locarno

the most beautiful place i have ever been.  if i even think about it i am almost breathless, the night i sat on a balcony in the youth hostel.  the air was so clear and warm and glowing.  at the time,  there was a festival in the center of town, there was dancing. i danced with dozens of people i never met nor spoke the same language with.  the music stayed in my ears till morning.  the alps hugged this sweet little city.  when i looked up, i saw only stars, millions of glimmer bits that winked at me, telling me that they had their own secrets and stories and they knew all of  mine-  they had been watching me.

renewal

It was one of those March days when the sun shines

hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the

 light, and winter in the shade. ~Charles Dickens

checks and short gowns

The Henry Walton 1776 painting "Plucking the Turkey"

companion

tom

back country

sustenance

To make a very good Barley-Gruel.

Of three Ounces of Pearl-barley make a Quart of Barley-water; shift it once or twice, if it is not white; put to it four Ounces of Currants clean pick’d and wash’d; when they are plumpt, pour the Gruel out to cool a little, and beat up the Yolks of three Eggs and put into it, with half a Pint of White-wine, and half a Pint of new thick Cream, the Peel of a Lemon, and as much Sugar as you like; stir it gently over the Fire ‘till ‘tis as thick as Cream. ‘Tis a pretty wholesome Spoon-meat for Suppers.

A Collection of Above Three Hundred Receipts in Cookery, Physick and Surgery
 Mary Kettilby (1724)

mourning

this morning i lost my dove, emmylou.  she helped bring life back into my home.

love

respite

trapped in a snow squall in my drafty nest. lost my train of thought for a bit. ok, a couple weeks. npr on so low i can only hear it when i hold my breath. on the window there is a framed photo of the coast of vinalhaven, maine. my final destination. the cats are unraveling the caning on an old white chair that i found in smithfield, va. i find my mind drifting to random images of two or three bin laundry sinks that would work well along the side of the house as a gardening bench base. i intenionally redirect. to a small resturant in a rural area. maybe it is mine. it's evening, in the summer, and there is a tiny potager garden in front, and white windsors with a bake oven made of stone in the side yard, where i would produce pies, and breads for the amazed guest.

stolen laugh

1898 mark twain on jane austen-




Every time I read "Pride and Predjudice" I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin bone.
 
though these are not my sentiments,  i found this wonderfully funny.

honey

a new year that will be better than its sister. a new endeavor.  i am in the throes of a beekeeping class and i am in love. so much going on in such a small place. i especially adore the worker bee. they make up 99% of the colony and they are nurturers. they defend the hive, collect water and pollen. they feed the queen, drones and the upcoming brood. the worker bee is an army of sterile females that clean the colony, produce propolis, wax and honey. they keep the brood area at a constant 95 degrees in the height of summer and the dead of winter.
and she remains faithful to her particular bossom the entire time that blossom is in bloom.



''There are certain pursuits which, if not wholly poetic and true, do at least suggest a nobler and finer relation to nature than we know. The keeping of bees, for instance." -- Henry David Thoreau

affection

four

i grew up in the house next door. i actually moved there when i was four, but really, thats when i think my memory started. the smell of peppermint that grew wild in front of the barn, the grapevine that was in the backyard. in the summer we were always outside. when hot it was time to run to the shade of the house. a sharp line of chill in the back. the ping of dad in the barn hitting the anvil and the smell of coal burning in his forge. going out in the evening to play on the trail after our baths. it felt clean and the sky was a perfect mix of pink and black. frantic because i couldnt tell time yet. i could do cartwheels. miles of them. i dreamed of the color of peaches and glued clover flowers on foam plates to give as gifts.

my own daughter is four and i think about her memory starting now, a half mile through the field from the house i had all those memories. in the spring i plan to build her a lovely playhouse, based off a picture of one in s.c. that has the presence of my house. she is afterall, a wonderful housekeeper. she was raised her first two and a half years in a virginia town that was always blooming. the only thing she remembers about the village is the hydrangeas and tea roses that were so fragrant in front of our summer kitchen. she remembers the drum and fife corp parades and me cooking over a fire. i have made it so the smell of woodsmoke is in her blood.

warmth

prizer perfect. if only the one in the barn was in such good repair.

inspiration

1915-2008. tasha tudor. self sufficient.  plain and vibrant.  a mother. never met her, but in my head she built plans for impossible gardens, handed me recipes.  showed me that woodsmoke is home. beeswax is bliss, weaving is productive and petty, maple syrup goes on your eggs, and fire is life.  she built the spoon and fork christmas tree in my head, let me respect the moon phases.  a perfect mix between Hannah Glasse and Jane Austen.  

loud crickets

summer. she could only get cool by sleeping on the steps.  flowerpots, moss, bees on purple flowers. lambsear spreading into the yard, grass growing too high, and just being way too warm...summer thoughts on a cold day.

birches by bill morrissey

mothering

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons. It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.


Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

heartsong

home.  a little place with twigs that will calm my heart and set my belly on fire.  inspiring me to no end. tattered books and acorns. brown transferware and silverplate. red wool blankets.  heavy lilac in the spring through the windows. stars and fabric swatches. salvage and flannel. dusting dirt off the soles of your feet before crawling into bed. recipes from cookbooks that belonged to your grandmother that promise to warm and painted floors. turquiose. very distant neighbors. dried herbs from the holidays and the smell of woodsmoke. dutch doors and the luxury of enough. this is my home.
 all of this.