Don't Talk, Sniff

Cleaning the barn yesterday and hauling a couple of buckets of poo out to the dung heap, I thought, as I have before, how fortunate it is that goat manure has no smell, unlike that of horse and cattle.  Raking up the roly-poly pellets, I remembered my mother.  I'll explain.  Once upon a time long, long ago when I was a child, there was no Disneyland and no television.  California did not have any freeways.  I know that's hard to believe now.  I would say that travel took longer then, but there were not the traffic jams, either, so it's probably a wash.  My family spent a lot of time at the beach, and the one road to get there went by the Bandini fertilizer plant with mountains of manure piled high.  Sprinklers kept the piles wet and cooled down, as cow and horse dung will generate considerable heat and can combust.  Inevitably, as we passed Bandini my mother would say, "Don't talk, sniff!"  Like an idiot, I would, catching a whiff of noxious fumes, and I did it every time.  That's enough potty talk.

Cam called yesterday, saying she was on her way to Folsom to shop and asking if I needed anything.  While I rarely to never change the Thanksgiving menu, I've had it in my mind that Brussels sprouts would be a good addition.  They are delicious when roasted, nothing like the soggy little boiled cabbages of my childhood.  Cam said, "You can make my mother's recipe (it must have been Mother's Day) with pancetta and fontina cheese!"  That sounded good to me and I added them to the list.  Not only did Camille do my shopping (yay!), when she delivered the goods, she brought California Roll sushi for dinner.  It's been years, more than I care to count, since I've had sushi and I love it!  In the words of my mother, "Don't talk, eat!"

It was a good day.