It is exciting – we have about 70 fall lambs on the ground now and lambing is almost done (only 4-5 ewes are left to lamb).  Looking at the lambs – this is our best lamb crop we have had!  We look forward to offering the top end of the lambs at our annual Chico State Sheep and Goat Educational Day and Sale on February 13, 2010!  Remaining lambs will be available for private treaty sales after that event!  Hopefully we will be able to get some pictures posted over the next couple of weeks.

This Thanksgiving I went upstate for a traditional family feast at my uncle’s farm. He lives outside of Cooperstown on several dozen acres complete with hay fields and pasture and woods and a creek. I always assumed that some day I would move out to the country and buy a farm like his to satisfy my unrelenting craving to be a farmer, but these days that bucolic destiny is fading fast as I come to terms with the reality that there’s just too much farming to be done here in Brooklyn.

There aren’t too many things that my uncle grows on his land that I can’t grow on a roof. Except perhaps sheep. A small herd of heritage breed grazers is likely too much for our roof farm to handle – although we could certainly set up a confined feeding system in somebody’s basement, it would be better to leave the sheep upstate in their vastly more humane pasture.

But if sheep are out of the question, that doesn’t mean we can’t raise something smaller. Brandon and Ben have been rearing bees, and we’re currently drafting plans for a fifty-bird chicken coop at Roberta’s, which will provide the restaurant with all its eggs starting next spring. Why not put some chickens on the roof, too? Or maybe some rabbits?

Last month we were visited by Novella Carpenter, a trailblazing urban farmer who raises all sorts of small game at her urban lot farm in Oakland, CA. She stopped by Roberta’s to teach a bunch of eager and edgy foodies about the ins and outs of rabbit slaughter and butchering. Unfortunately, she had to go back to the West Coast, leaving but a few puddles of bunny blood and a bunch of energized urban farmers in her wake. Hopefully we can get her to come back next fall in time for Brooklyn Grange’s very own rabbit slaughter – we’ll provide the rabbits if she brings the knife.

To learn more about Novella Carpenter’s work, visit Ghost Town Farm

To contribute to Brooklyn Grange, visit our Donate Page

~ ~ Hi Everyone ~ ~

CYBER MONDAY (officially renamed the “it’s-monday-and-I’m-stuck-at-work-but-I’m-shopping-hehe“) is here!!! There’s lots of New Releases at HeartStrings Embroidery and they’re at 25% off instead of the usual 20%. Hide in your cubicle, grab a cup of strong java and enjoy shopping today!

Just a few pictures of some of the new designs.  There’s plenty more including redwork, gingerbread guy & gal and the sheep willows!!!  Oh – 2 new FREEBIES!!!

Jesus is the reason for the season

Christmas Sampler

It’s a Charlie Brown of a Christmas Sampler

 New Releases go back to 20% tuesday morning at 9 am EST ~ I hope everyone has a wonderful week ~ Blessings & Hugs, Stephanie

You met this guy on Wordless Wednesday a few weeks ago..today I want to share his story.

While out running the Border Collies, Monday morning, several weeks ago, we heard a Rooster crowing. Around here we have sheep, goats, cows, horses, dogs and cats..no chickens. That’s just not something anyone close by raises and after the fox killed our last hens, we had been chicken free for 4 years – which brings me back to the crowing Rooster. I started following the crow. Imagine my surprise when I found 2 beautiful Roosters pecking around in the cemetery at the church across the road from us.

These guys seemed very tame. Catching the first one was easy. The second one got very upset and confused. He took off into the woods and we couldn’t find him. Hubby had to go to work and I had early deliveries, so we brought Rooster #1 over to our place and said that we could get the other one when we got home. Also, as much noise as Rooster#1 was making, we felt confident that he would encourage Rooster #2 to come to him. Well that didn’t happen.

When we got home that night, we discovered Rooster #1 running around and crowing. Apparently, these guys had been pets..they didn’t even know how to roost. We went to the church to find the other boy but had no luck. At midnight, when we let the dogs out for the last time, we heard Rooster #2 crowing. We got the dogs in and headed for the church. By the time we got there all was quiet. We hung out for almost an hour and decided this Rooster quest would be easier in daylight. We never heard him again! Rooster #1 was just sad the next day perpetually crowing and running around but there was no response. I spent hours at the church and in the cemetery listening and looking for Rooster #2, but he was no where to be found. The following day, I found him dead in the cemetery. He had been slaughtered by what we assume was a weasel.

Thankfully, by day three Rooster #1 had acclimated to his new home and had stopped calling his brother. So now we have a new Rooster! He’s quite the cool little guy. He thinks his job is to tend the sheep. Where they go..he goes. We’ve worked with him a lot and now he knows how to roost, where to find his food (sheep and goats eat anything that hits the ground, so we had to put his food up) and that bugs are a good dietary supplement. He’s a good boy. We are now considering adding a few hens so he won’t be without his kind and hope that the fox families have moved on for now. We didn’t realize how much we missed having chickens in the barnyard.

This Blogger/farmers rant – With so many avenues to find homes for unwanted animals a story like this should never have happened. We live in the country, there are 3 feed stores within a 15 mile radius of us, they have bulletin boards. There, of course, is Craig’s List, a local paper and word of mouth. We would have gladly taken these two Rooster’s if the person who dropped them had simply turned up our driveway and asked. There is just no excuse for one of these beautiful animals being slaughtered! All of this being said, we are very happy to have our new Rooster..there is a new peaceful calamity on the farm now and he’s good for the soul…guess things really do happen for a reason.

We still haven’t named him though..got any ideas? Please share.

Home Stuff:

Laundry day chores: new clothes from Lands End (thank you MIL!) to be put away, a load of clean laundry from the weekend to be put away, 1 load of hot and one of cold to be washed, dried and put away, a bunch of ironing to be caught up on.

Weekend recovery chores: All over pick up and re-homing of kids toys, craft items, magazines, books etc.  Full kitchen wipe down.  Bathroom sinks and toilets scrubbing.

Farm Stuff:

Check food and water supplies for all the critters, refill as needed. Bring in eggs. Take a stiff tined rake down to the barn and dig up some stuff from the sheep stall. Give stall cleanings to the chickens to peck through.

Food Stuff:

Breakfast – Banana, cold cereal, milk, coffee

Lunch – Leftovers

Dinner – Roast Chicken, baked sweet potatoes, kale, bread

Looking Ahead:

Tuesday: Cleaning flat surfaces, running errands

Wednesday: Really really really hoping the weather report will change… I so do NOT want to haul sheep in the rain.

Thursday: Bake bread, knit night

Friday: Garden work

Saturday: Farm Gal, Guy and Girl going to see Sesame Street Live

Sunday: Rest

The story of the nothing, wonders as something to which everything replies

The story of the lamp, looking down at the base and switch puts it to rest

The story of man, who likes a man and he does too – but feigns

The story of house, wishing of movement to a warmer place

The story of life, meets death creates perfection and still isn’t satisfied

The story of dreams, and reality – real story of dreams, dreaming of reality

The story of consumption, idolising waste looking to expand

The story of mass, jealous of space…seizing what it can

The story of sheep, and grass…and the eternal bleet of greener

(Re-post from September 26)

Oh boy did I have an appetite for destruction last night. Tired off my ass, and I mean so tired that I almost didn’t leave my hotel room (then remembered that eating one small sandwich all day long and having walked 10k+ wasn’t healthy and consequently nearly fell asleep several times over dinner) — I ordered the only thing on the menu that would send every foreign tourist running for the hills — “Pieds et Paquets.”

Pieds et paquets translates as “feet and packages.” Yes. You heard that right. Even the “packages,” part. The dish consists of sheep tripe folded into elegant little objects much resembling large tortellini stuffed with herbed breading, as well as sheep feet (bent ankle bone and all the stuff further south), slow cooked in a very lovely savory sauce which I’m told is based on white wine.

I don’t know how I did it. I really don’t. That’s not to say it wasn’t delicious. It was. I eat strange things. All the time. I think it’s exciting and makes life more interesting to take risks like this. But when you think you’re coming down with a cold and feel weak and haven’t slept in two days and are not really convinced you’re hungry in the first place, this could have been a disastrous mistake.

Thankfully it wasn’t. I don’t know if any of you dear, dear phantoms of readers have ever experienced this before, but I’m going to try to describe the sensation of what I was going through. My brain and body were in a battle from the moment the covered silver platter was set down beside me, and a deep elegant ceramic bowl was placed in front of me. See, I really wasn’t sure what I was going to get. Didn’t know how it would look or smell or anything. I did have an inkling of what the texture would be like, having eaten tripe many times before. But not sheep. And not in this manner. And certainly not in my vulnerable physical condition. The word I would use for the entire experience would be “musky.” For some that’s great. For others it’s sickening. It was gamey and gooey and chewy. And the whole time I cut apart my first piece, the musky gamey smell wafting up into my nose, I was fighting nausea. Not a strong nausea. But a tiny persistent, “ah, you there, ya you…are you quite sure that’s such a good idea…” kinda nausea. Some people would have listened to that little voice. But not me. And in the end, as I didn’t get sick, slept very well through the night, and feel better than ever today, I’m very glad I didn’t.

Most of you will never want to eat tripe, especially not sheep tripe rolled into big meatball-sized bread-filled bundles and stewed with its relation, the foot (which by the way, is all fat and skin and cartilage with hardly a trace of muscle). Hopefully, though, I’ve now communicated that it cannot and will not kill you, and if you can get over the musky smell and uber-strange texture so common to offal, you may enjoy it, and it may in fact cure your weary body and send it on its healthy way.

Anyway, I just got to Avignon. Again exhausted, but not quite so much as in Marseille. And instead of a steep 2-story walk-up with super-heavy luggage, I had a 4-story walk-up with heavier luggage (thanks to a chance encounter with an H&M yesterday and an adventure in an immigrant-filled market this morning).

The town is gorgeous, and it’s so sunny, it really does look like an impressionist painting or a post card. I’ll have a gander as soon as I rest my weary head for a spot and consider showering off the accumulating sweat. Yes. I just said accumulating sweat.

Cheerio! Or rather, A bientot!

And if you ever want to try making your own paquets…

In this week’s Sheep Laughs comic strips, Miso loses his job on the farm, files for unemployment, gets advice from a job consultant and visits his local temp agency. 

Sheep Laughs is an absolutely free webcomic that’s worth every penny.

Most men may not complain when young women these days wear their pants lower than where their mother’s pockets used to be, but it can be somewhat nauseating to see older females trying to keep up with their daughter and even granddaughter’s peer group. It reminds one of the sixties, when in order to be cool, boys had to wear Levi’s brand jeans, even though JC Penny sold a perfectly functional pair for half the price.

A Bob Dylan song back then touched on this “Mr. Jones” mentality of modern society and, what with large gas-guzzling SUV’s being purchased by American middle-class “McMansion” families in the midst of Middle East wars, oil shortages and looming planetary disaster, certainly nothing much has changed.

Liberal authors tend to blame corporate branding, but such a “keeping up with the Joneses” reality has existed since ancient Babylon and, traces back into the mists of prehistoric time. Tribal cultures on a global basis display culturally dictated rings, beads, feathers and other ornaments, paint faces and bodies in peer-pressure proscribed ways and, mimic each other in dress, speech and custom.

Ancient warriors often trimmed beards and hair in certain proscribed fashion and displayed specific tattoos and other body markings. Cultures throughout history display their own unique concepts of beauty, manliness and femininity, often directly contradicting what other cultures dictate. Heterosexual men in many societies have worn clothing that even the most overt homosexual male wouldn’t wear in our own.

Today, tattoos and body piercings are all the modern rage and women deliberately reveal bra straps they worked diligently to keep hidden not long ago. And, we are inundated with harmful food and “must have” gizmos and gadgets that no one in their right mind would consider purchasing for logical survival or any other purpose.

Are designs carved on ancient pottery and inlaid jewels on swords functionally necessary at all? And, was expensive architecture, art and sculpture purchased by kings and popes in the midst of massive poverty and famine during the Middle Ages, any less moral than modern Wall Street paper-shufflers earning 10,000 and more times as much as those who pick their fruit, cook their food, cut their lawns and pick up their garbage?

Does a wise society reward athletes with enormous sums to play games in the midst of rising poverty, homelessness and human suffering? Do wise people stand in long lines to see the latest film or to meet celebrities who really haven’t accomplished much of anything at all? How many Americans blindly believe we represent the greatest society in history, without even bothering to actually study much of human civilization, if any?

Culturally induced conformity might appear harmless, but it extends into endorsing the amassing of private wealth and consequent enslavement of the masses, supporting wars in a guise of false patriotism’ and, endorsing racism and classicism in order to “belong”.

Is it really true that “all we like sheep have gone astray”? You decide.

Link to footnotes and documentation for this article

We had our 2nd shift of shearing this morning and it was VERY cold!!!

Luckily the sun came out this afternoon.

Chevelle was soaking up all the sunshine she could!

I love walking out in the pasture with our sheep and seeing ALL of the variety!

There are 2 horns…

4 horns…

and even a 3 horn.  She is actually a 4 horn that is fused on one side, but Jonquil likes to be unique!

The friendly…

and the not so friendly.  They didn’t want their picture taken – go figure!

There are spotty sheep…

and sheep with crisp/clear black and white.

Dark sheep and light sheep.

Short and stubby…

tall and lean.

Lilac

and Black.

I enjoy all of them in their own, unique way. 

Some breeds pride themselves on looking the same, but I love that the Jacob breed is not one of those.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend!

Here’s a sneak peak of a few WOOLy things I’ve been working on…

and will be offering for sale in my ETSY shop.  

Another Sheepy 'Sit Upon'...

 

A Braided Wool ‘Mug Rug’.

A Braided Wool Sheepy 'Mug Rug' from Roving.

Another Sheepy Mug Rug!

Sheepy 'Sit Upon' Chair Pad from Wool Roving

A Wooly Cute Sheepy Pillow!

Brown Sheep XMas Stocking.

Yet another - Sheepy XMas Stocking!

You may wonder if I ever get tired of making sheepies??? 

 NO…I love my sheepies!

A lot of you may wonder why I haven’t given a few more insights into what is going on in Iraq.  I purposely don’t give out a whole lot of information or opinions due to the fact that I am in the military.  Typically I fill the screen with funny anecdotes that give you a glimpse into the life of a modern soldier.  However l will now try to provide you with a little glimpse of Iraq from my perspective.  I don’t have a lot of expertise into what is going on in Iraq as a whole, just a glimpse into who they are as a people, what is going on in a little corner of northeastern Baghdad and where that little area is going.

The security situation in Iraq has undoubtedly improved remarkably over the past few years.  The Iraq I heard stories about before my deployment is not at all the Iraq I saw.  Most people did not want to kill us, most people were not afraid of the American soldier.  Walking down the street giving people the warm greeting ‘Salaam Alaikum’, (I have no clue how to spell that Arabic phrase properly) which literally means the peace of God be with you, I often received kind smiles and offers to come in and drink some chai with them.  However in many eyes were not merely kind smiles but hungry eyes.  Americans have come to represent money and power to the impoverished people of northeastern Baghdad.  Local shop keepers eye you greedly hoping for another round of free handouts of foreign money.  The  little children, covered in dirt and flith from the playing in the garbage that is everywhere, have learned well from their parents and driving past them in up armored HMMWVs they line up by the dozens, raise their hands in the air and shout, “Mister, Mister, Ball, Ball!”  Unfortunately we have no balls to give the children and a few of the bolder ones, irate that they aren’t getting any free handouts, heave large rocks at our vehicles.  And so it is, the Iraqi people want to use us for our power and money, but when we don’t cave to their greed, or some get nothing they attack our soldiers out of greed and anger.

The Iraqi people have some admirable qualities.  They are usually warm and hospitable, family oriented.   However in addition to greedy they are also lazy as a people.  They literally have trash laying around all over their streets, flowing over parks and soccer fields, everywhere imaginable.  They are quite enterprising when it comes to making a quick buck, but for the most part the protestant work ethic is the unthinkable to the Iraqi man.  They keep their women indoors hidden behind veils, jealous that a stranger might so much as receive a kind smile from their daughters.  As a people the Iraqis are amazingly resilient.  Not very long ago a couple of car bombs went off at a traffic circle in Baghdad and killed over 150 innocent men, women and children.  The Iraqis just took it in stride, it was as big of news in Baghdad as a major traffic jam is back in the states.   However suffering through years of coups, followed by nearly three decades of Saddam Hussein, who from the many anecdotes I heard was a man evil on the order of Adolf Hitler, and now a brutal sectarian violence and insurgency has also made them extremely defeatist.  The people are not concerned if their government is corrupt, after all what is so bad about a little corruption provided you get food on your table and you live to see another day?

Commonly when you try to schedule any sort of business with an Iraqi you hear the word, “Inshallah” which means if Allah wills it.  That is the Iraqi people’s mindset and thus they are primarily reactive rather than proactive.  They reason, “What use is it trying to stop the inevitable?”  Yet as one of the principles of counter insurgency states, “sometimes their good enough is better than your perfectly executed operation” they have primarily taken over the security role in the part of Baghdad where I operated.  They definitely aren’t perfect by our standards but they seem to be just barely good enough.  When the security agreement went into effect that required us to stop actively operating within the city limits violence did not appreciably increase.  Iraq will never be what I would consider a nice place, but for the Iraqi people, after six long years it seems that they have arrived at the point where they are good enough.  Saddam is gone, the sectarian bloodshed has stopped, and now there is no use in our trying to Americanize their security forces or government anymore.  Let them be Iraqi, whatever it is that that means. 

Looking back on the time I spent in Baghdad the enduring mental image that I will take with me of the Iraqi people is one from a few weeks ago.  We were driving through the dirty streets of one of the muhallahs (neighborhoods) we were responsible for just before sunset when the whole world takes on that golden glow.  There was trash, shin deep, piled for six or seven feet along the mud walls that kept each families courtyard private.  There were a few streams of mud flowing across the dirt streets because there was no sewer.  An old man, in a tattered and dirty brown dishdasha (man dress) with a disheveled black checkered headdress was tending a dozen of the filthiest sheep ever seen and waiting for night to fall.  He struck at bags of trash with his staff and strew the trash a little more so his sheep could find the choicest rotting vegetables because there was no pasture for them.  As we passed him he glanced up, his brow furrowed with the wrinkles wrought by years of poverty and strife, and gazed at us with his tired brown eyes while we simply passed on by.  And so is Iraq, a tired disheveled old man doing just enough to survive while we pass on by.

Australia has found an innovative solution to global warming: breed ‘green’ sheep that burp less. That’s right, burpless sheep.

It sounds like something you’d hear about on April 1st, but it’s November and the story is entirely true.

Forget planes, forget oil hungry America and most certainly forget those Chelsea tractors. Farting and burping sheep and cows are the real reason why we’ll all be sunning it in England very soon.

Joking aside, gasey livestock is a serious problem apparently.

According to Australia’s department of climate change, 16% of the country’s greenhouse emissions come from agriculture. And Australia’s Sheep Cooperative Research Council says 66% of agricultural emissions are released as methane from the the bellies of livestock.

New Zealand have a similar problem, where scientists estimate that a massive 43% of the country’s greenhouse gases come from livestock.

Globally, 28% of all methane resulting from human related activities comes from agriculture. Who would have thought that grass would have such a stomach rumbling effect, causing sheep and cows to burp and fart in symphony after each and every one of their meals??

Methane is considered the second most important gas produced by human activity after carbon dioxide, yet has far more impact on global warming than its much publicised cousin.

Scientists now believe that we have seriously underestimated the gas’ impact on global temperatures and that this is about a third higher than previously thought.

The Australian researchers in New South Wales are trying to discover the genetic link that means some sheep burp less than others and have been conducting experiments in special pens where they measure how much gas sheep emit when eating (not a job that had many volunteers I’m sure).

The problem is not a new one. It has already been a few years that scientists have been studying the problem and have been hoping to invent foods that reduce gassiness.

Anyway, if you think I’m making this all up, check out the incriminating evidence in this video. Very rude sheep indeed.

=sometimes as i walk home from school i catch the tranquil jingle of windchimes. sometimes i can handle them.

=sometimes they are utterly morbid.

=those who wear bells around their ankles at nambucca heads high school are conformist fags.

=as i walk to my next period i am constantly bombarded with the tinkling noise pollution of an approaching girl. it does not make you ‘cool’, it does not make you ‘noticeable’, it does not make you ‘individualistic’. it is unbelievably annoying and a constant irritance to everyone who passes you by.

=bells do not suit most people. they suited kelly, the one who bought this fad into our school, but now considering a great number of sheep have begun to wear them, she refuses. her individuality has been compromised.

=you stole something from her and she wants it back.

=if she came to school naked, would you?

=eeeergh.

Eid al-Adha, the cheery Festival of Sacrifice, is upon us here. This is not the jolly Eid that marks the end of Ramadan, this is the one that commemorates Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son, Ismael, as an act of obedience to God. Ismael may have survived that particular request but the sheep of Tripoli (much like the turkeys of Norfolk) continue to get it in the neck – quite literally – many years later. Prior to the festival empty pick-ups can be seen desperately criss-crossing the city in search of live sheep. Wild-eyed, tethered sheep totter around the back of careering, battered trucks and vans as their drivers then go in search of knives and charcoal. The plaintiff bleating of livestock, held in high walled concrete yards, hangs in the still evening air throughout the city. Little Leafy spied Moftah’s, the landlord, five sheep (“no daddy they are goats”) through a hole in the wall and formed an instant attachment with the wretched creatures. We forced our way into the yard and stood, at a safe distance of course, for what seemed an age examining the finer details of their anatomies. We were, in turn, examined in as much detail by the silent horde of Moftah’s doe-eyed grandchildren; was this, I wondered, a Libyan Stand-off? The ‘goats’ were later introduced to Mrs L. and were the subject of many engrossing conversations throughout the day; “Why is Moftah keeping goats in his garden?”, “You be a goat daddy, and I will be Moftah.” and “Could we have one on the balcony?”

The following morning I observe, from the balcony that Little L. had earmarked for rearing livestock, a small pit being dug in the yard directly below by a large sweaty man. Five imbecilic sheep stare at the activity with interest. “Daddy what is that man digging for?” My voyeurism was abruptly interrupted. Later in the day each of the sheep was led to the pit, tipped over and pinned to the dusty ground by a pile of squirming grandchildren. Moftah’s eldest brother wielded the largest knife I have ever seen and with a flick of his wrist, as if it were an envelope, opened the sheep’s neck. Blood poured into the large pit. “Daddy is that goat asleep?” Good-grief, where can a man watch a butchering in peace and quiet these days?

Soon afterwards billowing clouds of smoke replaced the bleating sounds as barbecues are fired up and the smell of roasting meat is, for a while, stronger than the smell of offal. As the day drew to an end West African immigrants emerged from side-streets with blow-torches and the heads of the butchered sheep and proceeded to burn the hair from the skull before they become useful. How a hairless sheep’s head is used I have yet to discover, but am currently quite comfortable with my ignorance.

Weight loss

The battered car stopped beside me and the window was wound down. “Could you help me sir?” came the request from the driver within. I bent down to see who needed my help. A man wearing glasses that were so thick it would probably be safest if he was not driving. He patted his large stomach. “I am 140 lbs, I want to be 80. What should I do?”

“Well, what about swimming?” I ventured, not sure what elaborate trap, cunningly disguised as a benign question, was being set for me. Would I be bundled into the back of the car with a blanket over my head to the screaming newspaper  headlines Another falls victim to the weight question!

“No, I cannot swim. Am I eating too much?”

“Possibly. What about running or cycling?” I continued tentatively.

“I don’t have a bicycle, but I can run. What else?”

“Football is something I play,” I meekly offered.

“Football? How long should I run for? One hour?”

“Well perhaps not straight away. Try fifteen minutes to begin with and build up to an hour over time.”

“Fifteen minutes? How many times a day?”

“Just the once to begin with I think.”

“Excellent and what should I eat?”

Was there no end to this? “Fruit and vegetables are good.”

“I don’t like apples though.”

“OK. What about other fruit?” I asked in an increasingly exasperated tone.

“Yes I can eat other fruit. What is your name?” I told him my name. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?” I convinced him I was happier walking. “You have been very helpful my friend. Have a good evening.” And with that he sped off in a cloud of dust clattering into every pothole his poor eyesight could not see.

Indignant

We took Mrs L. to have her hair done recently. Little L. and I dropped her and Baby L. off and then went to our favourite cafe. From the terrace, if you keep your head tilted at 45 degrees upwards, all you can see is the deep blue of the Mediterranean, and not the derelict seafront behind the large white constructor’s fence. Luxurious leather seats, cool jazz and delicious fruit juices have us beating a path towards it most weeks at some time or another. Little L. and I sat talking about goats and Lego, listening to Herb Alpert whilst sharing a strawberry juice and slice of cheesecake. The cafe is not cheap, but I was confident that I had picked up enough cash even for a place like this. I was wrong. I explained to our waiter that I was embarrassingly short, by one Dinar, and would not be able to settle the entire bill. As is always the way here my embarrassment was waved away. “No problem, no problem. Next time.” I thanked him and the proprietor, who was sitting behind the till, for their generosity and made to leave. Our mustachioed waiter caught us at the steps down to the street. Tapping his wallet pocket in a conspiratorial manner, he said “Sir, if you are short of money I have plenty and would be happy to give you some.” Being suddenly exposed like this, on an emotional landscape that was not at all familiar, was unsettling. Feeling both touched and indignant I said, probably too loudly, “No, no! I have plenty of money at home! I just came out with too little. That’s all. Many thanks all the same!” I grabbed Little L’s hand and hurried off. In all likelyhood too quickly.

Australian scientists are working hard to try and breed a new non burping sheep!!
Read it to believe it!!

Read it here on rte.ie

Moira’s been going to the same ballet school since she was four, and all that time we’ve been dressing up and watching the annual Nutcracker Ballet put on by her school the weekend after Thanksgiving. We’ve seen costumes and scenery change from year to year. We’ve watched party girls grow up to become Sugar Plum fairies and Snow Queens. And Moira’s grown from a little girl decked head to toe in polka dots and costume jewelry watching the “big girl” mice battle the soldiers, to a fine young lady sporting mouse ears and whiskers herself.

Moira tried out for the Nutcracker the first week of September and was assigned the role of a mouse in the first act, and a sheep in the second act. She faithfully rehearsed every Saturday for months, and every night of the past week (except Thanksgiving Day) until 10 o’clock at night, and then the shows began. Now she’s almost done with all her performances. All her most loyal fans – family and friends – are going to the last performance tonight. I can’t wait to sit in the audience and watch Moira on stage.

I helped out backstage, and so was able to take a few pictures. Above is Moira with one of the soldiers, and below are the mice with their beloved Rat Queen (our ballet school is lacking in boys, so we always have a Rat Queen instead of a King).

The older girls who get parts that involve younger girls (the Rat Queen with her mice, the Sugar Plum Fairy with her angels, Dutch Chocolate with her little Dutch girls) all give token gifts to their young charges. Moira received Max the Christmas Mouse from her Rat Queen, and has vowed never to eat him. (She did fondle him so much through the packaging that his nose and cheese melted.)

And here’s Moira the little sheep. Apparently one of the benefits of the sheep costume is the capability to put ones’ knees inside the baggy body. There were sheep balled up all over the dressing room.

Our Nutcracker is a small-town production. We use recorded music rather than live, the backdrop for the Sugar Plum palace is shockingly ugly, and there are little mistakes in every show – and yet the sum is so much more than the parts. The costumes are so well done, and are improved every year, the older dancers do their own choreography and help the little ones, and through it all the spirit of Christmas shines. It really becomes a magical production. Moira has loved the experience, and I’m looking forward to the Nutcrackers of years to come, and of eventually watching Eva and Iris dance too.

After we pruned the shrubs, the sheep love to eat the twigs and buts from the branches…….

I can see pants. Surely mooning involves more crack...

So Nacho Novo is to be investigated for getting his erse out after Rangers’ loss to Aberdeen yesterday?

We love Nacho for how committed he is to the cause and for how well he has integrated with the fans. Whenever he comes off the bench he’s always pumping his fists to get the crowd motivated – more than a large percentage of the ‘first team’ ever do.

Anyway, during the closing stages of the game, Novo was being subjected to  torrent of abuse/banter from the sheep shagging bastards calling him a gay. Fair do’s; in my opinion fans should be allowed to shout anything within reason at players with obvious exceptions. Hell, they’re earning enough that it should be water off a ducks back. They earn enough money that getting some verbals for 90 minutes a week should be a piece of piss.

So as Novo was leaving the pitch he drops his shorts a little to the Aberdeen fans in a get it up ye gesture (not literally) and then flips them a finger (again, not literally).

Cue the sheep getting their wool encrusted panties in a twist.

Novo has been reported to the Grampian peelers as ‘fans with children were offended’ at his ‘mooning’. Now, mooning. That involves actually getting your arse out. That involves actual crack being shown. Novo didn’t.

I’ll refer to the font of all wisdom – Urban Dictionary:

Mooning: The recreational act of baring one’s ass in public with the intention of it being seen by people who don’t want, or expect, to see it.

Technically, there was no ass seen by people. Only his fetching white undercrackers. Surely this is an open and shut case for the Gramps polis?

Although, in saying that, the whole Rangers team could be thrown in jail for public indecency after that performance…