Last night, I had a dream that I had my very own farm. At least, I assume it was a farm since there were chickens running all over the place. It must be all that research into the Eat Local Challenge that’s keeping my mind loyally tuned in well into the night. Are you sure that the farms have enough food to feed my family for a whole month? Really, really sure?
I have no illusions about what it must be like to run a farm. The sheer number of daily chores seems daunting to someone who barely managed to make her own bed growing up in order to earn her weekly allowance (sadly, I’m no longer offered an allowance; thus, the bed remains unmade).
In every interview with a farmer I’ve ever read, there’s always talk about the hard physical labor involved with working the land, but how “rewarding” it is in the end. But, see, I know what that’s code for, because I use that term myself to describe raising children. Sometimes, you just have to suck it up and lie in the bed you made (or, in my case, the shitty unmade bed I referenced earlier).
These days, the dream of operating your own personal farm has the same cachet that opening your own restaurant seemed to have circa 2000. Only, without the drugs and the glory. And with the added bonus of a 4 a.m. wakeup call. So, I’m a little bit less likely to run off and open my own farm as I am to open my own restaurant. Which is to say, not anytime short of never. Other bloggers already have that covered, anyway.
I’m perfectly content to sit back and let the chickens perform their own barnyard version of the Chicken Dance in my increasingly pathetic dreams. Come to think of it, it wasn’t so much that I saw chickens in my dream as I saw feathers flying all around. And maybe they were just coming from my down comforter.