Saturday, May 16, 2015
I could not wait to get here.
I enjoyed a brioche at the little table in the sun.
Back inside ...
Croissants, croissants, croissants; so many types, sweet and savory. Kouign Amann in three flavors, Canele, Palmier, and even homemade Jam.
I am in love.
Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow.
Sit again with the sun on my face while I practice; queen-a-mahn, queen-a-mahn, queen-a-mahn.
5531 E. University Blvd.
Dallas, Texas 75206
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
She formed her sentences carefully like a slow reader
who foresees ahead of him the next sentence
and guides his pen towards it.Finding the opening lines has always been the hardest part of writing for me. Once I have them, the rest usually follows. Those hours, sometimes days, when jumbled thoughts consume my mind, are by far, the most fun and rewarding part of writing any piece. Words follow thoughts, sentences follow words, paragraphs are formed until the content comes to its close; the end.
I am pleased with my works but the process is where my true joy is found.
Other writers get their thrill with a finished product. They defined their end and rushed to get there, the wordy path frustrating. They're happy to be done, and however good it is, they didn't enjoy the journey, they only hope it sells.
I hope my cookbook sells, too. I've been patiently working on it for so long. But like a blog post that gets buried in many and perhaps only read by few, if it shouldn't, I still reap the biggest reward. The book will remain my pride and joy, for it is love of the process that guides my pen each time.
Travels With My Aunt
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
We're just a few days into spring and though windows are open to warmer air and wasps are busy in the shrubs below, it feels we've not yet crossed over. Fine by me. I like a cool spring, one that takes us into its season as slowly as I leave my morning bed.
One of birth is how Poet Sparrow thinks of spring, followed by one of florescence, one of harvest, and then one of contemplation.
I recently put the question to friends; which is your favorite?
Aren't we prone to pick our favorite, define it as the best and defend our choice? White wine over red, peonies over roses, jazz over country . . . We have our favorite seasons and can list them in order of preference.
Mine have changed across the years, much like my grandmother said my taste buds would, every seven years as that wives' tale goes.
I like autumn the most. I get a childish thrill choosing pumpkins, and excited when bursts of wind blow leaves across my path. Spring comes next with planting pots of this and bigger pots of that, and herbs thriving on the patio just steps from the kitchen. Summer and winter tie for each is to me, extreme. Scorching hot or freezing cold.
The power of a poet's words, not the passing of years, may have forever changed how I think of the seasons. Consider again, those words Sparrow presented; birth, florescence, harvest, and contemplation, singly rich with vast meanings.
Birth can represent Christmas Day as easily as Easter represents rebirth. Harvest, foremost in our mind gives us visions of fall and Thanksgiving yet early peas, asparagus, and radishes are little jewels of spring harvests. Some summers still find me and Spoke stringing strands of chili pepper lights in the kitchen but florescence also brings to my mind the glow cast by a small spotlight on the framed Madonna which we light up throughout the year. Contemplation, time we devote to private thoughts or musings, may be as focused when we're forced indoors by summer's afternoon heat, as by winter evenings.
Sparrow has given us such a gift with just four little words. Never will I think of the seasons in the way I always have; separate, ranked, and judged. They are now intertwined, embraced, and celebrated.
Thank you, Poet Sparrow.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Sunday, January 25, 2015
My retired life has become too busy. They say this happens.
It seems not so long ago that Spoke and I spent the days following Christmas greeting the New Year in Florence. Only a couple of years were we gifted with sunny, fifty degrees days for most often Firenze was damp or downright cold, the city's centuries old gray stone walls enveloping us in the chill on every walk.
One Natale we found ourselves by this piazza, the warm glow of the merry-go-round lights spotted from a distance, beckoned us to take a closer look.
I was a stranger looking in, a tourist thrilled at the sight but with no thoughts of jumping on a painted horse and taking a ride.
Our traveling days came to an end and our retirement these many years later is very much what we planned; days and evenings of domestic leisure filled with food, wine, family and friends, books, film, music, quiet, art, nature, beauty. Life was paced and predictable until I did that very thing; I jumped upon a local carousel.
They say make a plan and you'll hear God laugh. . .
I chose this merry-go-round for it is majestic. The fillies are beautiful, the music is grand, and riding with others is fun, often daring. Now the days fly by and I'm busier than ever, be it body or mind or both. I am productive and creative on this ride, happy to canter while those around me seem to have mounted flying horses.
With admiration, I watch them reach for the brass ring. I do not desire another ring.
Being on this merry-go-round looking out, is magical I admit, but my biggest thrill comes when the spinning halts, the lights go out, the music ends and Spoke helps me step down.
My feet firmly planted on solid ground again, seeing the carousel from a distance, is when I hear the laughter. Big belly laughs, loud and clear.