We stayed up too late last night,” I said to Buck.
“Yep. 12:30,” he replied, “and the dump trucks will be coming with more clay for the foundation no later than seven in the morning.”
“Yeah, I know, I kept you up too late. But usually, you’re the one who keeps me up too late.”
“True,” he said. “But I’ve been doing it too much lately, and it’s caught up with me.”
“I’ll come on to bed in a few minutes,” I said, “but first, I’ve got to put my chickens on line.”
Here they are — two roasted; half sent home with a friend passing through, and the rest mixed in with sauteed celery and onion and a light cream sauce over sage-scented cornbread for a second meal, accompanied by an eggplant casserole and raggedy ripe peach halves. Not great, but pretty good for a work-a-day supper.
The first night, stuffed with an entire head of garlic, sliced crosswise, plus half a lemon and a bunch of thyme plucked from outside, the chickens are resting on a bed of thickly sliced onions, with carrots and small potatoes scattered about.
Leftovers among the home building ideas and files.
Morning will come early. Sweet dreams.