Green Acres

Ian has taken to Mallorcan farm life like he was meant for it. After four days visiting his aunt and uncle's self-sustaining family farm, he can tell you what their dog can and can't eat, where the plums are ripest, which lettuce can be picked and how to water each row of vegetables.

This morning over breakfast on the terrace, I get an earful about the hens.

"Mom, you have to be careful with gallinas because they can scratch you with their nails."

"Oh, OK, that's good to know. Thanks."

Ian hoists his foot up to the level of the table to demonstrate to me. "See, the gallinas don't have this thumb," he says, pointing to his big toe. "But they have these other fingers and at the ends they have really sharp nails."

"You mean claws? They have four toes with claws at the ends?"

"Yeah, except they don't have four toes, they only have three actually." He attempts to bend back his thumb and second toe to demonstrate a foot with only three toes. Exasperated after a moment, he puts his foot down. "You see, Mom? You have to be careful."

I nod.

"Oh, and you have to get their eggs every day or they might break if they stay there. You have to pick them up and be careful with them." I nod again. "Oh, and you have to make sure the gate is shut and locked or Bruxia will eat the gallinas." (Bruxia is their playful, blonde Labrador. Her name roughly translates to mean "witch".)

I nod again, sipping my coffee. Ian is scanning the mountainous horizon around the country inn where we are staying, estimating what needs to be attended to at his aunt and uncle's farm today.

"Oh, and Mom?" I nod again. "We have to bring something for Bruxia to eat so she won't eat the gallinas. Does she like Colacao?" (This is an excellent chocolate drink you mix in milk, like Nestle Quik, that the kids love here.)

"She might, Ian, you can try it."

Ian leans back, drinking, satisfied. He feels in charge. And as I watch him, I realize there is nothing more enjoyable for a four-year-old than that.