Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  Adding to this feeling of living in “vacation land” is the fact that I actually am on vacation. This is the first summer in more years than I can recall that I haven’t worked.

  Every morning Hemingway takes off to bush hog, corral escaped cattle, mend fences, and generally tackle a variety of farm tasks too numerous to contemplate, and I sit here making my own grand plans for my day: take the kids to the schoolyard to shoot hoops while I sun myself and read; or take the kids to a movie while I sit in the parking lot, sun myself, and read; or take the kids to pick blueberries while I sun myself, read, and occasionally say helpful things like “Only the purple ones, please,” “Here’s another bucket to fill,” and “You missed that bush over there.”84

  But whatever I select, you can be sure that as soon as I’m sunning myself and reading, my cell will ring and Hemingway will unfurl a list of honey-dos that kill my vacation buzz faster than the kids tear through toys on Christmas morning.

  What’s an escape-minded mom to do? Recently I’ve designated one day a week Reality Day. On that day and that day alone I make myself Clean Sweep at warp speed, do the laundry, and change the sheets.85

  Next, I jump in the car and replenish the kids’ supply of cookies, Hemingway’s supply of Budweiser, and the dogs’ supply of Milk Bones. In fact—if I may digress for just a few moments—I just returned from my weekly foray to Food Lion, and have only one question: Why would anyone name a supermarket Food Lion?

  Up north we had ShopRite. Now, that I get. It’s the “right” place to do your food shopping. And we had Stop & Shop. I get that, too. You stop and shop and you’re outta there. But here we have Food Lion, where, it sounds to me, you’re supposed to kill your own dinner like the king of the jungle.

  I imagine one day I’ll walk in and be greeted by Ginger, one of Food Lion’s lovelies, with her seventy-five cute cat pins plastered to the front of her perky polo shirt, her hair in a ponytail so tight it’s a wonder she doesn’t suffer an aneurysm right there in the aisle, and she’ll say, “Welcome to Food Lion! Today is Kill Your Own Chicken Day! Kill one, get a dozen eggs and a frying pan FREE!”

  That would certainly be a more entertaining way to spend $188, which is what I just coughed over for snacks, vegetables, cereals, soups, and one seriously frozen Perdue broiler. I can hear my mom now. “How did you spend so much and not get any meat?” Maybe because I didn’t shop at Giant.

  Giant is the other supermarket chain in this neck of the woods, and from what I’ve read in the local rags, its claim to fame is that it stocks deer.

  See what you suburbanites are missing? You’ve just got poultry and beef, and they’re already belly-up, aren’t they? You need to do your food shopping in the country, where it’s low-key and laid-back, and deer stroll unimpeded through the automatic doors of a grocery store, make their way to the deli counter, and enjoy scraps of marbled ham and Muenster until Animal Control comes to collect them.

  This happened just last week at the Giant in Warrenton, when a deer actually entered the store. Was it sick and disoriented, or desperate to redeem some coupons before the expiration date? The story in the paper didn’t deal with the doe’s motivation, nor did it mention it was all that unusual.

  In New Jersey this would be a giant event and would probably give birth to a new ad campaign for the chain: GIANT SELECTION! GIANT SAVINGS! GIANT OPPORTUNITY TO GET UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH WILDLIFE!

  Obviously you can take the girl out of marketing, but you can’t take the marketer out of the girl.

  In addition to my dead chicken I also picked up paper plates. Don’t ask me why those weren’t in the house already. I think it has something to do with my new stay-at-home-mom status and delusions of making every meal a beautiful dining experience for my family. You know, the three men I live with who wouldn’t know if they were eating off china, paper, or plastic, or out of a box, bag, or wrapper. Maybe I should start serving all their meals in brown lunch bags. It’ll definitely make cleanup easier.

  If you think my “beautiful dining” idea is a doozy, you should have been around a few weeks ago when, in a sudden burst of delirium, I decided to guarantee my guys’ sweet dreams by ironing their sheets. To prove just how far gone I was, I actually shared my slip into Martha Stewart mania with my good friend Trish, who promptly replied, “The hell you are!” And then, like one of those professionally trained suicide hotline specialists, she kept me on the phone until the feeling passed, and made me promise to call her immediately if I should again begin to look longingly at my can of spray starch.

  Recent sheet-ironing thoughts and dining dementia aside, on Reality Day I also hit the bank, mail the bills, return books to the library and the DVDs and video games to the rental store,86 and either pick up or drop off the dry cleaning while ignoring Hemingway’s weekly “We live on a farm; why do we still have dry cleaning?” query. By late afternoon I’m back to fold and put away the clothes, which will be dirty again by the next day, water the plants, make dinner, clean up the kitchen, and force the kids, under penalty of premature death to the PlayStation, to shower, shampoo their hair, trim their nails, and evict the potatoes from their ears. My vegetable garden should be as bountiful as the ones in my boys’ heads.

  I should also mention that on Reality Day I do whatever Hemingway needs me to do. Pick up the summer-weight bib overalls he special ordered at Tractor Supply. Re-stock the supply of Deep Woods Off he practically drinks before every foray into the fields. Run to the gun shop for extra rounds for the rifle.87

  The next day is Recuperation Day, which begins with me in my comfy PJ shorts and T-shirt, cradling my coffee on the porch, progresses to iced tea and a nice nap in one of the Adirondack chairs in the backyard, often in the same spiffy outfit—believe me, the cows don’t care—and ends with a glass of chardonnay on the sofa while Hemingway mumbles something about which Netflix selection we should watch and the kids howl about not having been fed. (Hey, there’s a fridge full of food. Go pick something out!)

  The remaining five days are Relaxation Days, during which I try to act like I’m on vacation.

  The system works pretty well when Hemingway sticks to the program. But it completely collapses when he calls with an emergency honey-do and I wind up standing in the local hardware store, slick with coconut oil, surrounded by a bunch of contractor types, awaiting a gallon of primer or a length of PVC pipe he has to have now.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but you smell like a margarita,” remarks one of my fellow shoppers, a ruggedly good-looking gray-haired Marlboro man-type in his early sixties, with a tape measure attached to one Wrangler-clad hip, a cell phone on the other, and bigger biceps than the guys in Men’s Health.

  “Piña colada,” I reply. He looks at me over his gold-rimmed glasses. “I think you mean piña colada.” I add, helpfully, “I have on coconut oil.”

  He furrows his brow and turns to his pal. “Roy, there a beach around here somewhere?” “Nope,” Roy replies. He turns back to me. “Little lady, I think you’re lost.”

  He’s got that right. But eventually I’ll find some downtime, and when I do, I’m going to sun myself till I’m pink as the hogs Hemingway just helped one of our tenants bring home. The ones he wants help with. Now. How do I know? I’ve just slathered myself in Bain de Soleil (for the St. Tropez via Virginia tan), and of course my cell phone’s ringing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE CHICK IS IN THE MAIL

  I was at my desk, writing away, when I heard the phone ring, Hemingway’s mumbled response, and then the words “Susan, I’m leaving to pick up chicks.”

  Huh? I had no idea he was unhappy.

  Sure, I haven’t exercised since the last time I forced my staff at Family Circle to take a kickboxing class in my office, but come on, how about a little advance warning? I was about to go off the deep end and demand to know why we had to rehash the whole perimenopause potbelly business again when it dawned on me that he meant the chicks: the variety pack of twenty-six tiny pullets comi
ng via mail from McMurray’s Hatchery. The phone call was the post office telling him to come retrieve his poultry PDQ.

  You see, sometime last month Hemingway and Casey decided they need to raise chickens. Hemingway came to this conclusion because he “needs” to eat farm-fresh eggs; Casey because he “needs” an A in his agri-science class. Where does that leave me? Needing two Tylenol as I stand in Tractor Supply,88 helping Hemingway prep for the pul-lets’arrival by stocking up on heat lamps, a fifty-gallon tub, and “premier chicken feed,”89 and wondering how the hell I let my life take this bizarre turn.

  Under normal circumstances I’d have sent my husband to retrieve his bantys by himself, but it suddenly dawned on me that my own chick assortment—my Lucky Chick bath assortment—might have arrived, as well.

  Like Hemingway, I ordered my chick collection90 about a month ago. In fact it was the same day I finally had dead bolts installed on the bathroom doors. If it was at the post office, we’d all be happy: Hemingway and Casey with their Rhode Island Reds, and me with everything I could possibly need to languish with my loofah under lock and key.

  If I may digress for just a moment, I feel the need to explain why the dead bolt on the bathroom door business is a big deal to me. It stems from the fact that I’m relatively certain I’m the only woman in America who’s put up with lock-free bathroom doors for more than a dozen years. Oh, sure, when we lived in a brand-new condo in a town that will remain nameless but to me will always be known as the absolute armpit of New Jersey, the bathroom doors had locks. They had to. They were the only appeal the place had. But ever since then—in Ridgewood and now here in Upperville—I’ve lived lockless and at the mercy of the McMen who, when they need me, need me now.

  To be fair, I’m not talking about Hemingway. Having been a Marine, he’s got no problem honoring the honor system. I’m talking about the Boys Who Know No Boundaries to whom I gave birth. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing—brushing my teeth, taking a bath, trimming my toenails—they’re coming in. And so, after passively permitting company for everything from shaving my legs to, well, you know, for the past thirteen and a half years, I finally called a handyman to have locks installed. You might have thought I’d have done this during the whole Nate’s Place Remodeling Project, but creature of bad habits that I am, I did not. And you definitely would have thought that someone cancelled Christmas, the way my kids reacted to learning they’d no longer have unfettered access to Sue in the Loo. “You did what? Why?” they cried. Why? Because it’s time you guys learn about privacy and modesty, and because it really demonstrates a lack of breeding to have your mother breaking up fistfights while she’s sitting on the toilet bowl.

  In other, less descriptive, bathroom news, I recently dug out and dusted off our scale. Wonderful to see it again, as there seemed to be a tad bit less of me to love. I tried to verify this veritable miracle by stepping on the scale at my new gynecologist’s office, but no luck. According to hers, I should be on my way to Weight Watchers. According to mine, a day at Häagen-Dazs wouldn’t hurt me. Which weight do you think I’m going with?91

  Along with a brief discussion of weight loss—because there’s just not a lot to say about something that ain’t happening—and a more lengthy discussion about weight gain, I shared my belief that meals eaten while in a head-standshould force food to stay in my poor, deprived boobs and not pass Go, collect two hundred pounds, and assign them directly to my ass.

  The good doctor responded by giving me the phone number of a psychotherapist three doors down.

  I also mentioned the nonstop schvitzing I’m suffering from. She told me not to worry, it’s perimenopause and it will pass. In two to five years. Super. I get to spend the next sixty months sweating. And Hemingway gets to spend them in the smokehouse. Which is where he headed directly after hearing the diagnosis. There was something about the prospect of having the air-conditioning on full blast in February that frightened him.

  It didn’t frighten me, though. Instead it confirmed what I’ve known all along. That I’m one hot chick. And this hot chick deserves a nice, hot soak.

  “Wait for me!” I shouted as Hemingway started our huge silver pickup. He looked at me, smiling with surprise at my sudden decision to flee my desk and join him on his fowl foray. “I knew it. I knew you’d get into it,” he said, all pleased as punch with himself and patting me on the knee.

  Oh yeah, I’m into it. The tub, that is. Me, my Lucky Chick spa stuff, and the latest issue of In Style. It’s like having a hen party without the actual hens. Now, that’s farming counterfeit farm girl style. And that’s just the way I like it.

  Suzy’s Poultry-Ordering Primer

  Let’s say you’ve got a hankering for farm-fresh eggs and paying $20 a dozen at your gourmet grocer really ruffles your feathers. Then don’t do it. Simply order your own poultry via the U.S. Postal Service. Here’s how:

  1. Banish the idea that you need to live on a farm to have fowl. If you’ve got some free space on a rooftop, a patch of lawn, or a spare bedroom (if you can stand the aroma) you can raise your own egg layers.

  2. Pick up a copy of Backyard Poultry or log on to McMurrayHatchery.com. You can also search on “chicks by mail,” but I wouldn’t. Unless you really want books on women wearing chain mail or tips for ordering brides from Borneo.

  3. Determine your preferred chicken temperament. Do you want feisty hens that will peck at your designer heels but produce several eggs a day, or more docile breeds that lay less but will cuddle with your kids?

  4. What color is your capon? Sure, you can go with white, but maybe you’d like eggs that will match your eyes, purse, or the paint job on your house. Check out browns, blues, and greens (and you thought Dr. Seuss dreamt that stuff up). The options, like Neiman Marcus’s designer shoe department, are virtually endless.

  5. Equip yourself for success. You’ll need a coop, a water system, feed, scratch, and a few other particulars for your poultry. Hit Tractor Supply or McMurrayHatchery .com for the whole enchilada. Mmmmm. Chicken enchiladas. Bear those in mind for when your birds are past their egg-laying prime.

  6. Ignore your neighbors’ kvetching. Sure, they may not like your chicken coop in their gated community, but whip ’em up an omelet and not only will they stop squawking, they’ll start showing up with empty egg cartons and cold, hard cash. You’ll never turn a Perdue-size profit, but even minimal financial gains will keep you in facials.

  Chapter Sixteen

  BACKYARD POULTRY VS. PLAYBOY

  Living in the country means I never have to watch Hemingway read Playboy. I hated when it arrived in the mail in its slick silver-and-black wrapper, and then I’d go all Gloria Steinem on him. But these days I kind of miss that trashy tome, particularly since his new favorite publication is Backyard Poultry.

  Just like Playboy, there’s a hot chick on the cover and a multipage feature about this month’s feathered fantasy girl inside. Hemingway reads it and starts insisting our hens are hotter. Before I know it, I’m taking digital photos of our twenty-six divas and drafting a pitch letter92 in a bizarre attempt to support his desire to be the first hen-modeling magnate. I guess I shouldn’t complain. If he’s successful we’ll all be living high on the hog. I mean chick. Though now that I think of it, the hog-modeling business might have some merit.

  Thanks to a recent issue of this “Playboy for the pullet set,” Hemingway’s discovered the joys of bathing one’s birds. And I’m not talking about pulling one of my frozen Perdue fryers from the freezer and spritzing it with Fantastik. I’m talking about his desire to wash our chickens in warm water and shampoo, follow with a little conditioner, and finish off their “exclusive spa experience” with a pedicure, beak trim, and warm towel wrap.

  “You know, like people who show chickens do,” he says to me. People show chickens? Oh, dear God, what have I done to have been beamed so far from my planet? And who is this guy running off with my Paul Mitchell Awapuhi Shampoo and Conditioner and an armful of my fluffy Fieldcre
st Cannon towels?

  If that’s not bad enough, he wants my help. I’m finally paroled from giving the boys baths, and now he thinks I’m going to join him in pampering the poultry. I don’t know why. It’s not like we’re going to enter the birds in a beauty contest. The only things they compete for is to see which one of them can peck my feet to death fastest; snatch the most food from my kids’ hands; and destroy more petunias, impatiens, and begonias in the window boxes.

  I don’t know how many times I need to explain to Hemingway that his job is to experience farm life. Mine is to survive it. And trust me, if I’m forced to sponge bathe even one of those birds I’ll be the only one left alive.

  In addition to “making the hens happy with a warm bath,” he’s begun talking about making our own poultry feed “because it’s better for the flock.” I have barely any interest in shopping for and making our meals, which can only be considered organic if Stouffer’s grows its frozen, family-size lasagna out in a field, yet for some reason Hemingway’s convinced I’m eager to join him in gathering earthworms, seeds, slugs, and innumerable other slimy dirt dwellers.

  Will someone please tell me when Tractor Supply, the Saks of the sticks, fell out of favor for such essentials?

  I swear, if I have to hear one more time about bathing the birds, producing our own organic poultry feed, the tricks to deciphering chicken talk, and the joys of making chicken-feather pillows to give as gifts,93 I’m going to make one and try it out over his face. I’m sure I won’t be the first farm wife accused of killing her bird-bathing, feed-making husband. And I’m also sure no jury of my peers will convict me. Particularly if I plead insanity. His.