Recipe for a New Year . . .

Today I'll go about getting rid of the old calendars, and putting up new ones. I've already done one . . . my desk calendar. It was a Mary Englebreit one, and I have a fresh new one, also by Mary Englebreit, to take it's place.

One might be tempted to throw the old ones away, with their all too familiar pictures . . . but I like to keep the old ones. They have beautiful pictures, especially our Liz Lemon Swindle one of the Saviour. Each year we end up framing at least one of the pictures from it and the rest we keep to look through every now and then.

There is something pretty special about hanging up a new calendar though. Clean and bright, they seem to symbolise all the high hopes we each might have on this new morning of a brand new year.



Looking through the new pages, I am suddenly aware that they contain the unknown mystery of my future. These crisp new pages, with their neat rows of dates and pretty pictures represent unlived Time, the promise of seasons yet to come to fuition, days not yet granted, days that are still . . . God's secret plan for me. What a wonderful thought.

What shall I ask of this new year that is dawning??? What shall I hope for as I begin to write on the pages of my new calendar? What shall I ask for, on this the very first morning, of the very first day of a new year and new decade? What should I wish for and what should I pray . . .



I think I'll ask for eyes that remain open to the beauty that surrounds me . . . for a continued faith that nothing can break . . . patience to do every duty that may arise in the coming days . . . a good humour that nothing can shake . . . opportunities to serve and to be served . . . and lots of love, both given and received.

It all sounds very good to me. Each one a gift beyond measure and outweighing anything else I might receive. Another year of blessings yet to be mine. How wonderful to think of that . . . how very wonderful.

On this the very first day of the new year I want to wish each one of you all the best in the coming days ahead. May you be blessed and loved beyond measure, and may you find peace and contentment in your hearts.



A Recipe For a New Year
~author unknown

Prepare one day at a time, and into each put:

12 parts of faith
11 of patience
10 of courage
9 of work
8 of hope
7 of fidelity
6 of openmindedness
5 of kindness
4 of rest
3 of prayer
2 of meditation
1 of well selected resolution.

Add a teaspoonful of good spirits, a dash of fun, a pinch of folly, a sprinkling of play and a heaped cupful of good humour.

Next, pour love generously into the whole, cook thoroughly, garnish with a few smiles and a sprig of joy; then serve with quietness, unselfishness, and cheerfulness.

Serve immediately and renew as required.



And just so that I don't leave you totally bereft of sustenance . . . be sure to check out The English Kitchen, where you'll find a totally delicious Ginger Cake with Caramel Icing. Totally Scrumdiddlyumptious!

Someday . . .

Someday when your kids are all grown . . . things are going to be a whole lot different than they are right now. You'll have a garage you can actually park a car in. It won't be filled up with broken two wheelers with flat tires, and old train sets . . . racing car sets missing parts of the track, broken down skateboards, bottles waiting for the Boy Scout Bottle Drive, projects and two by fours in various stages of development . . . along with the hammer, nails and saw that never got put away . . .

Someday when your kids are all grown . . . your kitchen will be as neat as a pin. There'll be no dirty dishes in the sink, full of sticky fingerprints and partially eaten food. The fridge won't be cluttered with umpteem bottles of milk and juice and coolaid. You'll be able to find the lids for all the jars and you'll never again pick up a jar of something only to spill it because someone forgot to screw the lid back on. Nobody will put an empty bottle of milk or juice back in the fridge and you won't catch anyone drinking right from the jug. The bread will go mouldy before it actually gets eaten and the butter will always be put away, free from crumbs and jam . . .



Someday when your kids are all grown . . . you'll actually be able to take a bath all by yourself that won't be interrupted umpteen times by someone pounding on the door that needs to go pee, or needs to tell you that Bobby pinched her or that Sally won't get off the phone. You'll be able to paint your nails and actually let them dry before you have to pick something up or put something down, or answer a million questions that need to be answered now and or having to review someone's homework, or fill in a forgotten permission slip in a hurry before the bus comes and they miss it . . . you may even be able to paint your toenails without interruption as well.

Not to mention actually being able to find the lid to the toothpaste and being able to sit down on the toilet without getting a wet bottom . . . you may even be able to find an afternoon where you can get to the hairdressers to have your hair done without having to squeeze it in between picking the kids up at school and cleaning out the hamster's cage that somehow never gets cleaned unless you do it . . . likewise walking the dog . . .



Someday when your kids are all grown . . . your telephone will ring and it will actually be for you, and what's more, your telephone will be available where you want it, when you want it and however many times you want it . . . and it won't look like it's magically growing out of a teenagers ear. It will just be sitting there silent and . . . all yours for the using. There won't be any sticky fingerprints all over it and it won't smell like doritos . . . or bubblegum.

The trees in your garden won't be full of arms and legs and hammers and nails . . . and your garden won't ring with the sound of exited voices, and giggles and laughter . . .



Someday when your kids are all grown . . . you'll be able to see out your windows without having to peer between the smudge of fingerprints on the glass. The front hallway won't smell like dirty sneakers and the carpet won't be full of muddy footprints. Your couch won't have already read teen mags tucked beneath the cushions, or dinky cars, pencils, papers and crayons . . . it will be amazingly free of cookie and potato chip crumbs and you won't find any dirty plates full of sandwich crusts laying hidden underneath along with an empty glass or two or three . . .



Someday when your kids are all grown . . . you'll be able to put a plate of food down on the table, and you won't hear the phrases . . . "What's that?" "Yuck!" "I'm not eating that!" "Gross!" Normal dinnertime conversation will return. Every sentence won't be punctuated with words like "Tommy's eating with his mouth open," or "Julie's digging me with her elbows" . . . and the worst words of all . . . "Billy's looking at me."

"Hurry up, I gotta go!" will not be accompanied with the banging of fists on the bathroom door. The words, "I'm home!" won't come with the sound of a slamming door. You will no longer have to be the referee who decides who's turn it is to watch the television, do the dishes, mow the lawn, go on the computer or play with the play station. You'll actually be able to read a book or a magazine article from cover to cover without interruption and you and the husband won't have to hide in your bedroom to have a private conversation free from listening ears and watchful eyes . . .




Someday when your kids are grown . . . there will be no bed time stories to tell, no sticky kisses goodnight, no smooshie hugs, no tenderly whispered "I love you's", no secret jokes or silly stories to hear . . . the hallways will echo with the silence of missing trampling feet and children's laughter . . . the house will be quiet . . . and clean . . . and tidy . . . and empty. Your time won't be spent in looking foward to someday, but in reflection and looking back to yesterday . . . your once too busy hands will then be free and just itching for a braid to tweak or a face to scrub . . . your cheeks just begging for a sticky kiss . . .



Cherish these busy days that are now, for what they are, for as long as you can . . . before too long the kids will be all grown. You'll see, these days pass far too quickly and are all too soon gone . . . Enjoy them now . . . while you still can.



This is not so much a recipe as it is an idea, and a delicious one at that. You take a bowl of Green and Black's gorgeously sumptuous Vanilla Icecream and you top it with a scrumptious splurge of a couple of Opie's Baby Pears in vanilla and some of their juices . . . it's decadent, lip smacking and oh such a wonderful way to share a few moments of a quiet evening with the one you love . . . Scrummy! Yummy!



I know . . . total cop out, but way too good not to share!!! Get some . . . TODAY!

All that I am . . .

I wrote this post on my other blog, Marie's Muses , the other morning. (I write on there every day) I like to think of that page as being food for the soul, as well as for the tum tum. I was rather proud of this piece after I had done it, and I thought to myself, why not share it with my Oak Cottage readers as well. I hope that you like it.

I Am

I am from an old carved wooden box of the Oregon Trail sitting on a faded and threadbare picture carpet from Sicily atop our television, from a big box of Tide soap smelling clean and fresh, and cartons of Orange and Apricot flavoured Beep, and glass milk bottles left on the porch.

I am from war time military housing, each one a cookie cutter stamp of the next, but what we called home . . . each one made our own by all the bits and bobs we carried around with us like a turtle carries his home on his back.

I am from pine forests and clear woodland streams, rolling orchards and misty harbours full of fishing boats anchored and resting until another clear day rolls around, and rocky mountain meadows full of wild flowers and babbling brooks.

I am from a grandmothers Molasses cookies, warm from the oven, and from always being right, from Nina and Elmer and Henrietta B, and all the staid and ordinary folk that came before me.
I am from the salt of the earth and hard working hands, hearts that cared and eyes that cried tears made of salt and soul and the milk of human kindness.

I am from pioneer men and strong women who weren‘t afraid to leave all that was familiar and theirs, and venture into new lands, making new starts built on hope and dreams.

I am from a God who loves even me, with all of my shortcomings and weaknesses. He uses them to make me strong and carries me when I can no longer carry myself and sets my feet upon higher ground, lifting me up to places I never dreamed of going.

I am from the wilds of Glasgow and the loins of Boyd McNayr, from Phillippe and Anne and the cobbled streets of French Aristocrats, and baking powder biscuits, Saturday night baked beans and wieners and chips and Hockey Night in Canada.

I am from the hearts that were broken and spirits that were mended by stitches of family love, from ancient Uncles losing limbs in Boer Wars who fed me humbugs on an old lady’s porch , the patchwork that is family sewn together from scraps and stories and roots that run deep in the soil of small mountain villages looking down on clean valleys.

I am from boxes of photos that lay in my mother’s home, black and white images of stoic faces, honest people with work worn hands, big hearts, twinkling eyes, and stories whispered and legends told,ancientmemories of humble folk and sturdy stock. I am their future, their hope, their dreams . . . they live on in me and those who will come after me . . .

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