening and
can boast a few return tulips and a couple of mums that made it  past the second year.
It kind of unnerves me when things actually grow, as though I haven't  the right to outdoor success.  I once threw out a half dozen tomatoes that hung on a vine in a forgotten corner of the yard because they surprised me so much.  I somehow felt that because I hadn't nurtured them they were somehow unsafe to eat.  (I know.  Try not to analyze me.  My world makes little sense.  Even to me.)

But lately as I grow older I find I have more patience with dirt and things that grow.
My wild violet garden thrives and the lavender hasn't died.   I boast an underachieving blueberry farm (five plants-some leaves-no blueberries) and just this spring planted 16 asparagus plants and four different varieties of Heirloom tomatoes.  My townhouse spread.

But cooking?  Ha.  I don't.  Ever.  I exist, like Blanche Dubois, on the kindness of strangers.
(Mainly my friend Deb, who lovingly packages apple spice and pumpkin bread for me and hangs it on my doorknob and also this cool lady at work who's a great cook and let's me eat stuff at lunch.)
But I just don't cook.  It exhausts me to think about it.  The planning alone forces me to take a nap.  I had to MapQuest directions to my kitchen to start this project.  Seriously.

But, call it what you will-a too long winter, old age, self-preservation-I have gotten a bee in my bonnet to make......wait for it.......wild violet jelly!


My obsession with wild violets
 has lured me to the kitchen.  Faerie magic, I'm thinking.

And so, we begin:

Procure violets that most likely have not been pee'd on by the dog or
that occupy a space within three feet of dog poo.
(Easier said than done.)
Arrange artfully for Blog Sisters so that eventual failure of project will still appear creative.


Wash and pray.
Put (mostly) clean violets into French Press.
Add 1 cup boiling water.
Let stand for 12 hours.
Keep peeking to see if there are any errant spiders that may have floated to the top.
Pray not to have Spider Dream.

Beautiful violet liquid!
Enough to make jelly for a corner slice of bread.
Realize many more violets need to be picked.
Repeat Step I
Feel sad about wasted violets in area of dog poo.

TO BE CONT'D....................

Sunday, May 5, 2013

WHOA, GOAT! The Goat Borrower Has a Plan!

The Goat Borrower Has A Plan
As some of you may know from being on the Facebook Sisterhood of the Goat page, the Goat Borrower (that's me) has a New Plan.  It's always good to have a New Plan.  Keeps a person Out of Trouble.
Or that's what my Uncle Whitey always said.

I once saw him pull a stump with our riding lawn tractor.  On two wheels.  It took awhile.
The fact that the stump didn't knock his brains out when it gave said to my seven year old self: 
 "You can do anything!" 
And (bonus!) a week later we got to get a new lawn tractor!

One time he downed, I'm thinking, one too many Gennys and rolled right off the new roof of the garage he was helping the neighbors build.  It was sort of graceful....until he hit bottom.
The upstairs smelled like Ben Gay for a week.  But when he finally came out of his bedroom and winked at me it said to my eight year old self:  "You can do anything.  But it's probably not a good idea to do that."

There was also the time the (same) neighbor drilled straight through his palm while he was holding a tin panel for the shed they were building. In one side and out the other. I remember he let me watch as he ran water in the sink and red blood swirled round and round.  I think he put a band aid on it.
  And my nine year old self said: 
 "Yeah.  This guy is my superhero."  

I loved my Uncle Whitey. So very much.
He taught me everything I needed to know.
Shoot a gun.
Tell the truth.
Never 'argu'. (argue)
And (I'm assuming when he needed quiet time) how to make a "rabbit catcher."
(You know, that wooden crate with a carrot on a string.....then be very, very quiet.....and may take awhile.)

So yeah, thanks to my Uncle Whitey I've never been afraid to try new things.

Inspired by some romantic vintage photos of goat carts and finally, the pop over the edge of decision,
 the stellar work of
I decided that *I* should join the colorful gypsy world of goat driving!

Armed with very little written literature (not a lot out there) and a Farmer with 50 plus years of driving drafts,  I set out to follow Rule 1:  Choose the right goats.
Hmm.  Well, since Darla just gave birth to two perfectly wonderful bucks, Fergus and Finnian, and I'm in the market to convince Farmer to wether and keep them, this should be the perfect plan to prove they are Useful.

But, there's still the Meantime to consider.

Enter:  Kevin and Dave!
Two homeless and rather bereft bucks that came to stay with us.
Dairy, in a world of Boers, they don't exactly fit in.
(Kevin is Daa to Fergus and Finnian-which just proves that Farmer goes to great lengths to shut me up...his version of the rabbit catcher.)
I somehow fell in love with them, probably due to their sweet nature and willingness to go with the flow.
I've been on a campaign to save them as well as Farmer keeps giving them The Eye.....and I worry.

So.......perfect, right?

They already move in unison.......

And don't mind Odd Whims.......

Easy peasy, eh?

So I set off to follow Rule 2:  Halter your goats.

Picked up some soft nylon rope, circles and snaps because Farmer is a whiz at making halters then
 set out to the barn and walked innocently into the pasture.

I submit the following:

Yeah, so....the training didn't go so well today. Went to the pasture to get Kevin and Dave and the next thing I know....WHAM.....right in the middle of a Buck Fight! Apparently one of the pygmy goats was...uh, desirable, and our big buck, Sweet Bill, went NUTS! I've never seen such a thing. Ramming everything and everybody. I'm trying to catch the pygmy. Kevin and Dave are *doing* each other. Kevin and Dave are *doing themselves.  Kevin and Dave in a Pan-like frenzy sans syrinx.   3 peni (what *is* the plural of goat penis?) flailing like fire hoses......pee arcing everywhere in rainbow colors into the in the middle. Murderous screams. (mine) It was *not* pretty. So yeah, the training didn't go well today.
~Foxmorton 5/4/13

note to self:  Reassess Rule 1
reminder:  Do not kiss Kevin and Dave on the lips anymore.


So onward.....'cause like my Uncle Whitey used to say:  "It's always good to have a New Plan."

Stay Tuned!


Saturday, May 4, 2013

First Family Photograph

Mimi Foxmorton
Darla Rose Caprine  born January 4, 2011
Maamaa of:
Finnian Murray Caprine born: March 12, 2013
Fergus Lawrence Caprine born: March 12, 2013 (shortly thereafter)