Blueberry White Chocolate + Thyme Scones

Summer held its breath until the 13th hour. Finally, upon exhalation, the weather is sticky, languid as molasses...deliciously perfect. I'm odd to relish humidity and that spot on the small of the back which never completely dries during (and after) meandering through a non-air conditioned farm house. But I am in love with summer, even especially during her passionate fits of temper. Yesterday was particularly ethereal + lush; a spirited mix of hazy sunlight and distant reverberating thunder. My red entry door, now flushed and expanded with heat, brushes fiercely against the sisal rug. I find wicked amusement in hearing people huff and occasionally curse when, upon swift entry, they're met by an immobile rug + a pregnant door. It's also proving to be an excellent alarm system and gives me ample time to hide baked goods from prying hands. Sometimes the most exhausting element of food blogging is simply keeping people (and photobombing cats) away long enough to snap pictures.
    
My next recipe, if I can stop eating the star player, will be a raspberry something. For now, as you can see, I'm still riding the sanguine blueberry wave. Scones don't require too much baking sorcery but they are difficult to photograph. No worries, I will not bore you with more photography angst, but I hope it's okay to experiment with both light & dark backgrounds/moods. My cheeky heart inadvertently strays to the dark side, but I'm attempting to build bridges with the bright and airy.

Midnight in Paris Blueberry + Mint Pie

"A light white, a disgras, an inkspot, a rosy charm." 
     ~ Gertrude Stein, Tender Buttons: Objects, Food, Rooms

August is a matchstick. It burns too fast and too hot and I'm never ready for pensive September. The lion of August has not been its usual fiery, passionate self - which only makes me more anxious. After finally falling in step with the bass rhythm of summer, I'm utterly ill-prepared for autumn. The errant back to school ads that popped up in mid-July were noxious. We're constantly thrust forward at a stomach-lurching pace while trying to heed the contrary advice of enjoying the moment we're "in." It's manic and disquieting and I wish I could wish back the month of May and to spend my re-summer in Paris. Since I'm surrendering completely to fiction, preferably 1920's Paris; surrounded by Hemingway (I know he would find my writing too floral), Eliot, Stein, and, of course, Fitzgerald (oh, if he happened to be Tom Hiddleston fulfilling a similar wish...).

Alas, it's mid August and I'm not sipping wine at a café in Montparnasse. Luckily I am surrounded by local farmer's markets, and as I nurse a too-sugary, not at all French, caramel macchiato, if I let my imagination take the reins, I can *almost* imagine I'm strolling through a cobblestone Parisian side street; surrounded by the aroma of artisan bread, fresh peaches, plums, and melons. The only missing petal is a cheesemonger.

Tangled up in Blue, High Rise Cake

An innocent, dulcet confection; this cake is not a New Orleans-bound wayfarer, nor is it distraught enough to weave its way into a visceral novel. It is, however, a chaos of blueberries and, compared to my previous (cockeyed) layer cakes, quite lofty. My blog turned five last April, but she's reticent and surreptitious and insisted on waiting for a berry-steeped muse before marking the sylvan anniversary. This summer I have been living on berries, literally. My laurel green colander is almost always overflowing with bleeding, edible shades of blue, red, and purple.

Admittedly, I was slightly hesitant to proclaim une gamine had been spilling out recipes since 2009. After five years I feel as though I should offer lush paragraphs of things I've learned or unearth a poem or two; but lately I can't seem to say exactly what I mean. Maybe it's the warm lethargy of summer that makes my words tumble out upside-down. Speaking is easy, when it comes to writing...it's as if my mind is split in half and my fluent self hides behind the safety of metaphors and a tapestry of embroidered words. Hemingway would scoff, I'm certain. But I would offer him cake and gin and, ideally, he would advise me on how to stop thinking about how much I think about ovethinking. Yes, lots and lots of gin & cake, and, after re-reading Ann Rice's The Witching Hour, a much needed visit to the Garden District. Unlike my folksy cake, I'm a vagabond at heart; it's been far too long since I've traveled far.

Blueberry Orange Scones

Nighttime dreams are fragile. If we allow our minds to revisit them too often, or cling too tightly to their ambiance - they eventually disintegrate like ancient papyrus. Sometimes, if we're lucky, a few are potent enough to leave a soft aura that follows us around all day - a warm, cosy memory that we can run to when reality becomes messy and the afternoon feels uneven.

I had the best dream last night. I hope its nourishing milky images will last throughout the evening. I won't go into intricate detail - as with most dreams it was deeply personal and it would not make sense to anyone outside my silly head. It involved the one who got away. The blue eyes from that day, a little over 10 years ago now, were present. He and I were so happy. Silently happy in a noisy room full of strangers, and so at ease in our silence, as though we had known each other in several lifetimes. And for once...for once I was not afraid of happiness. I didn't feel that anxious bird flying around my rib cage, and the cadet-grey sadness, the one that's almost always in my peripheral vision, was nonexistent. If only reality, with its sharp edges and garish light, could retain such a soft cadence. For a moment, which seemed like a dazzling mere three minutes, the universe itself was purring.

This morning I cocooned myself inside the smoky remnants of my dream and savoured as much hazy bliss as possible. My early companions, aside from Niles (the portly cat), were a strong cup of creamy coffee and a tender scone. With an early chill in the air, I spent the better half of the morning reliving something I'd never actually live through with someone I'd never officially met (yet?). It was lovely.

Blueberry, Lime, and Mint Pop Tarts

"I already loved you in some vague wherever, and my nostalgia for that love makes everything in my present life a tedium. Perhaps you are just my nostalgia for something, and embodiment of some absence, the presence of some Distance..."

~ Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet (translated by Robert Zenith)

Blueberry Goat Cheese & Rosemary Hand Pies

Hot summer has exhausted her intent
To the last rose and roundelay and seed.
No leaf has changed, and yet these leaves now read
Like a love-letter that's no longer meant.

~ Richard Wilbur, from section I of "Two Quatrains for First Frost," in New and Collected Poems (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1988)

Blueberry-Strawberry Pie

It's Friday night. I'm enjoying refreshing spoonfuls of a still-too-frozen margarita - which in turn is making me take notice of things that normally elude my tequila free mind: The sound of my cats eating their canned salmon dinner in the next room sounds like a sloppy rainfall, or something being consumed by creatures in a B horror film - if I did not know what was making that sound, I don't think I'd want to find out. Also new-to-me, an appreciation for Daft Punk. Despite my best efforts to remain contrary, "Get Lucky" is quite fabulous. I know this because I've just listened to it five times in a row. What's more, I wish roller skates would make a comeback. Did anyone watch Tuesday night's "The Colbert Report?" Brill!

I'm also starving. Luckily I have a slice of this berry pie leftover. I have made several pies this summer - they make me chirpy...chirpier than a layer cake (unless it's my birthday and coconut is involved).

fresh blueberry crumb bars with lemon-rosemary crust

I grew up listening to my mom's old records (and cassette tapes) of Jacques Brel, The Mamas & The Papas, Françoise Hardy and Simon & Garfunkel - maybe a little Neil Diamond, too. Each song felt like a secret treasure to my young, eager ears. At the wise age of six I was utterly mesmerized by Françoise's clear, sometimes melancholy, voice and lush lyrics. "Dream a Little Dream of Me," as sung by Mama Cass, was pure perfection. Oh, how I wanted to know what it felt like to be so much in love that I'd ask someone to keep me in their dreams (and what do birds sound like when they sing in sycamore trees?). "Ne Me Quitte Pas" was deliciously heart wrenching (although the more recent version by Emilíana Torrini is equally haunting).

My favourite songs were, and always will be, anything by Simon & Garfunkel.  "Scarborough Fair," in particular, conjured up beautifully wistful images in my overactive imagination. Even now, "Scarborough Fair" makes me think of a blustery day (maybe in early autumn?). It's a surreal, strange weather kind of late afternoon; heavy clouds can be seen racing across the ground, outlined by a reticent sun. Someone somewhere is trying to remember something on the grounds of an abandoned carnival set just outside a thick forest of trees...not the shady kind of carnival; an old-school carnival with elaborate carousel horses + rusted swans and vendors wearing tweed vests would handing out cigars and women holding parasols. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme - I love each and every one. Not only for their ability to heighten the flavour of food, but for the unexpected beauty their presence brings to a rich, tapestry-like song.

Rosemary is a beloved herb, so I was overjoyed when this recipe turned out to be even better than I'd anticipated!