Dirty Chick (23 page)

Autumn grunted as she hauled out earth with a spade, turning it and breaking it up as she worked. “The key to keeping your garden healthy is to feed the soil,” she explained. “So all the poos your animals make, all the goat berries and the cow pies and the rest of it—you work that into your soil.”

“I knew we could use it!” I slammed my skanky-ass ho into a huge crop of nightshade. “So goat poo, cow poo, sheep poo, and—”

“Worm poo,” Autumn finished for me. “Castings, actually.”

“Hold up.” I laid down my hoe for a minute. “Where does a person get
worm poo
?”

“A worm farm,” she answered, as though this were obvious. “You'll get the castings, which are the poo, and then you can make worm tea.”

And that's how I came to find myself the proud owner of a brand-new worm farm, which arrived with a pound of live worms. “Each bag,” the accompanying literature boasted, “contains approximately 2,000 live tiger worms.”

The Hungry Bin worm farm was formed from three green plastic bins, but its contents were the stuff of horror movies. Tangles of glistening worms slithered through piles of kitchen scraps, eating their way through a slurry of putrid meat, moldering vegetables, and vacuum cleaner lint. Each day, I checked the tray at the bottom for “tea,” the cocktail of worm excreta and rancid vegetable juice that's supposed to be a peerless fertilizer. Instead, all I found were maggots. This worried me, so I consulted the manual.

The booklet was surprisingly placid on the subject. “While many people find maggots unpleasant, they will not harm you or your worms. In fact, they are good decomposers and, like worms, will produce a high-quality casting.”

This posed a philosophical problem. I reported my findings at
dinner that night. “So we feed our old food to the worms and the maggots, who shit out the castings,” I began.

Peter pushed his salad away and took a breath, looking patiently in my direction.

“Then we feed the worm poop to the garden, which makes vegetables for us to eat.”

He nodded.

“We eat the vegetables, we feed the scraps to the chickens and the goats, we get eggs and goat milk and feed the scraps to the worm farm, and they shit out more castings.”

Peter widened his eyes, as if this were obvious.

“So that's all there is?” I slammed my fork down to emphasize the point. “Just shit and worms and maggots and rot? And all we can look forward to is . . . being
cast
?”

“Yep.” He sipped his wine. “That's one way of looking at it.”

Silas crawled on my lap, and I hugged him, burying my face in his sweaty blond hair. “So all the fun parts in the middle? The books and the sunsets and the wine? Dinner parties and friends and sailing trips in the South Pacific? That's just a stop on the way to the worms?”

“And tomatoes, Mama!” Miranda held up a tomato, from which she had sucked all the juice. It sagged in her grip. “We also get lots of juicy delicious tomatoes!”

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “The worm's a perfect being, really. It's a tube that eats and poops and makes more worms.”

I considered this for a moment. Silas wiggled on my lap. “Kiss,” he said, and I listened, kissing the top of his head.

It was gruesome but sort of comforting, this rule of the worm. Each day, when I opened the worm farm and tipped in coffee grounds and eggshells, half-eaten sandwiches and orange rinds,
their slithering tangles reminded me of where we would all end up. And until we're all cast, as Miranda would say, we get to suck the delicious tomatoes.

Miranda helped me pick whole baskets of tomatoes, and together we made liters of sauce, so we could taste their tangy sweetness year round. I learned how to identify nightshade and kill it, and Peter constructed a compost bin from old pallets. We drank rhubarb wine when Peter got home at night, and we strolled through the fields with a wheelbarrow, collecting manure for the garden.

Silas still staggered around with a faraway look in his eye, and once the move was over, I screwed up my nerve and wrote to his doctors. “I want to have a serious discussion about taking him off this medicine,” I told them. “My son is drooling and falling. It's not like him.”

“Sometimes these side effects can happen with these sorts of children,” the doctors wrote. “It may take us a while to adjust the dose.”

Reading this, I hit the Reply button. “Be that as it may,” I wrote, “I know my son. He might not talk much, but he doesn't drool. And he doesn't stumble and fall. I want him off those meds.”

And they listened. The neurologist wrote back, suggesting a schedule to wean him off his medicine. The first day we cut down his dose, he swiped his sister's DVD and clocked her over the head with it. Then, when I yelled at him, he hopped up and down, laughing.

“There's my boy,” I told Peter, my heart full of love and relief. “That's the midget ghoul I remember.”

With Peter away at work most of the day, I was in charge of the farm. I thought I'd be a hot mess without Rebecca there to help out, but caring for all those animals wasn't as hard as I'd expected. With irrigated water troughs and sturdy electric fencing, they didn't really
need much care. They strolled around contentedly, munching on grass and sunbathing in their wide-open paddocks.

It was starting to feel a little too easy. “What do you think about getting more animals?” I asked Peter one day. “We have all this land to keep them on.”

“No pigs,” Peter said emphatically, shuddering as he glanced down at his boots.

“I wasn't thinking about pigs,” I replied. “We don't have enough food to feed them, anyway, at least not until we can give them free milk from our cows.” I scrolled through the poultry section in the online farm listings, clicking on one that looked good. “How about ducks?”

“You mean
rapists
? Are you kidding me? What about the chickens?”

“This lady says her ducks are gentle. And they're Muskovies. So they'll be good for making pâté.”
And confit
,
I thought with delight. Confit is a delicious French health food in which meat is poached slowly in its own fat. My new fermentation lair had room for all kinds of medieval food projects. I might even try a DIY foie gras.

So on Saturday I drove out to pick up the ducks and came back with a mated pair in the trunk of my car. These Muskovies were surprisingly elegant birds. Their feathers weren't white but linen, oyster, and ecru, shades as subtly nuanced as a high-fashion bridal gown. And since they had each other to mate with, I didn't think they'd bother my hens.

But they did make us nervous. To begin with, these ducks had claws. “You'll have to hold them close when you pick them up,” the lady told me as she loaded them into my car. “Else they'll scratch you like a feral cat.”

And then there was the matter of the quack. Muskovies, I soon
learned, don't. No cute little quacking bird sounds for these ducks. Instead, when they came over to greet us, they hissed like venomous snakes. Baby ducklings aside, I wasn't sure I'd done the right thing by adopting them.

“What should we call them?” I asked Miranda. “I was thinking Confit and Pâté.”

“No, that's not their names,” she informed me. She was wearing her favorite Snow White dress; these days she never took it off. The yellow tulle skirt was tattered and stained.

“It's not? What are their names, then?”

“That big one,” Miranda pointed to the drake, “is Daddy Yankee. And the girl one is Nicki Minaj.” Though Rebecca was gone, she'd left her mark. Our ducks would be named after a Puerto Rican pop star and a hip-hop diva from Queens.

Hearing his new name, Daddy Yankee waddled over to Miranda, hissing and puffing his feathers. I hustled Miranda out of the chicken run before he could try any funny business.

But the ducks seemed placid enough, and it was time to start planning a housewarming party. “What are we going to serve?” Peter asked. “You can't do sheep on a spit.”

Skin had been the designated sheep roaster of Purua, and it felt too soon to replace him. “That's all right,” I said. “We'll do something American. Ham glazed in Coca-Cola. We'll freak them all out.”

The day of the party was gray and humid, with scattered showers all afternoon. But most of our friends turned out, rolling up the curving driveway and parking in our gravel courtyard. Abi and Zane brought honey from their bees, and a frightening chutney that Abi's mother had made fifteen years ago. Sophia and Bill brought a pretty silk bag containing a selection of gourmet sauces and jams. Maris and Nova brought a calf skull that they'd boiled especially for
me and then decorated with twisted forks and peacock feathers. They held it out shyly, the cutlery swinging morbidly from the bones.

“I
love
it,” I told them, kissing them both. “Maybe I'll make it into a hat.”

Lish arrived with her daughter Amber. It was a warm night, but she had a shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. “How've you been?” I asked, hugging her. “You're not moving away, are you?”

“Pfff.” Lish waved her hand dismissively. “I won't lie, it's not been easy. But people ask if I'm leaving, and I say, ‘Why would I? I'm not here because of Skin. This is my home.'”

“Yeah,” I poured a glass of homemade cider and gave it to her. “Sneaks up on you, doesn't it?”

“I'll give you a day of free gardening!” sang a merry voice, and I turned to see Maria stride in with John, holding up a bowl of her broad beans with fresh dill and feta. John made his way to the corner with the men, nursing a beer and looking stern.

“John?” I asked him shyly. “Do you think you would help me carve the ham?”

John actually looked grateful for something to do, and I followed him out to the kitchen. “Thanks for doing the crutching for Cou-Cou and Ba,” I ventured. “Were there really maggots in there?”

“Yep,” he said matter-of-factly, not looking up from the ham.

I shuddered, thinking of the ass I'd almost licked.

“Not too bad, though. Meat's still good. Where d'you want this ham?”

I handed him a platter, then asked, “So, when can we . . . you know . . .”

“Yep?”

“Slaughter.”

“Ah, that. Could do it now, if you like. For the best yield, I'd wait a few months, May or June.”

“You doing sheep on a spit?” Autumn asked, coming to the kitchen for a glass. “Be tough without the master.”

“I know,” I admitted. “But I can learn. I'll get a book from the library.”

The party went late that night, till the cider was gone and the ham was devoured. The last guests to leave were Amanda and Nick, because Nick had Peter in a headlock and wanted to show him how to fight back. They carried out their youngest daughters wrapped in blankets, while Sophie stumbled along behind them.

“Shall we check on the ducks?” I asked Peter, offering him my hand.

“You know, Hamish never showed up,” I mentioned, as we made our way outside. “I put an invitation in his mailbox. Maybe he hates me after all.”

“No.” Peter shook his head. “It was never about you. He's a dairy farmer. He works seven days a week, from four in the morning until night. He's always covered in cow shit. He's just tired.”

We strolled out in the moonlight, walking the short distance through the orchard to the henhouse, where the chickens were all fast asleep. And there, in the middle of the chicken run, sat the two ducks, curled around each other for warmth. They looked up curiously when we entered.

“They are kind of cute,” Peter admitted.

“And to be fair, Quackers the rapist only turned mean when his mate died,” I pointed out. “He was lonely.”

“And it was ten years ago.”

“Still.” I pointed a finger at the two of them. “Try any funny business with my chickens, you two, and I'll kill you and render your fat. Then poach you in your own juices.”

The ducks were unimpressed. Daddy Yankee looked up and hissed.

I tried again. “And then I'll feed your bones to the worms.”

Nicki Minaj got up, waggled her tail, and pooped a green turd on the ground. Then the two of them waddled to the far end of the chicken run, where they settled down to sleep in the bushes.

“Oh, fine,” I snapped. “Walk away. Go to sleep. Make yourself at home, why don't you?”

Peter kissed me on the neck. “Why not?” he asked. “We have.”

S
ix weeks after we took Silas off his epilepsy medicine, he was playing quietly in the living room when he had another seizure. This time Peter had to pinch him on the arm to wake him up. We went in to see the pediatrician and discuss putting him on new medication.

“There are two options,” Dr. Osei told us, “and both, unfortunately, have side effects. One of the drugs has a sedative effect, and the other one could result in a rash.”

“The rash sounds good,” Peter commented. “I mean, does it just look bad?”

“Well”—the doctor shrugged his shoulders—“he would need to come to hospital. The sores can burst, you see, and the skin begins to slough off. Then there can be infections.”

Apart from his wonderful hugs, nothing is easy with Silas. But given the choice between those two options, we decided to preserve Silas's cognitive abilities as much as possible. We went with the risk of infected sores.

So far, it's worked out fine. No rash, no seizures, no drunken moaning, and Patrice reports that Silas is concentrating better in school.

Miranda, meanwhile, is doing a great job showing us how hard it can be to have a kid who
does
talk. Though not quite four, she has entered a belligerent teenager phase, characterized largely by slamming doors and screaming “
No!
” at the top of her lungs.

On the other hand, she's mostly cute. When she found a dead butterfly in our driveway one day, she decided she wanted to make a bed for it. We put a silk handkerchief in a plastic sandwich box, and I explained that when we make a bed for a dead thing, it's actually called a bier. So now, when we're out in public, Miranda will occasionally panic, tugging on my arm and demanding, “Mama, where is my
bier
?” This has won us some disapproving looks from passersby.

Autumn took over in January as the principal of Purua School, and while I know my kids have a teacher who's sweet, smart, and engaging, it also means we almost never get to see her. It turns out that running a one-room schoolhouse is a lot of work, and she doesn't have much time for strawberry wine.

Sophia hasn't retired, but she did move on to work as assistant principal at the special-needs school in town. She loves the job, and it's comforting to know she's there. If someday Silas does need to enroll at that school, I know he'll be in good hands.

Amanda, Nick, and their family continue to thrive. Nick is teaching self-defense classes in the community, so we'll all be safer when the zombie apocalypse hits.

Zane likes to come over at night and shoot possums with Peter—possums are an aggressive pest in New Zealand, and killing them is considered a national service—but Abi won't have any part of it. She's not a big fan of guns.

Maria's trying to get me to join her amateur rugby league, but I had to explain that I'm a nerd and I don't play games with balls. “Except Peter's,” she quipped, and I had to concede the point.

Katya and Derek came back from Germany, and they were unimpressed with the state of their carpet. We wrote them a big check and apologized, and they're starting to forgive us.

I don't see Hamish that often, now that we've moved and we're not over at his house begging for free milk every day, but I do sometimes glimpse him in his paddocks, working his cows. He always waves to me, and sometimes I even get a nod.

Lish's daughter Amber decided to move back home with her mother for now. The first time I met her, she took my breath away. She has her mother's beauty, long wavy hair, and her father's eyes—their kindness and warmth. As far as I can tell, her soul is as gentle as her dad's, and she's training to coach sports for kids, both able-bodied and with special needs.

A month or so after Skin died, Autumn and Amanda went out and bought a hand-carved trophy, made from kauri with a paua shell inlay. It's now the “Skin Anderson Award” for Purua School, given annually to the child who is the hardest worker—and, presumably, who knows how to roast a sheep on a spit.

All our animals are all still with us. Soon after we moved to the new house, Peter built a play structure for Pearl and her babies, a tower some twelve feet high, which they're still trying to conquer. There's a slide for them, too, made from a long sheet of corrugated tin. So much more fun than a car! (And much, much easier on the windshields.)

Peter is still casting about for fantastic business ideas. His latest plan is to buy beehives and sell off all the honey. This should result in chaos, bee stings, and confusion—which is exactly the way we like things around here.

We still love our new home, especially sitting on the deck at sunset, sipping our homemade wine while looking out at the distant hills, the stands of gum trees and the pine forests. My only complaint is that it's so big—with five paddocks and just ten livestock—that we hardly ever see our animals.

So I'm pretty sure we'll be paying a visit to Gay and Mike soon, to stock up on new racist zombie alpacas. I'll have to figure out how to inseminate Cinnamon and Lil' Lady, either by getting a bull up here or (gasp!) donning full-length gloves and doing it myself, artificially. And as for Pearl, Moxie, and Stripe, I think they're about due for a visit to Love Mountain.

Antonia Murphy
Purua, Whangarei
New Zealand
April 2014