Wordless Wednesday - Hazy Days

Wordless Wednesday - A Glass of Green

Umbrella Up, Ready to Go!

Whether or not, I will actually be able to sit under it in the near future is something else entirely, but my big red umbrella has been awakened from its hibernation in the garden shed and is now in its appointed place on the deck.

My "end-of-the-season" purchase a few summers ago was a fine idea. The colour of the thing cheers me up immensely, and its ribs have solar lights. I like looking up at them after dark on warm aestival nights when I am sitting outside.

I can see myself under the big red bumbershoot on a balmy afternoon with Beau, a mug of tea close by and a good book in hand. Better yet, a whole heap of books. When the weather warms up, there will be glasses of iced Perrier with slices of lemon and dear little paper umbrellas. Makes me smile just thinking about it.

Espresso, Icicles, Words Gone Walkabout

I awaken before sunrise and brew a lovely espresso in the De'Longhi, then stumble into the study to write a blog post, trying not to drop the dear little beaker clutched in my arthritic paws. The crema on this morning's effort is to die for, and so is the sumptuous fragrance. Pleasing curls of steam rise from the surface. Yum.

One or two recent photos are OK, but I can't for the life of me figure out what to say about them. The words simply will not come. For someone who spends so much time with her nose in a book or thinking about the provenance of words, their reluctance to show up and pirouette into place is a distressing state of affairs. 

Perhaps the biting cold has something to do with it. When Beau and I ventured out into the sleeping garden this morning, dark clouds obscured the sky, and the thermometer out on the deck registered a temperature way below zero.  It is sunny now, and the skies overhead are brilliantly blue, but oh, the antarctic contours of the day...

During the present cold snap, older houses in the village have grown some fabulous icicles. When sunlight shines through them, they shimmer and dazzle, and they seem to hold the whole universe within their glossiness. One can almost forget what a gelid and windy undertaking it is, the restless enterprise of trying to capture them with a camera. The best place to take photos of icicles is often right underneath them, and doing such a thing is reckless, but sometimes I do it anyway. Beau (of course) sits several feet away and is safe from falling ice.

Sequestered - Week 143 (CXLIII)

The proper title for this morning's blog offering should probably be "Invoking Summer". That would be far more apt than just "Sequestered".

On a cold evening in January, an aromatic beaker of hibiscus tea with orange and apple slices (both a little over the hill), cinnamon sticks and anise plus a few other favorites from the spice cupboard like cloves and sweet cardamom.

There is summer in every cup, and it's the perfect potion for recovering  from surgery.  No mulled wine here alas, but it lightens my heart and makes me glad.

Sequestered, Week 123 (CXXIII)

Sequestered, Week 84 (LXXXIV)

Happy November!

Sequestered, Week 64 (LXIV)

Toing and Froing Along

Temperatures rise, and temperatures fall, snow comes, and snow goes. Icicles dangling from the roof melt and shatter, then form again, chiming like bells as they move through their life cycles. I never know what to wear these days when rambling with Beau, a parka, a light anorak or a raincoat. A few days ago, we wandered for miles in light clobber with nary a scrap of ice in sight, and this morning it is bitterly cold again, ice under every frill of snow.

According to today's forecast, we are headed for another storm with several inches of snow and downpourings of freezing rain at times. High winds and minimal visibility are also in the cards. Drains are still frozen, and there will be lagoons out in the street wide enough and deep enough to float a canoe. Might I hope for a light atmospheric fog now and then? Probably not.

What to do on such a day? All the necessary stuff will be done while the storm rages, and that is certain. Bread, molasses cookies and a cauldron of soup are also being considered, but huddling in a comfortable corner with a big mug of coffee, a good book in my hand and a shawl or three seems like a plan.

Friday Ramble - Rattle and Hum

It is still dark outside, and through the window comes the clatter of the wind across the roof with its cargo of frozen twigs, the sound of icicles falling on the deck, trees in the garden shaking their snow garments loose in a long slow dance. Snow is falling thick and fast, but it makes no sound. Here in the kitchen, there is the burble and hiss of the De'Longhi espresso machine, the rattle and hum of the refrigerator in the corner.

By rights, there should be the sound of a toaster too, but it will be a while until I can even think about toast. This is a "bang up" month for migraines, and I have awakened with a whopper - thought about doing prescription meds when I opened my eyes but opted for a beaker of industrial strength espresso instead.  The stuff in my cup approaches the consistency of solid propellant rocket fuel and could be dispatched with a fork. Steam rises in arty curls from the surface, and a splendid creamy froth rings its shores. The fragrance of freshly ground North Star Espresso (fair trade, organic) from Equator Coffee Roasters is ambrosial. So are the beans. Think I will draw pictures in the foam. Yup, I can do this.

Why is it my thoughts always turn to Paris when the weather is like this? With badass beaker in hand, I look through my rainy day "stash" of Cavallini rubber stamps, vintage postcards and notebooks - the little ones with maps of France, old French postage stamps or the Eiffel tower gracing their covers.

When the migraine has expired in my espresso sea, I will curl up in a comfortable corner and read something in French, perhaps the latest Fred Vargas.

Wordless Wednesday - The Color of Morning

 

Wordless Wednesday - The Color of Morning

Wordless Wednesday - Sweet

Darjeeling and Snow

Tea and Redemption

The world outside is still dark, and the village a collection of indistinct shapes and muffled sounds. The day is cold and damp, the kitchen a place of shadows in early morning light.  My bones, sinews and joints protest the return of winter, and summer seems like a lovely dream from long ago and far away.

How does one banish winter for a few minutes? Looking for a fine hot potion to start the day and drown my doldrums, I rattle around in the larder, opening canisters and sniffing them appreciatively. Earl Grey? Darjeeling? Irish Breakfast? Lapsang Souchong? Yorkshire Gold? Constant Comment? Chai Latte? Northern Delights Cloudberry (Arpiqutik) or Crowberry (Paurngaqutik)? Rooibos? Ginseng? Japanese popcorn tea? Perhaps a simple Orange Pekoe?

The last container is away in the back of the tea cupboard, and it holds tiny dried chrysanthemum buds, rustling gently and murmuring softly to each other.  When I open it, the dry golden fragrance of last summer wafts out, and for a moment, I hear tinkling bells and exotic music, feel the warm August sun on my face. Oh yes, this is the ambrosial stuff we will partake of this morning.

Waiting for the kettle to whistle, I do a little whistling of my own and glance at the shadows falling across my mug and the little Chinese bowl of chrysanthemum buds sitting on the counter. The shadows contrast wonderfully with the fragile porcelain vessels and their aromatic contents, and light coming through the kitchen window paints their verges pale gold. Forget the the cold weather and short days, this morning scene is perfect just as it is. Tea anyone?

Cup and Morning Light

Morning in Bloom

Skies are leaden, and a fine murk wraps the village.  This is one of those mornings when the village seems to be dancing (or skating) on the edge of the world and the weather and not sure where it belongs. 

Adjectives like dark and sunless are evocative, but there are better words for and about such intervals: bosky, caliginous, cloudy, crepuscular, dark, dim, drab, dusky, gloomy, murky, nebulous, obfuscous, obscure, opaque, overcast, shadowy, somber, stygian, sunless, tenebrous, twilighted, umbral, vague, wintry.

What to do? With no light to speak of, this is not a good morning for wandering about with camera and peripherals, so far anyway. When Beau and I went out a few minutes ago, a cold raw wind teased the backs of our necks, and the matter of a longer morning walk was put aside for now. My furry son trotted back into the bedroom and curled up on the quilt in my warm spot.

Inside the little blue house, I pull out a canister of Chinese flower teas, then brew up a glass pot full.  As the dried blooms take in liquid and open out, the kitchen is filled with floral perfume, and home is summery all over again.  The contents of pot and cup are almost too arty to drink, and I take picture after picture.

There is a stack of arty books to prowl through, a little Mozart on the CD player, a box of art pens in splendid Mediterranean shades to play with.  There will be currant scones this morning, and for dinner this evening something fragrant and spicy that sings and dances on the tongue.  There is room at the old oak table for everyone, and there are enough mugs and cups to go around too. On days like this, one simply does whatever she can do to light things up.

Countering Winter's Return

Crema and Morning Light

Friday Ramble - March Migraines and Espresso

It is still dark outside, and through the window comes the rattle of the wind across the roof, the susurrus of snow falling on the deck and the trees in our garden. Here in the kitchen, there is the burble and hiss of the De'Longhi espresso machine, the rattle and hum of the refrigerator in the corner.

By rights, there should be the sound of a toaster too, but it will be an hour or so before I can even think about toast. This is a "bang up" month for migraines, and I have awakened with a whopper - thought about doing prescription meds when I opened my eyes but opted for a beaker of industrial strength espresso instead.  The stuff in my cup approaches the consistency of solid propellant rocket fuel and could be dispatched with a fork. Steam rises in arty curls from the surface, and a splendid darker froth rings its shores. The fragrance of Kicking Horse Coffee's Cliff Hanger blend is ambrosial.  Yup, I can do this.

Why is it my thoughts always turn to Paris when it is raining?  With beaker in hand, I am looking through my rainy day "stash" of Cavallini rubber stamps, vintage postcards and notebooks - the small ones with maps of France, old French postage stamps or the Eiffel tower gracing their covers.

Snow or no, it will be a grand day, and when the migraine has expired in my espresso sea, I am just going to curl up in a corner somewhere and read something in French, perhaps the latest Fred Vargas.