On the Lambs

Some say Bainbridge Island is just a sleepy, suburban, bedroom community of Seattle a regular Peyton Place of greed, lust and envy.

Actually, we have a long history of farming and other natural resources industry. Occasionally, these worlds collide.

Like the other day, when my friend looked out her front porch window on her little wooded cul-de-sac and proclaimed to her dear spouse, “Honey, come quick! There are lambs on the porch!”

He thought she was kidding Great joke, right? Smart! Snappy dialogue! Topical! Lambs on the porch! Ha!. They don’t own a cat or a dog.

She got frustrated and took this picture.

And then when her hubbie realized she meant it, they tried to catch the boys who ran straight towards the fire pit, poor choice.

Aren’t they sweet? Oh, and they were so sweet and juicy and lip-smacking good…

After a few bleats, the lambs were captured and kept in a safe place while they marinated and the charcoal heated up until their owner was found.

All’s well that ends well, yes?

Oh, I almost forgot. My friend with the lambs, guess what her name is.

Mary.

True story. I can’t make this sh*t up.

How many of us get to live out our nursery rhyme?

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