Little did our house guests the Trowsmiths know, when they presented us with an antique mug inscribed with a rural poem, that it was our favorite Farmer's Prayer, and that we would indeed soon be eating our own lamb. Two weeks ago eight fattened market lambs went to the slaughterhouse, and one is now neatly cut and wrapped in our freezer waiting to pulled out for festive roasts and winter stews. I admit to feeling fairly unsentimental about this. I enjoy learning about the difference between a foreshank and a shoulder roast and I marvel at how these creatures translate into tasty tender meat on our plates. I always was a carnivore...
And speaking of carnivores...our family has expanded by two...felines, that is, rescued from tough lives of survival on the 'street.' Three-year old LeRoi (pronounced LeRoy) has definite royal bearing and is a superb mouser, averaging one a day. I cringe when he catches the occasional chipmunk or sparrow but that's the price we pay. Koschka, the impish russian blue kitten, keeps us constantly entertained with his antics. He helps me make the bed and tie my shoes every morning and loves to prod LeRoi into wrestling matches. He specializes in crickets and flies but is vicariously learning to live up to his nickname 'Killmousky," -- he relishes grabbing LeRoi's mice and throwing them up in the air. Our Bethesda suburban cats never had it so good.
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