Frippery, Fiddle-Faddle, and Foofaraw

Updates from the Farm

Enjoy this frippery read by your fearless writer instead of AI!

Hello, Friend,

It’s a cool, rainy, spring day here on the farm. The flowers are loving it. The dogs and I were feeling lazy and inclined to recline under soft blankets. Alas, someone is using a bandsaw and hammer in the barn below. We’ve taken refuge in the upstairs office where I’m tapping out this post.

Mr. Potter and I finished buying our plants for the season yesterday. If all goes to plan, our backyard oasis should be lush and lovely mid-Summer. The lilacs are in bloom this week and they are delightfully sniffy.

Sniffariffic! Snifftastic! Snifftacular!

The sniffs were less sniffy yesterday when a barn window was opened to air out a stall with a flatulent horse inside. Even sniffariffic lilacs have their limits.

Speaking of sniffy things, I still have to plant the tomatoes and basil, but I need some string.

This is some quality writing here. Some of my best work. Frippery, fiddle-faddle, and foofaraw for the win!

Not that you asked, but the string keeps the dogs out of the raised bed. Without string and without logical explanation, they will spramp through the bed and wreak havoc. The plants don’t take well to unfettered dog spramping. Go figure.

You may be wondering how it is possible that an artist and former DIY Expert doesn’t have a cache of string? I have no explanation. I’m as surprised as you are.

I’m happy to report that Cowbert Jr. seems to be doing well. I try to bring him a snack and some gentle pats every day, unless he’s in a pasture I can’t access without being harassed by the asshole ram or the formerly mentioned asshole horses. I’m not suggesting all horses are assholes, just the horses that live here. Rams, however, are pretty much all assholes. Speaking of assholes, Schmedly the Peacock has set up shop this spring on the other side of our fence and in our experimental garden. He has stomped on our leeks and tender flower shoots and his 24/7 caterwauling is maddening.

Schmedly, a beautiful jerk.

Our wild bird flocks have persisted, but our frog pond lacks a new frog. The frog pond was once a frog puddle that formed on rainy days at the end of the gutter run-off. Mr. Potter turned it into a lovely little frog-itat a few years back. While we await the arrival of a new frog, there’s a speckled toad who has taken up residence in the day lilies. I’ve named him Toadbert.

The frogs are all Frogberts. The cows are all Cowberts.

We have six dogs and none of them are named Dogbert, because that would be absurd.

Peacockbert would also be absurd, which is why he’s named Schmedly.

Obviously.

With that, I return you to your regularly scheduled algorithmically driven relentless dystopian news feed. I hope you find those little bits of joy lingering in each day. Lort knows, I’m trying!

Like it? We’d love it if you shared it!

If you enjoy frippery and foofaraw peppered with politics and a generous smattering of juicy expletives, you’ve found your Substack. Subscribe so you never miss another post! It’s free with an option to support the work with a paid sub.

Can’t swing a sub? No worries! Consider buying your fearless writer a virtual cup of coffee!