we all KNEW she would have a book - right?
Books
07/17/2014
04/04/2014
Notes on a Passing Season
I have managed to carve out an hour of solitude in which to write, and as I sit here with a mug of tea I am reminded of E. B. White (Charlottes Web and many, many more short stories) who would sit in his cliff top stone cabin and tap away at an old Olivetti typewriter recording his thoughts and stories in perfect solitude.
I have neither a stone cabin or solitude, my eyes can see only woodland and greenery as long as I strategically place the computer screen before the house across the street, and my solitude is about to be broken by smallish feet, still sandy from the beach we played at yesterday, begrudgingly leaving it as the sun sunk, and arriving home too late to shower before nodding off in-between friendly sheets.
Mr. White recorded his activities daily, from the running of his fish farm to the naming of his many chickens, ruminations on the progression of WWII and concerns/updates on the measles (the measles are taking tea in the nursery this afternoon, the measles are feeling well enough to run outside in the sunshine this morning), and is the very epitome of what I would like to think Muddy Girls was going to be… way back when, before I decided that 2 children were not enough and took on a few more!
And so, after a week’s vacation I find myself with a stolen hour before the children wake up (and I know it won’t be long… I can hear beds creaking) traveling back in time through pixilated moments captured in digital glory with the thought of finally having a moment to download and post them to Muddy Girls, and I am whisked away to the start of winter, to ice encrusted twigs and snow covered hills and the giggling over Nanny Joy’s silver tea tray flying over moon-lit midnight snow.
Next are a set of photos capturing a white pine tree which has in turn captured and splintered our fence. Lying down on its side, how it missed the prettiest dogwood tree in the yard and the compost bin I do not know. Brought down in a rage if spring time fury it lays awaiting patiently its fate as James wields the chainsaw. In one, Maggie earnestly measures herself up for a stump to sit on, and the next shows Emma breaking out in a sweat rescuing a table and rolling it over to the sitting room, canopied by blossoming cherry trees. Moss has been used to cover oozing sap which they swear is enough of a barrier, although my weeping washing machine begs to differ as it curses through load after load of sticky denim.
A row of glass jars, sunlight glinting – so the photographs reflect, have been lovingly placed over spring’s newest addition to the garden. Persuaded on a sunny day early in the season to go to the garden center we came back with broccoli and strawberries for Maggie’s piece of garden where she planted with great abandon, dirt trapped under finger nails. Her smile of contentment was in contrast to the panicked consternation just a few days later when we ran out ahead of yet another ice storm to cover the baby leaves and protect them with a couple of mason jars and one big cookie jar for the strawberry plant (let me tell you, she has great plans for those strawberries!).
Just as we had twigs captured in ice, a little further on are imagines of budding plants, struggling to move the clock further into spring. New green tips pushing their way through dark moist soil, dark fringed tips lifting leaves to escape the confines of winters sleep. These plants are making a superhero’s effort to demand sunshine, and I can’t help but feel their desire and agree with their plans this year.
And then we come to bear feet and granules of sand, not trying to push the metaphoric aspects of sand slipping through the glass grain by grain, again, I can’t help but reflect that spring this year seems to have been a tad slower than most to warm our hearts. Images of sand drifting through fingers only remind me of that fact that almost, almost it is here.
Brightly colored kites take to the air, made brighter by the cloudless blue skies, a heart shaped stone captured wet and shiny. Handstands by the water and dolphin sighting all have made it into the time traveling capsule, along with a boat trip, bouncing over the waves as we fly along side pelicans and glimpse red beaked oyster pickers.
The last images are the more surprising ones, for they are of five baby possums, just three months old that have been rescued from their dead mother. Don’t ask me how my oldest daughter does it, but we were out shopping and she just happened to start up a conversation with a store owner who worked as an animal rescue shelter, last week she had a red tailed hawk in the store recovering from a fright with a motor car, this week possums. The blind and naked bodies beg from me not a moment of maternal sympathy, but Emma, I think is just about to offer every single cent of her hard earned pocket money in order to pay for their keep. Having promised her we will visit the rescue center soon we move on.
And so, like E. B. White I find myself out of time. Two hungry children are hopeful in their anticipation of pancakes and strawberries, and so pancakes I will produce. I have at least whittled out the photographs I am going to post tomorrow, but today these letters typed on an electric keyboard must suffice. Hopefully I have at least been able to offer you a glimpse into the last three; maybe it has been four, months. Time traveling is quite a pleasing way to traverse moments, hopping from one memory to another, choosing which deserve to be reflected upon and which are to discard.
07/19/2013
06/15/2013
Family hand-me-down Stories
Norman MacLean (A River Runs Through It) once wrote "If our Father had anything to say, nobody who did not know how to fish would be disgrace a fish by catching him", and when I drove home from work on Wednesday I was greeted by the site of the girls lined up outside the garage doors receiving casting lessons from James. Apparently he subscribes to the same school of thought, although faced with the lack of a river sitting outside our front door he was encouraging castings that flew over the road and managed to land in the neighbours garden. The entire gathering of neighbourhood children were with him, and discussions of tackled boxes and said contents were reluctantly broken up only after hungry parents had to come looking for their children, who were forced marched back home for supper. And who, Im sure, are all asking to be taken fishing this weekend. While watching with a cup of tea and I wrote this blog post in my head, confident that I would be able to thrill everyone of James ability to engage children in a robust outdoor activity, and reflecting my love for a man who, having chosen to book the first week of summer vacation off work would take the girls out to buy brand new fishing rods (really, there was nothing wrong with their old ones) and proceed to congratulate them on being able to cast across the road into the neighbours garden.
However...
As I was cooking supper I noticed a small package sitting on the kitchen counter, and I should have been warned that its bright redness spelt trouble!
A little McSawley history...
Back in the day, many, many years ago, and I really do mean many years ago (like young and stupid ago), we belonged to a regular crowd of Friday nighters. Each Friday the same crowd would head down to the pub to finish off the week with a pint or two, or three, or four, we went to the same pub, pushed the same buttons on the juke box, and we would stop in the same chippy on the way home.
Presiding over the chip shop counter was a rather large container of radioactive pickled eggs, which had been sitting in their juices for years, I'm sure that they should have been plastered with health warning labels, and every week we walked past them, ordered our chips and leave.
For some ungodly reason, one week as we walked past the counter, bolstered with liquid bravado from within, it was suggested sorry, I meant a "double dog dare ya" was issued, and so a pickled egg was bought and consumed in one go... by yours truly.
It was evil
It was furry
It was nasty
It brought tears to my eyes
and I swore that never again would I ever ever ever ever eat a pickled egg.
This story holds its own place in the annuals of family dinner conversations; when the children start suggesting that they don't like the food lovingly grown, harvested, cooked and served up on their plates, pickled eggs come to the rescue: "It can't be as bad as the pickled egg" ... "try it", and "Tell us about the pickled egg again, eeeeewwww why would you do that" are frequent discussions around our table.
How do we get from Norman McLean to pickled eggs? well, sitting on the kitchen counter was a shrink wrapped package, and contained within was a bright red (colored with beet juice no less) pickled egg, not only that, but written on the outside was "Hannah's" pickled egg. I am going to leave this story here and let the rest of it be in photograph format... really I think very few words are going to be needed, but I do want to note that never, never, never again will I eat a pickled egg!
It was considered sooooooooo disgusting that Emma immediately brought out the ice cream and we all had to have a spoonfulto rescue our tastbuds!!!
04/30/2013
Spine Poems part two
It seems like the spine poems have caused quite a stir... among guests to this spot as well as amongst my fabulous Girls of troop 41071. Helen (sister, creator, blogger, and one of my personal style guru, yes I need at least two - I can be quite challenging in that area you know!) posted her spine poem on Curly Birds, which can be found here, and over the weekend I took my troop of creative and energetic youngsters to a second hand book shop where, in honor of National Poetry Month, we had a delicious couple of hours book stacking, picture snapping and poetry reading... I do hope you enjoy the results just as much as we enjoyed creating them...
The ring,
The sword,
Realm of light,
Begin of shadows,
Shadow war
Twins,
Have a nice life,
(With) Night kites
Kings of the north,
The bones of the old ones,
The grimm reader,
Phantom leader,
Death's daughter,
City of the lost.
The amber spyglass,
The subtle knife,
The jewel of the Kalderash
The wide window
Led the way
Beyond the mango tree
I've lost my best friend,
A dog called Kitty,
A long way from Chicago.
Skunk scout,
Later gator,
Ferret in the bedroom, lizards in the fridge.
The tenth city,
Beyond the valley of Thorlls,
Chaos,
Pursued,
Hidden,
Stung,
Frantic,
Unmasked.
So, you wanna be a rock star?\
Yes, your parents are crazy,
Dorm room feng shui.
There were so many great poems made I have enough left over for a brand new post one day! and just in case you missed the post, Spine Poems part one can be found here.
Do you have a spine poem you would like included send it my way and I'll add them to the next spine poem post?
04/22/2013
Poetry Month... Spine poems
In honor of National Poetry Month I am spending a week playing with poetic posts:
I absolutley love Susan Gaylord's spirit books, so much so that a while back I introduced them to the Girl Scouts who had a blast out in the garden building their own you can read about them here. She recently blogged about spine poems here and ever since reading her post I have been itching to find five minutes in which to put together my own... here it is:
Gifted
Mindful movements
Five minutes a day
Listen to the wind
A beautiful mind
The invention of the human
Mindset
Send me yours... :-)
03/14/2013
Swallows and Amazons Book
In Tuesdays post the book that Emma was reading - Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome was sitting on her tray. It is a much loved book not only by Emma and I, but also James.. and a few years ago I wrote about it here and thought I would repost it today - enjoy!
01/05/2013
More Tales from the Outback Henhouse
Before being driven to the wrong airport, Jeff had arrived with the crisp chill of fall that replaces the golden sunshine of summer. He had bustled in and sat in the dinning room after it had closed for the afternoon drinking strong black coffee, the choice of all students, and as the fire crackled and snapped they all merrily caught up on transatlantic gossip, strengthened international relations and generally bitched about the rest of humanity.
Rummaging around in a well worn bag, he pulled out with flushed boyhood bravado several packages of fireworks. “Guess what this weekend is?”
“Well, its not July 4th, that was months ago” Lucy chimed in.
“Your right, its not July 4th”
Kate grinned, “Oh you dizzy boy, you remembered”
He had indeed remembered, and as he piled fireworks onto the table he explained to the speechless observers breathlessly “Guy Fawkes Night is November 5th, and this year we are celebrating it in style, these are not your normal fireworks!”
“Primary colors and big bangs always excite the infants” commented Nate dryly as he refreshed everyone’s mug.
“I thought we could have a bonfire and celebrate Brit style, Kate has been waiting for this for years” said Jeff “We could set up the fire out back and there would be plenty of room for the fireworks too”.
“And I bet Sally’s two girls could make the guy, let me ask her” Kate was already reaching for the phone.
The idea held promise, and the next day a handful of locals came together, bringing with them enough wood to build a sky high campfire, the guy, indeed happily put together by the afore mentioned two eager volunteers, was sitting atop of the wood, straight backed, awaiting his fate and Russian tea and mulled wine was cradled by gloved hands. Woven within the locals were the British friends and family of Kate, and including two very good friends from Wales whose jackets, which had been fleeced off the back of family sheep back home, were causing quite a stir.
Spirits were high as the fire was lit and the flames flickered happily eating up the timbers and reaching high to the guy. Among the laughter and chattering younger couples disappeared into the woods for something stronger than Russian tea, and then reappearing begun to Time Warp around the fire. Others stayed close to the fire keeping warm, but watching the dancing with raised eyebrows.
“You once said November the 5th would never be celebrated over here” Jeff grinned at Kate and she grinned back, “trying to explain that we are not a bitter population who never holds a grudge whilst we burn a copy of the chap who tried to set fire to the houses of parliament 600 years ago is impossible when we do something like this!”
It was a clear night and the stars were out, contentedly she stood back warm with the glow from both the fire and beer, and had just started mentally planning the firework show when she realized that both the conversation and dancing around the fire had stopped. Not only had it stopped, but that everyone’s attention was totally fixed upon Guy Fawkes, or rather where he had once proudly been displayed, for where once the little scarecrow been secured, now was only the two pieces of wood that had held him. They had been rather well secured when put together, with only the thought of lasting long enough to hold the guy, however, against the backdrop of the nights sky they were both fully alight, and everyone was fully transfixed by what appeared to be the mountain of Moses himself with a fully burning cross on the top.
It was burning really well.
She stood in delicious horror watching; although the restaurant was not young she was still trying to win local support and burning crosses in the Deep South was not the best way to win friends and influence people. Flustered and rather close to hysteria she looked around gauging the reactions of her friends, and thankfully saw both Jeff and Nate quickly and smoothly ushering food out and onto plates and filling glasses.
Polite guests were making polite conversation as the flames continued to climb to the heavens, and as one, sighed when at last it dissolved into the ashes exhausted with its night’s entertainment, and the normal buzz of conversation resumed.
A guitar was being tuned in the background, everyone was loosening up; serious drinking had begun, well, not by Kate, she had her eye on the last drop of scotch which earlier had been hidden away, but she began to seriously consider pouring it early when she realized that Tom accompanied by his best friend had been playing the same song for five minutes, singing “you are my sunshine” and gazing merrily into each others eyes, and holding hands. “You make me happy when skies are gray”. Nanny Joy who was on her forth sherry and had given up trying to keep her ‘up do’ up smiled dreamily at them.
A little shaky, Kate made general comments on the quaintness of British customs. And, oh joy, the fireworks were about to start – what a relief, if everyone would just move over to the side a little there were sure to obtain a much better view.
“You’ll never know dear how much I love you” lingered on the evening air.
The fireworks had held much anticipation and, she was sure the success of the evening could still be diverted… looking back she had not realized just how diverting they were going to turn out, and had she known, she probably would have held out for divine interention.
As promised and commented upon, big bangs and primary colors were infantile entertainments, but thrilling all the same. Once lit, sparks flew, rockets soared and colors exploded in the darkness.
“Please don’t take my sunshine away”
Big buckets of sand had been brought out to secure the rockets, and were doing a grand job, until one of them, in the cover of the darkness, happened to knock itself sideways, which set the others off at all angles. The crowds “oohs” and “aahs” quickly changed to gasps of alarm as the projectiles hurled themselves towards them, through smoke and firework haze, and where once a crowd of excited people had stood; there was now a flattened crush of bodies as ducking for cover they had crumpled to the ground. Flames sprung up in the woods as several rockets reached their destiny only to explode into a million stars over dry leaves.
To do them justice, no one panicked, even a quick private panic was to be squashed and frowned upon, and amid great cursing and swearing the hoses which had been set up earlier were turned upon the flaming leaves and doused in full. Fire watching rotations were established against the return of over exuberant sparks. Once again, the excitement of the evening was squashed and order supposedly had been returned to the gathering when it was noticed that the littlest and nippiest of the little ones was having considerable trouble breathing. As she was gasping for breath an expert opinion was sought, and was only found when someone remembered and dug out Gwen from underneath the pile of people who had not yet been informed that the dangerous fireworks were no longer exploding overhead.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine”
David was hauled up with her and stood heroically patting out the still smoldering remains of her heirloom, home grown, sheared and woven jacket as she judged the baby to need slightly more help than she could provide. As both she and David were on call they happened to be the only sober inhabitants of the starry and adventurous night, and so volunteered to transport her to the local hospital accompanied by the rather worse for wear parents and worried grandparents. They made a rather woeful procession as they departed.
Quietly, what was left of the party sat by the fire; there had been a rather amazing slew of departures, all of whom thanked their host profusely, they had not had so much fun in years, they claimed, and how charming to have been invited so such an endearing English custom.
“You make me happy” the singing was still floating around on the evening fog.
Kate who was no longer shaky thanks to the rather large inch of scotch that she had given in and poured herself looked around; There were Nate, Jeff, Lucy and Grace, Tom and his friend, still singing away. Nanny Joy, who was swaying slightly in the breeze happily giggling to herself and Sally, in fact all who she held dear to her, and there they awaited word from the away party, whilst they quietly chatted amongst themselves (or warbled when skies are gray in total harmony) and as exciting as it had been, she was still unsure of the reaction of many who had been there that night, and deep down she was a little panic struck at the though of what the glaring morning sun would bring, but for now she had to giggle. Headlights appeared and swept along the drive stopped and were cut off. As Gwen and David returned with baby, parents and grandparents; asthma had been treated and sent home and all was well.
Apologies were made, and made again, more drinks were poured and in the stillness of the dawn it began to snow. Sitting by a dying fire, with watchers still set out in the woods, the evening came to an end as they sat and watched the sun come up.
“I think” said Jeff “That next time the fireworks had probably be from North Carolina.”
Irreverently Kate answered “and God bless Guy Fawkes”
Sad but true, it has to be said that Kate has never entertained the idea of another Guy Fawkes night, her reputation as the greatest egg chef of all times still stands, but often whenever she hears a chuckle outside in the evening, or someone mentions fireworks, a grin appears and someone else always chimes in with “please don’t take my sunshine away”. Apologies are still being made to the Gallic heroes of the night, and still she cringes whenever she walks past a particularly well knitted Aaron jacket.
01/04/2013
The Outback Henhouse Restaurant
The Outback Henhouse bordered on the loved side of shabby, and was definitely shabbier than chic. A few years ago it had been written up as one of the best dining experiences in town; the local newspaper had traveled to the outskirts where the restaurant lay just to interview Kate, whom they had found bare footed and pottering around the yard, with a collection of eggs, brown and speckled, mounded in her basket. She had sat down and entertained them for a few moments, but really there was far, far too much work to be done and just not enough people to do it.
They had arrived between the busy waves of the day, tasted, enjoyed, interviewed and departed all within an hour and the write up had been prodigious. Some would comment on that fact that the reporter’s cousin lived next door to the mother of Tom, the dishwasher, but others were in total agreement with the sentiment of the article. With a homely feel to it, the restaurant was light and airy, fresh flowers were always on the table, and thus it had been recommended to all within traveling distance.
Through the back of the restaurant (turn right and mind the step down) lay a garden of herbs and sunshine, and if you followed the old warn stone path a little further, and just passed the bend, the hen house appeared. Hidden by tall grass on three sides, no one would ever guess at the metropolis that surrounded it. Inside lived the chickens and it was here that, at the end of the day, Kate always found herself, sitting on the bench with her eyes closed planning the next day’s menu.
Eggs were on the menu at this restaurant, actually eggs were the only thing on the menu which was why the dining room was only open for breakfast and lunch, and the lucky dinners who managed to obtain a meal only ate because the chickens lay the eggs, and the chickens lay the eggs where they wanted to, and when they wanted to. “An organic home grown meal” was the restaurants premise, and catered only to those who could afford it. On average they served enough dinners to still be in business, but there was no retirement plan.
Want to read more? afraid you will appear in the story? leave a comment!
12/03/2012
How difficult can it be?
In the interests of rebalancing blatant commercialization with simplistic homely comfort I cast around for inspiration for my Christmas gifting this year and stumbled across a bunch of boxes hidden deep within my closet.
Spring is often when inspiration hits most around here, and it was during those first weeks of uplifting sunshine that I had found the jars on the WECK canning website. I had been taken with a longing to fill the little beauties with appetizing goodness. These jars (especially the little stumpy ones with the big fat bellies) were just crying out to be bought.
So I did
Lots of them
I had great plans
Fresh fruit from the garden, fresh veggies yep had both of those… but that was where the abundance dried up, and great perplexity overtook J.
For my stumpy little jars sat in the closet while I admired them from afar, as in my imagination these jars represented the very fullness of life itself and while they were empty in real life, just owning them meant that I could spend five minutes dreaming that I had picked, cleaned, cooked, stewed, stirred and processed. And I was happy with that… it took a lot less time that the real deal, was way less exhausting and messy, and was a rather fulfilling mental exercise. But alas, it also meant I had nothing sitting in the larder.
I need to step back and explain J’s perplexity… and acknowledge that he is a very patient man, once again! He did a grand job of watching and waiting and humorously stepping over the jars again and again whilst only raising half an eyebrow in acknowledgement of their empty presence. For you see, his mother has actually taken canning to the next level.
Yep, she actually cooks and fills these pots with jams and jellies and pickles and beetroot and preserves and relishes. She has the enduring ability to make a mess of her kitchen for the sake of canning… and it tastes good.
How difficult can it be?
You just cook the fruit, add the sugar, process the jars and bingo… a larder full of strawberry jam… or in my case, after paying the industrial cleaners and tearing down the hazardous tape 3 days later so we could once again toast bread for breakfast we then had to pay the local council waste department to come and sink into three feet of concrete our mass of bubbling and fermenting jars that no one would go near.
Anyone worried about Christmas gifts yet?
Since that little episode, where once ended it was agreed upon that I needed just slightly more time studying than I had originally thought, I had shelved canning. Until that is, our recent vacation where sitting on my Mother-In-Laws kitchen bookshelf I came across “Preserves” by Pam Corbin… also part of the River Cottage Handbook Series.
Opening it up were recipes that truly made my mouth water… and so I had a go;
First up: Onion Marmalade
And another: Hazelnuts in Honey
Now, who has been naughty this year, and who has been nice?