WIshfully Stirring Something or Other

Another frigid winter morning, motes of sunlight scattering like stars in the cold air, snow everywhere, an icy wind that goes right to the bones. Underwhelming to say the least, and I am not alone in my disgruntlement. When I tried to entice Beau into going outside a few minutes ago, he looked into the garden, gave me a filthy look, then turned his back on the door (and me) and trotted back to bed.

At times like these, exotic spices and culinary offerings from faraway places go dancing through my sconce, clattering their cymbals and shaking their tambourines in the depths of the pantry. How to begin? The day's opening gambit is a beaker of Logdriver espresso (strong enough to walk on) and a stack of cookbooks. 

I feel a major stirring exercise coming on. Whatever happens in the kitchen this morning, it will be an impromptu creation and redolent of aromatic spices, something containing saffron, perhaps a few pomegranate arils, an anise star or two.

Just seeing a dish of saffron threads always cheers me up, and I wish I had enough hair to tint that fabulous color. Since I don't, I painted the front door of the little blue house in the village the precise scarlet of a bowl of saffron threads.

My culinary adventures will conjure sunlight and warmth and comfort, all three welcome on a deep freeze day when one can't wander about freely, and her canine companion won't go out anyway. There is an element of ritual to this morning's activities - perhaps my wishful stirrings will entice Lady Spring into making an early appearance. If not, the dazzling reds and golds make my heart glad.

Poem With an Embedded Line By Susan Cohen

When the evening newscast leads to despair,
when my Facebook feed raises my blood pressure,
when I can’t listen to NPR anymore,
I turn to the sky, blooming like chicory,
its dearth of clouds, its vast blue endlessness.
The trees are turning copper, gold, bronze,
fired by the October sun, and the bees
are going for broke, drunk on fermenting
apples. I turn to my skillet, cast iron
you can count on, glug some olive oil,
sizzle some onions, adding garlic at the end
to prevent bitterness. My husband,
that sweet man, enters the room, asks
what’s for dinner, says it smells good.
He could live on garlic and onions
slowly turning to gold. The water
is boiling, so I throw in some peppers,
halved, cored, and seeded, let them bob
in the salty water until they’re soft.
To the soffrito, I add ground beef, chili
powder, cumin, dried oregano, tomato sauce,
mashed cannellinis; simmer for a while.
Then I stir in more white beans, stuff the hearts
of the peppers, drape them with cheese and tuck
the pan in the oven’s mouth. Let the terrible
politicians practice / their terrible politics.
At my kitchen table, all will be fed. I turn
the radio to a classical station, maybe Vivaldi.
All we have are these moments: the golden trees,
the industrious bees, the falling light. Darkness
will not overtake us.

Barbara Crooker, from Some Glad Morning

Friday Ramble - Wishful Stirrings

Minute morsels of sunlight scatter like stars in the air, and a damp wind goes right to the bones, threatening to ossify one's whole metabolism, the parts not already frozen in place, that is. The situation is underwhelming to say the least, and I am not alone in my disgruntlement. When I tried to entice Beau into going outside a few minutes ago, he peered out into the garden, gave me a filthy look, turned his back on the door (and me) and trotted back to bed.

What to do? At times like these, exotic spices and culinary offerings from faraway places go dancing through one's sconce and clattering about in the pantry. The quick fix for such a day is frothy cappuccino or latte in a bright mug and a stack of favorite cookbooks. This morning's selection includes the works below, but others will certainly be added to the pile before I plunk myself down in the Morris chair to ponder and scheme. How many cookbooks can one female read at a go?

Beyond the Great Wall, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid 
Mangoes  & Curry Leaves,  Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid 
The Seductions of Rice, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid
The New Book of Middle Eastern Food, Claudia Roden
Arabesque, Claudia Roden
Everyday Greens, Annie Somerville
Fields of Greens, Annie Somerville
The Vegetarian Epicure (Vols 1 and 2) Anna Thomas
The Art of Simple Food (Vols 1 and 2), Alice Waters
The Food of Morocco, Paula Wolfert
Mediterranean Grains and Greens, Paula Wolfert

Rebecca Katz's gorgeous cookbooks are in a stack of their own - I am reading them from from cover to cover and savoring every mouthwatering recipe and vibrant image. The five volumes are a treasure trove of knowledge about using good food to battle cancer and remain cancer-free afterward, in maintaining a healthy mind and living a long and robust life. They are also a feast for body and soul. On days when I can't stand even looking at food, Rebecca's recipes delight the eyes and nudge my taste buds back to life. I can't praise her work enough, and there is a link to her online presence in my sidebar.

There is an Asian concoction on the horizon, something improvised and redolent of aromatic spices, and whatever I stir up will likely contain saffron or turmeric, chilis for sure,  perhaps pomegranate seeds, an anise star or two. Alas, the saffron is not my own.  We have grown autumn blooming crocuses for years and try to harvest our own saffron threads for winter culinary exercises, but squirrels love the stuff as much as we do and make off with the corms. Here I am again, pondering how to protect the colony of Crocus sativus sleeping under the deep snow in our garden. If I can just protect the little dears until they bloom in September...

Exotic culinary creations evoke sunlight and warmer climes, and they're welcome on a winter day when one can't run around outside with a camera, and even her canine soulmate refuses to go out. There is an element of ritual to this morning's activities to be sure - perhaps my saffron threads and wishful stirrings will be heard by Lady Spring, wherever she is hiding at the moment.  If not, well, the dazzling reds and oranges and yellows on my old wooden cutting board are almost indecently sumptuous, and they make my heart glad.

Friday Ramble - Sunlight and Spicy Stirrings

Another icy morning, minute morsels of sunlight scattered like stars, a deep cold that goes right to the bones and threatens to ossify one's whole metabolism - the parts not already frozen in place by Lady Winter, that is. The situation is underwhelming to say the least, and I am not alone in my feelings. When I tried to entice Spencer into going out a few minutes ago, he peered out into the garden, gave me a filthy look, turned his back on the door and trotted back to bed.

What to do? On days like this, exotic spices and culinary offerings from faraway places go dancing through one's sconce.  The quick fix for a cold day is a nice long sit, frothy cappuccino or latte in a bright mug and a stack of favorite cookbooks. So far, the morning's selection includes the tomes below, but others are bound to be added to the pile before I plunk myself down to ponder and scheme. Here is a koan of sorts.... How many cookbooks can one female read at a go? Does it matter?

Hot Sour Salty Sweet, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid
Mangoes and Curry Leaves, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid
The Seductions of Rice, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid
Beyond the Great Wall, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid
Rivers of Flavor, Naomi Duguid
Sunlight Cafe, Mollie Katzen
The Greens Cookbook, Deborah Madison
Savory Ways, Deborah Madison
Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, Deborah Madison
Full Moon Feasts, Jessica Prentice
The New Book of Middle Eastern Food, Claudia Roden
Arabesque, Claudia Roden
Everyday Greens, Annie Somerville
Fields of Greens, Annie Somerville
The Vegetarian Epicure (Volumes 1 & 2) Anna Thomas
The Art of Simple Food (Volumes 1 & 2), Alice Waters
The Food of Morocco, Paula Wolfert
Mediterranean Grains and Greens, Paula Wolfert 

I feel a fiery Asian concoction coming on, something filled with color and redolent of aromatic spices - whatever I batch up this morning will likely contain saffron and a little curry, perhaps an anise star or two. We cultivated autumn blooming crocuses in our garden for years, and we harvested our own saffron threads for winter culinary exercises, but squirrels cleaned out every single specimen last year.  I am pondering how to protect the nursery of Crocus sativus sleeping under deep snow below the kitchen window.

Exotic culinary creations evoke sunlight and warmer climes, and they're welcome on a winter day when one can't run around outside with a camera, and even her canine soulmate refuses to go out. There is an element of ritual to this morning's activities - perhaps my saffron threads and wishful stirrings will be heard by Lady Spring, wherever she is at the moment.  If not, well, the dazzling reds and oranges and yellows on my old wooden cutting board are downright sumptuous.

Summer in my cup and stars...

Orchard tea with orange slice, anise star and cloves

Dappled and Perfectly Red

Going to Seed

Garlic chives, also called Chinese chives or Oriental garlic

(Allium tuberosum)

Sunlight and Saffron

An icy morning, minute morsels of sunlight scattered like stars, a deep cold that goes right to the bones and threatens to ossify one's whole metabolism - the parts not already frozen in place by Lady Winter, that is. The situation is underwhelming to say the least, and I am not alone in my feelings. When I tried to entice Spencer into going out a few minutes ago, he peered out into the garden, gave me a filthy look, turned his back on the door and trotted back to bed.

What to do? On days like this one, faraway spices and exotic concoctions go dancing through one's sconce.  The quick fix is a nice long sit, frothy cappuccino or latte in a bright mug and a stack of favorite cookbooks nearby. This morning's selection includes the books below, but there are bound to be a few others added to the pile before I plunk myself down to ponder and scheme. Here is a koan of sorts.... How many cookbooks can one female read at a go? Does it matter?

Hot Sour Salty Sweet, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid
Mangoes and Curry Leaves, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid
The Seductions of Rice, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid
Beyond the Great Wall, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid
The Complete Tassajara Cookbook, Edward Espe Brown
Nourishing Traditions, Sally Fallon
Sunlight Cafe, Mollie Katzen
The Greens Cookbook, Deborah Madison
Savory Ways, Deborah Madison
Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, Deborah Madison
Full Moon Feasts, Jessica Prentice
Everyday Greens, Annie Somerville
Fields of Greens, Annie Somerville
The Vegetarian Epicure (Volumes 1 & 2) Anna Thomas

It's off into the kitchen a little later. I feel a fiery Asian concoction coming upon me, something filled with color and redolent of spices - whatever I batch up this morning is definitely going to contain saffron and a little curry. Such creations evoke sunlight and warmer climes, perfect for a winter day when one can't run around outside with her camera, and even her canine soulmate refuses to go out.

Now, the great oaks in their turning...

Canadian Thanksgiving Day

This is Thanksgiving weekend in Canada, and preparations for a gathering around the old oak table are in progress.  There are casseroles and pies on every available kitchen surface, pans of bread and biscuits ready to go into the oven, pickles, relishes, sauces and various savories in jars and covered bowls, our own French vanilla ice cream in the freezer. We will ramble in the woods together, then come back to the little blue house for a sumptuous repast as the sun goes down.

The tattered scarecrow lady is much like the Raggedy Anne doll I had as a child, and I love seeing her planted under a tree in a neighbor's garden at this time of the year.  She conveys seasonal sentiments perfectly with her round eyes, crooked stitched smile, corn husk hair and hands, red corduroy overalls and flowered shirt, and crowning it all, a fine squashy burlap hat.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving if you are Canadian and celebrating it today.  If not, do find something to celebrate. These autumn days are too vibrant and riotously colored for words, and they are far too brief.

Autumn at the Gate

A single burnished oak leaf floats down and comes to rest in a pot of bronze “mums” on the threshold of the little blue house in the village. Nights are cold, and the pot must be carried indoors every evening as darkness falls and the wind rises.

As the oak leaf makes itself comfortable among our potted blooms, a long v-shaped skein of geese passes overhead, heading south and calling goodbye as it moves out of sight. Above the wedge of high-flying geese and slightly to their right, the waning moon is translucent against the morning sky.

All the swallows of summer packed their bags and left last week, their places on local telephone wires taken by flights of chirruping sparrows and chatterings of ebullient starlings who are putting on winter stars and flashing their yellow beaks.

The first McIntosh apples of the year appeared at farm gates a few days ago, and several “Macs” rest flushed and rosy in a bowl on the kitchen counter.  We carried a lovely big brown paper bag of apples home from a local orchard yesterday. Some are destined for eating of course, but later today there will be applesauce and pies, perhaps a few jars of cinnamon scented apple butter too.

No doubt about it—Lady Autumn is standing outside our gate, and she is rattling the rusty latch vigorously.  The lady knows the magic words that will grant her entrance, and she knows the tune that goes with them.

Scarlet Seeds of Rebirth

Persephone's Fruit (Pomegranate)

Just a Little Color, Please....

How to describe one's January yearnings for rantipole hues, curving shapes, foreign musics and exotic fragrances? There is a brief spell of thawing going on here, and the day is dishing out rain and snow by turns.  When temperatures tumble again in a day or two, there will be ice everywhere, and I can hardly wait to begin a new odyssey of sliding and slipping between here and everywhere else.

In such weather, one finds herself turning inward and a tad thoughtful, downing mug after mug of Darjeeling or Earl Grey, prowling through the library at all hours of the day and night, hauling out sketch books and playing with collage, looking for color - any old vibrant color will do. In the kitchen I stare at a box of clementines or a tidy heap of saffron threads on the counter, and a bowl of pomegranates on the sideboard stops me dead in my tracks - the things are just so bright and pleasingly shaped. Beating eggs for this morning's omelet, I got lost in all the gloriously yolky gold and stood gazing into the bowl for some time before getting on with the task at hand. It is a wonder that anyone in my tribe gets fed on days like these.

Birds visiting our snow drowned garden garden don't seem to mind the weather, and outside there is the scarlet flash of cardinals' wings in the hedgerow, the blue of nattering jays, the yellow of grosbeaks, the delicate grays and creams of chickadees and nuthatches at the feeders. Filling the bird feeders a few minutes ago, I stopped by the cathedral fretwork of rose canes along the fence, and along came a memory right out of the shaggy green halls of departed summer - one of multitudinous blush-colored blooms and old rose fragrance. A little further along, the old stone birdbath held a frothy confection of frozen russet leaves and stems, scallops of ice and bubbles like champagne. I was going to chuck out the contents and fill the birdbath with seed this week, but I can't bring myself to disturb the fetching frozen arrangement.

Returning indoors, I made a pot of tea and tucked John Williams' lovely Mediterranean Concerto on the CD player. Though it be both snowing and raining, all is well.

Seeing Stars

Star Anise (Illicium verum)

Perhaps it has something to do with the season - this looking for and finding stars in all sorts of likely and unlikely places - snowflakes, apples and pomegranates, anise in the spice cupboard (one of my favorite seasonings), lights on the holiday tree in the study, jeweled and tinseled twinklings on the Yule wreaths adorning a thousand and one front doors in the village.

Then there are the stars on long, clear, cold and cloudless winter nights - at times they seem so close that one could gather them up in handfuls and paint the world with them.  No wait, Lady Winter is already doing just that with her ice and snow and frost, and she is doing it better than I ever could.

The region of the summer stars is grand stuff in its appointed time and season, but oh, these spangled winter nights...  Shivering in the garden, I remember something Carl Sagan said, and I smile. "We are a way for the universe to know itself. Some part of our being knows this is where we came from. We long to return. And we can, because the cosmos is also within us. We're made of star stuff."

On clear winter nights, one can almost reach up and touch her starry ancestors and cousins up there in the sky, and it is always something special, every single time.  Surrounded by kin in the night, my spine tingles, and I can hear my breath going in and out, feel my slowly thrumming heartbeat.   For a moment or two, there's a delicious sense of community with everything around me. What a journey this lifetime is turning out to be, what a trip.  Emaho!

Thursday Poem - Things to Believe In

trees, in general; oaks, especially;
burr oaks that survive fire, in particular;
and the generosity of apples

seeds, all of them: carrots like dust,
winged maple, doubled beet, peach kernel;
the inevitability of change

frogsong in spring; cattle
lowing on the farm across the hill;
the melodies of sad old songs

comfort of savory soup;
sweet iced fruit; the aroma of yeast;
a friend's voice; hard work

seasons; bedrock; lilacs;
moonshadows under the ash grove;
something breaking through

Patricia Monaghan

Many thanks to my mermaid sister, Joanna Powell Colbert, for bringing the late Patricia Monaghan's lovely reflective poem back to my attention.   The poem was originally published in Patricia's chapbook, Grace of Ancient Land.

Morning Offering

All in Their Rosy Ripening

If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch,

you must first invent the universe.

Carl Sagan (from Cosmos)

Signs of the Season (I)

On our morning walk we discovered ripening apples...

green tomatoes on the vine...

 sunflowers and tiny riders.....

the first Michaelmas daisy and a blissed out "bumble".

First Apples, then Gingerbread...

And so it begins...  Stalls at weekend markets are in full display mode with rank upon rank of gourds in every color of the rainbow, squash and early pumpkins, baskets of potatoes, carrots and beets.  Craftier enterprises offer strands of grapevine, autumn leaves and berries, wreaths, sheaves of standing corn, scarecrows and bales of hay meant to be used in decorating home and hearth for autumn. The craving to decorate one's surroundings at this time of the year seems to go hand in hand with pickling, preserving and plain old "putting things by" for winter.

This weekend, the first Macintosh apples of the season made their appearance, and we came away with a paper sack of perfection - the intoxicating scent perfumed the family buggy all the way home, and Spencer insisted on being fed an apple, bite by succulent bite as we made our way down the road.

When my son-in-law was asked what sort of cake he would like for his birthday dinner next week, he asked for gingerbread, and I am dusting off a favorite maritime recipe last stirred up around this time last year.  It will perfume the house with its spice and sweetness, and the combined aroma of apples and gingerbread everywhere will be heady stuff - the essence of the season in all its vibrant glory.

Signs of the Season (I)