The end of summer promises a tasty treat for the farmer and the wife. Every year we look forward to the invitation to come to the feed mill for their annual Chicken Barbecue.
Just follow the signs . . . .park behind the mill, in the way back . . . .on the grass . . .no further . . .
Hello to all my Canadian prairie readers. If you are wondering where your corn and wheat was heading . . .here it is, safely tucked away . . . .ready for our chickens . . .Thank you.
There are always plenty of feed trucks around on BBQ day at the mill. Feed shipments are conveniently timed around the noon festivities.
There is the farmer in his plaid shirt with the best ever feed salesman (also wearing a plaid shirt) in the world. We LOVE him. Hey Ken. He's also a fantastic big brother.
Get out your scratch and sniffers . . .. inhale. How they do this without burning one piece and cooking it to perfection is always a mystery to me.
"There you go little lady" . . ..shoot, that IS a picture of me holding the plate? I was going to bluff and say that it was my farmer but no, that won't work . . . he's not into manicures.
I lost Terry mid way through the event and when he finally caught up to me he explained he had run into someone who's wife had been reading my blog. That didn't happen at last years picnic.
Have a wonderful day my friends.