3 Bean Salad: Country Humor Makes A Great Lunch

Well, look who’s making a comeback — the garden! After suffering a tragic case of “death by goat” over the July 4th weekend (because nothing says freedom like hoofprints in your broccoli patch), it’s finally pulling itself together. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would. I nearly held a memorial service next to the compost pile, complete with a eulogy for the fallen vegetables and a moment of silence for the lettuce that never stood a chance.

But hope springs eternal — or at least it re-sprouts if you replant fast enough and glare menacingly at the fence every time a goat walks by. I’ve noticed they don’t make eye contact anymore. They know.

The squash and cucumbers are making up for lost time, flaunting more blossoms than a prom corsage stand. The beans and peas are hustling to prove they belong in the garden and not a petting zoo disaster film. The second-round broccoli and cauliflower are looking cautiously optimistic, probably whispering to each other, “Just lay low. Maybe the goats won’t notice us this time.”

The tomatoes — bless their squashed little hearts — weren’t eaten, just flattened during the great goat evacuation of ’24, when my English Shepherds reenacted the Normandy invasion: barking, snarling, and herding like their diplomas from Dog College were on the line.

And now for the harvest update… drumroll, please…

I picked three green beans today. Yup. Three. Count ‘em: one, two, three. (Yes, I did. Out loud. In the garden. With the dog watching me like I’d lost what was left of my marbles.)

So, naturally, I’m having a Three Bean Salad for lunch. Heavy on the optimism, light on the actual salad. Might have to supplement it with a slice of cheese and a prayer.

But hey — it’s a start. Every garden’s comeback begins with one brave sprout, one hopeful blossom, and a gardener stubborn enough to keep planting, no matter how many goats declare war. Victory gardens didn’t win the war in a day either.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Talon Looks "Official": Tales From Talon, the Gypsy Cob

Well folks, it’s happened. Talon got his harness this week, and let me tell you—he looks official. I mean, if there were a DMV for horses, this boy would be standing in line with his paperwork filled out, waiting to get his equine license and a vanity plate that says HOOFINIT. He’s gone from pasture ornament to professional, and he knows it.

It’s wild to think how far he’s come. After that slow (and slightly dramatic) start—you remember, the whole “sensitive” thing, which involved him hiding behind the trainer, then behind a rock, then trying to make himself invisible—he’s finally decided he might not die from wearing tack. In fact, I think he’s realized that the harness actually makes him look rather dashing. He’s now ground driving like a champ, stepping smartly, reins draped over his rump, blinders on, head high, giving off serious “Yes, peasant, I am majestic” energy.

Tomorrow I get to go visit, and I’m bringing his cart this time to replace the trainer’s practice one. The trainer says he might be ready to hitch up in another week. No promises, but I’m cautiously optimistic and wildly giddy all at once. Honestly, I’m not sure who’s more excited—me or Talon. Actually, scratch that. It’s definitely me. Talon’s still deciding if the cart is a friend, a foe, or possibly a mobile snack bar.

I’m also gearing up to start learning to drive him myself, which should be an adventure. Hopefully it involves fewer bruises than learning to ride did—and fewer moments of me yelling, “I’m not ready for this level of horsepower!”

Seriously though—doesn’t he look like an old pro? I’m beyond proud. He’s traded in shy guy for show-off, and honestly, it suits him perfectly. From timid to talented, Talon’s turning into exactly what I always knew he could be—a total rock star in harness.

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Now That Gets My Goat — Garden Invasion That's Worse Than the Bugs!

 

Why is it that on a farm with goats, the things that really get your goat almost always involve. . . well, goats?

Seriously, anyone who doesn’t have goats probably thinks they’re all sunshine, skipping, and milk commercials. Ha! Goats are like toddlers with crowbars and nothing but time. They spend every waking moment plotting how to break, eat, climb, destroy, or escape. And they’re brilliant. I’m not even convinced they’re animals—I’m pretty sure they’re a small, hairy demolition crew with hooves.

Take Saturday, for example.

It was a quiet morning—too quiet, as any seasoned farm gal will tell you. I was just about to sit down with my herb tea when the dogs went berserk. Not just the “Hey, someone’s pulling into the driveway” bark. No, this was the “INVASION! EVERYBODY PANIC!” bark.

I stepped onto the deck and saw it: my garden… my beautiful, hard-won, back-breaking, sweat-drenched garden. . . under siege.

And there they were—the goats. The inmates had organized a full prison break!

They weren’t just nibbling. Not even casually sampling. No, they were throwing a full-blown brunch. Frolicking like toddlers at a trampoline park, tails in the air, broccoli bits hanging from their lips like it was dollar margarita night at Applebee’s.

Peas? Gone. Broccoli? Gone. Cauliflower? Gone. Corn? Let’s just say it didn’t stand a chance. The blueberry bushes were untouched, but they had cleaned off every single blueberry. The only survivors were the tomatoes (which apparently didn’t pass muster), the summer squash and zucchini (miraculously unscathed), and the radishes—because, let’s face it, not even goats like radishes.

And do you think they looked even slightly guilty when I came stomping down in my barn boots like an angry landlady? Nope. They looked up at me like, “Oh hey, you’re just in time. We’re harvesting the garden for you.”

So, after wrangling the criminal element back into their pen (which is starting to resemble a goat version of Alcatraz), I headed to the farm store to see if they had any vegetable plants left. At this point in the season, I figured my best hope was a display of dusty seed packets and maybe a plastic carrot.

But miracle of miracles—they still had plants. Not great plants, mind you. These were the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree version of veggies: wilted, sad, probably already questioning their will to live. But they were five bucks for a full flat. And pumpkins were free. Free! I guess everyone else had given up on pumpkins this late in the game. Not me. With the way things are going, I might need a Cinderella moment before fall.

Then came the replanting. I picked the hottest day of the summer for this, because of course I did. I was sweating like a sinner at a tent revival, dirt in places I don’t even want to talk about, and one of the goats kept hollering from across the fence like she was the victim in all this. “Excuse me, human! We noticed you forgot to replant the kale!”

So now we wait. The frost usually hits us right around the first week of September, which gives my new plants about oh. . . three weeks to get their act together and produce something worth eating.

If we have a very warm summer. . .

If I fertilize like I’m prepping for the county fair. . .

If the goats don’t stage another jailbreak. . .

And if I can string up more fencing, add a padlock, a moat, and maybe hire a goat whisperer with a taser. . .
Then maybe—just maybe—we’ll end the season with a harvest instead of another episode of “Goat Gone Wild.”

Well—miracles can happen.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

You Might Be A Redneck If... Your Parade Float Has An Outhouse!

Now where is my camera when I actually need it?! Of course, not in the truck, not in my purse, and definitely not in my hand—because otherwise, I'd have photographic proof instead of folks trusting my “I-swear-I-saw-this” version of events.

It started innocently enough. I was in town on the 4th of July, running errands and pretending I was “just swinging by for one thing.” (The biggest lie since “the check’s in the mail.”) I cruised past the parade float lineup—pure Northern New England Americana in all its glory: patriotic bunting flapping in the wind, kids sticky with popsicle juice, fire trucks so polished they could blind you, and the high school band wheezing out “Yankee Doodle”. Even the Boy Scouts were there, standing at attention like little soldiers bribed with root beer floats and the promise of extra s’mores at the next campfire.

And then… it happened.

A float that stopped me dead and made me rethink what had brought me to this curb.

I don’t know what group, company, or loose coalition of third cousins twice removed sponsored this thing, but what it lacked in branding it more than made up for in sheer, unapologetic commitment. Imagine a hillbilly porch slapped on a trailer, overalls (shirts optional), a couple of guys with guitars—two of which were actually in use—and, the crown jewel: an outhouse.

Not just any outhouse. This one had only the bottom half of the walls. Waist-up? On full display for Main Street to enjoy. And inside—sitting proud, serene, and apparently at peace with all his life choices—was a man leafing through what looked like a vintage Sears catalog, as if auditioning for “Rustic Bathroom Chic: The Calendar.” And to top it off, t
hey were playing “Ode to the Little Brown Shack Out Back.” (If you’re not familiar with this, it’s a little ditty sung by Billy Edd Wheeler in the 1960s—a sentimental ballad to, you guessed it, the outhouse. Go ahead, look it up!)

I wish I was making this up. I’m not. My imagination isn’t this deranged.

The man had the air of someone living his absolute truth. He might have been humming. I don’t know—I was too busy praying to every saint in the book that they weren’t about to toss Tootsie Rolls into the crowd. Because we all know exactly what that would’ve looked like.

It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in this town. . . but it’s a firm top-five contender.

So here’s the takeaway from the curbside, front-row seat to pure Americana:
You might be a redneck if you ride in an outhouse in a parade—I assume fully clothed, catalog in hand, waving to the crowd like you’re the Grand Marshal of Bathroom Breaks.

And yes, even in Northern New Hampshire—where duct tape is legal tender, and your neighbor’s goat might be better dressed than you, somehow. . . this still won’t be the strangest thing I see all summer.

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Caution: Don't Do This With Your Head! Hilarious Teenager Antics

I sometimes question whether the teenage male brain is actually fully connected to the body it occupies, or if it’s just in there rattling around like a peanut in a soda can.

Take my grandson Nate and his buddy Roger, for example. Nate is in the middle of a home improvement project—he’s demolishing his bedroom ceiling so we can replace it. (Translation: I'm supervising with a steely gaze and a coffee mug the size of a feed bucket.)

Enter Roger. Roger sees Nate removing the sheetrock ceiling like a normal human with a hammer and thinks, "You know what this situation needs? A flying headbutt."

So he jumps… and puts his head through the ceiling.

Yes. HIS ACTUAL HEAD.

I stood there blinking, trying to decide if I was witnessing a renovation or a mating display. The dog left the room. The goat outside stopped chewing and just stared. I think time paused briefly to say, “Did he just…?”

Apparently Roger believed his skull was more effective than a hammer. And, in a way, I guess it was—I mean, he made a hole. He also made a dent in my faith in human evolution.

We are now seriously considering installing warning labels on the house:
“Caution: This Ceiling Is Not Load-Bearing for Craniums.”
Or maybe just:
“Friends Don’t Let Friends Demo With Their Faces.”

This, my friends, is why we pray. Constantly. Not just for our children’s safety, but for their common sense to hurry up and mature before the ER punch card fills up.

Because drywall shouldn't come between you and your frontal lobe.

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Talon, the Gypsy Cob: Summer School Adventure

Talon, my 3-year-old Gypsy Cob gelding (that’s horse-speak for “majestic feather-footed goober”), is away at summer school this year. No, not because he failed algebra—he’s learning how to drive. As in pull a cart. As in work for a living. I know, I know... shocking.

He’s studying under Melody Madison of Shamel Arabians, a trainer with nerves of steel and the kind of patience usually reserved for kindergarten teachers and bomb defusers. Me? I have the patience of a caffeine-deprived raccoon on in a cornfield. So she’s got the job.

Things didn’t start off great. Turns out Talon is what Melody gently described as “sensitive.” Which is trainer-code for melts under pressure like a snowflake on a griddle. When she introduced him to two other horses in the paddock, he panicked and tried to hide behind her. When she stepped away? He tried to hide behind a rock. A rock. You can't make this up. Unless you’re writing a sitcom, in which case boom, there's your pilot episode.

But wait, it gets better. One of the horses bit him. Three times. Did he assert himself like a proud, 1,200-pound steed? Did he puff up his chest and show them who's boss? No. He stood there blinking like a stunned librarian who just got hit with a dodgeball. Poor baby. I swear he tried to file an HR complaint.

Look, I’m not saying he’s a coward… but the goat he lives with at home has more street cred. And that goat screams at chickens.

Then there was The Great Right Turn Debacle. Talon was perfectly fine working to the left. Left was his jam. Left was safe. Left was home. But ask him to turn right? Suddenly we’re starring in a soap opera called "Why Are You Ruining My Life", starring Talon as the over dramatic lead and Melody as the long-suffering trainer with a twitching eyelid.

But then—cue angelic chorus—he finally got it. One day, mid-hissy fit, the lightbulb in his big fuzzy head blinked on. You could almost see it: “Ohhh! You meant turn this way? Pfft. I knew that. I was just... testing you. Yep. Totally intentional.” And now there’s a picture of him trotting proudly to the right like he invented it.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, a little girl at church wanted to come visit Talon. DH told her Talon was away at summer school. Her face said “I smell nonsense.” Then he added that Talon was learning to drive.

She gasped. “Horses can’t drive cars!”

I mean… technically, no. But considering how my grandson parks, I’m not ruling it out. Talon at least signals before turning—after 3 weeks of training, anyway.

He's majestic. He's fluffy. He's emotionally fragile. But by golly, he’s turning right now.

Talon’s Official Summer School Progress Report

Filed by: Melody Madison, Horse Whisperer Extraordinaire

Week 1:
• Introduced to new paddock friends
• Hid behind human
• Attempted camouflage via small rock
• Bitten three times
• Confidence level: Marshmallow

Week 2:
• Refuses to work to the right
• Mastered “I don’t wanna” body language
• Feigned dramatic exhaustion after light groundwork
• Therapy goat requested

Week 3:
• Still twitchy, but not hiding
• Cart harness introduced—looked mildly betrayed
• Minor progress turning right… if bribed with hay

Week 4:
• Successfully driving left and right
• Stopped sulking mid-session
• Looks smug, acts like he’s known it all along
• Requested return of emotional support goat

Final Notes:
Horse is a wimp, but a lovable wimp. Recommend continued training and possibly a helmet for emotional protection. He may not be fast, brave, or particularly useful yet… but by golly, he’s polite and turns right now.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Pig Happy Family: A Heartwarming Country Story

Well, it’s official—we’ve reached piggy peace talks. Now that the piglets are getting bigger and less… squish-prone… mama Chloe has decided it’s safe to let daddy Larry rejoin the family unit. I found the whole gang snuggled up together in their rain shelter for what looked like a cross between an afternoon nap and a piggy pile-up.

Just after I took the photo, one of the piglets let out a high-pitched squeal (the kind that makes your heart drop and your brain start counting heads), and Chloe sprang to her feet like she was shot out of a cannon. She sniffed around in a panic, clearly doing a roll call. That’s when things got interesting.

Apparently suspecting that Larry might be using one of the kids as a pillow, Chloe marched right over, shoved her nose under his rear end, and heaved. She moved that 300-pound loaf about two feet across the shelter floor. Did he wake up? Of course not. He just grunted, rolled over, and probably dreamed of corn. Typical guy.

Chloe finally spotted the missing piglet snoozing peacefully near the edge of the tent, gave a relieved snort, and laid back down to nurse. Crisis averted. Family intact. Larry still clueless.

Now I have to admit something that I never thought I’d say: piglets are dangerously cute. Like, criminally cute. I’ve always considered pigs to be Jim’s department—his favorite farm animal, and absolutely not mine. But I think they’ve cast some sort of adorably muddy spell on me, because I caught myself watching them with… affection. Ugh. I feel weak.

But listen, let’s just keep this between us. Jim can never know.

(Honey, if you’re reading this, I need you to focus. You are getting very sleepy. Your eyelids are heavy. You feel relaxed. You will forget you ever read this post. When I count to three, you will awaken refreshed, relaxed, and with zero recollection that your wife may or may not be softening on the subject of pigs. One… two… three… wide awake now!)

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Nine New Additions: Surprise Piglets, Cuteness Overload

We have nine new additions to the family. No, not because I planned it. Not because anyone told me. Not because I marked a date on the calendar with a little heart and a note that said “piglets due!” No, I discovered them like every other big farm development—completely by accident, while stumbling around before my second cup of herbal tea.

There they were this morning, snoozing under a tree like they owned the place. I had no idea they were even on the way. Apparently, pigs don't feel the need to keep me in the loop. Thanks for the heads-up, sweetheart.

And here’s the kicker—this might explain Remi. A few days ago, I caught our female Great Pyrenees, Remi, inside that pasture. Now, Remi never jumps the electric fence. That girl respects voltage. So naturally, I assumed there was a predator threatening the area and she was heroically throwing herself into danger to protect the livestock. Nope. Turns out she might’ve been moonlighting as a midwife. Or just wanted to be front row for the big event. Either way, she knew what was going on before I did. Typical.

This morning, I waited until Mama Pig was off doing pig things—rooting around like she doesn’t have newborns to keep alive—before I crept in like a nosy neighbor with a camera. Took a few baby pictures while trying not to get discovered. Because, let’s be real, the only thing scarier than a protective mama pig is one who’s hangry and postpartum.

So now we have nine piglets. I don’t know their names, I don’t know their gender, and I don’t know how long they’ve been here. But I do know that my week just got a whole lot more complicated.

Farm life: where every day is a surprise party, and you're the one cleaning up after it.

Meanwhile, I found poor daddy banished to another area of the woods.

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I'm Cheap! Nothing Inspires Being Frugal More Than Country Life

I admit it—I’m cheap. Not “waits for the sales” cheap. Not “cuts dryer sheets in half” cheap. I’m rural Jedi master of thrift cheap. In fancy-pants circles they might call that “frugal,” but out here in the sticks, we just call it being sensible. Or broke. Or both.

Euphemisms don’t impress me. Duct tape does.

Let me tell you a little story that sums it all up—and yes, it involves a cheese grater, detergent older than my last goat hoof trim, and one very judgmental farm animal.

A friend of mine recently removed her dishwasher. Said it was broken. Just yanked it out and shoved a cabinet in the hole like that was perfectly acceptable behavior. The result? Her kitchen now looks like it’s missing a front tooth and smiling anyway. I asked the obvious question: Why not just buy a new dishwasher?

She shrugged and said, “I never used it.”

Okay, hold up.

Two thoughts immediately ran through my mind:

1. How do you know it’s broken if you never used it?

2. Who in their right mind doesn’t use a dishwasher? That’s like saying you don’t use your toilet because the outhouse has more “ambiance.”

But I digress.

Now here comes the real gold nugget.

She had four—FOUR—family-size boxes of Cascade Complete in her pantry, now rendered useless since she’s living the handwashing life. So she asks, “Do you want them?”

Do goats eat hay?

Of course I said yes. But there was a hitch. These boxes had been sitting for so long they’d passed their soap half-life and become solid detergent boulders. Each one was basically a paving stone of concentrated lemon-scented regret.

But did I throw them out? Pfft. Not this gal.

I dragged those soap bricks back to my kitchen like they were buried treasure. Set one on the counter. Looked it in the eye and said, “It’s go time.”

Then I got out my cheese grater.

Yes. A cheese grater. And not the wimpy side with the little holes—no ma’am. We’re talking full shred mode. I grated that fossilized Cascade like I was prepping it for taco night. I was in the zone. Detergent flying. Arms cramping. Goat watching me through the screen door with a look that said, “You are truly one sad little human.”

And I grated that sucker anyway.

Because I am cheap. Determined. Possibly unhinged. And I’ll be darned if I’m letting $20 worth of soap go to waste just because it’s old enough to vote.

So now my dishes sparkle with a light hint of citrus and desperation.

Now it’s your turn. Tell me your best “I’m cheap” moment in the comments below. Don’t be shy—we’re all friends here. And you don’t need a blog or fancy login or even a dishwasher to comment. Just a sense of humor and maybe a cheese grater.

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Roxie Flunks! This English Shepherd Had Her Own Agenda

We took Roxie, our 2-year-old English Shepherd, to a herding clinic on Saturday. Now, the idea was to see if she had any natural instinct to herd. Turns out, she does! Just not the right species.

The clinic was held in a muddy field, and in the pouring rain. Of course it was. Mother Nature apparently got the memo that I was planning to be outside and responded with, “Release the monsoon!” So there I was, squelching through ankle-deep muck, and getting soaked from above, while Roxie stared blankly at the sheep like they were beige statues.

No spark. No drive. No "I am Dog, hear me herd!" Nope.

But then—then! A trained border collie stepped onto the field to keep the sheep from scattering like popcorn in a microwave, and that is when Roxie came alive.

She was last in line. It felt like an eternity of watching the other dogs perform their so-called “herding” routines—sheep bursting in every direction like popcorn in a skillet, tails and wool flying, while the saintly border collie marched in again and again like a traffic cop at rush hour, corralling the chaos into something that at least resembled livestock management. When it was her turn I released her from the leash, which was the only thing keeping her from enforcing her idea of what we were there for. She bolted out to where the action was like she was shot out of a canon.

Problem was, she didn’t herd the sheep. Oh no. She herded the herder. She clearly misunderstood the instructions.

She went full gladiator mode. Dropped into position like a furry linebacker and started intercepting the border collie with surgical precision. Blocked every move. Anticipated every pivot. And just to seal the deal, at one point she ran right over its head. Gracefully. Like a linebacker crossed with a ballerina. On caffeine. She was intent on adding a new rule to the playbook, “Thou shall not chase the sheep!”

The border collie was stunned. You could see it thinking, “Wait, I’m the professional here! Who let the intern off-leash?”

I stood there, mouth open, trying to decide if I should be horrified, proud, or start selling tickets.

The instructor—who, to her everlasting credit, managed to not double over laughing—watched the whole thing and said, “Well. That’s a first. I've never seen that before.” (And not likely to ever see it again.) Apparently in all her years of herding instruction, she had never seen a dog invent a new event: "Competitive Border Collie Herding."

Did she tell me to take Roxie home and try something easier, like synchronized napping? Nope. She gave me some solid advice on redirecting Roxie's laser focus to the actual livestock. Honestly, I was just impressed she didn’t hand me a refund and a participation ribbon with a sheepish smile, and a “Thanks for playing.”

Meanwhile, where was my video camera to capture this herding clinic hi-jinks? Oh, just a quarter-mile away. In the truck. With my husband. Who, being smarter than both Roxie and me that day, stayed dry and cozy while I stood ankle-deep in muddy sheep business, soaking wet and slightly humiliated.

Roxie may have flunked her first herding test, but she passed her audition for most creative interpretation of the assignment with flying colors.

Next time, if there is one. . . we bring the camera. And an umbrella. And maybe a therapist for that poor border collie.

Now here's something you don't see everyday - One of the other dogs attending was defending his owner from the sheep so the instructor had her put the dog up on one of them so he would see they weren't killer sheep. Now that's the first time I've ever seen THAT - and someone did get a picture.This is Palmer and her dog Shep, with Becky the instructor. Sorry, I don't know the name of the sheep, but she looks less than thrilled about the whole idea of training for a new circus act.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm