There is a soup pot full of feathers and bones and feet on my backporch. It’s next to an empty stock pot. Empty except for bones and gizzards and now limp celery leaves and mushy carrots. And my freezer is full of heritage turkey stock and pheasant breast and I am thankful. Every time mon oncle brings us pheasant I hang on to the parts for awhile just to look at them. Once I hung on to them for more than awhile. I looked on the internet how to preserve them and then I covered these pretty pheasant heads and dinosaur feet and phoenix wing tips with corn meal but in the end all we had were mice in the shed and smelly bird parts that went straight into the compost. Now I just keep them in a pot or somewhere silly for a few days until Eric can bring them out to the foxes and the coyot’s. To a new and secret location every time so we don’t have any beggars.
Last night we tried to field dress them, but they’d been in the freezing shed for the whole weekend long. Hanging there by a rope in the cold and by the time we got home from visiting Eric’s family rigormortis had set in, or maybe it was just frozen. Either way the wings ripped off beneath his feet and Eric had to think of a plan B. I just scooped toasted oats and seeds and raisins into Mason Jars and looked over my shoulder every once in awhile. I was impressed with plan B, but I won’t get in to the details because if you don’t find them interesting or impressive you will most certainly find them disgusting.
Also, I love soap.
I love making it. I love sniffing it. I love stacking it on shelves.
My house is 62 degrees and that is oh so warm for me. Eric comes home from work and puts on another sweater. I like wearing my long johns all the time and not having my clothes electrocute me with static. I like sleeping with five blankets. It feels like winter.
Here’s to life’s simple pleasures.