All Things Nice . . .

 

 

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She had a way with salads,

A way of cooking rice,

An extra touch to cooking meat,

That made it extra nice.

A loving pat to buns and bread,

That seemed to make them rise,

As white and soft as thistledown,

And more than twice their size.

She had a way of sealin' in,

The covers of a pie,

That kept the juices all inside,

The crusts all crisp and dry,

She'd crimp the edges neat as wax,

Then cook it long and slow,

Until it had that special taste,

That all old timers know.

I've seen her frying doughnuts,

In an old black iron pot,

The golden circles bubbling up,

Rich and sizzling hot.

The kitchen filled with warmth and cheer,

Fragrant with mace and clove,

With cheeriness just belching out

From that old fashioned stove.

And when I see new fangled ways,

I wonder how it feels,

To sit down at the end of day,

To skimpy modern meals.

I'll take my grub old-fashioned thanks,

For taste instead of style,

Thus fortified I'll face the world

And neighbors with a smile.

~Edna Jacques, A Born Cook

Roses in December, 1944

I love good old fashioned home cooking. Stuff that's made from scratch and doesn't come from out of a box or a can, or a frozen packet. We have so many convenience foods today, quick ways to get a meal on the table, fast food outlets, etc. So many women have to work outside the home these days. It is easy to see why they resort these things.  Tired at the end of a long workday, who wants to cook a full meal.  I was so blessed that when my children were growing up I was able to stay at home with them. It's where I wanted to be.  I never really wanted to be anywhere else.  I loved cooking my family good and wholesome meals. None of it was anything fancy and I didn't need a recipe to do most of it, although occasionally I would try a recipe out. Most of the recipes I had were ones that had been handed down through the years from mother to daughter, to daughter, to daughter. Things that were cooked by instinct. Plain and simple.  The only thing a recipe was really needed for was when baking a cake or cookies. The rest just seemed to flow naturally. 

Magazine clippings were also treasured, but one of my greatest treasures was a little handwritten notebook that my mother-in-law had given me for Christmas that first year my second husband and I were married, filled with all of the family favorites. That was my cooking bible, that and my Big Blue Binder, which was filled with "receipts" given to me from friends and family through the years. It is bulging to overflowing now. It is a treasure also. I expect we all have something similar.

 

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I don't have a kettle. There are times I wish I did.  I have an electric water boiler. It is Japanese. You can get boiling water from out of it in any quantity, but I don't think it is really as boiling hot as it would be from a kettle.  I love this enamel one.  I have a great love for enamelware of any kind.  There was a big white enamel bowl in our mother's kitchen.  It had been her mother's bread-making bowl. I expect that it saw many, many loaves of bread through the years. Whenever I see enamelware, I am reminded of that bowl and the many loaves it produced. Old fashioned.  Quaint. 

We had a dish pan in our home to make up bread in. My ex-husband used to make all of the bread using his mother's recipe. He cranked out at least a dozen or so loaves a week. With five hungry kids, three of them boys, it was a necessity.  He made the best bread.  He used to make the kitchen table dance across the floor when he was kneading it.  Everyone loved his bread.

He also used to make a huge mess when he made it, but I never minded. Cleaning up after him was just one of my duties.  The reward was beautiful fresh bread. Who could complain about that!

I always thought I wanted a whole dinner set of enamelware. I don't think I would now, but back then I did.  I also wanted to decorate my house like the Chinese restaurant we used to go to from time to time in Calgary.  Black enamel furniture with red and gold wallpaper and Chinese lanterns.  ha-ha

I had no taste.

 

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We had no money back then.  Our living room was furnished with an old sofa that someone had been throwing away and left on the side of the road for the bin men.  We asked could we buy it and they gave it to us. I was an avocado green plaid. Our carpet was something that my in-laws wanted to get rid of, and we had an old television that had bent hangers for an antenna.  It was many, many years before we ever got anything new.  We didn't mind. We were young and in love and that carried us through.

Now here I am an old lady, and I have new everything. What a blessing that was/is. Oh, I worked hard for it all, there is no denying. But I don't think any of it is as "quality" as that old green sofa or carpet were. They don't make things to last any more.  We live in a disposable society. All press wood, nothing built to last.

I love my bed.  I got the mattress when I was living with my sister. It is an Endy.  It came in a box and opened up like a marshmallow when you took the plastic off. It was like magic. I got the bedframe for it when I moved into here. It is the most comfortable mattress. It is like sleeping on a cloud.  I got a smaller single bed sized one the first year my brother came home for a visit so that he could have something comfortable to sleep on. If he comes home this year that is where he will be sleeping again. I will have to remember to ask him if it is comfortable. If it is anything like mine, I am sure it is.

Right now, it is buried in stuff waiting for the Spring cleanup. Just a few more weeks to go.

 

This is a photograph I took of the White Garden at Sissinghurst Castle down in Kent when we lived there. I was thinking yesterday about how very blessed I was to be able to go and visit all of these lovely places when I lived in the U.K.  To hike through the Yorkshire Dales (back when I could hike), to visit stone circles and Giant's castles.  To see and walk through the castle that Anne Boleyn was brought up in, to walk the hills and travel the lakes that Beatrix Potter was inspired by. To hear the whistle of a steam locomotive off in the distance as I picnicked in a Welsh Valley. So many beautiful things I got to see and experience that I had only dreamt of doing when I was a child.  Many people dream of these things, but I got to do and experience them.  Those are blessings nobody can take away from me.

 

If I was a much younger woman, I would create a white garden for myself here. It is beyond my capacity now and I cannot afford to pay someone to do it for me.  Maybe when I get to the other side, I can have a white garden.  I think they are quite beautiful.   White and green.  Quite stunning in their simplicity.

I do so love a beautiful garden, no matter the color. It takes a lot of love and care to build a beautiful garden.  I am getting all broody for Spring now  . . . 

 

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Longing for tulips and daffodils.  It's been 9 days since the first day of Spring arrived, according to the calendar, but it still feels like Winter has us in its grip. No snow, but the salt still lies thick on roads filled with potholes and the grass is still mostly brown. I am sure in the thickest of woodlands snow still lies, blotching the landscape with little ghosts of white.  It will soon all be gone, although I am certain that this next week will bring a few errant flakes. Winter's last hurrah as she waltzes out of the room. That is the prediction. We shall see.

Great changes are coming with the return of the lighter days and nights. I can feel it.  I have enjoyed Winter with all of its shadows and fairy lights, candles, etc. flame and shadow . . . but I am looking forward to the season of yellow and then purple and then  . . .  whatever each season brings.

Oh, I am a girl who loves, not just October, but seasons  . . . 

 

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Oh, how I long to get back into creating art. It is not for lack of materials. I have plenty. It is for lack of time and I suppose the will, energy and inspiration that it takes.  I used to love locking myself up in my craft room, putting on the music and then seeing where my pencil and brush would take me. Each blank page an opportunity to create something new, to birth something the world had never seen before it sprang from my fingertips. I found so much joy in that.  And I liked thinking that the joy I found in it was something I could also gift to others. Maybe one day I will have the time and the inspiration in my heart to return to that place of creation in my heart. I did not think that it would take as long as it has to get back there, but it is taking a long, long time.  In the meantime, I create with my words, and my spoon . . . 

I suppose it is an art of sorts. There is a part of me that would like to write another book, but there is another part of me that thinks . . . meh . . .  you haven't got the time you need to do the things you are trying to accomplish now let alone add anything else to the mix.

Just getting through the days, some days . . .  is enough and I have been creating a lot with my hook and yarns over these past few years.

 

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Of all the trees in the world that I love, I think I love the birch tree most of all.  There is such beauty in their straight white trunks. Tall and majestic with black strikethroughs marching up their heights like little ladders leading to who knows where. They make an impact in their starkness.

As a child I used to love to peel the bark and dream of birchbark canoes gliding silently through the still waters of lakes and rivers, as the sound of the whippoorwill echoed through the air filled with the scent of dry grass and pine needles. The feet of ancient travelers and explorers padding along the forest floor to destinations yet undiscovered.

Always a dreamer.  That was me.

Cinnamon likes to help me fold my laundry.  She is much more of a distraction than she is a help I have to confess. She likes to crawl inside the basket and listen to me run my finger over the outside of it, begging me to poke things through the holes for her to catch, like pipe cleaners.  As soon as she crawls into the basket the purring starts.

She is almost as helpful when I am making the bed.  She trots ahead of me like a little pup, so cute . . . and jumps onto the bed and meows.  Willing me to pull the covers up and over her. Once the bed is made, she rolls over on the top of it willing me to scratch her belly.

She has her ways and wiles . . .  to capture my attention and capture it she does.

They are so different, he and her.  Nutmeg and Cinnamon. Each one with a unique personality and way about them. 

What would I do without them . . . my life would only be half as exciting I fear.

"And don't you know it." they whisper . . . they may not be cuddlers, but I sure do love them.

And with that I will leave you with a thought for the day . . . 

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
 *A beautiful day begins

with a beautiful mindset.

•。★★ 。* 。•。★★ 。* 。 

 

In The English Kitchen today  . . .  Brioche Bread Pudding.  Simply delicious. A small batch recipe.

We are taking dad out this afternoon with his friend Maryann. Yesterday we took Mac back to the Vet. He is still not better. An operation is next, to remove some teeth. he has lost weight yet again. Poor thing.  Apparently ginger cats are more susceptible to this condition. I hope mine do not contract it. I could not afford to take care of it. Neither can Cindy.  The operation is going to come to almost $2000. Scary.  Vet bills are outrageous.  This is not something you think about when you get a pet. You only know you have fallen in love.

I hope you have a wonderful weekend filled with light, love and more blessings than your cup can hold. Whatever you get up to, don't forget . . . 

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⊰✿░G░O░D⊰✿⊰L░O░V░E░S⊰✿⊰░Y░O░U░⊰✿

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And I do too!