Quail, Chaos, and Questionable Life Choices

And just like that… November is almost gone.
When I got back from Arizona it was cooler, but not as cool as I expected. Honestly, the weather has been downright delightful. It doesn’t really get balls-cold here until January, but winter is definitely here: I have to fight the dogs every morning to get them to go outside and pee. They’re like, “Nah, it’s fine, ma. I’ll just hold it until the sun shines again.”

I love how quiet it gets this time of year. Everything just shuts the hell up and slows down for a bit. Our walks, though, are anything but quiet — we crunch through fallen leaves sounding as graceful as a herd of drunken buffalo. Soon the rain will soak the leaves into a mushy carpet, and we’ll be back in stealth mode.

Bear hunting season is over until December, thank god. I’m not against people hunting for meat, but most of these guys are out for trophies. You can tell. They tear up and down these one-lane roads with their dogs baying from those shiny aluminum boxes bolted to their squeaky, rusty, gas-and-shit-scented trucks. During hunting season, I try to wait until later in the day to walk the dogs so we don’t get run over by Elmer Fudd in his rocket mobile chasing that whaskilly wabbit.

The girls know to step off the road when we hear a hunter coming. The orange-clad, bearded ones usually wave and only stop if they’re looking for a lost dog. I’ve had hunting dogs run right up on us, weird alien halo gear blinking, like we were the prize. I give them a snack and they usually follow me around until their rust bucket shows up to collect them. Hunting dogs always look starving. Do they starve them? I’m told no — they’re just thin, high-metabolism hounds. Same goes for me; I just try to stay ahead of the curve with adequate amounts of tacos and beer. It’s a struggle, but I manage.

My biggest gripe is the trash they leave. Why? Why do people throw trash out their window anywhere, especially in the woods? One asshole dumped full cans of paint, stain, even bottles of muriatic acid. The free dump is less than two miles away. What the actual fuck? Dennis was thrilled to help me pick it up this weekend. There was a box with a guy’s name and address in the pile, so I called the sheriff’s department. As expected, they won’t do anything because they can’t prove he dumped it. I suggested they at least call the guy or swing by to scare him a little. The deputy politely said that’s not how their department operates. I politely said maybe it should be. It pisses me off that people can do shit like that and get away with it. I wonder how many bodies have been disappeared out there.

The Quail Chronicles

The quail are still pegging out on the weirdo meter. At night they make noises like bullfrogs — well, bullfrog-ish, just not as loud or froggy. One of the babies in the Pepto Bismol Palace escaped into the woods and was never seen again. They blend right into the fall colors. I’m choosing to believe it found a nice quail family, joined their covey, and now lives happily ever after, uneaten by the forest mafia.

We’re getting about six quail eggs a day, which adds up fast. I’ve made all kinds of weird shit with them: quail egg mayo (“quailo”), Scotch eggs (baked, because fried foods exit me at warp speed), and even salt-sugar cured yolks. That process was… involved.

I separated the yolks from twenty-something eggs and nestled them into little dips in a salt/sugar bed. After seasoning them, I buried those slimy suckers and stuck them in the fridge for four days… which turned into eight because they got shoved back into the place where foods go before ending up in the chicken bucket. I rinsed them off, dehydrated them for what should’ve been two hours but turned into five — because the dehydrator timer is broken and I forgot. Adulting is hard.

They came out looking like tiny butterscotch candies and somehow tasted like cheese. A civilized human might grate them over pasta or soup. My heathen ass pops them into my mouth and sucks on them like actual butterscotch, marveling at how weird it is to suck on an egg that tastes like cheese.

This is how my days are spent, friends.

The Dekker Peckers

We’re up to 18 chickens now, and I think we have three roosters. Spring is going to be interesting. All three are sons of Roony, the ugliest black cock in the world, who was tragically murdered by the forest mafia. They all look different.

Ginger Roony looks like Roony but bigger and ginger. Chicken Hawk, named after the little guy from the Foghorn Leghorn cartoons, struts around like he owns the place and has charmed the five young hens from the last hatch. The third rooster, Larry (of Three Stooges fame), hangs out with his two hens, Moe and Curly. Those three act like the Penguins of Madagascar — always up to something, popping up in weird places like the garage or the top of my car. I’m sure they’re planning something epic.

Larry has 2 ladies, Chicken Hawk has 5, and Ginger Roony has the 8 mature “ladies of the night.” As long as everyone sticks to their own clique, fine. But if someone bonks someone else’s girlfriend, it’s going to be on like Donkey Kong. Someone may end up at freezer camp. Ginger Roony has size on his side, but Chicken Hawk seems scrappy.

We have 3 males and 15 females. In the colder months the hens lay fewer eggs. We are getting two a day probably because the days are shorter, but I prefer the visual explanation that their egg holes contract from the cold and nothing can pass until the sun shines upon that chicken booty again.

The Great Smoky Mountain Almost-Death Experience

I went hiking with a friend in the Smokies and almost died. My first mistake was walking the dogs before a 5.5-mile hike. I also did my hour of yoga. So I basically pre-gamed the hike. My second mistake: not eating breakfast. I never eat breakfast, so it didn’t even occur to me, but still — dumb.

The weather was perfect. We saw hardly any people. The trail info said 600-ish feet of elevation gain, which is nothing compared to my morning dog walks. But about two hours in, I got hangry. Luckily this fat kid brought snacks.

This was the most unmaintained trail I’ve ever been on in that park — climbing over and under fallen trees, through pokey vines, across loose rock creek beds. No blazes. Leaves covering everything so the trail just looked like forest. And since I have the sense of direction of a concussed pigeon, I relied entirely on my friend and AllTrails. She said we were still on the path, so we kept following the little line until we finally reached the Rock House.

It really is impressive that it’s still standing and that people once hauled all those rocks up there, while I bitched about carrying a water bottle and some snacks.

The hike down was faster, and we rewarded ourselves with pizza and drinks. I don’t know if it was the scrambling or just doing too much in one day, but that last half mile was rough. I hike slow, but I get there — even if I complain the whole way.

Death, Burials, and Pie

I’ve been reading about planning your own funeral and green burials. We have a hill where our pets are buried, and I’m hoping if I play my cards right I can be planted right there with them. And yes — I will absolutely haunt these mountains.

Tonight I’m making Ben’s Pie, my dad’s favorite. Graham cracker crust, cream cheese filling, and a sour-cream-vanilla-sugar topping. Basically like a cheesecake. I’m looking forward to the food and the company tomorrow.

What are your plans? Do you have a dish that always shows up on your Thanksgiving table?