NOW IN STORES

let's be honest

The real reason to bake your own bread and raise chickens is to eat French toast. Amazing, fall-down-the-stairs-good French toast.

I am a fan of this breakfast food, more than most. I've eaten it everywhere from Idaho pancake houses to the Empire Diner in Chelsea... and over the years I have become a bit of a conisuer. However, the first time I bit into that thickly-sliced homemade bread battered in real milk and fresh farm eggs...man it was a whole new pantheon of yummy. If I was a Scientologist, I'd be up a few new levels. You know, like the ones where they tell you about volcanos and aliens. (No offense to any of you farming Scientologists out there.)

I have no recipe. I pretty much just pour some milk (about 3/4 a cup), an egg, add some cinnamon and a pinch of vanila flavoring in a bowl and whisk it up till it's a yellow delight. Then I battter the sides of a thick slice of bread and go to town in my trusty skillet. I always fry them in real butter in cast iron, and serve it in a smaller cast iron pan for kicks. I pour real maple syrup and powdered sugar on top. I urge you, fine readers, to do the same.

I can't eat it every morning (or I'd be dead) but when I do indulge in simple pleasures like theses I really dig it. It's a hell of a way to start your weekend, and it's something small to look forwad to. Let's be hoenst, who doesn't need soemthing to look forward to on a Tuesday morning? So this week, get some farm fresh eggs and a small cast iron skillet, bake some of your own bread this Friday night and get pumped - because Saturday morning you get to hear about aliens, son.

P.S. Thank you all for your emails, comments, and kind words about Sarah. It really helped me out, and I'm fine. It was just a sorry weekend, but I'll be back on my feet with a new pup sometime in the future, and you'll hear all about it here. Maybe I'll even run into some of you out at a sheepdog trial next spring. Stranger things have happened.

three bags full

Well, there are three individuals who are thrilled the sheepdog is gone and their names are Sal, Marvin, and Maude. With Sarah no longer here they have just lucked out. Since there isn't a dog-in-training on the farm there also isn't a need to replace them with dog broke sheep as fast as I intended. So they've just won a winter at the exclusive Cold Antler Sheep Resort and Spa. A place where second-cut hay is delivered regularly, water is poured on demand, and all the ear scratches and back rubs they can handle are given with wild abandon. I just took this picture outside as the snow was starting to fall. I told the trio that the sheepdog was gone and no longer would they be chased around the pasture or forced to stomp hooves and bleat in anger at the little black beast. I told them they could stay a while longer, probably till I shaved them down in the spring. I think Marvin is actually gloating in that photo, beaming at his stupid luck.

So, giddy sheep is a silver lining, I guess.