This weekend, the kids, the dog and I (Hubby was in sunny Florida) went to visit my sister who recently left the hipster haven of Brooklyn for a small, bucolic college town more than two hours north of NYC. While she’s renovating her new acquired 1726 farmhouse, she’s living in a different farmhouse she rents from a lovely couple, who couldn’t be more welcoming or generous. Who have helped my sister find a pediatrician, and a plumber, and who offered me a dozen eggs from their chickens – eggs my own children helped gather that very morning.
And who must hate me.
The weekend was great. We hiked along the Hudson River, we pet her neighbor’s goats. We watched as one of the nine remaining Araucana hens her landlord keeps laid an egg. (Coyotes had gotten to nearly 40 chickens this fall, leaving only the nine survivors, fighters all. ) The kids bounced on the trampoline in the backyard with their cousins. We went to a farm stand, had pie. At night, the only sound was the waterfall outside my window, and the wind, rustling through what was left of the leaves.
City girl that I am, I found myself thinking that my sister was right to leave the hustle, bustle, stench and crowds of the city. Who needs to worry about what you wear to walk the dog? Or whether or not your neighbor can hear you screech at your children to turn off the computer? Who wants to worry about bedbugs and botox when you can worry about ticks and Timberland jackets? All I need, I thought, is a lovely old farmhouse with a fire burning in the living room, a pie baking in the oven, and an omelet only an arms reach away in the neighboring barn. Maybe, I thought, it’s time for me to pull a Green Acres and head out to the farm, where life is simple, where skies are blue, where no one urinates on your stoop.
And then my dog killed a chicken. (more…)
From Hip To Housewife 