The following is a letter I wrote to Laurie and Kezia of edible  on 2/24.

Happy sugaring season. We tap trees this weekend and I am rolling around in seed catalogs like a chicken in a dust bath (look at me with the poultry analogy as if I have owned them for years). 
Baby chicks arrive the week of 4/16 in case Michael wanted to bring the photo snapper. I am giddy. I consulted and have all the names picked out. 
Mr. Cooper (Hawk) is waiting. He perches in the tippity-top of the tree across the street and I swear I saw him lick his beak this morning in anticipation of munching Miss Marguerite (although I fully expect Mildred will be my favorite!) Bastard. I plot his demise. 
On a less violent note, our winter greens survived and I am making salad tonight for Keith and our niece, a brilliant and beautiful senior in college who is up for the weekend.
Hope you both are well!
Take care,

I will admit, I didn’t know if Letters to Cleo was a movie or a band or a book until I just looked it up. I just thought the title worked.

Second admission: I thought it was high time for a blog post, but am too tired to come up with something unique so I posted a letter.

Third admission. I’m not too tired. Just too lazy.

For the last few posts, I have been teasing you about some freaky bird-chicken-hawk-foghorn-leghorn-falcony-owl thing that Keith has been watching in the backyard and a philosphical discussion about what actually defines “edible”. Well, get up off those pins and needles you’ve been sitting on, here we go.

A few weeks ago, my main squeeze, the love of my life, (and my personal chef! Bless him. I requested Beef Stroganoff tonight. Guess what smells SOOO good as I type this? Yup. You may begin your jealousy…NOW) saw a large bird in the backyard, behind the gardens, sort of hanging out in the brush (or is it “scrub”? You know. There.) Here’s a reenactment of the conversation that occurred when he showed me the picture.


Him: What do you think it is?

Me: That’s a falcon I think.

Him: I think it could be an owl.

Me: I don’t know. Zoom in. Nah, that’s a hawk or a falcon or something. Look at the tail. Can you zoom in some more?

Him: Look at the face, that looks like an owl.


Me: It’s a ChickenHawk. Boy, I say, Boy. That’s a ChickenHawk (in my best Foghorn Leghorn).

Him: Maybe it is a hawk. See that beak?

(Ok, now we’re getting real Audobon Society over here now…)

Me: (Thinking I am hilarious with my whole Foghorn Leghorn imitation of the conversation he had with Henery (spelled correctly, thank you Google!) Hawk.) Boy, I say Boy…

Him: (Searching the web and ignoring me. Shows me a picture.) Well, this one looks like it, but the tail’s not right.

Me: That’s what I’ve been – I say, that’s what I’ve been telling you, boy!

Him: I found it. This is definitely it. It’s a Cooper’s Hawk. Check it out. It’s got the face of an owl, but that beak and tail like what was in the back yard.

Me: (Noting that my antics were just not getting any attention, decided to give up on immitating Foghorn Leghorn.) (Ok, it was because, quite frankly, I couldn’t remember any more quotes and I had said, ‘Boy, I say, Boy’ so many times, I was irritating myself.) Think he’s eating the moles out there?

(Yes, that is the entire story, worth waiting for, huh? Stick with me, there’s much more where this came from…)


I think the newest definition of edible will have to wait until next time.  (Although, I will tell you, I know for a fact that his Beef Stroganoff is edible. Ok, that sounded risque’. I mean the dish on the stove, you silly goose!)