wild Ophelia's triple berry pie

"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

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.

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.

Prospero's raspberry + ale pie; an arbitrary farewell to summer

"Now my charms are all o'erthrown
and what strength I have's mine own,
which is most faint: now 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
or sent to Naples. Let me not,
since I have my dukedom got
and pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
in this bare island by your spell;

But release me from my bands
with the help of your good hands:
gentle breath of yours my sails
must fill, or else my project fails,
which was to please. Now I want
spirits to enforce, art to enchant,
and my ending is despair,
unless I be relieved by prayer,
which pierces so that it assults
mercy itself and frees all faults.

As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
let your indulgence set me free." 

                                          ~  William Shakespeare (The Tempest, act 5, epilogue.)

 I fell in love with The Tempest my freshmen year of high school, during a performance at a local theater. The play was ethereal; ambient mist, primal music, sylvan costumes and lush acting...I'm convinced there was a metallic taste of magic in the air each time Ariel took the stage. I was so enamored, I accidentally dropped a box of lemon heads. The cacophony made by each tiny candy striking an unbearably hard wood floor was deafening (I was mortified!). Thankfully the resulting frigid glares were fleeting, and confused...my eyes made a subtle glance towards the person sitting next to me. The play continued and I imagined myself in the role of Miranda, or Ariel. As Prospero was delivering his infamous epilogue, I was smitten, completely, especially knowing that the speech may have been Shakespeare's adieu. 

Initially I was only going to include a few lines from Prospero's speech, but it's so lovely in its entirety - chopping his farewell into pieces would be barbaric. I'd like to think that summer, if she could speak, would deliver an equally robust swan song before handing the zephyrs to autumn.

Lady Macbeth Blackberry Pie

"To beguile the time,
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under't." 

                     ~ William Shakespeare (Macbeth, act 1, sc. 5,1. 63-6.)

This ferociously beguiling pie has a cunning sweetly-acerbic flavour; one berry-bleeding slice is not enough, it requires a second piece - served, preferably, with a messy scoop of semi melted vanilla bean ice cream.

Every drop of amaranth colored juice on a white napkin or meandering spoon was dramatic & stunning. Honestly, I could have spent two days taking photos of this pie under various forms of summer light and against a multitude of textures (it's intoxicating to have a subject that's camera friendly!).  The fleeting nature of seasonal blackberries made the entire affair all the more bittersweet...I'm too easily bewitched by things (circumstances) that have the fragile lifespan of a moth.