Until I encountered guineas at the farmer’s market, I wasn’t actually sure that “guinea” was a real word that you were allowed to say without getting into trouble. Sort of like “chiggers,” those little burrs that stick to your clothes out in the country, “guinea” seemed like a word that–even if it technically acceptable on say, Wikipedia–was probably not something you should just throw around casually.

Michael Pollan writes eloquently in The Omnivore’s Dilemma about the virtues of knowing what it takes to bring a plate of food to the table. And particularly with meat, he makes a good case for getting more in touch with what you’re eating. Chicken isn’t just something that’s available shrink-wrapped or in buckets from KFC. It’s a living, breathing thing that has to die at some point in order for you to be nourished. But all of Pollan’s well-crafted prose on the matter is no match for this face, which speaks for itself.

Yes, the French poultry man at the farmer’s market leaves the heads on his guineas. He also informed me that he particularly enjoys roasting and eating “zee brains,” but I wasn’t quite ready to go there. So I chopped off the head before I stuck this once living thing into my oven. But it wasn’t easy. As you can see, she didn’t look too happy about being turned into dinner.

Ultimately, the guinea turned into a great, if somewhat haunting, meal. Any friend of mine or reader of this blog knows I’m a dedicated carnivore. Maybe staring a meal in the face once in a while is the price I have to pay for the privilege of eating another living creature. On the other hand, maybe this guinea was just particularly pissed because she knew I was not just a carnivore, but a guinea chaser, too.

Jeff Lynne’s take on this issue:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivFM0pYyUcY&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

As Ben can attest, I am a bit of a magazine junkie. I think I subscribe to at least 12 and probably buy a few more at the stand each month. I have neither a garden nor a gun, but this magazine is definitely a standout for me. From the coverage of the Avett Brothers and scuppernongs to the piece about firefly conservation and the feature on Archie Burchfield and croquet, I think Garden & Gun is delivering on their “Soul of the New South” promise. Who knows? Maybe it will lead to a new hobby.

Conveniently located just across the road from the cemetery, I have to wonder if Curl Up and Dye gets most of the funeral business in town. I imagine the beauty parlor from Steel Magnolias and the Truvy type carefully coifing and making-up the local dead.

When my Grandmother died, I went to the Statesboro Clinique counter in search of lipstick to wear to her funeral. She always wore lipstick and encouraged me to, so I thought she would approve. The woman working there quickly selected a berry shade and told me that it would be perfect. Then she leaned in and whispered that if I got up to the casket and found Grandma looking a little pale, I could pull out that same tube and give her a quick touch-up.

I suppose Berry Freeze is the perfect color for everyone.

On our most recent Statesboro trip, Ben and I thought we’d be coming home to a pet-free house. Mother told us in advance that she had given away the two remaining cats. One was found dead on their porch a couple of weeks after that move, but I like to think that the other, our black Persian names Xerxes, is living the good life with a nice family somewhere.

Well, my parents’ house may be free of animals, but the backyard is full of feral cats.  Mother insists upon feeding them, and they have multiplied.

This orange tomcat was the mangiest of the bunch.

He’s giving me the evil eye.

He makes a run for it. Right in the direction of a busy street. That a boy!