The Farmer Goes to A Fine Restaurant

Last night, the Husband and I had dinner reservations at our favorite restaurant.

In the late afternoon, I had finished up all the animal chores, except I hadn't tucked in the chickens for the night. So when we left for the restaurant, the Husband kindly offered to lock up the chickens.

It was dark, and he slipped on the muddy slope down to the chicken shack. Luckily he didn't fall down.

After being seated at the restaurant, the Husband quietly reported that he could see that he had tracked in a lot of mud. We sat there discussing if we should do something when the waiter arrived table side, squatted down, and wordlessly swept up the mud into a dustpan.

The Husband commented on how embarrassing it was to have a waiter sweep up around him BEFORE he started eating.

I responded that it was even more embarrassing to be caught tracking chicken poop into an expensive restaurant.

Just another episode in our tres elegant French life.

Update on Fish Farmer

Read the following post about the fish arriving before you read this one.

So it wasn't a half-an-hour after I put up the post about the fish stocking in the mill pond, when the phone rang. It was the fish farmer. He apologized for calling; but said he realized after he left that the Husband didn't give him enough money.

He thought the Husband had given him 195 Euros instead of the 155. So they had a good laugh and the Husband agreed to bring the 40 Euros difference to the market next week.

The Fish

The fish finally arrived yesterday.

Back in July, at the local outdoor market, I met a man who raises fish. I returned home and suggested to the Husband that he stock our mill pond with trout. During the drought a couple of years ago, the giant Blue Herons finished off all the fish and flew off, never to return.

If I were honest, I'd admit that I really wanted the fish stocked so that the Blue Herons would return. They're magnificent birds and I found great pleasure in watching them perch in the trees on the edge of the woods every morning, scouting for their breakfast.

The Husband went into the village for the next market and struck up a conversation with the fish farmer and was quite intrigued to discover that one could also purchase Grass Carp from this man. The Husband was vexed all summer by a major growth of plants in our mill pond. The vegetation was ugly, looking nothing like Monet's ponds. The Husband had even tried dredging but that didn't work.

So, the Husband ordered a few Grass Carp. But the Grass Carp and the trout never arrived. Every time the Husband or I ran into the fish farmer, he had some excuse. One time, he told us that the carp he had saved for us were dead!

When the Husband returned from the United States in early December, he went to the market; and I guess the fish farmer, finding business slow in the winter months, told the Husband that he'd be delivering trout and Grass Carp at the end of the year.

The fish farmer had quoted the Husband a price of 235 Euros. But the Husband forgot the delivery date and didn't have enough cash on hand. Scrounging through the house for Euros, the Husband came up with 155 and told the farmer he'd bring the rest to him on market day. The farmer was in a good holiday spirit and said, "That's good enough. Have a good new year."

Here's the New Lamb!

We named her Isabill . . . after the housesitting couple that was here during her birth.