Page 21 of Wishing for a Werewolf
“I’m using a silicone mold, which is one of the easiest to remove.” Keeping the mold tilted so they can see what I’m doing, I pull away the corner. “See how easily the silicone released from the soap? That means we’re ready to unmold. If the silicone sticks to the soap, let it sit for another couple of days before trying again.”
I peel the pale orange mold off the soap and talk my way through the next steps. “You can cut your soap with a knife, but since I do this a lot, I use a cutting mold. Its wooden frame has evenly spaced slits that will guide the cutting blade and ensure each bar of soap is the same size. I’m using a wavy cutter to make a pretty pattern on the surface. Once I’ve cut these, I’m going to let them finish curing for a few weeks so they don’t melt the moment they touch water.”
After cutting a couple of bars, I stop and hold one up for the camera to show off the light-orange soap dotted with ground coffee and rich brown swirls of cinnamon and spice. “Look how beautiful this is!” I take an audible inhale. “And it smells exactly like your favorite coffee drink, too. This soap is perfect for when you want to squeeze oodles of fall coziness into your shower or bath time!”
Hidden by the table, I lift up the front of one foot and wave it back and forth in a pre-arranged signal.
Babybelle runs out from under the table and leaps onto the top with an adorable bah, “Me! Me! Me! Look at me!”
I laugh and look right at the camera. “Thank you for visiting with me here at Ferndale Falls Goat Farm. If you’d like your own bar of pumpkin spice latte soap handmade by me, I’ve put the link in the description. Until next time, I wish you happy goats and happy soaps!”
Babybelle prances and lets out another joyful bleat, and I click the remote to stop recording.
“Did I do good?” She bounces up and down on her front hooves. “Did I?”
“You were amazing!” I pick her up and kiss her little forehead. “Everyone’s going to love you.”
In fact, maybe I can make a go of an online store now that Babybelle’s my familiar and able to do skits with me. Though in my heart, I know I’d sell more if people could see and smell my soaps in person.
“Cookies! I get cookies!”
I laugh. “That you do. Come on.”
When we get back to my cottage, I change into yoga gear and twist my hair up into a messy bun to keep it out of my way. Then I poke holes in two butternut squash and put them in the oven to bake before spreading out my yoga mat in the living room.
“What are you doing?” Babybelle prances all around me as I take my first downward dog pose, her enthusiasm contagious.
“It’s called yoga.” Other people do goat yoga all the time and say it’s fun. Dropping down into cobra pose, I say, “Wanna walk on my back?”
“Sure!” She leaps on.
I have to admit imagining what we must look like does make me smile. I find myself laughing as I work through a sequence of poses, with Babybelle hopping on and off as needed and making running commentary about what she thinks of each pose. She even tries to mimic a few, her antics making me laugh. By the time the oven timer goes off, I’m grinning and relaxed, and I roll up to sitting and pull her onto my lap for a cuddle.
She nuzzles her head under my chin, and I give her a kiss. “Ready to make cookies?”
“Yes!” She bounds for the kitchen.
I open the oven to the rich smell of baked butternutsquash and pull them out to cool while I wash my face and drink some water.
After setting aside the squash I’ll use to make soup, I mash up a second butternut in a large bowl, sift in enough almond flour to firm the mixture, and drop tablespoon cookies across a baking sheet. For goat cookies, I leave the seeds in the squash, so they’ll add a nice crunch. With no added sugar, they’re not as sweet as human cookies, but goats adore them.
Babybelle “helps” the whole time I’m cooking, clattering across the top of the island and sticking her nose in everything. When she starts to chew on the hand towel, I pull it away. “Hey, you know I don’t want you doing that.”
Big amber eyes blink up at me. “But I like it!”
“Does that mean you’re going to keep doing it?”
“It means I might forget.” She paws at the countertop, looking down at her hoof.
My eyes narrow. I’m not buying the innocent act for one second. “That’s too bad. Here I thought you were smart enough to remember things.”
“I’m smart!” She stomps a hoof against the granite with a clack. “I’m the smartest goat on the whole farm!”
“Then you’ll remember not to chew anything in my cottage.”
She’s quiet for a moment, stewing over my words. Then her ears perk up again. “Just the cottage?”
Oh, boy. I laugh. Why do I feel like I just made every other place on Earth fair game for Babybelle mischief?
