It seemed like such a good idea. And it was — until it clucking wasn't.
Last week, I dragged my family for an overnight stay at a working farm. They didn't want to go; it was a long drive, and they had concerts and ball games to attend back home. But I thought it would do us good to get off the grid for just a single stolen day — to slow our pace, dirty our hands, smell weird stuff, and touch base with our agrarian, distinctly non-iPodian roots.
We fed pigs and cooked flapjacks on a wood-burning stove (you're required to call them flapjacks in these circumstances). We petted sheep and hauled logs in a wooden wagon. We chased chickens and collected their warm, pastel-colored eggs. It was farmulous.
To be honest, though, my favorite part was leaving. To me, that's why you go on hikes, or camping, or visiting working farms — so you can fully appreciate how clean and bug-less and easy your life is back home and so that the next time you're inclined to whine about the timer of your Cuisinart Grind-and-Brew Thermal 10-cup coffee maker going off an hour too early, you can just be immensely thankful you don't have dirt in your teeth.