A holiday wish for you:
May your life always sparkle and shine,
Be sweet to the senses,
Surrounded by beauty,
And filled with love.
You are currently browsing the monthly archive for December 2010.
Pleasure is found first in anticipation, later in memory.
Even a soul submerged in sleep is hard at work and helps make something of the world.
To be more precise, the preparation of what is left of my egg. Raised by our friends’ hen, I might add. I should also mention that I am not engaging in hyperbole. This simple recipe knocked my socks clean off (now that is some hyperbole!). I don’t know if you, like me, sometimes have a struggle with egg preparation, specifically, over-easy. It can be over-difficult and not at all pretty. Maybe there’s not quite enough butter or oil in the pan; maybe I let it go a tad long; maybe the turn of the wrist isn’t just right and out comes the yolk.
Well, my friends, this solves all of those problems, is beyond easy (no flipping!), and the final product looks like something served at a restaurant. Here’s the score:
butter or olive oil – enough to lightly coat the bottom of the pan
1 tablespoon water for every egg
Heat oil or butter in a small fry pan over medium heat. Have a lid or a plate large enough to cover the pan on the ready. When the butter bubbles somewhat briskly but does not burn, add an egg or two. I haven’t tried three but am pretty confident it would work fine. Once the bottom of the egg has cooked, meaning it is no longer translucent, add the water. Immediately cover with the lid or plate, and wait one minute. Remove the lid and slip the egg out of the pan. It will look gorgeous, and the texture, almost creamy, definitely delectable.
I should note that I found this method over at Duckspoon, (in the breakfast category – basted eggs) a terrific and very informative website focused on home cooking. They have a quick video if you want to watch the magic! I would also like to mention that Daniel, the man behind Duckspoon, is an ever so kind and skilled bartender at one of our favorite restaurants, the Country Cat. He does good things with whiskey.
It’s actually sunny here, so I better get it while the getting is good.
It’s baking time Under a Red Roof: spritz cookies, pumpkin bars, mint sandwich cookies, sandies, and walnut fudge, yum, yum! It’s a lot of work, but like the jazz on the hi-fi during it all, there is a certain pleasure and flow in the mixing, rolling, tasting (just a little), and packaging. It is endlessly satisfying, especially when I think about someone I care about enjoying bite after bite.
It also reminds me of one of my favorite holiday pastimes, reading Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory aloud with the hubster. It is a magical time when I am transported, via the power of the word, to a place I have never been but know as intimately as my own home. Buddy and his cousin are there, rolling the wicker buggy with Queenie trotting along side. We dream, explore, hide our money in a coin purse under the floor boards, and make fruitcakes and high flying kites. It is the purest form of love.
Just as much as I love the story, I love the act and rhythm of the reading. The hubster and I sit on the sofa, impossibly close, and I begin, my voice as clear as the sky on that first morning, until it isn’t, and the tears come. He smiles and wordlessly takes the book from me, taking up where I left off, continuing until the tickles in his throat signal it is my turn again, beginning the cycle over: clear words, tears, exchange, clear words, tears, exchange. Then it is over, and I marvel at the distance traveled in twenty-nine pages.
Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.
Symbols do not dirty,
but endure, embraced by moss and surrender.
Punctuated by memories larger than life, clear and sure as the sky.
Always there, guiding in ways large and small.
Standing the test of time.
The blue light special twenty-two summers hence.
The tall shadows.
The ripe fruits
And blending of textures that make up a life.
See beyond what lies ahead.
Forget that you have changed.
Measure only the weight of the present moment,
No matter the color,
For there is always love, light,
And lemony hues of sun and flowers to come.
Just there, more memories.
Touch them before they are gone
And replaced by the barrow full
With lofty dreams
Of new places
Hanging like gifts
Buried like treasure
But always home.
In loving memory of sweet Patsy:
You made my tea with milk and warmed my heart.
Good morning! A quick little post for you today, as it is cleaning day, and I am slow to get started. I made this cute bag as an early Christmas present for my friend Sarah. It was pretty easy, and she really liked it – double happiness! Though, I must admit, I was at an advantage with the fabric because she bought it in Japan, as a gift for me, several years ago. The pattern, and a much more refined looking version of the bag can be found here. Sew away!