I woke up this morning to our rooster crowing louder than I have ever heard him crow before.  His voice is developing.  We took away his competition a couple days ago and braised him.  He is now free to express his chicken soul without being pecked by a more dominant cock.

     Today I work on the farm.  This afternoon I will pack my box truck for the long weekend of farmers' markets ahead.  We sell lamb, pig, eggs, broilers, milk, cheese, charcuterie and wine, all raised and perpared on Vashon Island.  I work with the animals when I am not at the markets.

     The Health Department shut us down a couple weekends ago for selling fresh meat (we are the only source of fresh meat in Seattle) unwraped in an outdoor market.  The inspector and his sidekick surprised me.  I did not think that adulthood allowed humans to develop into chronic tattlers.

     I realized later what made my gorge rise at their presence in utter disgust: smug immaturity.  They, as government officials, assume authority over everything we do as a farm, yet they have never farmed or sold food at market.  Still, they march into your stall without asking and make fiat pronouncements regarding its worth.

     Is this not the epitome of inexperienced childishness?  There is something about obsessive adherence to the rules that smacks of abject dependence.  The rules themselves are absurd.  Europeans have been selling unwrapped fresh meat in open air markets for centuries.

     The inspector wore a fanny pack.  I instantly percieved a batman complex.  His skin was pale, the same color as his graying hair.  He was the most sanitized human I have ever seen.  I think he bathes in alcohol every morning to sterilize his existence to the sheen of a white lenolium counter top illumind by phlorescent lights.

     Because we value our customers over the inspectors, we of course continued to sell illegal meat after they left.  A few of our customers actually yelled at the inspectors.

    Illegal meat.  The MacDonalds in the city can sell fecal burgers with their approval.  In fact, the inspector's role is to eliminate competition for the industrial meat processing plants who buy the legislation with their lobbyists.

    The most troublesome part of this is that the inspectors are convinced of their own great worth.  There is no wink.  No nod.  No gesture to let us know that, yes, this code is ridiculous, but I must follow orders.  They believe in the code.

     This, above all, frightens me.  How far would they go to enforce the code?  If I continue to disobey, would they eventually come with guns?  The liquor control board officers are armed and wear bullet proof vests.