Rabbitidy

I looked to my left in the yard yesterday only to realize that I was being acutely observed by a bunny. Wildly camoflauged to last fall's maple leaves, she stood motionless as I cooed in her direction. She did't appear to be afraid, or perhaps it was more of an "if I move you might eat me" scenario.
I noticed she had dried grass in her mouth.
"Odd," thought I, will all of the birthing green nearby. "Why DRIED grass?"
Some time later as I came up around the raspberries, I noticed an area of the still-winter-buried garden where the rich black loam was bare, as though someone had moved a pot recently. My first thought was that perhaps someone had swiped a container of some sort; but what was there last fall? As I moved around closer it became apparent that the soil area had a pocket going down; about five inches across, and lined with dried grass. Right behind the old tansy stalks.
Pat and I are going to be grandparents, of sorts.
The rabbit, who has since been dubbed "Miss Bunny"- no offense intended to anyone who does not condone rabbit sex before marriage - hung around much of the evening. By then, I'd snuck over to the tree nearby and laid out carrots and a pan of water. Are we suckers, or what??
This morning, I brought Pat out to show him. The bunny bassinet was completed camoflauged over with dried grass, like those traps you see on old Tarzan movies. If I had not known it was there, I would never have suspected.
Perhaps I've got some karma going with rabbits.
The other spring, while heading in a rush to a curriculum meeting, I noted a huge raven swooping down into the grass. As I slowed to watch, he picked UP something; then dropped it back down a few inches from the ground.
With scarely a glance behind me I pulled the truck over and lept out. The raven was prancing circles around the dropped prey now, and off to the side 25 feet or so, a rabbit watched.
"Git!" I hollered and waved my arms at the bird. "Get outta here!" The raven reluctantly lofted off. I quickly scanned the grass. A tiny, tiny rabbit lay, breathing fast. I carefully scooped him into my hand, where he lay still, looking at me, breathing hard; a tiny rivulet of blood on his lip.
I looked over to the edge of the woods, where the other rabbit still watched on. Mom?
Now, realize that all of this happened within, oh, about 90 seconds. Here I am, vehicle pulled erraticly to the side of a busy residential street, standing in an open field in my work clothes, holding a neonatal rabbit in my hand (aren't you NOT supposed to touch the babies?), late for my curriculum meeting, raven scolding overhead, me trying to figure out what the heck to do...Why do I always get myself into these situations?
A fire department van pulled up behind my truck, and an officer got out and walked over. My brain had perilously little processing time; the first thoughts were 'I've done something wrong' and 'BUNNY paramedics? Hilarious!' He noted that a resident had seen me pull over quickly and thought perhaps there was a medical emergency. "Well, sort of" I laughed, sheepishly explaning the scenario; brainstorming outloud while marveling at the tiny bunny ears. The little guy was wholly enclosed within my palm, his life warm in the spring air.
God bless this fireman, because I'm sure there would have been ten others who would have laughed their butts off! He brainstormed with me; and the concensus was: Find a very sheltered placed to put him, back in the woods where the raven can't fly in easily, and maybe - just maybe - his mum would retrieve him. Or not.
I ducked and poked through the brambles nearby, noting yet another rabbit a few yards away, and finally found a hollowed birch log on the ground, blissfilly pre-filled with pine needles. The perfect place. With one last, careful touch, I gently tucked the little guy in. He was still breathing, perhaps even a little slower, and still held me firm in his gaze. His wild little body felt as soft as a peach. Any bird would have a hard time getting in here.
I quickly noted the number of steps to the edge of the woods and zoomed off to the meeting.
Just before dark, I arrived back; a bag of slightly overripe carrots in hand. Should I have interfered? WHY did I interfere? Should I have let nature take it's course? Or, as my colleague and science teacher friend asserted, DIDN'T I let nature take it's course - as I am a part of nature? What about the raven babies? It's just a rabbit, for God's sake. The carrots seemed a suitable peace offering/memorial to the event into which I had allowed myself to participate.
I found the tree, counting the steps back in, and bend down. I fully expected to see a rigid little dead bunny, or perhaps blood generated from a cat extracting that little morsel. Almost to my surprise - nothing. No bunny. No blood. No sign of a feast.
I left the carrots scattered about nearby. I even saved a few for the open field, where the ravens could have their fair share.
Rabbits and fish: they both look at you like you own them something...

Damn You, Martha!!

OK, I admit it. I get Martha Stewart's magazine, which is titled 'Living'. Kind of a presumptuous title but oddly off-putting all at the same time, isn't it? I mean, how can anyone argue with 'Living'? It implies simplicity - basic and to the point. It's apparently worked marketing magic on myself, because I actually subscribe to the magazine even though I will probably, realistically, never actually have the time to make my own cheese.
For the Easter edition, Martha's food-porn centerfolds included chocolate -- lovely close-ups of chocolate being chopped, stirred into a melting pot, tempered (the title of the photo said "cooling chocolate" but I KNEW, from the movie 'Chocolate', that it's called "tempering" - one up on ya, Martha!) Enter visions of Johnny Depp as the swarthy river-rat from said movie. Johnny Depp and fine chocolate. Need I say more?
The last photo in the series showed a rack of eggs, each sitting up straight in it's carton-hole, being piped with chocolate...WAIT! YOU CAN MAKE YOUR OWN CHOCOLATE EASTER EGGS! WITH REAL EGGS! Exit the photos, enter the text...
No one but Martha has the power to allure with such perceived simplicity; "perceived" being the operative term here.
I had a dozen good reasons why making my own chocolate eggs was a fab idea. Of course, one piece of REALLY GOOD chocolate is worth more than 10 pounds of the crappy stuff. The fact that I would hand-make these little treasures; that would make them extra-special to my loved ones. And it just looked really fun. (Enter images from 'Chocolate' again; I am the female lead adeptly whisking sheets of molten bliss across the table, to a calypso rhythm..)
I could go into great detail here, but suffice it to say that, had someone photographed MY process of making blown-out, sanitized, dyed (organically of course) chicken eggs refilled with fine chocolate and love, it would have been the food-porn equivalent of a slasher flick.
My back hurt that evening. The kitchen, including the wall, was splattered in $10/lb Dutch chocolate. Chocolate crept up my arms, seeping into my elbow creases. There was chocolate on the counter, the breadboard, the stove, and the floor. There was no Johnny Depp to lick it off of my elbow. There was a good deal of chocolate in the sink. There was chocolate on the cat. There was probably cat hair in the chocolate. There was actually, perilously, only a small amount of chocolate in the painstakingly-prepared chicken eggs. Martha's admonition that "each brand of chocolate requires differing tempering procedures and temperatures" certainly proved true. Unlike the shimmery stuff showing through the holes on her eggs, mine looked milky and lumpy.
Did I get a few good eggs out of the endeavor? Yes. Was it worth the $42.87 and six hours of time, not counting cleanup? Really, No.
Have I learned a lesson from this? Will I ever allow myself to be seduced into anything like growing, preparing and gifting my own Japanese-style poached pickled Daikon radishes with Hoisin raisin extract? Unfortunately, the jury's still out on that one.
Damn you, Martha.