Anyone over 35 there? Third edition



Hiya, I agree, writing is writing. Prose can be beautiful or jarring in any genre.
I’ve always said that horror is just a flavoring, anyway, a spice that can be sprinkled on top of any style.




Carried a camera when I walked the doggo. This is winter range for mule deer, and there was a big one right across the road.



Why am I craving venison jerky while having Bambi flashbacks? :rofl:


Because Deer are delicious as well as beautiful.

It bothers me when the two sides of my brain react differently to things. An ‘aw!’ and a ‘yum!’ at the same time just messes with me.


We’ve gotten soft; farm families used to be a lot closer to the ‘chicken for dinner means someone has to kill and pluck’ line. I’m glad - I’m squeamish. But I don’t pretend I don’t know where my dinner comes from.


Same here. I’ve fished and eaten the fish. I collect eggs and eat those. It’s been since I was a child that we kept animals for meat. DH and I do not eat our animals, but I will sell animals knowing they are going for meat.


One of the first things we taught our daughter was where her food came from. We were fortunate enough to live near a city farm, so we could take her there to see the animals and explain to her that this was where bacon came from, this was where beef came from, and so on.

It never put her off, but she does respect her food. Except for when we go to the poulterer and game butcher in the market. Then she will ask for Bambi or Thumper just to wind people up!


My father was a hunter - we ate deer and elk (LOVE elk!) duck and goose, sheep and rabbit.

It’s good to know the truth about food.


Ha, you all make me feel like a real back country farm girl. Guess I am, in a way.
I remember crying for my bunny when grandpa slaughtered it for dinner. Had to eat of it, of course. And then slaughter day in winter, with the buckets of steaming blood in the snow…


Nothing wrong with that. My mother used to have to pluck the chickens when she was a girl. It’s just how it is.


Same here. My mother says she hated it. Especially the running around without a head. I was spared the experience, and I won’t complain.


Gotta eat.

But there was fresh baked bread, apple pie, strawberry jam and other goodies to make up for the yucky stuff.


Oh yes, I still miss the bread… and the small potatoes directly from the giant steamer grandpa used to prepare them for the pigs.
And picking cherries and apples with him.


We used to run up to a local place and get the eggs for them. Even wrote a flash fiction story about it. Lovely memory.


My grandparents had a ranch. Grandad taught me to skin and butcher over the years. Not keen on the killing, so I put the word out that I’d cut and wrap game meat in exchange for a share.

Used to hunt with Mum, until her ailments ruled that out– deer and antelope. Haven’t gone for a couple years, but friends still call me to help, so we always have some game meat in the freezer.

Local food, and all that. With the garden and the greenhouse, we produce quite a lot of what we need. Wouldn’t mind keeping hens, but there are too many foxes, coyotes, and hawks out here.


Whose ready for Friday? Show of alcohol… I mean hands… yea hands.


Took Mum to the Emergency Room this morning, after she’d thrashed the night with muscle spasms in her lower back. Poor thing.

She got a shot of morphine and a scrip for oxycodone, so she’s out for the count.

Not having slept much, I feel pretty rum. But it’s scotch I’m drinking: Famous Grouse over ice. Playing patience on the iPad and waiting for her to awaken in a foul mood.

Ain’t life grand?


I hope she has a quick recovery. I’ll be hitting the bourbon bottle later, but I have to be careful. I start a educational leadership program tomorrow at 8 am. At least I won’t have to get up at 5 am. That oxycodone don’t play around either. That stuff scares the crap out of me.


It is effective for severe pain, which she was suffering. Never experienced that, myself.

I think she overdid it cleaning house before we had guests. My idea is that if the lights are low and the food is really good, guests don’t notice dog hairs in the lee of the sofa.

You’re a Canadian. What’s up with the bourbon?

Course, I’m a Kiwi/Yank and I fancy Scotch.