Taco Night!


IMG_4320In the mood for a quick dinner? How about the ever-adaptable tacos? You only need a handful of ingredients, some of which you probably already have in the fridge or pantry, and about 30 minutes to whip up a tasty meal. Below, we provide you with our favorite vegetarian tacos, with sweet potato and a fried egg bulking things up in the absence of meat. Follow our guide to create some great tacos tonight:

1) Preheat the oven to 400F. Cut 2 sweet potatoes into small cubes. Toss them with some olive oil and cumin, then spread them on a baking sheet and bake for about 30 minutes or until they’re tender, stirring once during baking.

2) While the sweet potatoes are baking, prepare guacamole: mash 1-2 avocadoes with lime juice, 1 clove of minced garlic, minced cilantro, 1 diced tomato, and a pinch of salt.

3) Chop or slice thinly ½ head of cabbage or some crispy lettuce (like iceberg).

4) Grate some cheddar cheese.

5) Chop 1-2 tomatoes.

6) Once the sweet potatoes are done, put all the toppings out on the dinner table. Warm up some tortillas and fry an egg. Stack away and enjoy!


Remember that this is less a “recipe” and more a grounds for experimentation. Feel free to add or subtract toppings to your taste. Sour cream and refried beans are also common taco toppings. If you’re a meat lover, sauté some ground beef or diced chicken pieces with tomato puree and chili powder. We like to gather as many different colors as possible – just “for the fun of it”!


Where Dreams Don’t Fade – Available At Last


Dreams – On DVD
Dreams – On DVD
Compelled to Run
Compelled to Run
Forever Hopeful
Forever Hopeful
The Best of The Best
The Best of The Best
The Rest of the Best
The Rest of the Best
Pushing Forward
Pushing Forward
Soaking it in
Soaking it in


After more than a year of being on showcase in various film festivals around the world, Where Dreams Don’t Fade has finally been released to the public for sale on DVD. is particularly proud to have been a supporter in the making of this film and boasts one of the directors, Martin Mudry, as a founding contributor to our website.

The world knows Kenya as a nation that dominates distance running, but few people know the athletes’ stories.  Martin Mudry and Alex Nichols, US runners and filmmakers,  have captured a unique perspective on the driving force behind the amazing success of the Kenyan runners.  The unflappable belief and determination of Kenyan runners constitutes the core of Where Dreams Don’t Fade. The film specifically documents three Kenyan runners in various stages of chasing their goals: Robert, a talented runner in high school, who aggravated back injuries in the military and started a family and business while waiting to train again; Virginia, a college graduate trying to get a job so she can afford to train full-time in Iten, so she can make money and get a Masters; and Alex, the brother of a Bronze Medalist at the Track and Field World Championships, who is training at the camp in the hopes of attracting a full-time manager.  This beautiful and moving documentary takes you on a journey to discover what happens when people strive for success in a place Where Dreams Don’t Fade.

Where Dreams Don’t Fade

Directed and produced by Martin Mudry and Alex Nichols

Run Time: 76 minutes

Country: USA, KENYA

Summer’s Best

Summer’s Best

from the EY Archives

In Defense of the Family Roadtrip

Like many moody teenagers, I dreamt of suing my parents, but never more than after our first family road trip. I imagined bringing my mom and dad to the courthouse of public opinion in my mind, but I thought, why stop there? Why not sue my two sisters and make it a clean sweep? Maybe, just maybe, I could prevent these people from ruining any more lives.

This is my story. The story of the worst, most humiliating two weeks of my life. I’d change the names, but it would only protect the guilty.


William Kennedy: Your honor, I present the ladies and gentlemen of the jury evidence that, following a game of highway bingo on August 15, 2001, my sister did punch me in the left side of the head. This unjustified and unladylike assault occurred at Deadman’s Summit on Route 395, so named because of a corpse found there in the 1860s. (See, I still have a bruise.) I also submit that this corpse, though dead and headless, was far luckier than myself because it never met the aforementioned sister.

Furthermore, I contend that I did win the game of highway bingo, that the bird observed on the roadside was in fact a crow, not a raven, and that this sister, one Jane, was entirely unfounded in her refusal to accept defeat and proclaim me champion of the family van.

Judge: Mr. Kennedy, I can’t see any possible relevance in these remarks.

WK: Your honor, if you will indulge me, the above incident served merely as a jumpstart to the injustice and downright terribleness to come on this family road trip—a trip that had just begun when the punching took place, one that still had one week and 1,750 miles to go. From my experiences I have no doubt the jury can only conclude that all future family road trips must be postponed indefinitely or canceled outright, while awarding me a settlement of $50,000 for emotional and physical trauma.

Judge: Well, it’s highly unorthodox, but I’ll allow it.

WK: Thank you, your honor. I call my first witness, Robert Kennedy.

Robert Kennedy takes the stand.

Isn’t it true, Dad, that not once, not twice, but thrice you crashed the brand-new family van, and that on the third instance the door jammed, setting off the ‘door-ajar’ alarm, so that everyone in the parking lot stared at us?

Robert Kennedy: Yes, but…

WK: No further questions. Let me remind the court that sitting in a hot parking lot inside a beeping white van with a broken door is incredibly uncool. Next, I call Jane Kennedy to the stand.

Jane Kennedy takes the stand.

WK: Tell me, Jane “Worst Sister in the Universe” Kennedy—where were you on the evening of August 15 at 4 p.m.?

Jane Kennedy: I’m not talking to you.

WK: Answer the question, please.

JK: Nope.

WK: Your honor, permission to treat the witness as hostile, annoying and spoiled.

Judge: Granted.

WK: I’ll tell you then. You were running away! That’s what you were doing, further wrecking an already hopelessly bad vacation.

JK: Yeah, ‘cause you were a jerk.

WK: Am not!

JK: Are too! You called me fat.

WK: Well, I…

JK: And you threw up on me.

WK: That was an accident.

JK: And it was a raven!!!

WK: For the zillionth time, it was a CROW and I won! You’re such a… Ahem, pardon me your honor, no further questions. For my penultimate witness, I call Helen “Second Worst Sister in the Galaxy” Kennedy.

Helen, you’re probably too young to fully comprehend the psychological damage caused by our road trip, but please tell the good people of the jury…”

HK: It was fun.

WK: What?

HK: Yeah. Except you were in a bad mood. Maybe because you didn’t eat anything.

WK: Helen, be quiet.

HK: And then we finally found organic avocados and bread that you would eat, but when we sat under that big tree by the Native American museum, it shed fur all over your sandwich, and then you looked at us and said: “I hate this family.”

WK: But what about all the hours in the car? When Dad wouldn’t stop to let you use the restroom? Those Utah people thinking Jane and I were your parents?

HK: That was funny.

WK: What about when you made us get out in Yosemite because you saw snow for the first time? And then, when you wouldn’t leave after two hours, we dragged you away screaming and crying, and people thought we were kidnapping you?

HK: I like snow.

WK: Grrrrr. No further questions. For the final witness, I call Maria Kennedy.

Maria Kennedy takes the stand.

WK: Mom, I’d like to take a minute…

MK: Actually, I wanted to take a minute to show you something.

WK: Mom! I’m supposed to be asking the questions.

MK: What’s this in my hand?

WK: Mom, please, you’re really embarrassing me right now!

MK: What is it?

WK: It’s a photo of me, Jane and Helen laughing … under some really cool rock formations near in Zion National Park.

MK: And what’s this?

WK: It’s me pretending to throw Helen in the Grand Canyon.

MK: And how ‘bout this one?

WK: That’s you and Jane helping me write a letter … to my girlfriend. But Mom, pictures don’t tell the whole story!

MK: What about the time you hiked with your dad to the top of Angel’s Landing? Or your bike ride in Moab? Or when we all went river rafting with the guide who loved the A-Team almost as much as you.

WK: OK MOM! No further questions. Your honor, I’d like to request a brief recess before my closing remarks.


Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I came before you today originally to sue my family and argue for the dissolution of the institution of family road trips, but I can no longer in good conscience continue. The testimony we’ve heard reminded me that yes, much, and possibly most of what goes on during a family road trip is awful and humiliating, but there are also wonderful moments.

It’s a right of passage, especially for teenagers, to go to a place, be really embarrassed by family members, and promise never to return. And it’s a source for stories that the family will find funny at some point in the very, very, very distant future.

I hereby formally submit to end the proceedings, but leave you with this final insight. Go on that road trip with the whole family, but just the once; it’ll be more than enough.



Megan with Latte

Latte Dah

Megan with Latte

Came across a link on twitter (thank-you Techweev for always finding and posting interesting pics) and it brought to mind our own coffee dreams!  Not a coffee drinker?  Don’t worry – we’ve got a chai alternative.983692_574861699202158_1689787062_n

Jazzed up on caffein, we went digging in our archives to bring back  Cravings in a Foreign Land -penned by Megan Ritchie while she was living in China.

Here’s a small excerpt to tempt your tastebuds:


I’m in love, and his name is Sea Salt Latte. It’s a fairly simple equation: a sweet, creamy latte sprinkled with salt on top. Think sea salt caramels, but drinkable. Served at the perfect temperature everytime, they are UNREAL!  But hold on a minute, I am getting ahead of myself here…

When I moved to China, I was excited to try all sorts of new foods, but also a bit wary.  Not only am I a craving-driven eater, I’m also a fairly picky eater…and those cravings multiplied as the weeks went by. My initial pull for Mexican food and pizza was paired with an overpowering need for cereal—any cereal!— and cake—any cake!—divided by an incessant desire for brownies, chocolate bars, chocolate malts, chocolate chocolate chocolate…none of it readily available in Changzhou. I was doomed.

I knew I had to find other things to eat, beyond fried rice, steamed vegetables and too many containers of yogurt, or suffer the consequences of a crazed food craver. Enter Café 85°C.

Café 85°C is fondly known as “the Starbucks of Taiwan” but I have never seen baked goods like these at any Starbucks I’ve ever wandered into. The place is so named for their self-proclaimed “perfect temperature to serve coffee” (85° Celsius is 185° Fahrenheit, for those Americans in the group who don’t feel like Googling the conversion). The place is one-third coffee shop, and two-thirds bakery. Oh, the bakery.  Suddenly, bread was back in the equation. And sugar. Real, honest-to-goodness sugary treats. Were. Back. My luck was on the rise!

Now, eating at that café (there’s a tiny branch in Changzhou) is like creating cravings I never knew I had.



Entertaining Kids



In the past week I’ve overheard two different conversations (in two different states) by people thinking about adopting a kid – or two or three. But these “kids” have four legs and appetites for grass!   Apparently, somewhere in our cultural trending goats are becoming all the rage.goat1

And we here at are taking credit for their rise in popularity!  In June of 2010 – among our earliest publications, one of EY’s first and highly entertaining contributors, Will Kennedy, posted “Don’t Knock It” – a tale about his goat loving family, spurred by his own kid sister.

goat2Apparently, (based on what was overheard around the dinner table) one reason goats are catching on in popularity is that they are a “green” substitute for mowing the lawn.

But they also produce some delicious milk that can be substituted for cows milk and used for all sorts of recipes.  Fear not – in December 2010, Will provided all the advice you’ll need in  The Zone and the Art of Goat Milking.   The story, which included a short video, was so popular, that we asked him to produce a long version showcasing the hilarious details about How To Milk A Goat!  These kids are truly entertaining!

So now, thanks to a little digging into the EY archives, you can make an informed choice before adopting your new kids.

Milky Lookalike

 The new kid on the block



2012 has arrived and we are ready!




New Year – New Start. ENTERTAININGYOURSELF.COM has celebrated our first anniversary and we are ready to take this party to the next level.  Here’s what we’re thinking:

More travel – our writers are on the move – and what they see and do is amazing.

More adventure – our writers are out there

More fun – because you deserve it and we want to give it!  Are you ready?  Then LET’S GO!



Joe Schubert in China

Kunming locals love to wryly say that the “mountains are high and the emperor is far away”, explaining the often devious and alternative history of their city.  Sure, some say our world is now flat, and that China is flat and better connected, meaning Kunming now submits (usually) to Beijing’s watch.  But, regardless of how flat Thomas Friedman thinks China is, the mountains and elevation have done a great job of keeping China’s pollution away from this six million person city in China’s Southwest.

Not facing the pollution that inhibits most running in Chinese cities, I spent 5 months running outside (and a mile high!) in Kunming.  The traffic, however, posed a problem that even the mountains couldn’t keep away.  I started my afternoon run how I did many in Kunming- slipping into the Moped lane.  True to congestion in China, the sidewalks are impossible to run on (and nearly so just to walk on).  Weaving around and with the slew of mopeds, I received the usual funny stares and laughs.

Then the run picked up.  A flashy black and neon green moped sped up next to me, and a young driver, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, gave me a wink.  I assumed my usual weaving.  He began weaving.  I picked up the pace, he picked it up more.  I dipped off onto a side street.  He slipped onto the side street. For twenty minutes we “raced” through Kunming’s busiest streets and quietest back alleys.  As our race ended, he asked me a few questions in Chinese/English (where are you from, etc.), gave me a cigarette, and continued on his drive.

And there I stood.  Realizing I was lost in Kunming and wearing only a pair of short shorts, and a singlet, I gazed down at my cigarette- my race medal? I stashed it behind my ear and decided to keep the run alive and slowly tried to find my way… and then I saw it.  A track.  … and a fence.  Deciding a fence shouldn’t keep me from such a unique treasure in China, I hopped onto the other side.  Ahhhh.  The relief and meditative peace of mind treasured by track runners soon took me over.  Twilight approached and I completed my first four, five, six laps.

And then, indiscernible Chinese yelling filled the air and I saw flashlights and a car on the other side of the fence.  No cherries and berries but I made out what seemed to be the figure of a Chinese police officer.  And so I ran.  Down the track.  Faster.  Over the fence.  And just kept running.  “Woah woah woah, I just ran from the police, the CHINESE police, the CHINESE AUTHORITARIAN  police, what if they catch me? I have no identification. They don’t still have re-education camps?  Right?” So I ran faster, and faster, dodging through alleys and side streets as much as possible.

Eventually my pace settled down.  I began to take note of my situation and pondered whether it was actually the police (or was it a security guard, or some old man who wanted to say hi?).  Regardless, I was really lost.  And it was dark.  And I just had short shorts, a singlet and that cigarette, somehow still tucked away behind my ear and hair.  And then it clicked.  “TAXI!!”  In nervous Chinese, I explained I had only one cigarette as fare and I was a lost foreigner and hey, my shorts don’t even reach my middle thighs.  For whatever reason, maybe out of amusement, the taxi driver agreed. Soon I was back in my old, decrepit Chinese dorm room, showering, eating fried veggie-noodles, and soaking in the best tempo workout of my life.

~ Joe~

Joe enjoys a hard earned meal after an incredible workout

SHOES WORN DURING THIS KUNMING RUN:  ASIC GEL 1160’s.    Runner\’s World on Asic Gel 1160\’s

SHOE OF CHOICE FOR WINNING CONTEST:  VIBRAM FIVEFINGERS MEN’S KSO TREK:  Think you might like to try them?  Then you need to find the perfect size…

Running Story Contest 1 Writing Contest

April 8, 2011 – AND THE WINNER IS…Joseph Schubert for his Kunming China Running StoryJoe wins a new pair of his favorite running shoes (Vibram Fivefingers Men’s KSO Treks) – a $150 value!

The entries were amazing and the decision was very close.  We had a tie for 2nd place:  Eli Terris for his Czech Running Story  & our own Megan Ritchie for her Poland Running StoryOur 2nd place winners have received checks for $75. 

Other notable entries included:  Tammela Platt for her Ukraine Running Story, William Kennedy for his Strasbourg Running Story, & Martin Mudry for his China Running Story.    Look for  our favorite entries to be posted on this site, then DECIDE for yourself who the winner is!


SEEKING THE BEST RUNNING STORY IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY is launching our FIRST EVER* writing contest.  It all started with a comment by Martin – an avid runner, globe trotter and EY Contributor, in response to an article written by Sam, another avid runner, globe trotter and EY Contributor (see Take the Blessing and Run).

Martin suggested a contest for Best Running Story in a Foreign Country.  We loved it and we said YES – Let’s Do It!

We’ve not only invited all of our current Contributors to submit, but we’ve also opened the competition to other writers/runners too.  Any takers?  If so, submit your Best Running Story in a Foreign Country (in English please) to

With your permission of course, we’ll post our favorites and select a winner.

Now – about the prize – how about a new pair of shoes? Along with your story, tell us your favorite type of running shoes** and if you are selected as the winner – you’ll be sporting them on the trail and on our Homepage!  To qualify for the shoes, submit your entry by Friday, April 1, 2011.  Assuming we receive some entries,  the winner will be announced and their article featured on our website, one week later, on Friday, April 8, 2011. Supporting pictures are welcome and may increase your chances of winning!

Any questions?

Now all runners…On your marks…

*We’ll see how it goes and if it is a success, then it could be the start of a new tradition.

** 1st Prize is a pair of running shoes of your choice! Maximum prize value up to $150 retail, including taxes and the cost of shipping the shoes to you.  Include your Full Name, Address & e-mail with your entry.

Good Maurice, The Badd Llama

Who’s Guarding The Roost?

Good Maurice, The Badd Llama

 “How many teeth does it have?” 

That’s the first thing my mother asked me after learning Jane had a surprise for her. As a messy blond kid my younger sister’s surprises included a humming bird, some snakes and several families of pill bugs, which she relocated to my bed. Steadily, these unexpected gifts grew in size. 

Thanks to Jane, now a farm-oriented business lady, we own goats, sheep and hundreds of chickens. 

“Do you really want to know?” I asked. 

“No, don’t tell me.” 

My mother likes a good shock, which must be why our home looks like Old McDonald’s petting zoo. Still, she had some initial reservations. 

“I have a feeling it will require a lot of care and will harm me,” she said. 

I wanted to ease my mom’s fears, but couldn’t since I knew nothing about llamas. Jane had mentioned getting one, but it seemed she’d considered taking in creatures ranging from Shetland ponies to hippos, so I didn’t take her seriously—until she wrote me the following. 

“… also don’t tell mom, but I am buying them a llama, b/c the coyotes have eaten too many of our chickens and I am afraid for the goats.” 

When Jane puts something in writing it’s a done deal. 

On one level it made sense. Our home is in a rural-ish suburb, just north of the Golden Gate Bridge, but close enough to open space for wild animals to roam comfortably. Coyotes had recently moved in, and we’d spotted them lurking around the goat pen and once my mother saw one bounding through high grass to pounce on an unlucky bird. 

A hole  in our fence was plugged with a tree branch, but that was a temporary solution. Jane wanted a more permanent fix for our wily problem, and she argued, what better than a lama?  

A dog, I guess, but my sister isn’t one for convention. Besides, she said, these South American camelids are badder and bigger than any dog. 

That’s what my mom was afraid of: a six-foot wooly beast that needs its “fighting teeth” removed to prevent ear ripping and genital biting (mostly of other llamas) according to the care manual. 

If there’s danger, Jane said, “The goats and chickens know to get behind them.” As for the coyote, she said, “it gets trampled.” 

A few days after the email, a truck pulling a large trailer drove up to the house and a woman from a dusty llama and schnauzer farm (the owners raised the llamas for pleasure, the dogs for profit) led the latest member of our menagerie to his new home. 

From a distance Maurice, or Banjo as we sometimes call him, looks terrifying and ridiculous. His ears arch like devil horns, his eyes look slanted and red.  

 He’s been shaved around his mid section, so that only his neck and legs are covered in dark brown, ocher-highlighted curls of wool—like a French poodle demon.  

On closer inspection, however, he appears much less imposing. Maurice is about my height—with maybe 100 pounds on me—but while he’s big enough to ride he’s shy. His face looks like a cute wooly camel and his deceptive eyes are actually large and black orbs. He spent the first few days in his new home whimpering.  

With lama pellets, we’ve slowly begun to gain this big softy’s trust, and he’s kept up his end of the bargain—there hasn’t been a single coyote sighting since he showed up. 

Yesterday, after my mom had finished corralling the animals and feeding them, I asked what she thought of Jane’s latest present. 

“It’s a good one,” she said. “But I’m all animaled out.  No more for a while” 

Now I’m wondering if I should tell her about the Indian runner ducks my uncle ordered her this summer, as a surprise of course. 


Milky Lookalike Portrait

The Zone and the Art of Goat Milking

It took sweat, tears and getting peed on, but this month I learned how to milk a goat. It wouldn’t have been possible without a lesson I learned at eight years old inside a dim elementary school gymnasium, when I first experienced “the zone.” I’m sure you’re familiar with it—that mindset that transports you to a state of potent, yet effortless focus.

I was toeing the free throw line to practice shooting, growing increasingly frustrated by a series of misses. Everything distracted me: the old building’s echo; dust particles in the light; my dad’s firm reassurances.  

After one particularly bad miss, he stopped me.

“Let’s take a break,” he said.

We walked outside to a tanbark playground and sat, looking at the dry hills for awhile. My dad asked if I was excited about the house we were moving into.

“Well yeah,” I said. “It’s got so much space.”

“Did you explore with your sister?”

“Around the house a little. The neighbor girl played tag with us.”

“It’s a good place for sports” he said. “Maybe we’ll build a basketball hoop there.”

“I think I want to be a baseball player.”

My dad laughed. “Come on. Let’s give it one more try.” He slapped my shoulder. I was feeling pretty good.

Inside, I stepped to the free-throw line once more, took three deep breaths, bent my knees and made my first shot. And my next one. Then I couldn’t miss. It was better than that; it was like the ball couldn’t even touch the rim. The walls reverberated with swoosh after satisfying swoosh.

 “You’re in the zone son,” my dad said.

The next shot went up, way wide. That was lesson number two about the zone—when you’ve got it, don’t think about it.

Over the next 17 years my family and an assortment of pets grew into our house, and I had plenty of opportunities to get into the zone. It helped me pull weeds in the garden; helped replant the flowers I mistakenly yanked, and helped me shoot baskets in the backyard. It also came in handy when I came home from college one summer and constructed a goat pen for some new residents.

 I can rarely recall needing it more, however, than earlier this month when my parents left for a summer weekend in Yosemite and I had to milk a goat for the first time. And not just any goat. Milky. So named by my sister for her whitish complexion, though she could have also been called “Kicky,” or “Obstinance” or “Stumpy” for a variety of her other traits.

“There’s no way that’s a goat,” my mom told my sister when she brought the scrappy looking creature home, believing for months it was a pig, and eventually a sheep.

But Milky proved her genetics when she gave birth to three very cute baby goats last month. To keep the milk flowing and our fridge stocked after the kids were weaned, my mom and dad went out every morning to milk her, until it was just me home alone.

My practice run the day before my parents departure ended very badly. I squeezed, Milky’s udder and nothing came out. I squeezed harder and she had bucked and rocked. I squeezed one more time and she peed on my hand.

“She’s never done that before,” said my Mom.

“Aaaahhhhhh,” I said.

“Oh well,” she said.

“Aaahhhahhh aahhha hahhhh,” I said.

My parents finished the job while I cleaned my hands off, thinking about the mess I would be in the next day. I returned to watch the last stages, and hopefully pick up a few tips from my mom. Milking a goat is not a difficult process. You gentle push the udder to guide the milk into one of the teets, clamp it with thumb and forefinger so the liquid doesn’t retract, and gradually squeeze down with your middle and ring fingers to push the milk out.

If you’re bad at this, it produces a meager drizzle of milk. If you are good, it’s more of a stream that hits the milking pan in a satisfying shower. For the experienced milker, it’s a 10 minute job; for the inexperienced one, it’s half-an-hour plus.

Probably the real challenge is getting the goat to cooperate, and handling the assorted goaty smells.

Before my mom left, she gave me some good advice.

“You’ve just got to get in the zone,” she said. 

The zone. Of course. But easier said than done.

The next day I should’ve done the milking at sunrise, but overslept and had to go to my sister’s house to help her build a fence. When I next looked at my watch, it was 5:35 p.m.  and I’d left Milky with a near bursting udder for an entire day.

She let me know about it when I finally got home with a bleating that started strong but faded to a whimper. I lured her onto the milk stand with some grain and fastened her in. I don’t know the exact consequences of not milking goats at the right time, but the way she wavered uncomfortably on her perch, it looked bad. As I started, the more she stomped and kicked, the more I started to feel the pressure. If I didn’t pull it together, my situation and that of the animal I was supposed to be helping, was bound to get worse.

But the goat did not seem to be in a cooperative mood. With each squeeze of her udders only a few drips of white fluid came out. My arms and wrists grew tired. A goat of her size typically yields three cups of milk; my efforts had produced a quarter teaspoon.

I stopped for a break and went to cut some rose branches.

“Alright Milky,” I said. “We can do this.”

I put her favorite food in front of her and took three deep breaths, then started again. The milk came out a little faster, the strain on my arms was less severe and then the sound of the milk hitting the pail became hypnotic.  And there I was—in the zone.

I squeezed Milky’s udder once more and nothing came out, this time because the bag was empty. Milky seemed content as she walked back to her pen and I returned to the house to strain the milk and have some with a bowl of cereal.

My mom and dad returned two days later.

“How’d it go,” they asked.

“Easy,” I said.

Really though, I’m not taking anything for granted. They’re headed out of town in a few days and I’m prepping for another visit to the milking stand and the zone.  


postscript:  Time has passed and Will is now a “semi” pro at milking Milky – look for the long video version of “How to Milk a Goat” under EntertainingYourself – Hip Hobbies. It’s sure to entertain – at least for a bit!