Fall Has Arrived

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Fall arrived last week.

The days have been growing shorter. It won’t really feel like Fall (temps in the 40s-60s versus 80s-90s Farenheit) until Halloween is here. But signs of late summer and early fall have appeared.

Partridge pea flowers are blooming. Morning glories are blooming. Sulphurs and Swallowtails have been here all summer. But tiny butterflies, stout butterflies, and harvest colored butterflies (in orange and yellow and brown), are flying all around in the late morning and well into the late afternoon.

It won’t be long until the swamp marigolds are blooming around waterways. Acorns, hickory nuts, and sweetgum balls will soon be underfoot.

As pedestrians crush the acorns, the sidewalks will be covered in saffron yellow crumbs. The acorns and other seeds that were spared pavement and hungry squirrels will nestle down in a thick blanket of old leaves until spring.

Nature is always beautiful thing. This season brings with it a mixed bag of other likes (and a few dislikes) for me.

DISLIKE: I don’t look forward to being cold. Not so much outdoors, but indoors. The only beverages most restaurants offer are cold, and they are running an odd combination of AC and heat. I ask them to hold the ice. I carry decaf tea packets in my purse, and I hope restaurants have a tea spigot on their coffee machine, or a microwave to heat up some water. Many restaurants don’t have decaf coffee on hand and I try not to drink caffeine after 4pm.

LIKE: I have a collection of crazy patterned socks to wear everyday. Wearing tights or other spandex also holds in heat without adding bulk.

DISLIKE: The cold and flu bugs that go around.

LIKE: The changing leaves are beautiful, especially when the sunlight streams through them. New England and the Blue Ridge are bracing for record traffic. But anywhere cool and at higher elevations has a brilliant show all its own.

DISLIKE: Christmas overkill arriving too early. Hearing Christmas songs in stores on November 1.

LIKE: Fall and winter are seasons offer more people opportunities to showcase their individuality and creativity.

  • Carved pumpkins are beautiful. Extreme Pumpkins out of Detroit always has a impressive show of last year’s carvings.
  • People’s costumes for Halloween. People who don’t have $30+ to throw at a store bought costume can get pretty creative.
  • Every year I see more Day of the Dead food, decor, etc. appearing in stores, its awesome to see this Mexican cultural phenomenon take off in the US.
  • There’s some really beautiful woven work at Interweave. It’s not cold enough to wear it here, but I love the slideshows.
  • Seeing Northern Lights online. [One day we’ll see them in person.]
  • New plays come out. New art comes out. A lot of Oscar hopeful films come out.

For all the likes. For all the fun, beautiful things, I’ll put up with some cold. In the meantime, I am watching for butterflies.

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Pebble, A Short Story

His first memory was feeling cramped. He was tucked into a warm ball with his feet near his eyes. Wriggling around, he discovered his mouth could punch a hole in the wall. So he punched a few more. Then pushing hard with his feet, the wall gave way. All at once, he was surrounded in blinding light.

A large-eyed, pink, naked little creature was squatted and looking at him. Several speckled rocks surrounded them. Around them, prickly sticks and needles were woven together. A very large, furry soft creature dropped in over them both.

The other pink creature started crying loudly, “chee, chee, chee,” with its mouth agape. The large creature stuffed something in its mouth. It used its mouth to lift away the shells of the wall that once held him captive.  Then it leapt away.

“What is that? And who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Cloudee. You’re Pebble. That’s Mom, she feeds us. I’m hungry. If I cry, I get food.”

As Mom returned, Cloudee and Pebble “cheed” their hearts out. This time, Pebble got the food. The large creature spoke to him.

“Hello, Pebble, welcome to the world. This is your sister, Cloudee. And I’m expecting a few more of you to arrive any day now. I’m going to hunt some more bugs and worms, and I’ll be right back.”

Pebble swallowed. It might have been bugs, it might have been a worm, but either way, yum. He was still hungry, though. He wondered where the others were hiding.

Here comes Mom again. He and Cloudee cried once more, and this time, it was Cloudee’s turn.

Mom made about twenty more trips to and fro, alternating which baby bird got a bug. The light around them seemed to be getting dimmer. When it was almost impossible to see outside, Mom settled down over the two of them and the warm, speckled rocks.

“I need you little ones to go to sleep now.”

“Mom, what am I?” Pebble asked.

“We’re birds. We can run. We can glide. We can fly. We eat bugs. We’re covered in feathers.”

“I don’t have any feathers, Mom. Neither does Cloudee.”

“You’re babies.”

“Where are my feathers? Will they ever grow?”

“Your feathers are sprouting. They’ll fill out soon, I promise.”

“And Cloudee’s?”

“Cloudee’s will, too.”

“When will the rocks open, Mom?”

“The rocks?”

“These speckled hard things around us.”

“Those are eggs. They’re your brothers and sisters, Pebble. They should arrive soon. I’m really tired now, Pebble. Get some rest.”

“Will I wake up in a rock again, Mom?”

“No, Pebble, it was an egg. Not a rock. That happens only once. Now shut your eyes. I can’t keep mine open one second more.”

“I have so many questions.”

“You can ask three more tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mom. Goodnight.”

French Food Alphabet

This post originally appeared on my Baking Kookys blog July 14, 2013. I tweaked some rhymes.

Do you eat something if you can’t pronounce it?

When I am out with friends or family, I am the one explaining terms.

For Bastille Day, I thought I would make a translated alphabet of French food-words diners may encounter. For extra fun, I thought I’d rhyme the end of each sentence with the French word. The French

A is for aubergine: if I say eggplant, you’ll know what I mean.

B is for bouillabaisse: a brothy, herbed seafood soup will bring a smile to your face.

C is for croquette: a potato dumpling you won’t regret.

D is for du jour: it means of the day with much allure.

E is for eau: it means water, let it flow.

F is for fraise: it means strawberry, a summery craze.

G is for gâteau: it means cake, include glacé for ice cream also.

H is for haricot: means beans, and now you know.

I is for ignames, but that’s yams where I’m from.

J is for jambon: it means ham—I won’t go on and on.

K is for kumquat: a small citrus fruityou know what? Nous Americains also say Kumquat.

L is for Lyonnaise, a hearty, meat-n-potatoes dish that’s sure to amaze.

M is for macaron, meringue, and madeleines, three cookies worth trying when you get the time.

N is for neufchâtel: a light cream cheese that puts you under its spell.

O is for oeuf: it means egg, do you need proof?

P is for poulet: means chicken, cooked in many delicious ways.

Q is for quiche: It’s an egg-based, veggie and/or meat pie that never contains peach.

R is for roux: a flour and fat based sauce? ‘Now that’ll do!

S is for serviette: it means napkin, to wipe your mouth of barbecue, so don’t fret.

T is for tartare: raw chopped beef, herbs and raw egg that’s not for the faint of heart.

U is for ustensiles, as in utensils: when cooking for friends, you find they’re indispensable.

V is for vichysoisse: a classic potato and leek soup that hits the spot.

W is for Wallons*: these Belgians’ must-try Liége waffles are powdered sugar-festooned.

X is for xeres: a vinegar made from sherry.

Y is for yaort: means yogurt, so tasty with diced fruit.

Z is for Z de la Arjolle: the only Zinfandel made in the whole (of France, that is. This once thought all-American grape is actually related to one grown in Italy and Croatia.)

Have a great Bastille Day. Hopefully I didn’t drive anyone “mad” with this post.

*okay, this was a stretch. “Wallon” is the word for a person from Wallonia, or a French-speaking part of Belgium. It’s a rare “W-word” in the French language (if you’re ever playing French Scrabble). If you’re ever in Wallonia, no waffling, just try the waffles. Chocolate syrup probably ‘festoons’ better than powdered sugar, but I digress.

White Duck: A Short Story

There was a white duck that wasn’t happy living on a farm, even though he was eating all he wanted. He could sleep in a barn on rainy days.

He’d had siblings, but some went away to other farm families. His parents disappeared when he was 1 year old. They went behind the barn with the farmer and never came back. Other older ducks had also gradually disappeared behind the barn. He heard that one day he too would go behind the barn, and he probably wouldn’t see any of the other animals ever again. No more sunshine on his feathers. No more splashing in puddles on rainy days.

And the white duck realized that, for a duck, he had never been in the water. Could he even paddle? He definitely would never fly, his wings were too small and his body was too large. But swimming more would be nice.  And never learning what happened behind the barn would be a relief.

So one lazy weekend afternoon, white duck started walking. He disappeared from the farm and roamed through multiple yards. He quacked hello to squirrels, turkeys, and rabbits. He saw cats and dogs, too; both made him nervous, so he walked a little faster. When it was getting too dark to see, he found a quite spot among some shrubs or scrub palms, and he nestled down to sleep. The next morning he set out to do more walking.

One day he found a large lake with a small island in the middle. He was nervous to keep walking for any more days because the days seemed to be growing shorter. So he decided this lake was his new home for awhile.

He trotted down to the shore and stepped out into the water. He was slow paddler at first, the water’s resistance was strong. But he made it to the island. Several feet away, he saw much smaller ducks than himself feverishly diving underwater for fish. Another duck with a dark green head swam near to him and started submerging its head in the muddy shorefront.

“Is there food down there?” white duck asked green headed duck. He wasn’t even sure he and the green-headed duck would speak the same language.

“There’s bugs in the mud and fish in the water. All I can eat in an afternoon. It doesn’t get better than that,” the green head duck replied before re-submerging.

 White duck wasn’t used to foraging for food, he usually ate grain from a bowl and the occasional bug in the farm yard. But he would give it a shot. He ducked his head under and started poking at the mud. Bugs came out and he snapped at a few, just missing them. When he came back to the surface, out of breath. Green headed duck noticed his struggling and said, “It’s easier if you filter mud through your bill small bits at a time. When you feel something moving, swallow it.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you. This is all so new to me. I never swam until today.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” said the green headed duck, “but you don’t look like a Mallard, a Grebe, or a Bufflehead. I’m Michael, I’m a Mallard.” A brown duck about Michael’s size paddled up beside them. “This is my partner, June. We’ve been together about 3 years, we’ve had 15 children.”

White duck responded, “I’m, I’m…I don’t have a name. I left the farm where I grew up. I started walking and found this lake. The days seems to be getting shorter so I stopped here. I’d never noticed the days getting shorter before. Is that normal?”

Michael said, “Yes. Many of the trees are going to change colors and then lose their leaves.  It’s going to get colder. I think people call it Autumn. You made a good call leaving your farm. You’re a big duck and people eat more ducks in the colder seasons.”

White duck was surprised. When he thought about it, he recalled it was a little colder in the barn when the older ducks disappeared. “Yes, I suppose I was.” He felt his eyes getting watery. June noticed the reflective look in his eyes.

June said, “Well we don’t want to make you sad. We have a beautiful lake here and bugs aplenty. We fly to lots of ponds, golf courses, and yards. This is one of our favorite spots. We always come back and the island is a great spot to sleep. So, what do you want your name to be?”

White duck thought back to feed sacks he’d seen at the farm. “Red Top?”

Michael said, “Red. We’ll call you Red. We’re going to go fly around to some other spots, for now, but we’ll be back when it’s getting dark.”

“Good to meet you!”quacked Michael and June as they took off, flying over the tree line and off into the sky.