And Now for Something Completely Different . . .

I have lately joined a Literary Society.  Naturally, this most refined of endeavors includes the reading of Literature, the sipping of tea/coffee, and the exchanging of erudite conversation.  I meet with my darling daughters (Elizabeth and Lydia) at a local coffeehouse.  (Guess Starbucks?  Right-o!)   In the space of a few hours we converse, traverse, and reverse as all good literary scholars are wont to do.  We are most proper and elegant, except when we are not.  [Such as the times my daughters have had to shush! me as I acted out a scene from Shakespeare, or quoted a Dickinson poem, or flung my arms too widely for E-M-P-H-A-S-I-S as to the scope of Dickens’ imagination in crafting his world.]

We would love for you to join us.  If you’re here in Grass Valley, we meet at the NICE Starbucks on Freeman Lane at about 1 o'clock-ish on Wednesdays.  If you’re unable to join us, take a peek at the Harold B. Pricklepants Society website/blog.  www.hbpsociety.blogspot.com  

Here’s a photo snippet from the latest post:

 

Curious?  I thought so. 

Come give us a look-see and join in on the most proper FUN!

Did You Ever . . .

S-L-O-W your reading

W-A-A-A-A-Y   D-O-W-N

So you could live beside the characters just a bit longer?

* * *

 Did you ever . . .

Fall so deeply into a book

You thought you could be living inside of it?

* * *

Have you ever met Hannah Coulter?

* * *

Can I introduce you?

* * *

Everyone should know Hannah.

* * *

Amazon Link:  Hannah Coulter by Wendell Berry

Summer Storms = Reading Fun

After I finished tidying the cottage today, the BIG storm rolled in.  It has proven less-than-BIG, thus far -- a few BOOMS now and again, but all in all it has been a pretty nice rainy day.  The gardens love soaking up the moisture and we love the care-free watering method God designed.

Since this cool day landed smack in the middle of some pretty warm days, we all welcomed it.  

As I put the vacuum away, I asked Elizabeth to set the teakettle to boiling.  I fixed tea trays for the studious ones, Lydia and Rachel, with bread-butter-strawberry jam and a hot cuppa African Nectar tea for each.  Elizabeth and I shared a pot of Honeybush tea while we settled in for some rainy day reading.

I looked with delight on some of 

my newest reading arrivals: 

 Anyone see a theme?

I think I shall call my summer reading

"Delicious Inspiration."

 

And it has been . . . 

What are you reading/eating these days?

Dusty Treasure

* * * * *

Look at the stars! Look, look up at the skies!
O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air!

~~ Gerard Manley Hopkins ~~

from “The Starlight Night”

* * * * *

A rediscovery. Buried treasure from long-ago, unearthed most unexpectedly; savored most deliciously on this sweet summer’s day. I hear the poet cry “look!” and I stop to “look” . . . and then I “see.” I see with my eyes, ears, and heart. There are fire-folk sitting in the air, and I’m not alone in seeing it.

Today a scant bit of poetry nestled in my morning reading launched me on a journey back in time to renew an acquaintance. In my days at university I chanced by print to meet Gerard Manley Hopkins -- monk, professor, poet. In my rush to mingle with the “Lost” of a generation led by Hemingway and Fitzgerald, I nodded courteously to poet Hopkins and hurried down the path of learning and letters. Today the lines of beauty I stumbled across by chance sent me searching for my old Norton Anthology of English Literature.

I know I met G. M. Hopkins once upon a time, but where is he to be found now? Where can I find that quiet monk-professor who once burned all of his poems upon entering the Society of Jesus, fearing they would not meet with approval? And where can I find that monk’s body of work that lay unpublished (intentionally so) until nearly 20 years after his death? “Where is he?” I mutter as I scour the dusty shelf allotted to poetry, largely unread these days judging from the uniform film Time placed atop each volume. Each volume that has been lovingly packed and carted with me from one address to another as I graduated, married, set up housekeeping, moved, birthed babies, moved again, birthed more babies, and moved again. The poetry books settled comfortably into a bookcase and set about the business of aging beautifully and peacefully . . . until today.

Blowing puffs of dust, prying thin volumes away from thick, rustling pages dormant for years, I cringe at the shameful neglect. On occasion, when a fevered child suffered through the night, I would carry them away on the worthy words of Wordsworth or Keats, Shelley or even silly Mr. Carroll, but Gerard Manley Hopkins remained at rest. And the looking goes on.

A-Ha! The anthology appears and my memory guides me directly to the time period hosting Hopkins ’ offerings. I peruse the bio and breeze past the literary style notations – deeply ingrained from years of university work, I need not review – and reach out to grasp the meat: the poems. Dancing through the sprightly verses I skip over the footnotes included to define troublesome words (such as enlightening the reader that the “oil” referred to comes from an olive rather than a tanker – would one ever confuse the two herein? I hope not!) and journey up and down and all around with my monk friend as guide and songmaster in praise of the Lord’s amazing canvas – our world.

I read . . . I know . . . I smile . . . I see . . .

I lie back in the grass and seek the treasured gems dropped from heavenside down to this tarnished Eden that Hopkins sees so clearly. Even death and pain find beauteous glint from poet’s pen. I read . . . I read . . . I read long into my day.

Unlike the hurried introduction so long ago, today I linger and walk stanza by stanza through the wonderment and praise. Whereas I knew nothing much of monks when we first met, I have since undertaken many a reading voyage hosted by monks (such as Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen), as well as followed pilgrims through the pages of recorded retreats and solitary stays in monasteries world-wide. I now greet Hopkins the monk comfortably, as well as Hopkins the poet. Those days of yesterday, when I wondered why someone would destroy their work, have been replaced with a pilgrim’s knowledge; a pilgrim knowing that sometimes SELF destroys a poem or thought as surely as a match.

I once knew someone who wrote a book. Upon notification of intent to publish, the company sent the author a list of things to “add” for completion of the book. The list called for “salty” language, snippets of sensuality, etc. The book remained clean and unpublished in the author’s possession.

Years later, lying in a hospital bed, the author revised his tale, intending to reach a younger audience. I saw the excitement in his eye as he worked anew on his book. Publication would surely happen this time around . . . or so I thought.

The man healed, left the hospital bed, and lived the balance of his life with fresh vigor. I never saw the book again.

In declining health at the end of his life I inquired about “The Book,” hoping to self-publish this achievement for his grandchildren to enjoy.

“I destroyed it,” he said matter-of-factly. “I feared that someone may think that Science could replace God and I didn’t want that to happen. I didn’t want to lead anyone astray, so it’s gone.”

Simple. Truthful. Pure. Good.

I had always anticipated reading this book as a way of knowing more about this unemotional, enigmatic person. With so little on display to be observed, I longed to read from the inside. I never did get that chance, but the brief exchange regarding the book’s destruction told me volumes.

As this summer’s day passes from dew-kissed morn to dappled afternoon, as I seek respite from the heat until the twilit sky ushers down the velvety curtain of a star-spangled night, I will marvel and delight in the lingering words of Gerard Manley Hopkins as he weaves a tapestry of poems bound in parcels addressed to a magnificent God. I read. I nod. I delight.

I’m so glad I paused to meet up with this poet over a cup of tea as he guides me through nature’s beauty: simple gems dropped heaven-side from the hands of God to bury in Eden ’s dust as treasure for this seeker.

The Circle of Life

The sun peeks out, the buds swell with rosy color blushing velvet cheeks, and the fragrance of lilac fills the air. I do believe spring has come . . .

And yet, the nights still chill and the odd snow/rain storms interrupt our celebrations. Winter has dragged its heels and refuses to leave. Surely this has been the longest winter of my life, but also a highly productive one. Much reading and learning, much cleaning and discarding of the house and the heart have busied my wintry space. Oh, but how I long for winter to be over so that I can be carefree in the meadows a-bloom with newness. I am ready for some outdoor dancing. These cottage walls have closed in a bit around my burgeoning spirit.

My journal and my Bible have been my steady companions throughout these frozen, snowy, Narnian Days of a season spanning the demise of one year and the dawn of the next. I have scribbled countless pages and spilled oodles of ideas and notions and hurts and fears all washed in prayers and tears of sorrow or laughter, depending on the moment . . . depending on the mood. I corral these pennings safely between the covers of pretty journals and then squirrel that bound journey away in a box of other solo musings that may someday brighten, enlighten, or entertain a reader. For now the journals congregate in a “box” of writings which overflows onto the neighboring spaces like a library outgrowing its confines. ‘Tis becoming a bit eccentric around here even for my eclectic decorating style, I muse, as I grapple several of the excessive volumes and topple them into a nearby basket. My definition of “tidy” has expanded right along with my ever-growing acquisitions from the world of print (both my own and others).

My children laugh that they will need to check in on me regularly as I age; for fear that I will be imprisoned (or worse, crushed!) by my bookish habits. The neat and tidy shelving that holds biographies here and cookbooks there, British Lit in this precise place and American Lit sprawling on another shelf, and all the rest of the obedient books lined according to subject or author have been joined by a rag-tag set of newcomers. This legion of recently-acquired titles clumps together according to newness and eagerness to be read. This stack by my bed holds deliciously fun reading for bedside or bathtime. I see Barbara Pym beckoning me to give her a chance to win my heart but Bess Streeter Aldrich has newly arrived and plopped down on top of Miss Pym. And so the stack grows, yet the day remains a mere 24-hour stretch. (*sigh*)  Hold tight ladies and gentlemen of the bedside stance, I shall get to you all in good time.

I glance over to my sitting room and flinch in surprise at the stacks and piles and careless sorting of titles that defy demarcation, but cry out to be taken in hand. Books with titles keen to encourage slowing down or saving time, dancing freely or thinking deeply. In the midst rises a tower of overflow from Rachel’s burgeoning shelves – Peter Pan and Wendy have landed here alongside, Aslan, and Miss Princess Sarah Crewe and so many more childhood favorites I have a notion would be worth rereading now that I have rediscovered them right at my fingertips.  But, today I have no time, so I must return these to Rachel’s room.  Surely her shelving cannot be full to capacity?  But as I pop into her room for a quick peruse, I find (you guessed it) stacks of books on the dresser, on the floor, and atop other books awaiting a permanent place. Oh dear!  The Inn appears full here as well!  I return to my room and find another semi-full basket (which now tops out).

TRA-LAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Fleeing downstairs at the call of a whistling kettle, I absent-mindedly trip and tumble on the pyramid of “top list” reads I have gathered around my favorite reading chair. Flora Thompson (in several volumes), Elisabeth Eliot, Sue Bender, and Molly Wizenberg shutter toward the fireplace in an avalanche of print. “Whoopsies!” I laugh as I leap over the cascade and rescue the teakettle from laryngitis. While the teapot steeps I return to scoop up the books and set them safely out of the walkway, but a dilemma arises . . . will that stack over by the tea table safely support another pound or two or good-reads? Maybe this shelf’s contents can s-q-u-e-e-z-e a bit to the left and take on one more . . . nope . . . oh bother! Okay, I’ll just heft this load over next to . . . But, sadly I see that I have no next to’s left next to anything. I have bibliophilic excess EVERYWHERE in this house! (Don’t even ask me about our full-sized guest house next door which houses office, guest rooms, and heavy-laden BOOKSHELVES! AAAaaaahhhhhh!)

What to do? What to do? I scurry around clutching a vital part of my “collection” and end up dizzy from turning this way and that in search of SPACE. I catch a whiff of Lavender Earl Grey emanating from the Blue Willow teapot and I immediately set down the books on the ottoman (a free surface . . . imagine that!) and make off to find a teacup and saucer. The teacup cupboard teems with teetering china beauties alongside sturdier mugs and French demi-tasse café ware all stacked and steadied just so. I peruse but fail to find a favorite for this mood, and so I venture to the dining room and browse the offerings ensconced in glass-fronted displays, antique sideboards, and open-shelving. Copious choices vie for my attention, some even calling from a tabletop unsuitable for housing teacups. Oh my, I sputter . . . the bookish dis-ease seems to have mutated thus far and now includes a tea-cup flush, which looks to be spreading to the teapot realm as well!

Now rather than panic, I choose the only sensible route: I quickly select a vintage Blue Willow teacup and saucer, carry them to the tea tray, which I then transport carefully (so as not to stumble on any books that may have toppled since my last sashay through the keeping room) to my favorite chair and tuffet. Alas, when I arrive I discover the books earlier placed atop the footstool. Naturally, I lay the tray on the chair, gather up the superfluous volumes, set them on the floor next to the hassock, heft the tray from chair to footrest, and then proceed to pour out a cup of refreshment.

While sipping slowly I gather one of those “overflow” books and open it to take a peek . . .

and the circle of life here at Wisteria Cottage continues . . .

. . . as does the miscellaneous stacking of books.

“I doubt this bibliophilic penchant will prove fatal,” I say with a grin as a child peers down through the banister, calling out, “Is everything okay?” in response to the recent spate of crashes and bangs. A smile creeps across my face as I recall the years I rushed to their playroom to inquire about safety following a loud noise.

The circle of life continues . . .

* * *

Postscript:

I confess . . . I have Elizabeth Brown's affliction.  Are you acquainted with Miss Brown?  Truly we are cut from the same cloth (minus the red hair, of course).

Just Pottering About

I smile as I sit here with teacup at hand and my trusty computer back in my lap eager to lap up the onslaught of words spilling forth. My photo program has vanished in the melee of recent computer follies but I can adjust to that in time. (and post without a new photo treat as blogger stubbornly refuses to recognize input from my stockpile of photos -- hrmph!  All fixed now.  *smile*) For now I sing and dance with joy at the touch of familiar keys answering my every command. Simple pleasures, indeed!

In my blogging-free days of late I have wandered into so many delightful pursuits. I finished off nearly a dozen books that lay around my choice spots of repose. I also managed to order dozens more (or so it seems as my dear husband staggers through the doorway with “the mail” for the day – oh my!). I recently happened upon a sequel to Rosanna of the Amish, a favorite of mine. The original book by Yoder relays the delightful account of a young girl adopted into the Amish ways when left as a foundling among the Amish by a devastated Irish Catholic family. It reads like a sweet novel/fairytale with so much Amish flavoring for those intrigued by simpler ways and unique expressions of faith and family. The sequel by Yoder, entitled Rosanna’s Boys, should arrive any day now. I will see it come through the door, admonish myself to walk calmly toward it, and resist all temptation to cast aside the daily doings for an enraptured and furious read-thru. Bibliophiles and read-a-holic kindreds know exactly what I mean, right?

Amongst the many reading hours offered by my computer-free spate and a steady string of rainy days (the most I can ever recall in my life, it seems) I have pursued many a new project in the kitchen, like homemade ice cream from raw dairy – delicious and easily digestible by those here that lack lactase. Sourdough muffins, biscuits, and waffles graced our table often with most unexpected beauty and scrumptious taste. I keep finding ways to substitute and “play” with this gooey “sour” friend. I’ve also come near to fully replacing canned refried beans with homemade. Sadly, we must adjust our palate to the less salty flavor of these delicious and more nutritious beans as the saltiness of the familiar processed beans captured our taste buds in a grip. With the addition of a few herbs and a bit more “spice,” along with some inspiring Mexican music and a colorful table setting, I’ve brought everyone onboard with eager smiles when I announce “Taco Salad” night!

I try to make every meal a celebration with candles and music and seats for all around the family table, but sometimes the somber details of life challenge me. This past week I pulled out the “Taco Salad” trick but got little enthusiasm. The beans weren’t to blame; our hearts lay heavy as we had buried one of our precious kitties that day. Mr. Darcy will no longer frolic in the grass and pounce on us playfully; he met his demise by the bumper of a vehicle on a nearby roadway. The kitty who had never strayed far from home and obediently came in each night recently developed a sense of adolescent rebellion and began to run away to play when we closed the doors at night. Each morning the naughty but neutered cat greeted us . . . until one morning. While leaving for an errand I spotted the loveable fluff by the road side . . . and wept aloud. We buried him in a special place he loved and now he joins the list of kitties we have loved but no longer cuddle.

Life journeys on despite loss and pain . . . new beginnings spring up with each step if we can see through the tears. Of late, our gardens dance full force with daffodils, camellias, hyacinth, and so many more, with the added delight of an indoor ball springing to life in the greenhouse. The tiny broccoli seeds have proven the first to accept invite to dance. Our early starts tremble toward the sun in a warm and cozy house of green. Truly a miracle abounds at every turn. Each day more progress excites conversation. The girls squeal with delight in between working hard to clear land and lay out the lasagna beds or rearrange the potager garden for maximum yield of foods from our lands planted by our hands. Likewise the egg gathering each day spurs us toward new projects and plans for a simply wonderful life from the land. I’ve dreamed dreams galore my whole life and each new project brings greater delight thus encouraging more dreaming. I’ve infused my children with the same gift, it seems. Lately Elizabeth has begun researching the keeping of a dairy cow. From our lands; from our hands . . . the blessed journey continues.

And so I’ve prattled on and on again. It’s a wonder anyone muddles through all my circuitous rambles . . . but you do. And each one of your comments and emails warms my heart so. I am trying desperately to “catch up” with all of you now that I have a computer again, but please be patient. My new found love of blogging without obligation has blossomed with an ease in my heart that I am not wont to lose. I shall simply wander and chat with simplicity and joy, for that’s the best part of blogging – the friendly chats and deepening bonds we share.

Now I must be off to tidy the kitchen, load some laundry into the favored machine that makes the job so simple, and of course I must find a moment or two for some reading. Now where did I put that new book on the midwife among the Amish . . . or should I read the latest from my growing collection of Elizabeth Goudge . . . hmmmmm?

Happy Monday!

: D

A Friend Comes to Call

A friend came to visit this weekend. She picked an interesting weekend to show up – snowstorms pelted the gardens, a power outage rendered my simple weekend routine useless, and cold temps forced all to gather round the woodstove with projects and playthings in hand. I could have been slogged under with frustrations and irritations at the laundry piling up and the recesses of the house curling up from cold, but my friend came to serve and to share, not to take. You see, my friend came delivered in the postbox, wrapped between the covers of her latest book. Sally Clarkson’s Dancing with My Father arrived on a cold and powerless Friday and set about warming me up from the inside out.

Whenever a friend comes to visit, announced or unannounced, I like to prepare something special. If my visitor drives down the drive on a lark, I pop on the ever-ready kettle and rustle up a nibble of nourishment (sometimes as simple as a slice of bread dressed with fresh butter and a thin shaving of cheese placed on sprigged china). For those who call in a “reservation” I have spates of time smoothed before us filled with lavender-scented linens, welcoming roses in a vase, delicious meals all planned out with sweet desserts to cap off our time of lingering togetherness. Our stay-at-home-work-from-home lifestyle (abruptly required with the birth of my “special” twins so looooong ago – one of many blessings in disguise) furnishes the freedom to throw wide my arms and embrace the gift of togetherness when it blossoms unexpectedly. And so I do . . .

With Sally’s arrival on Friday I quickly introduced her to my stack of “friends” piled up near my favorite reading chair. I had so many little tasks to tackle while I juggled our family needs into segmented spates of time when the generator would hum and the machinery would spring to life, that I entrusted her to the company of poets, monks, and children on exciting adventures, all piled up neatly near the floral refuge.

And so I scurried away putting pots of soup on to simmer, placing eggs and butter and other cool-requiring goodies near the chilly windowsill, all the while thanking the Lord that I had baked four fresh loaves of whole-wheat bread just the day before. Gary and the girls kept the homes fires bright (I avoid wood-hauling with this delicate elbow), while Matthew adjusted his ever-compulsive tendencies to compensate for the loss of his music, computer, and video buddies which he regularly calls on throughout the day. As I fretted a bit over how to explain “no power” to a young man who often finds words a jungle of noise and confusion, I noticed that a greater degree of maturity had set in since the last “outage episode” as I witnessed Matthew regularly checking the light switch in his “office” as an indicator of computer availability. He remained calm and complacent in the necessarily quiet surrounds. Praise the Lord!

With meal prep doubled to last beyond today and children all engaged in reading, practicing, and working with the natural light of day, I felt free to ignore the laundry and vacuuming in lieu of a visit with Sally. I manually lit the gas ring (those assisting clickers need power) and set out the cups and saucers – oh wait! I only need one, don’t I? The kettle sang sweetly as I chose a robust Assam tea, knowing from previous bookish visits that Sally prefers a strong dark tea. With tea steeped and steady snowfall reflecting a generous amount of light into my favorite reading spot, I settled down and gently opened our visit.

Time always flies as we “catch up.” I have read all of Sally’s previous books (they sit upon my shelf inviting rereads while waiting for the day she is welcomed by my daughters as they seek to enjoy a mentoring visit along The Mom Walk or The Mission of Motherhood in the Seasons of a Mother' Heart). I “met” Sally through another “bookish” friend, Tina Farewell, who published a most delightful catalog, Lifetime Books and Gifts (sadly out of print these days), that read like a book of books and gushed with introductions to other like-minded folks reaching out to encourage those of us along the pathways of home education and home dedication to our Lord in a tumultuous time in our world.

Long ago Sally arrived on my doorstep all bundled up in a Whole-Hearted manual of educational ideas, tips, and inspiration that set my heart to racing. A kindred! Just like the big sister I always dreamed about! And she arrived just in the nick of time to help a faltering sister see the light through the exhaustion, frustration, and sheer sorrow-filled clouds that had overtaken my sunny approach to life and learning in our own Willow Cottage. Multiple closely-spaced kids (including twins with multiple handicaps), a husband working round the clock to find a successful source of support for his family, conflicted family members who just didn’t understand our choices, nosy neighbors who believed children should go off to school, and a host of burdens I carried from a difficult childhood threatened to sink my Good Ship Lollypop.

Enter Sally . . . one who has walked many of the same shadowed valleys, encountering similar ruts and pitfalls, yet hearing the same calling. A bit further along the road, she called back to me, “All is well! Grab God’s hand and follow! I’m here with God; it’s still dark, a bit scary, and pretty difficult, BUT God’s faithful. KEEP COMING!”

That first Sally Book served me well as I read it with pleasure, cried onto its pages when I needed a refreshing nudge to keep going, and always found a friend when I came to call.

A few years later, Seasons of a Mother's Heart arrived as I juggled five kids, incredible routines and therapies, our own business, and external family breakdowns. Once again I saw that I was not alone. Sally’s honest voice and keen eye for beauty found in the simplest things of life felt like a warm kindred hug. I read through the book in pieces at a café near my daughter’s ballet studio. While Elizabeth stretched and danced, I sipped tea and slipped through the chapters; hearing once again that I did not stand all alone in a lonely meadow – others have passed this way before and survived in love and with joy.

Years flew. I moved.  She moved.  Life jaunted along and new books arrived from Sally’s pen. Emails went back and forth now and again (like the sweet note of love and encouragement Sally sent when I reached out in a time of grief following my son’s death) and the era of blogging dawned. I read Sally’s blog and even comment on occasion, but I cannot say that she even knows who I am . . . but that doesn’t seem to matter when a new book-bound missive arrives. Her open-hearted style pours forth the truth of a life lived in earnest for the Lord. Her kindred joys and triumphs mirror my heart. I’ve grown up with Sally as one of those blessed beacons around the shoals of time. She joins Edith Schaeffer, Amy Carmichael, Susan Schaeffer McCaulay, and a host of other caring sharing women who have mentored me along life’s path as I dance, tumble, stumble, regain, and dance again. It’s not a club . . . it’s a gift of friendship in print that I praise the Lord for.

And so this latest chronicle of Sally’s journey to live joyfully inspires me with each page turn. As a regular reader of her blog I have had the pleasure of praying for some of the very miracles and joyous occasions she recounts. Building upon her past sharing, Sally fleshes out even more of her precious person in this latest book, causing me to keep alive that flame of a dream that some day she and I will meet in person over a fragrant cup of tea and I will actually look into those blue eyes of hers and tell her how much she has meant to me in tough times and happy, as I thank her for the honest hand she extended in those pages she prayed over and labored to produce just for me . . . and so many more.

I’m happy to report that after about 38 hours of power-free living, our trusty lights sprung back to life. The laundry tumbles away and the vacuum roars to life, but I still manage to find snippets of time to carry on my “visit” with Sally. Though tempted to devour the book in one gulp, I have measured out the chapters in order to spread our time together over a slower, gentler space. I ponder her words, God’s Word, and my thoughts in journal. I remain “unplugged” from stress as I continue this weekend visit with my dear bookish friend.

I encourage you to get to know my friend Sally in your own special chair with your own cup of tea. For now, you’ll have to excuse me as I see her over there waiting patiently for me to close up this laptop so we can resume our dance of joy. I can hardly wait! I just love Dancing with My Father . . . and my friends. Take joy!

Visit Sally's Blog

* * *

UPDATE:

I found this waiting for me in my email box this afternoon:


Hi, Debbie,
What a fun, sweet post. I feel so honored. I so appreciate your reviews of me and my books and it encourages me to keep going. May the Lord continue blessing your ministry of writing life-giving words. I appreciate you.
Fondly, and blessings of His grace and peace,
Sally=

Gentle January

“Where has the time flown?” I wonder as I gaze out on the blustery day. Predictions for power outages and flooded creeks fill the headlines of our local paper, and yet I sit beside my fire in blessed coziness. It is good to be quiet in the midst of a storm. So it is with life these days . . .

January as a child signaled CHANGE in my home. My mother would pack away Christmas before the New Year arrived and set about remaking our life in the first month of the dawning annum. Often times that entailed a big move to a “fresh start” or at the very least we would evacuate our present life with a whirlwind cleaning frenzy complete with fresh curtains in the kitchen, fresh spreads on the beds. To a point I enjoyed the “carnival” atmosphere, but once I began my own life with my own address I abandoned that family tradition in favor of a very quiet entry into January.

Our tree stands tall and tinkling past January sixth, and then we celebrate with cocoa and treats as the ornaments come down to loving wrappers and snuggled-away safety until next Christmas. Once the last jot of holiday dust has been dispatched we arrange the furniture right back where it always goes . . . tradition. Books tumble from bedsides and closets (hastily hidden before the series of celebrations with guests) as we move back into our same-old daily routine. I love the same and the old . . .

The excessive feasts of the Nativity fade into hearty soups and crusty bread products; frothy cocoa mugs step aside as clear fragrant (calorie-free) teas take center stage in the slimmer days of January. Red and gold candles scented with spice burn low and sputter, only to be replaced with rich creamy vanilla pillars that burn brightly in the darkened eves. January seems to cry out for simple and quiet. We oblige with pleasure.

’Tis the season for beginning that series of books sitting in community upon the shelf. So Elizabeth has entered Jan Karon’s world of Mitford, while Lydia crosses the pond to Peter Mayle’s Provence; Rachel takes flight with C. S. Lewis into the wonders of Narnia and wins the prize for fastest devourer of a collection – two days per book with the final book just begun this morning. Hmmmmm . . . what will come next? Wizard of Oz? Peter Pan? The Five Children and It? The choices cheer from the bookcase, “Pick me!”

I have fallen back to my beloved old routine of multiple reads on multiple topics all at the same time, though I struggle to finish Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver – for me, something just lacks in the prose sprinkled with dullish essays of conservation and lack-luster recipes for garden wealth. I can’t get a visual of Barbara’s home or gardens or surrounding lands. Her family and friends remain sketches and their lives empty of color. I just want to cry out, “Barbara! I know full well what a ripe tomato looks like, now show me your life and loves in bloom and fruition.” But alas, the chapters drag on and I sputter along in my resolve to finish this book (my third attempt due to a friend’s gushing praise of it being “cute” – I find it bland). So, while my fingers linger on these required pages, my eye roves to the latest arrival from my mail-order treasure hunting of used books: another gem by Elizabeth Goudge. I am slowly filling my shelves with her gentle, picturesque novels sharing lively lives and colorful descriptions of the simplest of pleasures found in a day’s measure. I crave color and fragrance and windy wisps of prose that catch me up and carry me aloft into the writer’s magical world. A peek in through the windows to Miss Goudge’s world offers so much. Thus, I begin to cave to the temptation to set the Kingsolver book aside once again, trading plain cake for fancy flavor.

As for my most interesting read these days, The Music of Silence fills that spot. Benedictine Monk David Steindl-Rast opens wide the doors of his heart and shares the sweetness of a day punctuated by praise. His simple text, coupled with the famous recording Chant, unlocks the mysteries of a Catholic tradition I have never taken part in. My religion-lite upbringing followed by Protestant teachings beginning in the later teen years and then later-in-life reading about monks and nuns in novels and then biographies never fully explained the rich tapestry of prayer woven throughout the monastic daily life. Brother David has invited me in and I am savoring the experience. When I happened upon this fifty-cent book at the library booksale last month, I figured the cd made it worth the price alone – I failed to notice the treasure of experience that lay between the simple dark cover. The music of silence fits perfectly with my January’s pace.

Thus it goes in Gentle January around Wisteria Cottage. I haven’t posted much of late because I keep waiting for an “event” or inspiring photo shoot to replenish my blog trove of thoughts. The gardens slumber and I have taken this opportunity to rest my still-recovering elbow so that it returns to “normal.” To date I feel nearly 100% with no lingering arthritis or such, but I must admit that I relish the idea of taking just a bit more time away from stresses and strains at the elbow and the heart in this quiet, restful month. And so I rest . . . and read . . . and simmer . . . and smile.

Truthfully, the best tale to be told around here can be found in the cozy, snuggly pace of a family in hibernation. Well-fed, well-read, and very well by all accounts summarizes my time away. My camera lies fallow (a fact my children have noted with pleasure) while my journal fills up: So much germinating while hibernating. Spring-time plans for gardens and summer-time thoughts of dining from the bounty keep us from completely walling off tomorrow as we glide through another stormy, windy day of thanking the Lord for providing such peace and calm in the midst of a world tossed to and fro.

With prayers for all of you and prayers for those precious ones in Haiti, and prayers spoken from the heart of all matters, I have been hauling a bushel-basket of prayers to the feet of the Almighty these days as I pace my day with prayer times that my monk friend has inspired. He hears . . . He knows . . . He listens . . . all ways.



p.s.
My computer also lies fallow much of the time these days, but I plan to step in to say “Hi” at each one of your lovely blogs in the coming days. The writing of letters, answering of emails, returning of phone calls, and commenting on blogs seem like the perfect activity for a Gentle January day.

Oh my! The power just flickered, so I must leave off the wandering chatter and post or I shall surely lose it all and spoil my “gentle” day. ; D

Respite Wednesday

Hello Sweet Friends,

I sit quietly before this computer with a kitty-cat grin on my face (you know the one your kitty gets when he settles next to you after he's just had a nibble of food and you absentmindedly stroke him as you read through the afternoon with nothing in particular pressing on your time. That, my friends, shall describe this day for me (at least I hope it will). After a week's worth of gatherings, meetings, marketing, traveling (to Costco for a pantry replenishing trip), and such, I have set aside this day for respite.

I found myself rising later than usual -- sweet delight -- feeling well rested. I stepped upon the scale and found to my delight I have returned to my normal readings. Recently, I embarked on a trial with an herbal from India designed to reduce blood pressure with NO side effects (or so they claimed). I ordered the reasonably-priced packet, downed the AWFUL smelling tablets with plenty of water, and then waited. The results came in swiftly, as my regular evening blood pressure readings dropped noticeably over the course of the trial treatment. Hitting 122/78 felt like a dream after readings of 141/90 (which prompted the whole medication route with the doctor some years ago).

I continued with the foul-odored pills and plenty of water for flushing of toxins and rejuvenating of my system, finding my BP readings comfortably worth the twice-a-day regime.

Periodically I inquired whether anyone found my ankles puffy or my eyes swollen. Nope, everyone thought I looked beautiful. (Silly ones, I fished not for a compliment, but truly felt swollen . . . and so sluggish.) I dragged through the day, allowing vacuuming to wait a day and dinner to become more of stuff-and-nonsense and less of feasting-and-rejoicing. Still no complaints from my family, so I surmised that I had just depleted my energies with so much entertaining over the early summer days and must pay the price now.

Stepping on the scale began to bother me . . . another pound? And so I cut my dinner portions and eliminated my simple snacks in the evening. I felt hungry, tired, but happy to have lowered my BP readings.

Then the scale registered another pound gained after a day of near fasting and lots of water! In addition my bodily functions seemed to have screeched to a halt. Still I pressed on believing I was just "adjusting" . . . until I saw the pictures from our spinning date with my friend Adele -- I screeched out when I saw the pictures of this dumpling woman at the wheel, all moon-faced and pudgy of ankles. "That can't be ME!!" I gasped. Still the scale cried out, "One more pound for the day!" My common sense kicked in and I stopped the ayervedic approach. Abruptly. I collapsed in prayer and asked the Lord WHY? To which I distinctly felt a twinge of guilt . . . if I trusted God to manage my bigger life issues, and even enlisted my friends as prayer partners. then why grab onto the stinky-pills and swallow for comfort I could touch? I didn't beat myself up emotionally, but I did cry on Gary's shoulder, though the loss of water-weight from that activity registered little improvement. My BP shot back up to 144/88 and I felt so low.

The next day I drank tea, paced my schedule, and prayed for relief. Despite running errands and replenishing the pantry, just in case the predicted epidemic hits, I managed to make it through the day, flopping into bed to find my BP slightly lowered. Hmmmmm . . .

Over the course of the next several days I dropped a pound a day and my body returned to all of its normal functioning. Today I beamed at the scale to see my normal weight register . . . and then I promptly wondered if I should try to ride this wave for a bit longer in hopes of stripping off another five or so pounds. Hmmmmmmm . . . ; D

Have I reached the happily ever after page yet? Hardly -- BUT . . . my BP read 122/77 last night. Now that's something to celebrate!!!

I hesitated to blog about this because it is so indicting to me and may possibly hurt another who struggles with their own road including medications, ayervedics, and all manner of other treatments. Please do not see this as a brag or a suggestion or even a warning . . . it is merely a confession of a woman who called her friends into prayer and then ran off down her own path. When she met with scary things she didn't come and share that with her friends, she hid in shame or worse . . . fear that they would judge her a fool. Sadly, I thought I had conquered this foible of self long ago, but clearly I still care what people think of me in an unhealthy way (and fear the worst). In reading some of your blogs of late I see pages and pages of personal outpourings filled with prayer needs, fears, medical trials, family frayings, and so much more. The honesty stings my eyes at times. Tears fall for people I have never met, nor may EVER meet. This bloggy thing still amazes me! I want to be a part of this ever-changing, honest, deep, light, silly, serious community of honest folks walking their own path without apology or shame.

And so I have set aside this Respite Wednesday for sipping tea, reading a new/old book on traveling the islands surrounding Britain (something I am most interested in doing some day), and stroking my kitty. Dinner will be a chicken stewed in my new Lodge dutch oven with potatoes, carrots, fragrant herbs, and a topper of sourdough dumplings ( a new creation based on the biscuit recipe from Mrs. Boast). I have had such fun playing with sourdough. I have few recipes but plenty of kitchen chemistry tucked under my belt and am thus inventing new twists on old themes and running with some of those pioneer women who once upon a time shaped a new California cuisine out of necessity and need.

I recently received a very old starter portion from my spinning/weaving friend Adele, and it is most delicious. It dates back many, many years passed from one to another of the locals in these parts. I recently read that a sourdough starter takes its flavor from the surrounding wild yeast. Thus a starter began in San Francisco, with a most pungent sourness, will lose that flavor when transported to say Vermont, where the wild yeasts have a much milder flavor. Fascinating! Unfortunately I neglected my whole wheat starter with the entrance of the new "girl" on the block who arrived in the midst of a medical flummox for me. Sadly I dumped it, but will try again another day. I love my culinary lab!

As for today . . . Respite Wednesday . . . I shall relax, rejuvenate, and revel in the joys found in the start of a string of days with not a single appointment inked in until next mid-week. Such luxury.

Now where's that book? I hear the kettle singing. It promises to be a very good day around here. I wish the same for you.

Relaxed

What a wonderful weekend filled to the brim with TIME.

We took time to R-E-L-A-X and read and

wander through the gardens with butterfly nets

(or just a friendly finger),

Play in the kitchen with sourdough starter,

And so much more.

Who knew that a smattering of days without an appointment on the calendar could yield such bliss?

This Monday morning found me smiling and eager to play some more. Sure we have music lessons and marketing to be done, along with vacuuming and laundering and all the other cottage duties . . . but somehow I could not let the weekend feeling go without one more walk in the gardens before the week truly begins.

I found dew upon the fresh garden faces, which brought a smile to mine.

I sought vibrant color yet to be washed away by the heat of the day.


And I saw the promise of more to come.


The quickly-changing landscape always surprises me. Here sits a shy sweet bud of Anne Boleyn rising to bloom just a day or two ago.


Today she looks thus.


Tomorrow . . . hmmmm, as always, I pause a bit before “deadheading” this beauty when all her petals have fallen. I wonder, as many have through the ages, what really happened to bring about Miss Boleyn’s untimely demise. Evil on her part? Or another’s? I clip ever so swiftly and gently when the need arises. But for today, I shall merely enjoy the beauty of this delicate English rose.


Pondering has been my lot this past weekend.

Pondering why Blogger labeled me “Malicious” and blocked me from blogging for hours on end.

Pondering the similarities/differences found in our Sundays here at Wisteria Cottage and those of a turn-of-the-20th-century Sunday afternoon in France (in the country just outside Paris) as so beautifully filmed in Un Dimanche a la Compagne/A Sunday in the Country – a French film I adore and watched again this past weekend.

Ponderings continued as I finished up a tepid biography of Earl Hamner Jr (Walton’s creator – another fave of mine) and dove right into Where the Lilies Bloom. How did I ever miss this latter gem while growing up? Mary Call’s spunky nature holds her family together through wildcrafting (gathering of herbs and plants for medicine) in her Appalachian homelands. The trials of this 14-year-old who becomes head of household, tethered by poverty and a raft of untenable promises from an insistent parent, tugged at my heart and dredged memories of my own. Sadly the book ends abruptly and without satisfaction. I felt cheated when the storyline cut off sharply with a tidy summary as if the authors (Bill and Vera Cleaver) simply dusted off their hands and moved on to the next item on their writing list. I felt cheated . . . I wanted more time with this rag-tag family . . . I demand a sequel.

I retaliated by moving on down my own list of waiting-to-be-read. While glancing through the pile o’ books stacked to the stars, as my dear husband groans in pursuit of a spider on the ceiling whom he cannot access due to the rolling waves of books piled in plunderous plops next to the bedside, my eye catches the cover of Sue Hubbell’s A Country Year: Living the questions.


I snap it up and carry it downstairs for a re-read. I read this many years ago as an evaluative tool to decide whether bee-keeping held the key to our financial future. I loved the book, though we determined the path to financial freedom held no bee skeps for us. I think this week’s forecast of temps up in the 90s holds the very promise of lazy days of reading. Sue will be a fine companion once again.

Thus, I wandered in and out of the weekend duties as if in a fog of freedom – and it felt WONDERFUL!

This morning I carried my books and breakfast out into the coolness before the heat and breathed in the joy of another week virtually free of appointments.


I smile when I recall the blood pressure numbers recorded each evening – now in normal ranges . . . without medication. I put fork to food and enjoy a yummy omelet filled with sprouts and cheese, and YES there lies a chocolate treat upon the very same plate!


Elizabeth found a most scrumptious recipe for fudge pie in a coconut crust in the Whole Foods for the Whole Family cookbook by La Leche League. Delicious!!! (Whole foods can be fun and sassy when called upon to be a decadent dessert.)

SO in an attempt to carry over a bit more of the relaxed pace of the past weekend, I dove in and enjoyed every morsel of this chocolate goodness.


I intend to keep it up all week long.

Now forgive me if I cannot get to your blog to leave a comment or two, but Blogger has proven to be in a snit with me. (Have I landed on some “enemies list” due to expressing Free Speech? Quite possibly so!) Has any one else found the pathway to blogs blocked? Rather than fume about Big Brother and all the rest of the incendiary politics filling up the American Way of life, I choose to wander on out to visit the chickens. My how they have grown???


The cock-a-doodle-doos bring smiles to our faces each morning we rise in this country life. (No neighbors have grumbled – hooray . . . the joy of country acres between back porches.)

I sip the last of my tea, enjoy the morning, stroke my kitty friends, chat with my children, think about my husband hard at work on a new project, and embark upon another week of living in the country way.

And so I ramble on and away to who-knows-what along the way in the coming week . . .

Happy Monday!

: D

Bookish Babble

The library booksale falls on the first Saturday of each month. I rarely miss an opportunity to shell out a few bucks for a few bagfuls of good reads. This month proved no exception.

Though I rarely spend more than a dollar for any single book, I eagerly plopped down $5 for this beautiful copy of The Black Fawn by Jim Kjelgaard. How could I resist after reading this flyleaf quote?

Soon after Bud Sloane had been sent to live at Bennett’s Farm, he came upon a black fawn in the nearby woods, and from that moment the metamorphosis began that turned a frightened city-bred orphan into a dedicated young farmer, whose whole being is wrapped up in the life and lore of the fields and woods of Dishnoe County.

But even more than by his sense of identification with the black fawn, Bud was guided into maturity by Gram and Gramps Bennett. From Gram he learned for the first time what it is to love and be loved. And at Gramps’ side he learned the ways of nature and the meaning of true sportsmanship.

Well worth every penny, I trust.

I believe this book may have a waiting list of readers around here!

Along with Kjelgaard’s gem I found two Faulkner novels (The Town and The Mansion) not already in my Faulkner collection, another Fannie Flagg funny entitled Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven (her common touch makes me laugh and cry all at the same time) , and an M.F.K Fisher collection of essays on aging, Sister Age. Though I have read some of Fisher’s cooking essays this collection has escaped my grasp, until now.

In the travel department I snagged three golden oldies from the early 1960s:

Let’s Travel in France
Let’s Travel in England
Let’s Travel in the Soviet Union (a bucolic/fictional rendering of Soviet life)

And also:

My Village in Austria (1956)

These vintage travel books catch my fancy with the threads of tradition and rural beauty that used to be standard daily life for so many around the globe, but now can only be found in a Living History museum (which enchantment me fully whenever I happen upon one; my favorite being in Oslo, Norway).

Another recently published book on Finland caught my eye. Gorgeous pictures, glossy pages, and a wealth of informative text fill the covers of Finland: Land of Music and Nature. Finland intrigues me as it sits between the three Scandinavian lands and Russia, remaining aloof from both sides, it seems to me. This book may be second on my list after The Black Fawn (unless Rachel raids my stack before I sit down to read – whereupon The Fawn will quickly find a place by her bedside).

As always, the cookbook section entices me and I emerge weighted down with several yummy reads. The Swiss Cookbook and Farm Journal Country Cookbook, dating back decades, hold a treasure trove of old-fashioned delights and copious notes to explain the purpose, tradition, and sheer delight associated with each particular recipe. Coupled with these books I found three books close to the very core of my life: Family and feasting.

The first, Festivals, Families, and Food by Diana Carey and Judy Large reminds me so much of Karey Swan’s delightful Home and Hearth. Like Karey, these two women share from their hearts and recipe files about all manner of family celebrations throughout the year. The delightfully Tasha Tudor-esque watercolored cover drew my eye, and the sweet line drawings throughout made me pop it quickly into my canvass bag before another seeker found it. In the check out line another mom noticed this book in my stack and gushed about the joy she has had using it through the years. Pick a holiday, any holiday, and you’ll find crafts, poetry, music, details of tradition, drawings, and recipes to complete the festival. Right next to this I squirreled away The Year-Round Cookbook to add another dimension to my burgeoning collection of books devoted to holidays and festivals. And surely I have room to fit in Feasts and Friends: Recipes from a Lifetime by Sylvia Thompson. The lifetime passages look as interesting as the recipes, which have come down to her through many generations of her family.

Just when my arms had begun to ache from the weight of the booksale booty, my dear husband appeared out of nowhere and hefted my lot. My eyes flashed to and fro for just-one-more look . . . but clearly this would do . . . for today. I dutifully handed over $17 (remember, one cost a whole $5) and left with easily a month's worth of reading full of ideas to last a lifetime.

I came home, put the kettle on, sorted the books, and made sure to mark the first Saturday in September with a big smiling reminder.
: D

Let the Dog Days of Summer and Hot August Nights come on through. I’m ready for them!

Happy reading, sweet friends.


-------------
P.S.

For those wondering . . . he called. We enJOYed a delicious Mexican dinner at our favorite little restaurant and then we took a leisurely drive through the mountain roads in the convertible. It was a fabulous sunset! ; D

Triple-Digit Trials

This rose cluster pretty aptly illustrates my life right now:

Beautiful in part
Promising in spots
Ragged in others places
Badly in need of pruning

The temps reach into the realm of triple digits . . . again. The flurry of parties and gatherings and delightful moments all run together in a blur of rapid hoovering and hasty restocking of beach towels at the poolside. Life hums along like the bees in steady attendance at the banks of lavender running hither and yon throughout my gardens, but I cannot pause to enjoy the heady fragrance as my To Do list cries out to me even in the gardens. Of late I run like Florence Nightingale with a hose to revive the droopy leaves and parched vines that refuse to drink sustaining drafts during the automatic daily sprinkling routine in the cool hours of the morn.

Along with the outdoor duties, I cook, tidy, set tables, greet guests, clear glasses, hug new arrivals, hug farewelling ones, and even find the time to hug those who hang around here day in day out at Wisteria Cottage.

Summer has arrived and with it a host of hosting opportunities. Also on this torrent of activity rushes a raft of birthdays and anniversaries (that I manage to mix up and forget to my own detriment with those whose very self-esteem seems to rest on receiving an e-greeting with my name attached . . . oh please do forgive . . . please). Let us not forget the orthodontic appointments that we pushed beyond the party dates (which seemed SO far away several months ago) and the odd doctor’s appointment (like my annual physical – yuck!) which arrived and caught us off guard.

Did I mention the major nosebleed Matthew developed as Gary and Rachel exited one door and I made for the other to go in opposite directions for different appointments? You probably guessed that one of us arrived on the tardy list.

Ugh!

And does it really have to top 100 again today? I mean it . . . can we discuss this . . . take a vote . . . flip a cosmic switch . . . pass some sort of two-foot-high referendum without reading a word of it . . . ?????

(Oh pardon my rant . . . I believe I just snapped!)

Eventually, despite my best efforts to maintain Super-Woman status I falter, stumble, and then C*R*A*S*H completely.

I sit here in my favorite chair, positioned in the stream of coolness emanating from the cooler, of course – though the jet stream of AAAAAHHHHHH that caught me up as I stood before the open fridge did a nice job of lowering my temps, as well. I ramble, babble, and generally type without a roadmap of any sort. There will be no fancy tales or taut observations today – nope, nothing pithy or weighty; not even a quotable quote to be found as far as I can tell amongst this blather of consciousness that streams between my ears like a sirocco wind and pours out onto the captive keyboard.

I stop.

I retreat.

I find a peaceful moment and wallow in it.

I find the loving embrace of my Father.

I rest.

I read a devotional clip missed in the flurry of recent entertaining.

Like water from a rock it rushes out to me, catches me up, and cools me off.

Thank you, Lord, that You have set aside places,
Special trysting places where we can meet with You.
Alistair Eberst


How Wonderful it is to talk with God
When cares sweep o’er my spirit like a flood;
How wonderful it is to hear his voice,
For when He speaks the desert lands rejoice.
Theodore H. Kitching

We’ve all got little cells in our hearts, little hermitages that God wants to fill. For some there’s a place of silence. It’s hard to be silent. It’s hard to stop. To know God in the quiet is worth a lot – it’s there we’ll get our vision and our peace to come through whatever hits us.

Celtic Daily Prayer (7/23)

As I finish reading the snippet of devotional text and the accompanying verses of enrichment I look up and find myself in a deserted room. All alone. This one has scurried off to tidy her room; that one retreated to tackle French; the little one reluctantly left the gathering with a fresh new Math book under her arm. Gary and Matthew made off for the office some time ago, so I sit here with only the Lord to hear my thoughts.

Peace . . .

A true gift.

My external whining has ceased. My internal gnawing has quieted. This moment floats gently into the next as I sip the final drops of tea and thank the Lord, once again, for steadfastly holding my elbow as I maneuver the daily path.

A few winks of rest refresh me as a gentle birdsong-laced cd of instrumental sweetness lulls me.

I reach into my chair-side basket of goodies and pluck out the delightful read, Clementine in the Kitchen, by Phineas Beck (aka Samuel Chamberlain) published in 1943.

This entertaining (and true) look at an American writer and family living just North of Paris in a stone cottage with a French cook, "Clementine," makes my tummy growl and my laugh lines sprout each time I delve into its pages. The pre-WWII opening takes a decided (and humorous) turn when the publisher of Gourmet magazine (the author’s employer) calls the entire family home for their own safety in 1939. Loathe to leave Clementine behind, the family pleads and succeeds in returning to the Boston area with Clementine in tow.

Though I have scarcely taken in 65 pages I am smitten and eager to read on. The lighthearted prose and drippingly delicious culinary descriptions (even the escargot recipe sounds fabulous – but oh that prep step ~~ ICK!!) serve as the perfect antidote for my weariness these days. Laughter truly lifts the whole body-soul-outlook combo, doesn’t it?

Reading about a French-speaking cook meeting up with an Alabama-born cook in a Connecticut Farmhouse brought a smile to my lips and growls from my tummy.

It’s 1:32 pm and I feel the need for a snack already. I just bought a wedge of Port Salud yesterday, along with some fresh blueberries. Mmmmmm! The day has definitely improved all the way around.

I shall bid farewell as I make my way to the kitchen and then settle down for an afternoon’s worth of delicious reading about Clementine’s delightful stateside adventures in the kitchen.

: D