B wants chickens at the new house. But only for eggs. She doesn’t have a problem eating someone else’s animals, but has flat refused to eat anything that we might raise.
She doesn’t want me to start raising rabbits again. At least not to eat.
I suggested Muscovy ducks, based on their reputation as voracious mosquito hunters. (Mosquitoes are bad in the area in general. And the land isn’t particularly well drained, likely adding to the population density.) And because their eggs are supposed to be extremely tasty. And because their meat is supposedly almost indistinguishable from veal – which I love but can’t afford. She was open to the idea until I got to the last part. “No. I’ll deal with the mosquito bites.”
While discussing eggs, she asked how to tell if it was an egg or a duck. She calls herself a country girl, but she grew up in the ‘hood, and pretty much the only thing country about her is her desire to live outside the city limits.
She doesn’t like the fact that I carry a gun. But says that she’ll get over it. She expressed extreme displeasure when I mentioned carrying at our nuptials. I quickly agreed not to, in order to extinguish that fire. But the preacher will be packing. Two. Concealed, of course. And I trust him with my life.
Eldest daughter, despite being a budding hunter and shooter, has been tainted, probably by the educational system, and asked why I carry. And if I’m going to shoot someone. She’s even expressed concern to her mother that I might shoot her daddy. (Smart kid. She knows that her daddy is an asshole who likes to pick fights.)
It’s going to be an interesting ride.