rawsome

sooooo. I kind of work a lot. Very strange hours. An hour to myself here. An half an hour there. Evenings often full up. So when I do have some time I'd much rather, say, drink tea and read ...play my violin ...ride my bicycle ...mess with Otis, pig ...sit and stare ...blog, than cook.

So here is a list of what I have eaten thus far on this day:
-peanut butter and honey on a spoon (several)
-three bananas (one with peanut butter)
-two cucumbers
-a handful of macadamia nuts with raisins
-several small cubes of feta off of the sample plate at the market
-four oranges
-a papaya (with seeds)

[note: the only items on this list from the supermarket are raisins and peanut butter.]

And tonight I plan on putting most all of those same things, as well as some broccoli, avocado, and tomatoes, on top of several different types of lettuce and calling it dinner. Living on a farm (especially one in Hawaii) is awesome.

I think I graze more than the goats do.

dip

My favorite moments at the farmers' markets are when people point to the plate from which they have just sampled and ask "Is that made from goat's cheese?"

"It is goat cheese," I say. At which point they blink at me, apparently unable to grasp the subtleties of my semantics. "It is all goat cheese."

Then they point to one of the flavored chevres, "Is that dip?"

No. But you are.

give the gift of

I have a special friend at the market. I do not know his name, and I do not believe he knows mine (unless, of course, my name is actually tina). But we have been special friends since my first time at the market. He is sweet. Old. A bit of a lecher - in that 'good' way. (He reminds me of all those curmudgeonly old men in Ireland with purple noses frittering away their days flirting in the pub). I do not understand a word of what he says to me, but I pretend I do, which seems to be enough. I know he is of Portuguese descent (what is known locally as a 'Portagee,' said with no inflection whatsoever). He knows I'm, um .

We get on swimmingly.

And yet, this knowing one another not at all occasionally asserts itself, interrupting the flow of our otherwise smooth relationship. For instance, when he brought me sausage. Sausage. LOTS of sausage. Portuguese Sausage. Homemade.

Maybe tina eats meat...

oh my god my gecko

Oooooohhhhhhh noooooooooooooo!

My GECKO! Not Echo (the one that lives in my trailer whom I feed at the risk of inviting ever more cockroaches into my life) but Deco! (the one that lives on my deck and raids the pig-Otis scrap bowl and poohs on me when I'm doing yoga)

THIS gecko


(the one in the foreground - I don't know who that was back there) was swiped RIGHT OFF MY DECK by a bird just moments after I finished recording this. Ohhhhh, Deco.

I'm so sad.

fearsome

Okay. So we all know I am a big ninny who gets a thrill out of bullying turkeys half her size. (No I'm serious. They are THAT big. Humongoloid turkeys tread here). I'm a big big weenie.

And now I have something new to dread. And when I tell you this new thing I fear you are NOT ALLOWED to pass judgment.

Trees.

Yep. Trees. And this from your bona fide tree-hugging-not-a-hippie-would-be-farmer.

I went for a bicycle ride yesterday. For about half of it, as I was cruising along a beautiful eucalyptus-lined pasture, my heart was in my mouth. I was truly terrified. More terrified, in fact, than those times when I was living in the hut in bear country and always had to go outside to pee in the middle of the night (accompanied by my trusty fire-poker). That, my friends, is terror. And so was this.

You see, it had been raining. All night, and all morning. 'Yeegads!' you say? 'Raining on trees? What horror!'

Ever heard the term "widow-maker"? Yep. That's when a tree limb suddenly comes crashing down on top of some man's head leaving his wife a, you guessed it, widow.

In my case, it would be an "orphan-maker" (my poor boy Eddie!) and a "make-family-angry-er...maker". You don't understand. I have seen many HUGE limbs come crashing down into the pastures. Especially after heavy rains. So when they loom over my head, I get a little nervous.

ih. Trees... if you hug them, you're probably okay. But when you're done? Run.

Jerky.

So. Simply put the car ran over the cow's head. I SAW it. But the thing is. The cow didn't die. It jumped up and started trying to run off. Meanwhile the dude that hit it was looking at his car and was all pissed. At ME. And the COW.

I lied. I don't actually know the fate of the cow. All I know is that I saw the cow fall down and a car tire go over its head only to have the cow jump up again and gimp away with the other cows and leave me standing there with some dude who's freaking out about his fiberglass bumper. I hated that dude.

Jerk.

Cows still run from me. And turkeys, too.

The Thrill of the Hunt

TARA! Terror of Terrestrials

-or-

Like a Sheep to the Slaughter - er, cow, i mean

-or-

The Scythe-Cycle

-or-

Death on Wheels

-or-

How I Killed a Cow (Without Really Trying)


I killed a cow. Okay I didn't kill the cow, but I played an instrumental role in its untimely demise. (Even more instrumental than that time in Ireland when I actually drove the cow to the butcher).

I was out riding one day. Twas a lovely day for cycling. For sightseeing. For slaughter. Or so it would seem.

Several cows had broken out of their pasture and were cruising along the road - Let me insert a quick note here: when I'm on my bicycle animals hate me. I am an unholy terror on two wheels. They'll placidly stand in front of a honking car with nary a flinch. But if I come along they all head for the hills. (Though I'll admit, I've really come to enjoy it when the turkeys flee. It's such fun to give chase - they're all a gobbling at the tops of their lungs and looking back at me sideways with their wee beady eyes. As they zig zag back and forth. And stay on the road. 'Ahhhhh!' They warble to one another. 'She's STILL behind us!')

umm... Where was I?

I'll begin again.

Several cows had broken out of their pasture and were cruising along the road unbeknownst to myself, as they were on the other side of a rather sharp bend, where the road circumnavigates a hill. I was going uphill (embarrassingly slowly). There was a car coming downhill (dangerously fastly). Keep in mind that none of us (cyclist, car, cow) was aware of the any of the others of us at this stage, due to the very specific geography of the place.

Now... how to explain without a diagram?

Cow was standing at the apex of the bend in the road, on the shoulder of the inner-lane - against the hill.

Car and Cyclist both reach the apex at same moment. Remember: Car go fast. Cyclist go (shamefully) slow.

Cow, not in road, sees car and cyclist at same time.

Cow, trapped with hill to cow's back, unhesitatingly flees from cyclist by bulleting past her, into the path of car (go fast).

Cows would rather throw themselves in front of fast cars than face me.


to be continued...

tacky

Soooooo. Today I was changing fly strips in the barn. Simple work. Not enjoyable. Everything is all sticky. And dusty. And dead.

The sun was shining, though it were a blustery morn, and the wind whistled through the open barn. Stirring up straw. And dust. And fly strips.

As I climbed the ladder, oh, the third or fourth time, the wind blew a lovely whirlwind of air into the barn, caught up that fly strip I was reaching for, and oh-so-playfully wrapped it around my head.

Words cannot explain the state in which it left me. Just imagine. No really. Here: a) fly strips b) dust c) more dust d) I don't trust you guys to imagine enough dust e) flies, dead f) STICKY

Now take all the things from your little imaginary cart and put them on my face. And in my hair. Remove the fly strip (with no little difficulty) and leave everything else. There! Aren't I a picture?

I'm still having difficulty blinking.

i win

If there is a "stinkiest helmet in the whole wide world" contest, I win.

My helmet smells like cheese. In that way of "things-that-are-not-supposed-to-smell-of-cheese smelling of cheese." In that "bad" way.

I am also considering entering the "moldiest bar tape in the Pacific" category. I think I would do very well.

Hawaii is not really the best place for a healthy self-image. At least for me. Wherever I go my nose is constantly encountering fetid odours. And my mind is constantly questioning "is that me?" Some may call this paranoia, but I have several factors working against me.
1) I work and live on a farm. A veritable olfactory factory. In that "bad" way.
2) Hawaii is a humid place. Everything is musty. Everything is moldy. You can use a dish rag once. ONCE. Before it stinks to high hell.
3) I don't have any deodorant.


But my hair is truly amazing. Until, that is, I put on my helmet.