The Easter Bunny Cameth



Yes, the Easter Bunny appeared last Sunday and he should’ve brought a laundry hamper, not a basket. It’s all Liz’s fault.

(OhI should interrupt to say: I’m back. Or rather Funny Farm is back after an indeterminate hiatus. Does anyone care? Is anyone still reading this thing? Hello, hello…? HelLo! Oh hi, Mom.)

Ok, back to Easter prep. Last week I contacted my egg dealer and put out an A.P.B. for white, dyeable eggs since our typical delivery is populated by the brown-shelled variety.

As always, Liz confirmed that she got the goods. I scanned her text — half-reading something about a few regular ones and some goose eggs and “just boil those a few extra minutes.”

Got it. Large eggs in the shipment. I expected to open her fridge and fish out a bulging cardboard carton — one that almost, yet not quite, could be fastened shut.

Instead, I discovered a bunch of mammoth goose eggs that would never dream of nesting in a conventional carton.


Here’s a chicken egg — XL at that — beside a goose 6-pack.


The goose eggs were enormous and their shells, rock hard. Once cleaned and shed from dirt, the shells revealed a marbled, mottled texture. They looked like dinosaur eggs.

Or what I imagined dino eggs to look like.

I hardboiled them in batches — several batches — and we set to dyeing them in addition to the “normal” eggs.


Goose v. chicken



Hadley used the bigins to interview the Easter Bunny.


Ignore the farm-grubby hand.


(Note: Sunday morning the Easter Bun responded to her query on another egg. I believe he wrote, I kome at the daytyme. He’s a lousy speller.)

So the kids retrieved the bunny’s scatterings, though they lumbered with their weighty baskets, buckling beneath the heft of 18 goose eggs. And due to this added strain, this year’s hunt required frequent chocolate breaks.



Postscript: Once the big eggs were returned to their perishable perch, (and they consume a lot of real estate in the fridge) I was hobbled by goose-egg phobia. Dyeing those monsters was one thing. But eating them? The thought grossed me out. (Why do goose eggs harbor a yuck factor? Who knows.)

It took two days to muster the courage to taste test. I cracked the shell — all the while assuring myself that I could abort mission at the slightest sign of weirdness. Eventually I stared down a naked, albeit large, egg. Then I sliced it in half.

It looked like any hard-boiled egg… on steroids. It made a helluva lot of egg salad. Goose egg salad.

I offered a few of these eggs to a friend and she took two, with great reluctance.

Goose eggs? She said. They kind of gross me out.


Mud Missive


Right now I’m swamped with work: a couple writing assignments with lurking deadlines, and the usual kid-farm-animal variety of chores.

So a new episode of Funny Farm? Coming soon to a screen near you.

In the meantime, here are a few photos of the Monocacy, a river in close proximity to our abode. (note: nearby, but not close enough to submerge us). Though the river has hovered near flood stage without measuring any record high, its swirling murkiness is mesmerizing nonetheless.



This evening before the kids went to bed, I spotted The Boy languishing in the bath, periodically draining the tub only to refill it once again.

“Turn that tap off,” I barked. “You’re wasting water!”

“Really?” he asked. “After all this rain, can’t we waste a bit now?”



Winter dregs


These are my final snow snaps of the season (I hope) and while they’re a little dated, up they go anyway.

(With yesterday’s summertime temps, it seemed idiotic to post these. But today, not so much).


Ten days ago


The following photos fall into the category of “lessons learned.”

Cayden’s lesson:


Towing your sister across a hayfield and up a ridge — while noble — 




…is a pain in the ass.



Hadley’s lesson (or her message to the world):


Winter is just a state of mind.


Summer fashion need not wait.


Then there’s Brynn’s lesson:

That one’s a wildcard. It has nothing to do with winter.

And everything to do with nuts.

A few days ago while shopping at Home Depot, Martin discovered that Brynnzilla loves peanuts. Martin was preoccupied with his purchase, but eventually noticed that Brynn was snarfing down her handful of peanuts. “I love these,” she announced between bites.

Martin observed her silently before offering a bit of advice:

“You might love them more if you take the shells off first and eat just the nuts…”