kitchamajig

i don't usually wax poetic about things like kitchen utensils, but i am so happy with this find that i feel the need to document my delight. i bought this at a local thrift store last summer. i'd never seen anything like it. i was intrigued with the fact that it was made in hong kong. the asking price was a dollar and i gladly paid it. i brought it home, cleaned it up, plunked it into the utensil crock next to the stove, and promptly forgot about it - until thanksgiving. in the rush of meal prep, as the pile of spatulas and slotted spoons built up in the sink, i grabbed for the ---  what was it, anyway?

long after it had drained the potatoes for mashing, scraped the turkey bits from the bottom of the pan for gravy, and whipped the squash into a puree, i googled it and found it was often referred to as a kitchamajig. knowing its quirky name made me even more enamored of it! it's now my go-to utensil - it beats, it drains, it mixes, it strains. i still get giddy using it.

winters like this one, it doesn't take much to make me happy!

toooooo long

this winter is endless. i am sick of ice and boots. i am tired of all this white. i hate this cold. i yearn for melting, puddles, and temperatures in the forties. tiny bits of green coming up through the snow and popping out on branches. warm sun on my face.

remember my strategies for keeping my spirits up through the long month of january? next year i'm going to extend them for four additional weeks.

valentine memory

today was valentines day in schools, and i had the unexpected surprise of participating in a kindergarten party, highlighted with valentine delivery by beaming five year olds. later in the day, the little girl shared with me her valentine box from school, reading each card and the name of the giver, commenting on the styles of cards and the candy and lollipops that accompanied most. it's a tradition. we have done this every year since before she could even read them.

from nowhere today, came pieces of the ancient memory of a nine year old arriving new to a school on the fourteenth of february. the classroom was all decorated with pinks and reds and the room was abuzz with talk of the upcoming party after lunch. the teacher had a kind face and a pleasant manner, but i remember being apprehensive - we had moved around a lot and it was always hard for me to make new friends in a new place.

those were the days when there were neighborhood schools, stay-at-home mothers, and no need for lunch programs. when i came back to school after lunch, a beautifully decorated box was sitting on my desk, and inside were valentine cards from all my new classmates. i don't remember learning the details of how all that came to be, but i do remember the welcoming feeling of acceptance from a room full of strangers. years later, i suspect that it all had to do with my new teacher, mrs. stanton. and i silently thanked her again today for her kindness to an anxious child so many, many years ago.

makes scents to me

a long time ago, i read that smell is a most powerful conduit in terms of memory-making - that a scent can quickly transport you back to a place, an event, or a person in your past. to that end, even though i don't wear it regularly anymore, i try to wear a spritz of my favorite perfume when i'm around the little girl. i always have. i want her to remember me.

yesterday, all my efforts paid off. while having tea with the girl, she related this story: earlier in the day, she had taken a walk through their quiet village with the little girl. at one point, the little girl stopped, sniffed the air, and said it smelled like - me! me!! eventually the girl too smelled the sweet scent, but could not identify it.

now, there was no one around, least of all me, so it wasn't the perfume. clearly, in the dead of winter, it could not be emanating from anything green and growing. woodsmoke? - i thought? i certainly hope not. i pondered this for hours before i finally came up with a feasible answer to this conundrum. i bet the smell was coming from a dryer vent behind some house. i bet the little girl thinks i smell like dryer sheets.

night, late

after lying in bed sleepless, a weight on my mind and in my heart, i rise to seek solace in the stars and the beauty of the brilliant night. out the window, orion shines through the trees, his familiar belt the only order i can find at this troubling hour.

blizzard

mid-afternoon and i'm still not sure if 'they' are right about this storm. certainly, more snow than we've seen this winter, but not a lot by new england standards. it's quiet out on the road - the plow has been back and forth once and some daring young people walked by a few hours ago, snowboards atop their heads. it's been snowing most of the day but winds are just now beginning to pick up and, as i write this, snow has begun to fly horizontally. perhaps this is the blizzard...

a good time for tea, and then a long winter's nap.

winter storm warning

a winter storm, predicted, anticipated. it sounds like a significant snowfall, with sustained high winds and dangerous road conditions. i hope 'they' are wrong. this winter, i have liked having just a little snow - enough for foot prints and animal tracks, enough to protect perennials in the garden, enough for holiday ambiance, and enough for children to sled. i am not looking forward to amounts that will reach the lower windows or snowbanks so high i have to inch my way out of the driveway. i do not want so much snow that it will remain until april.

but today, i must find my very serious heavy-duty boots, just in case 'they' are right.

january: hygge

of all the months of the year, january is my least favorite. it's cold. it's dark. and it's long. this january hasn't been as bad as others since snowstorms have been few and insignificant. but still i can't wait for this month to be over.

in truth, january never had a chance. i was dreading this month before it even started. so i've built in some activities and oddities to get me through these long weeks. i saved a certain book to read. i have a short, specific list of small projects to accomplish around the house. i have lunch and coffee dates with friends sprinkled throughout the month. for fun, i'm writing all my lists on round paper in a spiral fashion. i'm practicing daily something silly that i've wanted to try for a while now. i'm planning a summer garden. and i'm sitting myself down to a movie every week.

i read this month about hygge, an interesting danish cultural concept. it involves objects, traditions, and activities to brighten the dark winter months and promote well-being. in some odd way, i must have begun to intuit this mindset a few years ago, and now leave the clear christmas lights in the windows and on the mantle until at least march, light candles and oil lamps when darkness falls, and try to get together with friends and family regularly. maybe the lists, books, and projects just add to it a little. anyway, for mid-january, i think i'm doing all right - but i'll still be really glad when it's finally february.

a visitor

fresh tracks in the old snow. a deer perhaps. meandering, wandering, looking for food.

morning, uneventful

this frosty morning, shot from the dark kitchen to the bleak outside - through the uplifting images of a festooned candle, a globe of milkweed fluff, and a gingerbreadman cutter, still standing after his counterparts have all been packed away.

robins in winter

just ahead of the grey sky and the predicted snow flurries, robins come to the holly. it seems they are early this year, and there are dozens of them, all swooping in together, then scattering off to the maple, only to return for more berries. at this rate, they'll be none left for them for the rest of the winter. perhaps they know something that i don't.

winter wind

the backyard is a mess of pinecones, shaken from the white pines at the edge of the woods and scattered atop the crusty snow. yesterday, when the wind blew, they flew across the icy surface like so many tiny race cars. for now, they are parked and waiting. more wind this week will soon set them to racing again.

ah, january

finally, with mixed feelings, i think winter has arrived.

new year, new growth - already!

in this shiny new year, i continue to "grinch" my home and pack up christmas earlier than ever before. i set to gather up the holly, mostly dry and brittle, to take to the frozen compost pile, but stop when i notice this new growth, popping from the top of the cut stem. it seems a shame to not watch it, see what it turns into. it could be good diversion from the january cold and snow. so i keep it.

out with the old...

and in with the new! 

wishing you a happy and healthy new year, full of wonderful surprises!

♡

christmas 2014

the merriest of christmases to you all. god bless us, everyone. 

christmas baking

this morning, i make sand tarts. or at least i try to make sand tarts. i've tried them before, over several christmas seasons, and i can never quite get them right. but this time, it's important.

at christmas, a long time friend always made sand tarts and gave boxes of them as presents. thin and crisp, light and buttery, they fast became my family's favorite. come december, we would anticipate their arrival and then save them for christmas eve with eggnog; they were that special.

in the last weeks, she has gone, my friend, moving far, far away to begin a new adventure. this is the week she travels to her new home, solo and by car.  while i am so excited for her, and i admire her bravery, i also miss her already and am sad that our friendship will be different now.

so this morning while she completes the last leg of her journey, i am with her as i make her sand tarts. i quickly roll the dough and cut it with my tiniest cooky cutters, trying to replicate the ones she's made for me in the past. remembering not to re-roll the dough, i cut the trimmings into rectangles with a knife. as i fill the parchment covered baking sheet with stars, hearts, and snowmen, i wonder where she is, and when she will arrive. i wash the cookies with egg white, i dust them with cinnamon and sugars, and i think about snow and pray she doesn't encounter any. while the sand tarts bake in the oven behind me, i stare out the window and let thirty years of memories wash over me.

the timer goes off. the sand tarts look good. as i move them to a cooling rack, her message comes. she has arrived, and safely. i can read the joy and excitement in her words. i catch myself smiling as i finish baking the cookies and, when i'm done, i sit for a few minutes with a cup of tea, sending good thoughts and best wishes to my far-away friend, and enjoying an almost perfect sand tart.

preparing for christmas

the weeks since thanksgiving have flown. i find myself with too much to do yet i'm unable to get out of my own way. as much as i don't like winter, i'm almost looking forward to the calm that is january! but life is good - and so am i.

december traditions

at the end of november, every year, i give the little girl an advent calendar, as i did her mother before her. she takes it home, hangs it in her kitchen, and opens a window each december morning, counting the days until christmas. it's tradition.

our other december tradition is observing the little girl's half-birthday. in the past, i've just mention it to her, but this year, given her increasing knowledge of fractions, i mailed her half of a birthday card. she thought it was funny.

early on the morning of her half-birthday, after i sent a happy half-birthday text, the girl sent me this photo of the image behind the advent calendar window for that day. again, the little girl thinks it's some sort of grandmother-magic.

christmas birds of a feather

over the weekend, the little girl was here, helping to decorate the christmas tree. although there are many, many ornaments to choose from, she chose every single one that her mother had made in school or admired years ago as a child. this christmas, the tree borders on tacky, but i like it.

as i was rearranging a few tonight (to make room for the ornaments i like!) i noticed these three red birds, neatly arranged on the bottom branches. i called the little girl to ask about it. she told me yes, she put them together on purpose, because she thought it looked nice. kind of like a flock, she said.

i'm not moving a thing.

thanksgiving, very late.

this week, i've been away, at an event connecting with former colleagues and distant friends. a few folks pointed out that i'd made no mention of thanksgiving here and they are right. this is the closest i'll get - to the photo i uploaded, then forgot about...packing away all things fall before i left, so i'd be free to bring on christmas when i returned. 

the older i get, the more thanksgiving becomes my favorite holiday. it's about family and gratitude, a quiet pause before changing seasons. this year, it was an especially emotional one for me and i'm not sure why. i missed my parents, gone now for many years, more than i usually do. as the little girl and i shared our traditional thanksgiving preparations, i found myself so aware of the fact that she's growing up too quickly for me and our special times are likely to change in the next years. later i watched in awe and admiration as friends and neighbors lost power in an awful snowstorm, drove for hours on horrible roads to be with their loved ones, and found celebratory ways to give thanks anyway. i laid awake at night and wondered why i've been so damned lucky my whole life. 

and on a brighter note, i sprung for a fresh turkey. i brined it. and it was fantastic. 

the mighty oak

walking up from the mailbox this frosty morning, i stop to marvel at an oak leaf standing upright in the grass, backlit by the sun. and i'm delighted when it doesn't topple over as i hurry inside to fetch my camera. 

mid-november garden

oh, the things you find when you are sooo very late in putting your summer gardens to bed...

a cocoon, or an egg sack of some sort, firmly attached to the leaf of an obedient plant. wispy yet dense, something's in there, warm and cozy and waiting for spring. 

in the daylily bed, what looks like new growth, already begun. it always amazes me that there can be the thrill of such a brilliant green during this month of drab browns.

more growth - male holly flowers, budded in autumn during a warm spell. there's no time to bloom now. 

beautiful, intricate pods, these from the small morning glories, still tangled around the trellis. i'll let the seeds fall where they may, and i'll hope for small spring miracles. 

this tiny oak, smack in the middle of a clump of tightly-packed irises. it must have been there since spring. this unfortunately speaks to my weeding routine - or lack of it. 

the missing rocket balloon from august, wrapped around the stem of a columbine. so that's where it landed!

and on the bench, a scattering of pine cone bracts. some small hungry animal has been foraging, preparing for a winter which is coming soon. 

message in a bottle

yesterday, i bought this tiny-but-tall bottle for a dollar at a goodwill store. a matching one in my kitchen is filled with dried orange peel. even if there hadn't been a mysterious folded paper inside, i still would have bought it - for lemon peel, and a matching set!

this morning, i fished the paper out and read it. and i've been thinking about the message ever since...  well done, perfect stranger.

(and you, reader, will need to click on the picture to see it for yourself.)

now, brown

driving the long way last evening, marvelling at the browns and russets and golds of the late october landscape. more rain, wind, and cold will drop these remaining leaves to the ground very soon. right now, though, late fall is still distracting enough to make me pull over to the side of the road for a while.

autumn 2014: postscript

red sunrise early this morning confirms what the forecast says: storms are coming and it's going to rain. this rain will quickly end our foliage season for good.

already, the end has begun, though. driving the back roads, leaves surge wildly through the air as the car passes through tunnels of trees. when i walk in the morning, i try to catch one before it hits the ground - for good luck, as told to me by savvy six year-olds. there have been several half-hearted attempts at raking, mostly just to make piles to jump into, throwing leaves into the air, and shrieking. but the heavy duty raking will be next weekend, after this rain, after all the maple and oak and birch leaves are down and the trees are winter bare.

my newest interesting word: abscission. the botanical term for leaves and other parts falling from a plant. it's what happens to deciduous trees in the fall. who knew there was such a fancy word for such a bittersweet ending?

autumn 2014

there's no better place to live in the fall than in new england. it's been beautiful here - although difficult for me to capture with the camera. i think i've been more content to just gaze and marvel at the beauty around me. today, it actually moved me to tears a bit - and that surprised me, a lot!