Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 119764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
She groans all over again, picking up Kermit from the blanket nest and setting him on the floor of the kitchen. “I know. Trust me, I’m on it. Come get me when breakfast is ready.”
“Will do.”
Rabbit hauls the blankets through the kitchen, heading for the mudroom and then outside. Back when we were traveling, it was easier to discard blankets (or use dirty ones). Now that we have a home, I insist on chores. We’re going to be civilized, damn it.
We’ve raided every antique store in what feels like all of North Texas and supplied our house. Rabbit has an old-fashioned laundry bucket, complete with an accordion scrubber and a crank to wring out the water. We have clothing lines up in the backyard so everything smells fresh and clean. Does it make washing things less of a beast? Not really, but if we’re going to have visitors, I want them to sleep in a nice bed that smells like sunshine and not a fort.
Jonah and Rabbit’s teenage romance is still going strong, six months later. He spends a weekend here about once a month, with Sleepy (now called Greta) at his side. Rabbit goes to the fort with Murr when he runs errands or when there’s trading to be done, and Jonah and my daughter send each other little gifts constantly. It’s sweet, and I trust that Jonah is a good kid and isn’t going to take advantage of my daughter.
I still make sure that they’re not left alone together for any length of time, because they’re still teenagers and I remember being a teenager myself. When Jonah stays with us, his room is right next to mine and Murr’s, and Murr will hear if Jonah so much as breathes differently. We’ve invited Samir to come and visit, too, but he’s always too busy to get away. Something tells me that he and Thess enjoy their alone time when Jonah visits us. There’s not much privacy in that shipping container.
Buttering my skillet, I add the egg mix and grimace as the eggs immediately stick to the bottom. There’s supposed to be a way to cook eggs in a cast iron without them gluing themselves to the pan, but I have no idea how to do it and the books I have don’t cover that particular bit of context. The scent of burning eggs fills the kitchen, and I move breakfast to a cooler burner and open the window.
A chorus of meows start up throughout the house. Little feet hop down the stairs, and suddenly the kitchen is full of watchful cats. They like eggs, too, but they mostly like the burned bits I scrape off the bottom of the pan. “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, scrambling the eggs.
Maybe not quiche just yet. I need to level up with cooking before I try that.
I salvage most of the eggs, scraping the worst burned bits off for the cats, and plate up breakfast. I cover the food so the cats don’t get to it (because they’re spoiled) and then go hunt everyone down. I’m humming to myself as I poke my head out the door. “Breakfast, Rabbit.”
“Be right there,” she says, adding another bucket of well water to the laundry tub on the side of the house.
I close the screen door and head around to the other side of the house. As I do, I feel a sigh of pure contentment as I look at all of our wonderful things. The living room of the old farmhouse has several comfy couches to lounge on, and bookshelves line the walls, crammed with the books we brought from the bookstore. Lining the couches are even more cats, curled up and sleeping piled atop one another. We brought all of our cats from the fort. Even the ones that don’t like anyone but Murr now live in the great big barn and have the time of their lives roaming our property.
I pet a few of them as I pass by and then head to the back door of the house and toward the barn. The chicken coop is near the big barn, a gated and fenced off area with a miniature house set up just for the chickens. We’ve got an entire flock at this point, with more on the way, and the once-empty chicken pen is now full of white and brown hens, all of them clucking and ruffling feathers. I find Aggie and Dottie here inside the coop, with Dottie tossing handfuls of dried corn for the chickens while Aggie fishes out eggs from the coop itself. Stella is at the gate of the coop itself, her wet nose pressed to the chicken wire as she watches over everything.
“Breakfast is ready,” I call to the two women.
Aggie pokes her head out of the henhouse. She’s not wearing a wig yet today—she wears a handkerchief over her nearly bald head in the mornings because she feels it’s “more farm-y.” Did you burn the eggs again?”