Worth my Salt

They can’t get enough salt in this part of the world.

Not only has Mr H commented rather archly that I don’t use salt in my cooking (or meat in my cooking, for that matter) but now my latest, newest job (by the end of the summer I will be running the country) is to feed salt to the 21 calves, aged about one and two years. First they need to be hunted down within the yawning 400 hectares that is the alm. Then the games begin. The older ones – which are joined in a great moo-ing melee by the neighbour’s calves – are surprisingly pushy. The little angels also have horns. One moment they’re giving you big cow licks and kisses -- the next thing you know you’re dead and trampled on. Mr S next door cheerfully shouted across the fence at me “It’s dangerous!” as I staggered and nearly tripped face first into the barbed wire fence. No kidding. One way or the other salt will kill you.