It is prime preserving season under our red roof. Over the past month or so, I have swooned over roiling pots of apple jelly, peach, strawberry-rhubarb, strawberry, gooseberry, and blackberry jam, as well as apple butter. For reasons of quality control (!!), I have made batch after batch of angel biscuits (my new and likely forever favorite – the texture the truly heavenly bit of exterior crisp and interior fluff!) to slather and savor. I have absolutely no complaints.

And the pretty pink concoction above? A bit of leftover strained apple syrup prior to jelly making. I sweetened it ever so slightly to make a tart apple soda. I am thinking it would be pretty spectacular with rosemary and whiskey, that first hint of fall sipped on the porch – birds chirping, bees buzzing.

Our first harvest of our backyard blackberries (one more since and how I made the jam!!) was a swell accompaniment to a cantaloupe, cucumber, and mint salad, with a few chopped pistachios for crunch. I served it with a smoked chicken thigh – compliments of our stovetop smoker, of course. Good golly, what a magical supper that was…

A dutch baby, which we, of course, enjoyed with wee dabs of all the jams and butters and a delicate sprinkle of powdered sugar. And how about that cute pot? We haven’t owned a microwave in probably fifteen years, so it is our go-to for reheating cold coffee and making chai. I bought it in Portland, a $3 thrift store find. We have since procured, via Etsy, an identical twin, which makes me immensely happy.

Last weekend’s surprise snow. Greg and I and our weekend guest and very dear friend Jeff cozy at the dining room table, playing a game, as we always do. It lasted long enough to take the requisite photo of Pike’s Peak looking dreamy.

I didn’t used to have a favorite season, each bringing their own sense of beauty and wonder. After returning to Colorado spoiled by sixteen green Portland winters, I now declare it is SPRING. Winters here, and in Pennsylvania, are no greater in length, and certainly warmer than the bone chill of Pacific Northwest rain, but feel longer for the noticeable absence of color. There are some evergreens, yes, and the dazzling azure of sky, but the ground and bare trees and hundred feet of fence are so very brown. I know it is partially the fact that our garden is so young, with trees only starting what I hope to be long lives. But, still.

So when the tiny bud of that pasque flower pushed from the soil, my heart leapt, for there is only more and more and more to come. The orange and pink of tulip, yellow of daffodil, purple of hyacinth, to the peonies and red birds in a tree of summer and poppies of fall. That verdant quilt dotted with the rainbow.

Forty-seven!

Fun with a new torch. I made rice crispy treats with homemade marshmallows, topped them with a bit of the fluff, and then flame roasted them. Our little cousins said they were beautiful and the best thing ever. SO soft!