The younger weasel doesn't know about interrogative pronouns. If you ask her where she's been, she says, "What?" It's not because she didn't hear you.
Neither weasel seems to understand Christmas. I've heard them ask to "go to Christmas" several times. Sometimes I wish they would go to Christmas.
Do you feel like I'm stalling? Why am I so late in writing you again? Well, the reason is I've been very consumed with a new cookbook called Nourishing Traditions. To make the things in this cookbook, you first need to get your own cow so that you can drink its milk. No processed milk!
I've been looking for a Jersey cow.
Once I get this cow, I need to feed it on rapidly growing grass. As you know, I have a small yard now with very slow growing grass. So this is another tricky problem.
Harriet says I should just use store-bought milk, but she hasn't read the book.
At the same time, I've been listening to a recording of Walden read by William Hope. He makes Thoreau sound completely unlikeable. In any event, Thoreau was not drinking fresh milk from his own cow, but he was baking his own bread. From what I gather, Thoreau's main point is that we should all live next to a pond.
This poses another problem for me, dear readers, as I live nowhere near a pond.
No cow, no grass, no pond. These are some of the reasons I have not written sooner. Yet I have a lot to say.
I will write again on Monday. I promise.
Your friend and advisor,