Wednesday Thoughts

"If you feel that you are not strong enough to let your creative voice become heard, start with a whisper Your voice will come." unknown 

   I know I posted of my return and then went quiet... again. It was only for a few days this time. I am still figuring out where to take Living Life from here. What do I want to do in this space.  Shortly after writing about taking a break from Facebook, I sat and read back through ten years of my own writings. Reading through the years, I discovered the post when I found my voice... when I became a little more confident with MY words instead of trying to imitate or impress others. While reading your comments (some made me teary... such kind words)  I remembered how much I truly enjoyed writing and connecting here. 

So... let's see what happens!  I will continue with my disclaimers, and I'm almost always unedited, there will be mistakes... no judging. I hope you will stop by and leave a comment. (One day I may figure out how to reply individually.) Please let me know your thoughts.

 Hello... are you still there?

I'll be back soon to share some of my favorite books from the past several months. Oh my, what Covid has done to my reading life!  

Find something that makes your heart smile! 

Hugs!

 

 

Banana Bread

I've often confessed here, and on instagram, reading makes me hungry.  What can say!  If food or a meal is an important element in the book I'm reading, I am usually up trying to find something to grab to satisfy my craving.  Often it means dinner plans are changing, or I am going to be pulling down a cookbook and stirring up something in the kitchen.  (This may be the reason I can sit down with a cookbook and read it like a novel.)  A  good book is always better with a beverage and a snack.  Do you agree?

In the novel The Lost for Words Bookshop, Loveday, is taken aback by a cookbook mysteriously delivered to the shop where she works.   While perusing the pages she feels there is something familiar about it and memories of her mother are stirred.  

My mother loved to cook.  There are so many aromas from the kitchen that take me back home and to my mother.  Banana Bread is one of my fondest memories.  No one else in my family particularly cared for banana bread.  I loved it!   It was a special treat, and something Mother made only for me.

This is not my mother's recipe.  I dearly wish it were; her recipe is in hiding somewhere, hopefully to be found.   I have tried several banana bread recipes, and nothing really made me happy.  With a few over-ripe bananas, more in the freezer and a sudden desire to experiment,  I mixed up a recipe that brings back those memories.  And, most importantly,....   it has my sweet Bonnie Rose's approval (wink wink).

To compliment The Lost for Words Bookshop  I am offering up

Bee's Banana Bread

1/2 cup butter, room temperature
1 1/2 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1/4 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups flour, sifted
1 heaping tsp. baking soda
1/3 cup buttermilk
4-5 ripe bananas, mashed
(This is a lot of bananas, you may feel the need to decrease the amount.)

Pre-heat oven to 350℉.  Prepare two loaf pans.
Cream butter and add sugar.  Beat until smooth.  Add salt and eggs, one at a time, and mix until well blended.  Add flour and soda alternating with buttermilk.  Stir in bananas.  (I leave my bananas a little chunky.)    Pour mixture into pans and bake for about 45 mins.   Test the center with a toothpick before taking out of oven.  It should come out with no crumbs. 

This bread is moist, dense and tasty.

 Happy Reading
and
Enjoy!   

******
I hope you like this idea I have of pairing a book with a beverage, food, meal, or perhaps an outing.  This, like everything I do, is an experiment and a work in progress.  Let me know your thoughts.

Hugs!

Ten Weeks Gone

It began at Christmas, and the end seemed so far away.

Bags and boxes were unpacked, furniture moved and rearranged, and 

changes became routine.

There were sleepless nights, sunny days perfect for walks in the park and around the neighborhood, first visits to the playground, and a long weekend for a road trip.  We had so much time to be together.

There were ice days,

and snow days,

and more snow days,

We awaited the New Year and the groundhog; celebrated  Mardi Gras, 

Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, milestones and birthdays. 

There were a lot of pizza creations

(another story for another time)

  

and nights of manic kitchen fun.

  

We know, though, time has a mind of his own; he is in constant forward motion... seconds turn to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, days to weeks, and weeks to months.  We think we have forever, then forever is gone.  

In the end we watched our children reunite, then, with a full heart, bid them farewell,

 as they returned to their home and life.

The house is now silent... no more early wake-up calls.

No more late night talks.

It is bittersweet,

but it is how it is suppose to be.

I have a happy heart to have lived it;

and, I have memories to make me smile.

Cherish each moment with those you love.

Apples, Apples, Apples and Pumpkins

A few weeks ago I was treated to a trip just across the Missouri/Illinois border to pick apples.  I was so excited, the threat of rain couldn't dampen my enthusiasm.  I have picked strawberries and blueberries, peaches and pears, grapes and....well, you get the idea.
I have never had the good fortune to pick and eat an apple off the tree.

After being greeted by "Johnny"

we were ready to board one of the tractor towed wagons for a short,
but bumpy ride out to the orchards.

The trees were loaded with red apples

and green apples.

There were oh so many apples, and

  we were not the only ones enjoying the bounty.

We filled our bags and 

walked across the road to the pumpkin patch.

Now, there may have been one or two in our small group of four

who thought we were only at the farm to pick apples.  And,

I will admit, I did say I only wanted to take a few photographs.

      But...  

                      can you really pass up a perfect pumpkin?

                                            A perfect pumpkin just sitting there asking to be picked up?

                                                            A perfect pumpkin with an amazingly fabulous stem?

It is all about the stem!
Do you agree?

And so we loaded our treasures onto the trailer and headed back...

for the great weight in...

That's a lot of apples!

The pumpkins came next...

Oh my!
I turned and walked away.
I could have been in a little trouble, but
everyone was still smiling.

Whew, I needed a little refreshment
to steady my nerves.

On the way out I continued to browse.

 Pumpkins

and gourds 

to meet every need.

We loaded up the car and headed back just as the rain began to fall.

I returned home thinking of all the delicious goodness I would create with my many apples.
Apple butter, apple muffins, apple cake, spiced apples...
Visions of grandeur.

I did roast a few with a butternut squash, sweet potatoes and onions.
There might have been a small

apple pie.  The rest were enjoyed,
simply one apple at a time.

"An apple a day...."

Do you enjoy going out to pick your own bounty?
Do you have a favorite apple recipe?

Book Notes

When is the last time you read an old fashion, nail biting, "girl, get out of there" mystery?

As a child mysteries were my favorite genre';
Nancy Drew my sleuth of choice.

During fourth grade, library day was my favorite.   My best friend and I would rush to the bookcase holding all the Nancy Drew books.  With heads together we browsed, consulted one another and made our selections.   At the end of the day, if we had planned well, one would go home with the other to spend the night.  After a snack, giggling and sharing all the secrets we thought we knew, and the obligatory time playing outside, we would end up stretching out on the sofa, heads resting at opposite ends, reading our latest find.   Forced to go to bed,  we continued to read until sleep overtook us.  The first one to wake the next morning would rouse the other and we would continue our reading before breakfast.   Our reading skills were comparable;  most often we finished our books within minutes of the other.   One would close her book, then the other.  We always claimed we had just finished our favorite, giggle,  then exchange books to be read before returning to school the next Monday.  This routine was repeated long after we ran out of Nancy Drew mysteries.

   

A few weekends ago the heat was nearing 100 and oppressive.
 After a quick trip to the farmer's market, breakfast and a few errands it was time to retreat indoors.  I couldn't think of anything more desirable than to stretch out with a good read.   I pulled several books, read the synopsis, and without a "BFF" to consult,  made my selection.

Cornelia Read's first novel, A Field of Darkness, was the perfect choice, and a most delicious escape.   I was hooked the moment I opened the front cover.

"There are people who can be happy anywhere.  I am not one of them.  When the house on the next street went up in flames for the second night in a row, I wondered again what the hell I was doing in Syracuse. " 

Madeline Dare, the poor relation of a wealthy Long Island family, is unhappily and begrudgingly living in Syracuse.  Working as a lifestyle reporter for the local newspaper she becomes obsessed with the brutal murders of two young women nineteen years earlier.  Upon receiving a set of dog tags belonging to a favorite cousin, and believed to be tied to the deaths, she convinces her editor to allow her to research the story.  Madeline must risk her own safety and return to an unwelcome past to uncover the truth.

Curled up on the sofa, Willie at one end, I at the other, totally immersed in A Field of Darkness,  I was once again that fourth grade girl clenching a book, totally immersed, and begging our gutsy heroine to turn and run.

It has been a long time since I found myself captivated by a mystery.
 Ms. Read delivered!

Have you read a really good whodunnit lately?

Happy Reading!

Words of Meditation

 This morning a friend sent this prayer out to our Christ Care group.  It was written by 

Father Mychal Judge, the chaplain of the New York Fire Department who died in the towers with the men he loved and served.

"Lord, take me where you want me to go.

Let me meet who you want me to meet.

Tell me what you want me to say.

And keep me out of your way. "

In my friends words, a message for today and everyday.

Roots and Wings

Update:  Technical difficulties with photos and a scheduled post posting too soon.  I apologize if this is showing up as new.

"The greatest gifts you can give your child are

 the roots of responsibility and

 the wings of independence."

Wednesday morning I passed over the play clothes for "big" girl attire, applied make-up and slipped on a pair of shoes other than the summer's flip-flops.  The days of making my own schedule had come to an end.  This was the day to meet and greet my new children and their families.  It was a day of introductions and reunions, of shy smiles and comforting hugs and lots and lots of picture taking.  I spent time with each child, and also with the moms and dads.  I have found it is often the parents who need the hand holding and reassurance.

When talking to parents I often bring in my own experiences as a mom into the conversation.  I am, after all, first and foremost a mom.  It has been my most enjoyable job ever.   When the tears begin to flow, I hug and promise all will be well.  I tell them how every year after dropping my daughter off on the first day,  I would drive home in tears.

So many years ago I drove through the same driveway these parents will enter to drop off my daughter for her very first day of pre-school.  The car door was opened and H. was greeted by the same smiling blue eyes and good-morning that will welcome each student next week.   As soon as H. was helped from the car and the door closed, my tears flowed.  I could hardly see to drive home.   Time crept by; I am sure I was the first person to arrive back in the car-pool line.  I had survived, I was hoping she had as well.  

The car door was opened and her sweet teacher assured me she had a very good day.  As we drove away H. asked why she couldn't stay for lunch, "everyone else stayed for lunch", and she wanted to stay for lunch as well.  The dagger was thrust and found its target deep into the center my heart.  Yes, we spent the next morning in search of the perfect "My Little Pony" lunch box.

Thursday morning arrived.  I packed her favorite sandwich, green beans, a cookie and apple juice.  I wrote a note for her and a check for the school.  She was excited, I stood wondering how I would survive my day.   I put on my best smile and tried to be brave to the one who was taking a step away from me.  Upon arrival, the door was opened with the same warm smile.  H. jumped out of the car and without a glance back, ran down the walkway, lunchbox slapping against her little leg.  

Again, I made the drive home in tears.  No, this is not true, I sobbed all the way home.   I called my mother.  She assured me all would be well, and told me of my own first day of school.  She said she was most certain I would cry, and was prepared to pick me up and take me home.  She then told me she was the one who cried on that morning and on the first day of school every year after.  I then knew I would...I could do this.

  The first day of school is the concrete marking of a child's growing independence,  more so than any other milestone.   I, as much as anyone, know the bittersweetness of the moment.  We want to hold on, but as a parent it is our role to allow, and sometimes push, our children out of their comfort zone.  It is through this narrow channel of safety where we have the opportunity to give them them space to learn to make good decisions, solve their problems and grow into strong independent adults.  

Roots and Wings

If I had two wishes, I know what they would be

I'd wish for roots to cling to, and wings to set me free;

Roots of inner values, like rings within a tree,

and wings of independence to seek my destiny.

If I had two wishes, I know what they would be

Roots to hold forever to keep me safe and strong,

To let me know you love me, when I've done something wrong;

To show me by example, and help me learn to choose,

To Take those actions every day to win instead of lose.

Just be there when I need you, to tell me it's all right,

To Face my fear of falling when I test my wings in flight;

Don't make my life too easy, it's better if I try,

And fail and get back up myself, so I can learn to fly.

If I had two wishes, and two were all I had,

And they could just be granted, by my Mom and Dad;

I wouldn't ask for money or any store-bought things.

The greatest gifts I'd ask for are simply Roots and Wings.

                                     

                                                                               Denis Waitley

And so this post has taken a turn in a direction I had not anticipated at its beginning, but here we are none the less.   Do not feel ashamed at shedding tears as your child lets go. Give them a kiss, a hug, do not call them back, but stand and marvel as wings begin to dry and are tested in anticipation of the ultimate flight.  

The role of a parent is not an easy one.  There is no script, no guarantees or promises,

 but the rewards are many. 

National Doughnut Day

via Pinterest

Today is National Doughnut Day! 

Do you love doughnuts?

via Pinterest

I love doughnuts.

They bring back memories of going "downtown" with my mother visiting the local bakery for one of these soft, sugary, melt in your mouth treats before our library visits.   She would order her cup of coffee,  a glass of cold, out of the fountain, bubbly chocolate milk for me and two doughnuts.  

Sitting across from each other we would have our "big girl" chats.

These were the best mornings.

via Pinterest

Mother made these trips to the bakery not because she liked doughnuts.  

Actually I'm not for sure she liked them at all.  She did it for me.  It was certainly a chance for us to have girl time, mostly, I think, she wanted me to enjoy some of the things not allowed at home.  My brother was a juvenile diabetic; sugary treats were seldom brought into our home.

I still love doughnuts, 

although I seldom treat myself, as I know one small indulgence

 will move that blasted dial on the scales upward, 

and I am trying my darnest to keep it moving downward.

Not an easy task with all the luscious desserts some of my

favorite blogs are known for posting....

yes, you know who you are.

Oh, please don't stop...

I am happy living vicariously.

via Pinterest

 If I were going to have a doughnut today, it would be the one

in the center of the top row.  My favorite!

Do you love doughnuts?

What is your favorite?

Go out and treat yourself today...

It's Friday!

(All photographs are from Pinterest.  I was not able to find the original link, however

you may search doughnuts and you will link to these photos.  Thank you!)

With Thanksgiving

    My favorite holiday is upon us.

It is time to stop, take a breath and remember what we have to be thankful for.

Many years ago I was invited to dine, a few times, in the home of an affluent woman in the small town where I was attending college.   We would gather in the parlor and await to be called into the dining room.  The butler would announce dinner and we were escorted in to be seated around a long banquet table.   Standing at the head of the table our hostess would ask everyone to be seated.   Servers stood behind us ready to answer our every need.

Before taking her seat she would ask everyone to join in giving thanks.
With a strong and clear voice she never hesitated to think of what to say next.  The prayer was always brief and to the point.  She first gave praise and then continued by giving thanks never asking for anything.  She always ended her prayer by giving thanks for "bread on her table and the roof over her head".

I was very young and thought how odd that this woman who was surrounded by so much would give thanks for things so simple, so trivial, as bread and the roof over her head.  It was later I learned these things  I had never needed to worry over,  food and having a home, were not always a certainty  for her.  I have never forgotten that prayer nor the sincerity with which it was offered.
It was a lesson of sincere gratitude so gently taught.

There is children's prayer we sang at the school where I taught in Nashville.

Oh the Lord is good to me
And so I thank the Lord
For giving me
The things I need
The sun and the rain
And the apple seed.
The Lord is good to me.

Yet another reminder of the simple blessings we so often take for granted.

And so as Thanksgiving Day approaches I give thanks for the many "things" with which I  have been blessed, but mostly for my precious family and simply for having bread on the table and a roof over my head.  And, I am always grateful to each of you who build me up with your visits and comments.

Happy Thanksgiving!
(I'll be back in a few days)

Miss Rose passed away shortly after I left that small town. 

 I have heard her home, the roof over her head,

 is now on  the Cane River Plantation tour.

Mustard or Mayo

Yesterday I cooked up a pot of purple hull peas for supper.   Washing and sorting the peas brought back memories of long ago summer mornings spent sitting in the kitchen floor, a large bowl between my short legs, shelling purple hull peas.  Purple hulls, as they were called, were a staple in our house.   If Mother could find a spot for a little garden there would always be a little room for the purple hulls along with Daddy's tomatoes.  I have to smile when I think of all the peas that went flying through the air, either by accident or purposefully aimed at my older brother who was himself quite adept at shooting and hitting his target...me.

I poured the vegetable broth into my pot of peas.   I chopped the garlic, onion and jalapeño adding each one just as the pot began to boil.  I turn down the burner and walked out to the herb garden to cut a bit of thyme to throw into the mix and found myself remembering a different kind of garden of years ago.

My Dad was a career military officer serving 32 years in the Army.  He would tell you the Army was his life, but I suspect in his heart he wanted to be a farmer.  Mother and Daddy owned a small house in town, but often in the quiet of the night talked of being out where there would be space to put in a real garden, and pasture for horses and cows.  For awhile Daddy would have to be content with being a city farmer.  The dream of a real farm would have to wait until he retired.

Hank and Helen were Mother and Daddy's closest friends.  They owned, what seemed to my young eyes,  a very big piece of land in the country.  They had a few horses, maybe some cows and a really great old barn with a hayloft just meant to be the best playroom.   I don't know when or why but together  these friends came up with a plan to put in a large vegetable garden out and behind Hank's house.  Everyone would work and gather their share of the bounty.  The year was probably around 1959; I was just five, not yet in school.  (That sounds like a really long time ago, doesn't it?  It wasn't so long ago.)

The garden would need to be plowed and tended on the weekends as both men had full-time jobs other than working a field.  I still remember the Louisiana heat on that first Saturday morning.  Daddy and Hank hooked up a mule to the plow and began digging up the hard dry ground.  There were some stops and starts at the beginning.   I can't imagine why they used a mule and plow.   It may have had something to do with not being able to start the tractor, I can't remember.  Mother and Helen helped with raking out the weeds before retreating inside to prepare the noon meal.  The four of us children (I the youngest by three years) hung around the fence line watching the mule pull the plow up and down stirring up clouds of dust and sending it in our direction, which when settled and mixed with our sweat covered and caked on us like sweaters two sizes too small.

By noon the lot was cleared and plowed.  Everyone cleaned up for dinner and a rest during the heat of the day.    When I woke from my nap the other children had already escaped to play in the barn and hayloft.  I found the  grown-ups back in the field working.  Even parallel lanes had already been plowed the length of the new garden.  Evening would soon be approaching; it was time to put in the plants and seeds.  I remember walking out across the newly plowed field and the warm sandy dirt piling up around and into my shoes with every step.  Daddy giving me the look of "don't mess up our rows".  Mother would hand me seeds and tell me what would grow from each one.

There would be onions, tomatoes, corn, okra, squash, pole beans, cucumbers, turnip and mustard greens, and yes, there would be plenty of purple hull peas to shell.  These were the fresh vegetables we knew, everything else either came from a can or the freezers and vegetable bins at the Piggly Wiggly.  

Each Saturday we would jump in the blue Ford, drive down the back graveled roads and out in the country to check on our vegetable garden.  I'm not for sure how the chores were divided, but there was always watering and weeding needing to be done, and Daddy simply loved being out there.  Mother and Helen would have a chance to visit.  My brother and I were allowed to play and run wild with our friends.

 On the way home we would stop at the Mennonites egg farm for our eggs.  I didn't like the smell very much, but I always wanted to go inside and watch Mr. Smith take each brown egg and examine it under his bright light before placing it in the carton.   I remember asking him one time why he looked at the eggs under a lamp.  He said, "Oh I just want to make sure it is the perfect egg for your breakfast".  Neither my brother nor I were allowed to hold the eggs.  We were apt to lay them down on the seat next to us and knock them off during one of our sibling scuffles or drop them accidentally.  They always made the ride home when securely held in Mother's lap.

That summer was measured in the number of trips we made down those dusty country roads to the country farmer's place.  Sometimes our garden chores had to be scheduled around my brother's ball games or Daddy's out-of-town travels, but the chores were always completed.  The summer disappeared and it was time to start picking, shelling and putting up in the freezer.  And, time for me to start First Grade.

On one of the last days to harvest I was following Daddy and Hank through the rows.  Like all children I always had a question needing an immediate answer.  During our question and answer session, Daddy reached down and pulled up clump of turnip greens.  Along with the greens came a big purple and white round thing.   I ask him what it was and he told me it was a turnip, "kind of like a spicy potato".  We continued walking down the row.  As we progressed he stopped pulling and began chopping greens off at the ground.  I ask if we had collected our share of turnips; he told me he was no longer pulling up turnip greens, he was cutting the mustards.

Walking back to the car with the city farmer and the country farmer I started thinking (not always a good thing to have a five year old thinking), I stopped, looked up and said, "Hank, I don't really like mustard.  I think I want to plant some mayonnaise greens next year".

Daddy reached down and swung me onto his shoulders as he answered,  "Let's wait and see what next year brings".

Daddy did realize his dream of owning a farm.  He retired from the Army four years later just I was entering the fifth grade.   He spent the six months before returning to work adding onto and remodeling the old farmhouse.  By the beginning of the next summer he put in his own garden.  A little over ten years ago he sold his acreage and moved to his wife's farm.  Until last year when he became ill he was still growing tomatoes and turnip greens.  He still enjoys riding around on his twenty eight year old John Deere tractor.

There were plenty of purple hulls left over for my supper tonight.   Now had I just made a bit of cornbread!

Bon Appetit!