Humidity, Muffin Tops, and the Forest Mafia
It’s been raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock for days. The Cherokee National Forest gets up to 85 inches of rain a year, and that cool-looking smoke that gave the Smokies their name hangs around, dripping out 25–50% of that annual rainfall. They’re called cloud forests, and while I’d rather be caught in the rain than after it, neither is much fun. Once the sun pops out, the humidity is unbearable — I start sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat.
Everything stays a little damp this time of year, but all that moisture does make the forest an epic place for mushroom hunting. I’ve found some really cool ones out here, and I haven’t died from eating them yet, so I guess I’m doing alright.
Since the weather’s kept me inside, I’ve been baking — bagels, cookies, you name it. My butt will thank me later when I’m trying to zip my muffin top into jeans. I put on a pair Tuesday to meet a friend for lunch, and besides being a little tight (thanks, tacos), I realized I didn’t even like how they felt. I’ve been living in shorts and yoga pants since I quit working, and now “real clothes” feel foreign.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t be caught dead in yoga pants in public. Now? As long as my shirt covers my ass, I’m good. I did buy a couple of skirts, but only one has pockets — and I need pockets for my pocket knife and rocks. I don’t even know what kind of shirts go with skirts. In my younger years I wouldn’t have been caught dead in one, so I’m inexperienced. At this rate, I can see myself rocking a muumuu in the near future just because it’s easy and it makes my lady bits happy to be free.
Anyone else on Team Don’t Wanna Wear Pants Anymore?
Last weekend we went to the First Monday Sale in Morristown. It was our first time, even though we’ve lived here for over a decade. Hundreds of vendors were peddling everything from used shoes to baby pigs. Some folks didn’t take great care of their animals, and it seemed like nobody was checking, which was hard to see. But most looked healthy, and we came home with one male and five female Coturnix quail. (We think.)
Big shoutout to my husband, who turned an old beehive stand into a “quailiary” in no time flat. I wish I could build like that, but I’m more of a “measure once, cut twice” kind of girl. None of my creations should house living things. I can paint, though — so the quailiary is now a Pepto-Bismol shade of pink. We paint everything, because around here if you don’t, the rain rots wood fast. And we always buy the discount “oops” paint, which means our stuff looks like a rainbow threw up on it.
The quail themselves? Honestly… a little weird. The rooster shuffles back and forth making soft sounds, while the females just hang around the food and water. They’ve got a sandbox they like to bathe (and poop) in. They’re quieter than chickens, eat less, and so far, haven’t laid a single egg. Maybe they’re still adjusting, but the rooster hasn’t crowed once. More updates as I get to know these strange little birds.
No one is more interested in the quail than Anoah, our smallest cat and most chaotic hunter. He was labeled “unadoptable” at the shelter because he was so mean, but here he is, living his best indoor/outdoor gremlin life.
He doesn’t let me pick him up, but if I sit down, he tries to climb up inside my shirt. (Creepy little cat perv? Or just likes warmth?) He’s been known to go after the chickens, so I know he’s plotting on the quail. Earlier this summer, he had a field day with the locusts. Unfortunately, his version of fun involved dragging them into the house while they screamed. He’s also brought in stunned birds that “unstunned” and flew around the house like planes on fire. I like birds, but not when they come dive-bombing me. I’ve seen The Birds. I like my eyes right where they are.
So yeah — meet Anoah. Tiny but mighty, and occasionally horrifying.
On the chicken front, hatching has been rough. Only one chick made it out of the incubator this round. Poor Alfredo was lonely, so Dennis bought him some $7 companions from Rural King. Prices have doubled since a few years ago, so hatching our own is definitely cheaper — once we figure out a better incubator and, well, get another rooster.
Which brings me to the sad news: Rooney, the ugliest rooster in the world, is no more. An unknown member of the forest mafia smoked him. One minute I heard a commotion, the next Pebbles was tearing into the woods, and that night Rooney never came home to roost. RIP, ugly dude. May your ginger, half-naked-necked son carry on your legacy.
In the meantime, since the quail aren’t laying eggs yet, Dennis found 30 quail eggs online for five bucks. They could be nine years old for all I know, but into the incubator they went. We’ll see if any hatch. With my luck, all 30 will and I won’t know what to do with them!
On a brighter note, I just started growing lion’s mane and pink oyster mushrooms. Fingers crossed for some fruiting bodies soon. If all goes well, I’ll have extras — holler if you want some shrooms!
So, what’s it like where you are? Is it raining? Are you as ready for cooler weather as I am? Don't forget to subscribe to my newsletter if you want to keep getting updates. You can always unsubscribe if you get tired of my shit. The power of impermanence! 💥