Naming the Chickens

The chickens have completely feathered in. Chicks start growing feathers within days of hatching, starting with wing feathers, then a little chevron at the shoulder blades, and continuing until all their fluff is covered with feathers. Within two months, they looked just like chickens, but smaller.

"Don't name the chickens!" we told Meg. "They'll end up as food!" Her friend Nora suggested that she name them after food, and so she did.

The yellow chickens (Buff Orpingtons) are Nugget, Fingers, and Patty. The black chickens (Black Giants) are Stroganoff and Cacciatore. The New Hampshire Red chicken, who is brown with white spots, is named Alfredo. The brown-and-gold Araucana with the puffs of feathers by her ears, which look like mutton-chop whiskers, is Fajita. The Silver-Laced Wyandottes, with white feathers with black edges, are General Tso and Col. Sanders, while the black-and-white feather-foots (Cochins of some breed we haven't identified) are Kiev, Boston (the runt), and Stew.

Everything Is Breaking

It's been a calamitous week here in Cornwall. Last week, while Jordan was still in Salzburg, our elderly van decided not to operate if you wanted to put in it gear. Idling in neutral was fine, but shifting to any gear other than "N" made the engine die. Margy had the van towed to two different service stations before a mechanic offered to try fixing it.

Meanwhile, our shower switched to all-cold, regardless of the setting. Actually, that happened just before we left for Spain. (Did we mention that the van had a flat tire the morning we left for Spain, we couldn't get the lug-nuts off, and Margy had to call the motoring club to put on the spare once we got back?)

The following week (this Wednesday), Margy was on the bus home from Boston when its transmission also failed -- clearly, she has bad transmission karma these days. The bus floated over to the shoulder, the cheery and competent driver called for a replacement bus, and we were on the road again after a half an hour. Amazing!

While Margy was in Boston, a piece in the dishwasher gave way ("never buy a Maytag dishwasher" is our advice), so we are doing the dishes by hand. The missing part is backordered forever, so we are researching food-safe adhesives so we can try gluing the piece back together.

The next day (yesterday), Margy missed a step walking out of the pool house (which has only three steps altogether), fell (gracefully), and broke a teeny-tiny bone in her foot (the right fifth metatarsal, if you must know, and it's a comminuted fracture). She off her foot entirely for a couple of weeks, as far as we know, so she's relearning how to use crutches. The good news is, since she can't drive, there's no hurry getting the van fixed!

We're just whining, we know. Just ignore us!