Vicki Lane's Blog, page 74

One More Sunrise ( by a Real Photographer)

                                                                              

Our friend Cory paid us a brief visit and grabbed this gorgeous sunrise shot. He's a professional photographer and a very old friend of the family--twenty-some years, I think..

When Justin went to the NC School of Science and Math for is junior and senior year of high school, Cory was a year ahead of him. They became fast friends (despite Cory's habit of eating the centers out of the pans of brownies I sent Justin.)

At Chapel Hill, they were roommates. Once, when Justin was having trouble with their shared printer and was going to be late for the class in which the paper stranded in the printer was due, Cory told him to go on and he'd fix the printer. 

"Just sit by the window," he told Justin.

In class, the roll was called, consuming some precious time, and then the instructor began to walk up and down the rows of desks, picking up the assignments. As he neared Justin, Justin leaned back, stuck his arm out the window, and received his paper, hot off the printer.

Now that's a friend!

Eastern Sky at Eventide

                                                                           

                                                                                          

                                                                                       

In Praise of Pomegranates

                                                                   

I really love pomegranates. Their color is my favorite shade of red.                                                               
I love the little crown they wear, containing the remnants of their once spectacular flower. We planted a pomegranate when we lived in Florida and were fortunate enough to see it bloom--a blowsy pinky-coral blossom. It was hard saying goodbye to that little tree.                                                    

Some scholars have suggested that the pomegranate was the forbidden fruit in the story about the Garden of Eden. But the idea of biting into one is daunting--one would get all that white stuff between one's teeth. Not to mention the mess the juice would make.

No, one dissects the pomegranate slowly, like a meditation, cherishing each jewel-like seed. These are headed for a salad of spinach, Bosc pears, toasted pecans, and gorgonzola.

Persephone, when she was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the Underworld, refused all food until. tempted by one of the little seeds, swallowed it, dooming herself to spend half the year with her captor.

They are tempting.                                                 

                                                        

In Praise of Pemegranates

                                                                   

I really love pomegranates. Their color is my favorite shade of red.                                                               
I love the little crown they wear, containing the remnants of their once spectacular flower. We planted a pomegranate when we lived in Florida and were fortunate enough to see it bloom--a blowsy pinky-coral blossom. It was hard saying goodbye to that little tree.                                                    

Some scholars have suggested that the pomegranate was the forbidden fruit in the story about the Garden of Eden. But the idea of biting into one is daunting--one would get all that white stuff between one's teeth. Not to mention the mess the juice would make.

No, one dissects the pomegranate slowly, like a meditation, cherishing each jewel-like seed. These are headed for a salad of spinach, Bosc pears, toasted pecans, and gorgonzola.

Persephone, when she was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the Underworld, refused all food until tempted by one of the little seeds, swallowed it, dooming herself to spend half the year with her captor.

They are tempting.                                                 

                                                        

Talismans

 I found the lost post! Not Blogger's fault but mine. I'd carelessly posted it to last Friday. So here it is.

                                                                               

Cleaning out a drawer of seldom used kitchen implements, I found a little trove of nostalgia--my maternal grandmother's biscuit cutters, hard-boiled egg slicer, green bean Frencher (I've actually used all of these now and then. Does anyone 'French" green beans anymore?)

Also, a serving spoon that I suspect may have belonged to my great-grandmother--which is why I've not been able to throw it out.

And two spatulas--both of which I remember her using.

It made me think of a meme that was going around--Ways to tell you're old: You have a favorite spatula. 

And I do. We have several but there's one, with a wooden handle partly burned off that just fits my hand and slides under pancakes et al effortlessly. 

It's the spatula to which Josie was referring, a few years back, when I whined to her that she wouldn't let me play with any of her stuff. 

"You can play with your spatula, Meema," she retorted.

I suspect my grandmother felt that way about this old beauty.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. In the pantry hangs a hemmed piece of feed sack material, just like it used to hang in my grandmother's pantry. It's material that her sister Mabel sent her from Alabama back in the Forties and it's right handy for wiping your hands. Next to it hangs a dainty little rick-rack trimmed apron that belonged to one of my neighbors.

Below are a pair of poultry shears and a god-knows-what that belonged to John's paternal grandfather. (There is also a rather naughty nutcracker that was his, but I don't want to get scolded bu Facebook for posting it.

So many memories would be overwhelming if not for the slow pace of this project. I'm constantly aware that these objects that are so imbued with memory for me won't have the same hold on others. So they can toss them--but not me.

                                                                                           

Blogger Ate My Post

 It wasn't especially important. But I'd spent a bit of time on it and (I thought) scheduled it to post at 2 am this morning. 

Not there. Not even a draft.

Try again for tomorrow.

The Beauty of Bare Trees

                                                                                                                                                                  

                   

                                                                                   

Like the Cat Ate the Grindstone

                                           

 Little by little, that is. I'm slowly making my way through the kitchen, taking stuff out of cabinets, making decisions, washing, recycling, tossing.

I've been at it every day, with lots of sit-down breaks. I've discovered where all the canning rings and lids go to rust. And more spices than a bazaar might have. Sake cups and Chinese soup spoons? Got 'em. Thermometer left from when I made cheese--back when we had a milk cow, and I could play with five gallons of milk at a time.

                                                        

 A sippy cup. The Peter Rabbit plate that Ethan and Justin and Josie all used . . .I'm being strong and giving it to a thrift store . . .maybe.                                           

The herb and spices cabinet was a real pain to deal with.  But I threw out some that were well past their expiration date and got a great reminder of some seasonings I haven't used recently--tandoori masala, piri piri, harissa, berbere, za'atar, muchi curry powder . . .

But, oh the pleasure when things are clean and organized!


One more upper shelf to go! 

I'm writing this while I take a back break. I kinda hesitated to bore you with more of my cleaning saga, but the thing that keeps track of visitors to my posts told me that my post about Marie Kondo and Death Cleaning was incredibly popular--even more than Josie. (I won't tell her that.)
Oddly enough, this cleaning's become a bit addictive. Doing it in small, manageable bursts is the key.  Tomorrow it's onward to the lower cabinets and pots and pans. Maybe even under the sink where I suspect a swamp creature lurks.

A Sweet Surprise

This arrived in the mail--a book by a past student. And she credits an assignment in my class at John C. Campbell as being the catalyst for this novel. She thinks the assignment was something along the lines of "Put your character in a pickle." 
It was a very basic class, meant to get folks going on a novel. I probably had them write a scene that introduced their protagonist and a scene that showed the protagonist in a setting of some sort. Basic stuff but Anita ran with it and, over a period of some years, wrote a novel about a young female reporter in the 70s. 

I've been fortunate, as a teacher and as an occasional editor, to see quite a few folks persevere and bring to publication novels that I had a bit of input on. It's a bit like being a grandmother--you feel a lot of pride in someone else's baby, someone else who did all the work. 
Well, done, Anita!  And many thanks for reminding me why I loved teaching. 




 

Lingering Color