Thursday, March 17
Hello, everyone! So, it's been about six months since I've ruffled the waters of this reticent food blog. I'd like to imagine that it's been absently humming to itself, completely relaxed in a warm, summery field, somewhere along the coast of the internet. I won't offer meandering excuses as to where I've been or fluffy reasons for a long absence, but they involve an archaic, finicky oven and the need to replenish a disappearing blogging mojo. I'm still trying to deal with the latter, but I *think* I have managed to grab onto its tail (my mojo's spirit animal is an elusive, prickly arctic fox).
Instead of confections, I've resurfaced with a libation (my very first!). You will be smitten with this coy, little intoxicant, I promise.
Friday, September 4
RainSeptember feels both aloof and intimate this year. The days are hot, damp...marvelously slow & yet bittersweet in their attempt to casually hold onto mid-July's warm embrace. A small fistful of russet-tinted leaves have fallen onto the still verdant earth. They remind me of overexuberant guests who always arrive too early for the party; yet you can't help but get swept up in their contagious, breathless excitement. September is my birthday month, but I can always sense autumn's approaching grey skies & deceptively soft chill. I have no quarrel with autumn, don't get me wrong, I'm only all too aware of what follows, and I will never be ready for it.
a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats under the trees
and run inside the pavilion
the women giggling, the men pretending calm,
wet cigarettes being thrown away,
Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the
pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees
and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian
Rhapsody #2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look,
one man sits alone in the rain
listening, the audience notices him. they turn
and look. the orchestra goes about its
business. the man sits in the night in the rain,
listening. there is something wrong with him,
he came to hear the
~ by Charles Bukowski, from Selected Poems
Sunday, August 16
"There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath
the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation
when you almost remember a name, but don't quite reach it."
~ from The Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950 - 1962
Sunday, May 17
I've spent too many costly sympathies on an ill fated Ophelia and spun too many broken, unfulfilled yearnings into The Lady of Shalott's loom. For once, I would like to live, to write...to be uninhibited. Mornings & spring are heavy with promise, and something far more dangerous, hope. There's a fleeting, blissful moment when I first wake up; the tree outside my window is lush with foliage, the sun is bathing my no-longer-flannel sheets and, best of all, the worries & burdens & what ifs have not yet burst through the confines of my tranquil mind. If only I could hold onto that serenity and wear it like a bee-sting necklace, infusing frozen, distraught veins with a doses of halcyon weather, as needed.
"When I start to think, I freeze. And when I freeze I write like a lady who came from a clean, honorable, intelligent and quiet home. And what sort of writing is that?"
~ Martha Gellhorn, from Selected Letters
This post & its photos have been waiting for me to (re)find myself; my own authenticity. I'm too easily disappointed. When lofty plans & far-fetched wishes tumble to the ground, I tend to retreat inward and wallow a bit too long in a state of melancholy. This blog is not immune to my occasional bouts of despondency. But that part of me IS a part of me. After 30 + years, I'm beginning to accept that I'll always be 'sometimes' moody, but maybe I can tap into the depths and turn a sorrow that's sprung from lost grasps at imagined perfections, into an untamed savage beauty. (My mother is half Irish, after all.) I'm still organically lost and hunting through the overgrown moss-green forest of my (as of late) unkempt mind, but I this site is my child and it's been neglected far too long. And however fanciful, I'm still holding a candle for Tom Hiddleston (even through choppy, rumor-filled waters). There are perks to the idiosyncrasies of being a practical idealist.
Monday, March 16
I'm still guilty of neglecting my blog, yet I can't come up with a valid excuse. My thoughts, which have been buried + scattered across the months of January & February, are slowly thawing. I'm trying to process the fact that it's actually warm enough to gently *pry* open my bedroom window at night. After a lengthy absence, it's hard to know where to (re)start. My writing voice is filled with an assortment of plump little winterling birds, each one longing to fly out and test the warm ambiance (at last!) of March. I can't release them all at once so I'll start with the quiet ones and gradually work my way up to the brash confidence of squeaky wheels.
"The pearls weren't really white, they were a warm oyster beige, with little knots in between
so if they broke, you only lost one. I wished my life could be like that, knotted up so that even
if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart."
~ from 'The White Oleander' by Janet Fitch
Today I'm sharing a sweetly simple recipe for maple walnut peanut butter cookies. Simple because unlike most cookies, you won't have to suffer the agony of chilling dough. They are also flourless. I'd label them gluten free but, being relatively unfamiliar with the gf world, I'll err on the side of caution. I enjoy peanut butter much too much, a jar of the good stuff will only last about a week in my cupboard. As soon as I arrived home with my beloved maple madness peanut butter, I whipped up these tender little gems. Feel free to omit the walnuts & chocolate, if you prefer. While both additions gave the cookies a pleasant nubby texture, I think they almost masked the peanut butter's maple flavour.