Cider, Eggs, Kidneys … Action!

A free-writing exercise for writing 101.  Unedited – mistakes and all.  Starts now:

 i hate free qriting. grrr muckle bubble pop.  I’ve been playing clash of clans and making sauerkraut and kombucha and washing the disheas and playing the saxophone.

Kopparberg.  It’s a cider. Keep it in the fridge.  Im trying it for the firrst time today.  Stawberry and apple.  Blergh. way too sweet.  Tastes like bubbly syrup.  I’m used to cider having a sour taste.  Now I’ve got another 3 bottles of the crap to get through.  Maybe the other lavours wont be as sweet.  They probably will be though.  4% alcohol .  I don’t drink a lot. ug. its making me sweat.  too hot. Had scrambled eggs for breakfast.  Very, very nice.  Aparently, they used butter instead of cream.  And I read that, in one heartbeat, the kidneys flter 25% of the blod-supply.  Now what the fuck is blood supply?  Is it the amount of blood in the body, or is it the amount of blood delivered to the kidneys during that time, or are they they same thing.  I also bought an Easter egg for a friend.  Easter was yesterday (NZ time) so chocolate eggs are cheaper today.  Nice how that works out.  I setup an easter-egg hunt formy significant cuddler and she was very happy.

Kidneys, cider and chocolate eggs.  Please dont make that at home.

Death of A Chicken

Life’s earliest lessons are frequently brutal.

I learned a hard one at 10 years of age when I accidentally caused the violent death of a chicken. Staring at the mutilated corpse at my feet, I was filled with guilt and remorse. It had been an accident, but I knew that it was my fault.

All those years ago, I was living on a farm. No-one but townies had to buy eggs in those days. If you lived on a farm, you had chickens. Imagine a bright Spring morning. The sun was sparkling in the dew-drops caught in the spider webs strung out in the long grass. My cousin Ashleigh and I were strolling through the paddock swinging a pail of food scraps. I had stayed at their house over night and now we were off to feed the chickens before breakfast. As we walked, the chickens were running ahead of us clucking in anticipation and occasionally scattering when we got too close. To this day, I still don’t know what inspired me to do it, but I ran a few steps, chasing the chickens. “Don’t chase the chickens” admonished Ashleigh. Of course not. I knew better.  Still, What was the harm?.  It was fun and I did it again, just to see them scatter. “Don’t chase the chickens!” again from Ashleigh. I’d had enough chasing chickens already and agreed, but disaster was just getting started. A few seconds of folly had been enough to fire up Rocky, the rottweiler trotting along behind us. Chickens were suddenly a game bird!  Instinct kicked in and, with an exited bark, Rocky charged at the nearest chicken.  It was awful to watch.