My pets feed me
I took this picture a few weeks ago when we ate breakfast on the front porch. It was a weekend morning, and I look forward to those all week long because chances are pretty good Jeremy will make breakfast. On this particular Sunday, he did not disappoint. I came into the kitchen after milking chores to the sound of sizzling chorizo and eggs cooking, saw steam rise off a fresh pot of coffee, felt a breeze blow through an open window. It’s one of the (rare, fleeting) moments when this place seems postcard perfect.
This was, hands down, the most expensive breakfast taco I have ever eaten. That tortilla was wrapped around a land and house mortgage, uncountable yards of fencing, feed and vet bills, equipment purchases, and – truly – you can’t put a price on tears (have shed so many). Jeremy hunted the wild hog that gave its life for the perfectly seasoned chorizo sprinkled across a bed of golden eggs my hens laid inside a hen house Jeremy built and I painted with my mother. The entire contents covered in a thick layer of cheese from Jolene and Pearl who have given much more then just milk, namely humor and heartburn. I call it The Farm taco, and you won’t find it on any menu in town, or if you do, it will cost much less.
But it won’t taste nearly as delicious.