We are suckers. There was a little goat who had a bad leg. She was cute and made little happy goat sounds.
So now we have a goat. He name is Oopsy Daisy, because that’s what I said when I put her in her cage and she promptly fell down.
I think I hit peak Cottage Core last night when we brought her home. I was in a handmade Dottie Angel calico dress and work boots, bottle feeding a baby goat in our chicken yard.
…exactly what I expected when I went to law school. Or what the Husband expected when he got his PhD, and was looking seriously at post docs in Paris.
Meeting Lou for the first time.
Being fed. Once we figured out what we were doing.
Now we are Goad’s Goat Farm!
The husband took some pictures of our bees. He’s better than I am.
Well, we made a decision to try to sell our wares at the farmers’ market. We don’t want to commit to every week, but we have sufficient excess that we can try to sell.
The first thing we had to do was get a sales tax number, which meant a federal employer identification number. It’s a whole lot easier to do this now that you can do it online. Weird ply, you can’t over the weekend, which makes me visualize a dude at the end of some Rube Goldberg machine typing in a number.
On Wednesday we released the queen from her box. It’s amazing to me the difference in how we interact with the bees between the first year and this year.
The first year we started at panicked, and it went downhill from there. This year, we both wanted to wear just the jacket, and I even took off my gloves for pictures.