soup nose

1/7/2017-1/9/2017 Soup-Nose The Goat has some swelling under her jaw. We suspect bottlejaw (fluid retention caused by anemia). Anemia in goats is usually a parasite issue, so we wormed her, and I drove to the hippie feed store and bought some of the fancy organic sweetfeed to try and convince her to eat a bunch of delicious nutrition. Even Soup Nose’s Olympic-class food fussiness is no match for sweetfeed.

Sweetfeed is made of corn, molasses, oats, various trace vitamins, and tiny shavings from a shining blue meteor that landed in the Darkhad Valley in Mongolia in 1953. The workers who harvest the meteor cover their ears so they can’t hear it singing to them.

Sweetfeed smells amazing. I have genuinely considered cooking it like oatmeal and eating it myself. My google history is full of searches for cornflake and molasses cookies, gingerbread cornmeal cookies, something, anything. Internet forums are thronged with people wondering how to make moonshine out of it. It smells like molasses and raisins and cornbread and coming home to the family you never knew you had after a long time wandering in the dusty dark between worlds.

We have to keep a brick on top of the bin with sweetfeed in it, because otherwise the feral cats sneak into the barn and eat it. 

The cats try to eat goat food.

(Seriously. I tell a lot of lies on this blog. That is not one of the lies. It’s uncanny stuff.

Also, if you know any recipes that involve molasses and cornflakes, please send them to me, the smell is driving me mad.)

Life is a Soup Bowl

I am drowning in a soupçon
of a flood of emotions:
cayenne peppery anger,
salty lachrymose,
gingery guilt,
chunky disillusionment,
oniony restlessness,
and smouldering in the steam
of my own bad taste.

Plus Size Queen

A/N: This was requested by the lovely @secretlittledelights  I sincerely hope you like this, love! It was a delight doing this! Let me know if you want me to re do it for you, sorry if it’s terrible! Enjoy! 

Word Count: 776 

Warnings: Angst? Fluff? Rudeness. Dickhead Doctor. Plus size discrimination subtly. 

You groaned as you sat in the small crowded doctor’s waiting room, people coughing and sneezing and blowing their nose, just like you.

You’d come down with a cold, due to the freezing temperatures and scatterings of snow and rain. You’d been staying in bed, resting, keeping warm, all week. Watching tv, drinking tea, eating soup, blowing your nose, taking medicines. Nothing seemed to work.

So, here you were. Sam had practically dragged you into the doctors, demanding you be seen to possibly get some better medicine to help and just to make sure you were okay.

Two mother’s with their children went into the two doctors offices, and then you heard the door open and your name being called. Sam held you close as you both got up and walked into the clean pristine room. You both sat down in the chairs, and the doctor looked at Sam, then you, and you knew instantly the look he was giving you. You’d seen it many times before.

The doctor’s voice was clipped as he spoke. “So, what seems to be the problem? Are you having trouble with your weight?”

Wow, right off the bat, that was a first, but not very surprising. You instantly felt Sam tese, and you rubbed soft circles on his hand to soothe him, giving a polite smile to the doctor as you sniffled, your nose red and sore, voice slightly rough and nasally.

“I have a cold, and it hasn’t gone in a while, I’ve tried everything, we thought it was best coming here”

The doctor nodded and silently got up, checking your breathing, your ears, looking at your tonsils, then weighing you on the scales. Sam looked confused at that, but stayed silent as you sat back down, holding your hand, kissing it softly, looking at the doctor as he typed on his computer before looking at you, his eyes cold, voice rude and sour.

“Have you considered dieting? Have you tried exercising more, eating healthy? You can get personal trainers, go to classes, get meal plans. Perhaps a medication of some sort to help reduce weight would be best?”

And that’s when Sam lost it. If it was one thing he couldn’t deal with, it was people being assholes because of how you looked. You were plus size. You were used to this sort of thing. But, to him, you were an angel. So perfect. And it was his instinct to knock anyone out who said otherwise.

When Sam spoke his voice was a deadly tone, one you recognised from hunts. His body was upright, tensed, and his eyes were burning on the doctor.

“That’s got nothing to do with the fact she has a cold. She’s sick, her weight is fine, how about you do your job and give her something to help her get better than worrying about anything else.”

Sam’s nostrils were flared, his fists clenched, and you sat speechless, watching, still holding on to Sam in case he lost his temper and knocked the doctor out cold.  

The tall, lanky, grey haired doctor looked frightened in his seat, practically cowering at the sight of this deadly hunter. Nodding quickly, stuttering, he turned to his computer, typing with trembling fingers.

“O-Of course, I was just, I-I’ll get a medication, some antibiotics and medicine to take that s-should help with in a at least week”

He quickly gave you your prescription, not even making eye contact, and Sam grabbed it, practically hauling you out the building.

When you were by the car, he was cupping your face and kissing you, passionately, pouring every single ounce of love he had for you into it, his strong, big, warm arms wrapped around your body as he held you close, his lips scattering kisses over your cheeks and face.

“I’m sorry, baby. He’s a fucking asshole okay? Don’t pay any mind. You are perfect. My beautiful, perfect, sweet little angel. Never forget that. I’ll prove it to you tonight”

He winked down at you, kissing you softly again before helping you in the car, holding you in his lap as Dean drove back to the bunker, smiling when he saw you both cuddled up in the backseat.

You smiled, feeling content and happy. It was impossible to doubt yourself with Sam. He truly showed you how he saw you through his eyes. He taught you to love yourself.

You looked up at him, long hair, strong jaw, beautiful eyes, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

“I love you, Sam”

The smile he gave you back was enough to make your heart skip “I love you more, my beautiful queen” 


11/19 For about a week, I have been trying to solve the Mystery of the Unwelcome Bedtime. Soup-Nose will NOT go to sleep no matter what we do.

On an entirely unrelated note, about a week ago we finally gave up on finding another apple crusher and finishing this year’s cider. We started feeding the leftover apples to the goats. Also completely unrelatedly, Soup-Nose really likes the squishiest, brownest, most fermented apples. She just shoves her nose right into them. Splurch.

The Blue-Haired Girlfriend (who is definitely the brains of the operation) pointed out the obvious today: Soup-Nose won’t go to sleep because she is Drunk And Busy Yelling At Clouds.

2/18 Hickory Roasted Almonds, a play by Soup-Nose The Goat.

Soup-Nose: I see you have almonds. Can I have one?

Me: No, they’re too salty for goats.

Soup-Nose: Almond! Give me the the almond. 

Soup-Nose: Nobody has ever in the history of the universe wanted anything as badly as I want this almond. The strong nuclear force pales in comparison to my attraction to your almonds. 

Soup-Nose: Some goats just want to watch the world burn, you know. Goats who don’t have almonds right now.

Me: All right, all right. Here you go.

Soup-Nose: Aauuu! Salty! 

Soup-Nose runs to the water bucket, sticks her head into it, and sprays water everywhere, splashing a very surprised peacock who had been flirting with a Sexy Fence Post. The peacock flies off and sits on top of the goat shed, making angry squeaktoy noises.

Soup-Nose: Whew, that was awful.

Soup-Nose: Hey, are those almonds? Can I have one?


1/1/2016 Today we did SCIENCE! Specifically, we booped all the livestock on the nose with a Geiger counter. Nose booping is Definitely A Valid Scientific Technique For Measuring Radioactivity Of Things. 

Then the Small Grey Lump That Goes Meow conducted his own Science, with the hypothesis “Here Is A Thing That Beeps, I Bet It Will Pet Me” so we got a reading on him too. He’s the most radioactive animal here. New Rule for The Small Grey Lump: if it glows green, don’t ask it for pettings.

Contrary to my expectations, Soup-Nose the Goat is actually the least radioactive animal here. Huh. I guess the shielding on the goats’ atomic pile is better than I thought. 

4/7 Behold! Soup Nose’s Nose!

Me: AUGH, what happened?
Soup Nose: An evil wizard came by!
Soup Nose: And stole all the rhubarb leaves!
Soup Nose: … and some of the apple leaves.
Soup Nose: and all the quince leaves.
Soup Nose: But it’s okay, I escaped and chased him and got the leaves back. Right here in my mouth!
Me: But… the quince… my friend the tree….
Soup Nose: Are you gonna eat the rest of that tree? Can I have it?

At least an “evil wizard” did not eat the currant flowers. This time.

1/6/2017 Temperature still below freezing. Soup-Nose the Goat is spending too many calories on milk production and has been shivering. We bought her some oilseed. The sheep are alive with glorious purpose. They finally understand why they are such fluffbeasts, plus they get oilseed! I think I actually saw Cody the Sheep skipping, which is the kind of terrifying you’d need some sort of giant mecha to stand against.

Weird little ice-roses are growing out of some goat poop. Not all the goat poop, just one pile next to the henhouse. Water is starting to really weird me out. I’m not sure being made of 70% water was such a good decision on my part.

1/14/2016 Today Soup-Nose the goat suddenly forgot How To Exist As A Three Dimensional Object. She was in the same milking stanchion we’ve been using to milk her almost every day for three years, but was somehow shocked and amazed by the fact that her horns would not pass through the metal bar. It took twenty minutes of vigorous and muddy goat wrestling to get her out.

Between this and the time a couple weeks ago when she unlatched the chicken house, ate 40 pounds of chicken food, and was still hungry for dinner  - where did the chicken food go? that’s a third her weight - I am starting to wonder if I can sign her up for some sort of remedial course on Your Life As A Three Dimensional Being Inside A Pseudo-Riemmanian Manifold or something.


2/12 Today Soup-Nose The Goat attempted to climb through the new gate into the sheep pasture. Her escape attempt was foiled by the devastatingly brilliant scheme of The Gate Is Open, Soup-Nose.

When she tried to back out of the gate, she kept catching it on her horns and pulling it toward herself, until eventually she pressed herself tightly between the gate and the fence and had to be rescued.

The center cannot hold. One day the sun will swell and devour the earth, and there will be no sea. One day, there will be nobody left who remembers the taste of noodles. One day entropy will squeeze out the stars and all will be still and lukewarm. The bells can never be unrung. But remember this: once, just once, a goat was prevented from escaping a fence. And nothing will have been in vain.

3/7 Soup-Nose’s milk production has gone up enough that it’s finally been worth making cheese and eating it with honey and poached quince. Huzzah!

Not quince from our trees, mind you, because last year the goats wanted to check off “q” on their list of First Letters Of Expensive Plants I Have Chewed On, and ate all the quince trees except the one someone parked a pickup on. 

Today we planted two new quince trees. The goats haven’t found them yet.

Meanwhile, the goats have completed chewing on plants from the English, Cyrillic, and Tamil alphabets. They are now working on plants whose names can only be written with the alphabets whose letters melt glass and devour men’s sanity. I think they’re using my credit card to order them, too. Their newest plant has been keeping me up at night, singing about every promise I will ever break and eating the shadows of owls.

1/6/2016 Today they were testing some sort of ordinance at the bomb range, and Goofus the Peacock decided that every explosion needed a rebuttal. So we were treated to Concerto For High Explosives And Clown Horn In D# Major. BOOM. Honk! BOOM. Honk! BOOM. Honk!

Concerto For High Explosives And Clown Horn In D# Major was apparently very well-received, because we got about ten hours of encore. If I ever figure out what concert-going paragon of refined artistic discernment requested the encores, I plan to thank them with a gift box containing a bottle of fried-seaweed-snack-scented cologne and a coupon for a free afternoon with Tesseract the Goat.

Trimmed Soup-Nose’s back hooves today. Goat hooves collect gunk, same as fingernails. Soup’s hoof-gunk smells like grass, mud, and fake super buttery movie theater popcorn except just slightly wrong somehow and you can tell it’s from some terrifying alternate universe where instead of butter being made out of cow milk it’s made out of spider milk. 

Farm life: a feast for the senses.

1/15 Today Soup-Nose decided the Pauli Exclusion Principle was for suckers and she could totally occupy the same quantum state as the hay feeder. Then she decided she didn’t want to be merged with the hay feeder on a quantum level any more. She decided it very loudly.

It took two people with levers to move the hay feeder enough that she could escape.

Sheep need rescued when they ignore common sense. Goats need rescued when they ignore physics.

1/19 Moss and tiny scaly green pipe organ growing on an apple tree.

And now for another exciting  mildly interesting  less boring than doing your taxes round of What Is Up With The Ghost Apple Tree. A couple of smart people suggested that probably nobody has developed a breed of tree with Creepy Transparent Apples That Taste Like Cotton Balls on purpose, and the Ghost Apple tree might have been grown from seed.

I expected this to be pretty easy to sort out. We have another tree planted the same year that I could compare trunks and grafting scars with. Soup-Nose’s Tree made completely ordinary sweet-tart red apples before a personal encounter with the Floppy Eared Harbinger Of The Coming Goatpocalypse Which Spares No Greenery Nor Undergarments Made Of Plant Fibers.

With all the deductive acumen of Farm Batman, I discovered that Boy There Sure Are A Lot Of Lichens, Woodpecker Holes, and Goat Bites On These Trunks, but there was too much going on to tell if the Ghost Apple Tree was grafted. 

So I fell back on the Weak Crotch Gambit. Wild or seedling apple trees often have narrow forks, where bark gets trapped between the two diverging branches, making one or both sides of the fork likely to break off entirely. Proper Apple Breeds have Mighty And Fierce Crotches (may not be the actual technical term) instead. 

Unfortunately, both Soup Nose’s Tree and the Ghost Apple Tree have one or more weak crotches, making this an unhelpful way to distinguish clones from wildling apples. Also, four other trees selected from the orchard at random also feature weak crotches. 

The Weak Crotch Gambit has failed.

Today’s Important Lessons:

  1. I might not actually be Farm Batman
  2. I am the proud owner of an entire orchard full of weak crotches.