DaisyPatch Farm.

Thanks to Mrs. Cheever’s neighbors, there is now a law in North Hampton that, with less than 4 acres of property, we can have, “…no more than 12 poultry per lot and…husbandry of poultry that includes one or more roosters shall require a Conditional Use Permit as provided under subparagraph 4, below…

4.  The following process shall be used…

a. An application shall be submitted to the planning board…

b. Boring

c. The Planning Board shall conduct a public hearing for which proper notice has been given to abutters and the public. (Read…they notify our neighbors that we want a rooster so that our neighbors can come to the public hearing and dispute. Yes. THAT is what this says.)

d. The Planning Board shall have authority to impose reasonable conditions of approval that the board deems appropriate (huh?)

e. Boring, something about fees that didn’t make sense cuz no dollar figures were listed. Whatever.

f. Animal Density…something about best management practices for manure handling based upon the New Hampshire Department of Agriculture manual entited, “Best Management Practices for Handling of Compost, Fertilizer and Manure” (which shall, from here on in, be called the SHIT SHEET).

g. Burden of Proof. Blah blah blah stating you need to demonstrate and specify the manner in which the operation shall be conducted in compliance with THIS pamphlet and that rule and this law and that law AND to demonstrate that the Animal Husbandry operation shall not cause pollution, soil degradation, unreasonable odor, unreasonable noise and disturbance of the peace. (No mess, no smell, no noise, did you hear us? We said NO NOISE! Get it, stupid?)

ARE YOU F’ING KIDDING ME?

So, let’s say it all together, shall we? On three. One. Two. Three. “Thanks Mrs. Cheever’s neighbors.”

It makes one little homesteader-wanna-be consider just walking away from the idea of getting little cluckers altogether. (She folds her arms, sticks her lips out in a pout and stomps her foot. But I want an Ooompa Loompa NOW.)

Jaws set in determination, we figuratively stuck out our tongues, said, “Nana nana boo boo” and set out during the rainy (well, depressingly drizzly) Saturday of Memorial Weekend to look at chicken coops that were for sale in the area. (Craig’s List. It’s not just for massages and murders.) (Ok, that was wrong. Very wrong, but I am laughing so hard I had a coughing fit and so I think I’m keeping it.)

One was used and a decent price, but, well, a bit beat up (too hard). One was brand new, a guy custom built them, but seemed rickety (too soft). One was brand new, perfect size, shape and super sturdy. AND it was built by the Amish (juuuuust right). (I mean, thems good builders, right?) Alas, we have no truck. (Yes, we have no bananas.) So, it stayed at Agway and we went home. We weren’t ready anyway. Homework. I must do much homework.

This past Friday afternoon, I came home after work and sat at the breakfast bar. DaisyMae was quite happy I was home and would NOT leave me alone. So, without even taking my post-commute-pee (it’s a 50 minute drive I’ll have you know), I grabbed the orange soccer ball and tried to walk without tripping on the INSANE dog as we headed out to the back yard, asking Keith if he wanted to come play with us. You know, bulldog in the middle. It’s a great game. Also, Keith and I could walk the yard and plan on where the coop could go.

Several minutes of soccer passed (DaisyMae is a very good guard), and I noticed sticks and leaves all through the yard from the windstorm the night before. Why Keith was filming this little game of ball was beyond me, but I thought I’d share it. Click here.

I have the best hubby ever.


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.

b

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!)