Fridge Posting

Abby, Fridgeposting. Probably.

I recently returned home from a trip to NYC—The City that Doesn’t Zzzz—only to find that in my absence, the cats had taken up Fridgeposting.

What is Fridgeposting, you ask? Fridgeposting is when you leave home for X amount of days, after carefully making plans and preparations, and all necessary arrangements so that life will carry on smoothly in your absence, and you return only to find---but I’m getting ahead of my story.

I like to start my trip preparations by scheduling the cat sitter and then making a list of all the “Must Do/Stop Obsessing/Yes You Unplugged the Iron” items I need to take care of, so I can travel footloose and fancy free. Having a good cat sitter is key, and I’m lucky to have a cat sitter extraordinaire (CSE)--for purposes of this story, let’s call her Eileen. (Hi Eileen!)

After that, I just make a list and check it off: Packed? Check. Kitchen cleaned? Check. Trash emptied? Check. Compost emptied? Check. Iron unplugged? Check. (Just kidding—I don’t iron. I know a wrinkle solving secret that I learned from The Pros. I’m sworn to secrecy, but if you’re really good, Gentle Reader, someday I’ll tell you.) Where was I?

Oh, right—check list: Fridge emptied? Che----uh.

Salad. It's what's for dinner.

See, here’s the thing. I eat a LOT of salad. I mean a lot. And when I left for my trip I still had some fresh green things in my fridge that were too good to throw in the compost but wouldn’t last until my return. To assuage my guilt, I was going to suggest that my CSE Eileen take it all home and feed it to her chickens. The fact that I just Tom-Sawyered my CSE into also cleaning my fridge was completely coincidental.

Or, it WOULD have been—if I would have remembered to tell her. Or even texted her from NYC at some point. Or if my fat, lazy, good-for-nothing cats could have Lassied her into open the fridge. But no—all they wanted from her was more ear rubs.

So, I returned from my adventures only to find that I had successfully composted leftover veggies IN MY REFRIGERATOR, perchance finding a simultaneous cure for cancer, winning first place in the Science Fair and brewing a batch of spinach wine. Spoiler Alert: (“Spoiler”—see what I did there? I’m so punny!) 2019 is NOT a good year for spinach wine, 0/5 stars, do not attempt.

Composting veggies? Check.

 Fridgeposting? Not so much.

Annie would like some ear rubs, please.

Elk Reflections

The other day I was sharing quality time with my co-workers around the old water cooler (**Editor’s note: it’s actually a Keurig. Because it’s not 1973 anymore. I don’t know where she gets this stuff.) Anyway, as I was saying, before I was so rudely fact-checked by my inner imaginary editor—my co-workers and I were idly chatting. The conversation changed, as it often does, to elk.

 Elk are omnipresent in Packwood and are usually standing around chewing on something, or taking a nap in the landscaping, or a selfie with tourists, or holding up traffic with one of their spontaneous elk parades. As my dear old grandpappy used to say, “You can’t swing a dead cat around here without hitting an elk.” (**Editor’s note: 1) Doubtful that her grandpappy ever said such a thing. 2) Doubtful elk populations were anywhere near current levels ‘back in the day’. 3) Who swings a dead cat? Ewww.)


Be that as it may, there are a lot of elk in town. At that moment, there was a single cow curled up right outside our window, looking suspiciously pleased with herself.

One of my favorite category of elk stories is all the mistaken beliefs that tourists often have about them. Visitors will inquire where we keep the elk at night—as though elk were on loan from Disney and just trucked in to make our town more picturesque. Or they will confuse elk with moose—which is silly. It’s easy to tell elk from moose. Moose have wide flat horns, are often crazy, and can kill you. Elk have sharp, pointy horns, are the spawn of the devil, and can kill your dreams. (**Editor’s note, shorter version: “How to tell elk from moose: we don’t have any moose in Packwood, therefore it’s an elk.”)

Photo by Ernest Rotter, 

wildlife photographer and aficionado of small batch ciders

Last week, a friend in NYC sent me a photo his father had taken of the Elk Feeding Station at Oak Creek and suggested that I try something similar, advertising my flower beds as “small batch, artisanal feeding ground for elk with advanced palates.” I texted him back “the finest establishments don’t need to advertise, and already have a waiting list.”

**Editor’s note: Now, about that fence....

Speaking of Chicken...

Speaking of Chicken... I was---before I was so rudely interrupted by snow, snow and more snow—talking about chicken poop and what lovely fertilizer it makes. And those of you who had run right out and applied the fertilizer to your dormant gardens are probably feeling pretty dang smug right about now.

I didn’t actually apply it to my gardens—yet-- I just give advice, I don’t follow it. If I had, I would be taking a measure of comfort right now, knowing that under the thick blanket of frozen snow, the chicken fertilizer was slowly breaking down and feeding nutrients into the soil, waiting for that magical day of melting...that day when the sun comes out and the ground begins to warm...when plants and leaves and tender green things all begin to sprout...Spring arrives in exactly 21 days! Or, at least that’s what my calendar promises.

But, as I mentioned, I haven’t actually applied the chicken poop to my flower beds. Right now, it’s more imaginary than actual. When it comes to chickens, I often find myself with more imagery than action. Take, for example, chickens themselves.

I frequently imagine having chickens...I’ve seen the cutest little chicken coops on Pintrest...and my neighbors have chickens...I like the way the fat, black and white hens look...I like the soft, gentle sounds of contentment they make, scratching under the hedge for bugs and grubs...I even like the way the rooster is so protective and puts himself between the hens and I when I come over to shoe them away, because holy heck, the dang old chickens have dug up my plants, kicked my beauty bark out into the yard a good three feet, go home you stupid, wee beasties, and the last thing I want to hear at O’Dark Thirty is dueling roosters.

I really like the way chicken tastes...Fried chicken, and chicken a l’orange, and chicken and rice...

Enjoy this gratuitous picture of my grandson, dressed as a
chicken for Halloween. You're welcome.