Tis the (next) season

Our garden teacher not only knocks herself out designing this soul-feeding program for our kids, she also has kids of her own.  And not just the two with whom she lives (off the grid, by the way, growing their own food, generally showing the rest of us how unnecessarily comfortable our lives are).  As for the others, well, I guess since they are sheep, not goats, they are lambs, not kids.
 

It’s lambing season, the stresses of which I only vaguely recall from my teenage reading of All Creatures Great and Small, a Yorkshire country vet’s account of his years stumbling around barns extracting stuck lambs from their mothers.  The whole venture gives me a sense of wet wool steaming in the cold, and wobbly legs.  (And since I was a midwife for a time, bright red afterbirth as well.)  

So the garden is fallow, we have a break from garden class for a few more weeks, and T is home on her land with the lambs, receiving field trips of wide-eyed school children yearning for a glimpse of a fresh-made baby animal.  There’s nothing like new life to start a new year off right.  We’ll hope for rain, and let this year take a few more weeks to get its wobbly legs working right.

And I will refrain from providing even one recipe for rack of lamb.