All Things Nice . . .

 

 

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We spoke of little foolish trivial things --

Our favorite movie star . . . the price of bread,

The lates book, and how the fashions change,

And oh I longed to speak to her instead

Of vital things that matter so much more

Than curtains, or the polish of a floor.

I longed to ask her (she seemed so alive)

If she had ever seen a rainbow break

In little shattered fragments on the lawn,

Or had she watched a baby robin take

His first small flight . . . or heard an old man teach

A little boy his lessons on a beach.

I wanted to reach down and touch her heart

Beneath the thin veneer that shut me out,

And let our true selves speak . . . to hear her tell

The secret hidden things she dreamed about,

And what she thought behind her lovely eyes,

That looked so very friendly and so wise.

Of course we didn't . . . we just drank our tea

And ate small cakes and laughed with stilted mirth.

And parted strangers . . . and we went away

Along the lonely highways of the earth,

People who might have scaled Life's grandest peak

If we had dared to be ourselves and speak.

~Edna Jacques, At a Tea

Aunt Hattie's Place, 1949

I think we can all be guilty of this much of the time. Holding ourselves aloof when we are in the company of friends or acquaintances. I know I am anyways. First of all, I tend these days to avoid social situations like the above altogether if possible.  You may find it very hard to believe, but I am actually very shy. I hide that part of me well behind my screen and keyboard. And, as I have said before, I am not wanting to open up my secrets that I keep hidden from the people I come into physical contact with.  I keep myself very aloof from my neighbors and the people at church. I am friendly, but not overly so.  Perhaps I am afraid of judgement. No . . .  there is no perhaps about it. I am afraid of judgement and so I keep these secret spaces hidden.

I think we are probably all the same. We all have little pockets of things, thoughts, feelings, dreams and aspirations that we hold back from others. Things that are known only to us and our God. (For He knows all.) Life is perhaps better that way. I cannot imagine a life where everyone walked around with their wounds and deepest darkest feelings open to the air. Vulnerability. It is not something any of us easily embrace. To leave ourselves open to what is often the worst parts of other people.  I can't help thinking sometimes, that in doing so, we are sometimes missing out on treasures untold. But . . . allowing ourselves to be vulnerable is not an easy thing at all. 

 

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There is a part of me that wishes that cats were more like dogs. At heart I am a dog person and I probably always have been. Dogs are at best very needy creatures. They love unconditionally and without guile. Cats are much more independent and whilst they do love you, it is not a needy kind of love. They prefer instead that you be the needy one. Tis true!  Dogs do have Masters and Cats have Slaves. Whilst dogs are quite happy to just be in your company, cats make you work a little bit harder to gain their unconditional acceptance. 

Cats are quite capable of entertaining themselves, which makes them ideal for people who must work away from home or even at home. They are completely content with their own company, so long as you feed them.  

Dogs on the other hand are very social animals and thrive on the company of others. Dogs are much more expressive with their emotions. They are loyal and protective.

A cat is much more subtle in their expressions of love.  Simply allowing you to be in their presence speaks a lot to their affection for you, and if they deign to sit or lay near you, well, you have cracked it. They love you and trust you. 

When I sit and watch television in the evenings my two are never very far from me. Nutmeg is usually next to me on the sofa and Cinnamon will lay on the back of the sofa near behind me.  A few tickles here and there from my fingers will be tolerated, but too much and they will abandon me. At least that is the way it is with my two.

 

 

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There is something so wonderful about a handwritten and much beloved recipe, the writing on them beginning to fade. The paper worn and torn in places and well splattered with use. Depending on the age the paper almost feels like silk.  There is love embedded in its very fabric and a lifetime of memories, especially if it is an old family recipe.

Scraps of paper, the backs of envelopes, small note cards  . . . these are precious gifts. 

They usually come with a story. A background. They have a tale to tell.  And I am in love with their stories.

People usually only share their very best with you, in the hope that their gift will bring as much joy to you as it has to them. 

It is the same with community cookbooks. They are filled with gifts. Everyone's best. That's why I love them so. Every recipe shared comes with a tiny bit of the giver's soul. That is a wonderful thing. 

That is what I don't like about AI generated content. There is no heart and no soul in it. And if there is, it has been scraped from the heart and soul of another. It's just not right.  Something precious has been lost in the process.

I went out to check my mail yesterday and I noticed that someone had left a wood rolling pin with green handles on the little bench by my front door. A note was attached. It was from Sheila. Probably because I had taken over the half of my fish and chips that I hadn't eaten Wednesday night. I wish that I could make her understand that I don't want anything in return when I bring a meal or whatnot to her. I am doing it so that I don't waste anything. She is actually doing me a service in taking it.  Perhaps I should stop giving her meals?  I don't know. I don't want anyone to think they owe me anything because I give something to them.

I brought the rolling pin in and had it sitting on top of the Island waiting for me to wash it.  It wasn't there long before Nutmeg came out from his cave under my bed and he was reaching up to it wanting to bring it closer so that he could give it a small. I ended up putting it down on the floor so he could give it a good old sniff. I was afraid he would pull it down onto himself and hurt himself.  Next time I looked Cinnamon was sitting right next to it.  

Those cats. They don't half make me smile.

 

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I seem to have developed a rash on my upper chest and neck. It is red and a bit itchy. I am assuming it is a bit of a reaction to the jabs I had for flu and covid the other day.  I may have to pop into the Chemist today to see what I can do about it. Some cream?  An antihistamine? It was not there when I went to bed last night, but it is there this morning.  I did have a headache most of yesterday. But this is the first time I have ever had any real reaction to any of these things. I do think that because of my age I got the stronger flu dose this time. I have never had a reaction before.

I am grateful that I live in a country where I can get these things free of charge. The jabs that is, not the hives. lol

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In the country, even more than in the town it is best to be a hug-the-hearth during November. Except for a few rough-coated young stock the cattle and cart-horses have long ago been brought into stall and stable. All wild living things have sought shelter, many are already in hibernating torpor.

The badger with eyelids fast shut, is snugly asleep in his set under the green hill dreaming of succulent pig-nut roots; the hedgehog rolled up in his leafy den, is in his fancy eagerly afoot after slugs and beetles . . . the doormouse, with his tail curled to touch his cold nose sees in his quaint imagination hazel nuts more in number than he, with his nimble forepaws, could have piled up in a lifetime of day-time reality.

~Lleweln Powys, The Twelve Months, 1936

I found a mouse laying dead underneath my car in the garage the other day. I don't know how long it had been there or where it came from. It had not been run over. It was just lying there. Dead. This is the time of year that these creatures try to get in out of the cold. There is no poison in my garage that I know of, unless it got into ant bait. I do keep a big bait station in there. 

I have always loved books, stories, films, etc. that humanize animals.  I love to see them in their little coats and dresses doing all the human things that we do. Tucking their babies in at night, reading stories to them, sweeping their little homes out with a corn broom and dozing in chairs next to the fire, hot drink on the table next to their chair.  Such visions bring me joy even though they are but a fanciful thought.

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

A thought to carry with you  . . . 

☾ ° ★° * 。  

• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★

*Believe in yourself, learn,
& never stop wanting to build
a better world.• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★ 。* 。
~Mary McLeod Bethune• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★ 。* 。

• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★ 。* 。• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★ 。* 。 

In The English Kitchen today an old fashioned vintage dessert, small batched. Radio Pudding. Very similar to Pudding Chomeur.  Cake with a butterscotch sauce on the bottom. This one is studded with sticky raisins. This is very nice.

I hope you have a beautiful weekend. Whatever you get up to I hope that it brings you peace and joy. Be loved. Don't forget!

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And I do too!