You could be right Russ. This doesn't hit me with that deliberately provocative "vibe" though. More like just totally clueless.
Does remind me of a couple of phone calls I got one evening at that Little Bakery in the Mall. A marketing class at the local university was doing a survey. The caller wanted to know if anyone at our workplace wore high heels.
"Uh, no." Then the caller wanted to know why.
"Well, this is a bakery."
Silence.
"The floors are concrete and things get spilled."
????????
"And we're in and out of the kitchen area and freezer all day. And our stock room is on top of the freezer. Heels don't work very well on ladders."
????????
"I haven't found heels with non skid soles."
?????????
Just didn't seem to sink in that there were places where women didn't wear stiletto heels to work every day. And "no I don't know how many of my co workers wear heels when they aren't here, sorry."
It's a totally different universe out there.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
A NEW HIGH OR IS THAT A LOW?
Maybe it’s just me. But, the company that makes Glad freezer bags is running a commercial right now that I find, well the word offensive might begin to describe it. Unfortunately I haven’t found a copy on the net anywhere. A word picture will have to serve.
Ms. Suburban Susie Sunshine walks up to the meat counter and orders “four pounds of sirloin, but just wrap two because I’ll end up throwing the rest away anyway” or words to that effect. WTF???????
The marketing geniuses that came up with this piece of crap go on to inform the viewer that the average food waste in this country is five hundred pounds per I’m not sure what. Is it per person, per household or are they lumping all the food wasted in public and retail kitchens together with the rest of us? Uh, yoo hoo guys. Most of the folks I run with can barely afford the occasional on sale chuck or round roast to cube for stew meat or soup much less multiple pounds of prime steak. At best it's a cut you can slice really thin and cook up really quick for stir fry or fajitas. Ummm with peppers, mushrooms and onions.............Down girl, we're dissing a commercial here, not planning tomorrow's menu.
In any case, I’d love to know who’s throwing out my share. Most of what goes out of our kitchen is peelings and trimmings. And most of that gets mixed with composting base and ends up in the garden. We draw the line at potato peelings though. Growing your own is great, but spuds in the flower beds are a real pain to deal with because no matter how hard you try you NEVER DIG THEM ALL UP.
I don’t know, maybe the current crop of commercials are being designed by computers or something because most of them don’t make much sense anyway. But, this one is so low, it reaches a new high. In a country that has at least thirteen million hungry children, the idea that any food is wasted is troubling. In a world where millions live with hunger on a daily basis; I guess it’s a good thing the hungriest probably won’t see our commercials. And, as an extra added attraction, when or if you throw out a couple of pounds of meat because you didn’t store it properly in the first place you’re not only wasting the meat you’re wasting the resources it took to raise the blessed discarded two pounds of sirloin in the first place. Fertilizer, water, grain; it all joins that cut of meat in the garbage can.
I know that people in marketing departments live in their own little worlds but, I’m not sure this group is even in the same solar system with the rest of us mere mortals.
Ms. Suburban Susie Sunshine walks up to the meat counter and orders “four pounds of sirloin, but just wrap two because I’ll end up throwing the rest away anyway” or words to that effect. WTF???????
The marketing geniuses that came up with this piece of crap go on to inform the viewer that the average food waste in this country is five hundred pounds per I’m not sure what. Is it per person, per household or are they lumping all the food wasted in public and retail kitchens together with the rest of us? Uh, yoo hoo guys. Most of the folks I run with can barely afford the occasional on sale chuck or round roast to cube for stew meat or soup much less multiple pounds of prime steak. At best it's a cut you can slice really thin and cook up really quick for stir fry or fajitas. Ummm with peppers, mushrooms and onions.............Down girl, we're dissing a commercial here, not planning tomorrow's menu.
In any case, I’d love to know who’s throwing out my share. Most of what goes out of our kitchen is peelings and trimmings. And most of that gets mixed with composting base and ends up in the garden. We draw the line at potato peelings though. Growing your own is great, but spuds in the flower beds are a real pain to deal with because no matter how hard you try you NEVER DIG THEM ALL UP.
I don’t know, maybe the current crop of commercials are being designed by computers or something because most of them don’t make much sense anyway. But, this one is so low, it reaches a new high. In a country that has at least thirteen million hungry children, the idea that any food is wasted is troubling. In a world where millions live with hunger on a daily basis; I guess it’s a good thing the hungriest probably won’t see our commercials. And, as an extra added attraction, when or if you throw out a couple of pounds of meat because you didn’t store it properly in the first place you’re not only wasting the meat you’re wasting the resources it took to raise the blessed discarded two pounds of sirloin in the first place. Fertilizer, water, grain; it all joins that cut of meat in the garbage can.
I know that people in marketing departments live in their own little worlds but, I’m not sure this group is even in the same solar system with the rest of us mere mortals.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
RAINY COUPLE
It’s been a lot rainier than the past few years in this neck of the woods. There’s been more than a few umbrella/raincoat couples traveling up or down our street.
In the rains of spring
An umbrella and a raincoat
Talk as they pass by.
Yosa Buson
I get the impression of someone looking down from an upper story window as the rainy couple passes by.
In the rains of spring
An umbrella and a raincoat
Talk as they pass by.
Yosa Buson
I get the impression of someone looking down from an upper story window as the rainy couple passes by.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
IMBOLG
If you follow the calendar of the Celts Spring begins tonight. Bit hard to believe that the world is turning green when you live back east and digging out from the latest assault from the snow gods. We had a break in the rain today and suddenly the first light purple crocuses are actually open. You have to catch them quickly before the sun goes away and they close up.
The birds have actually been singing and the squirrels are busy as ever. Someone in the neighborhood has at least one specimen of poultry; we’re treated to regular, hearty doses of cockadoodledoos during the day.
Welcome to Imbolg and thanks for the reminder that it’s time to start cleaning things up and plan for new growth, inside and out.
I make the encircling
Of the many colored winds:
Black wind of the cold north,
Pale green of southwest,
Red wind of southeast,
Grey wind of northwest,
Purple wind of sharp east,
Clear wind of the dear west,
Speckled wind of northeast,
White wind of warm south,
Yellow of the veering wind.
The encompassment of the winds
Protect and surround me
This spring day.
Caitlin Matthews
Careful of those winds, you’ll find a rainbow where you least expect it.
Cross posted in Green Woman.
The birds have actually been singing and the squirrels are busy as ever. Someone in the neighborhood has at least one specimen of poultry; we’re treated to regular, hearty doses of cockadoodledoos during the day.
Welcome to Imbolg and thanks for the reminder that it’s time to start cleaning things up and plan for new growth, inside and out.
I make the encircling
Of the many colored winds:
Black wind of the cold north,
Pale green of southwest,
Red wind of southeast,
Grey wind of northwest,
Purple wind of sharp east,
Clear wind of the dear west,
Speckled wind of northeast,
White wind of warm south,
Yellow of the veering wind.
The encompassment of the winds
Protect and surround me
This spring day.
Caitlin Matthews
Careful of those winds, you’ll find a rainbow where you least expect it.
Cross posted in Green Woman.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Something sis said this weekend keeps coming back in that irritating, itchy way that some thoughts have. Apparently the fastest growing church in her neighborhood is Baptist style church popular with the young people. Services start on time and end on time. There's all sorts of youth groups, adult groups, singles groups etc. and up the wazoo.
It seems that the younger folks like it because it provides them "with what they want." I hate to admit it but my knowledge of the gospels is more than a little rusty these days. However, I 've always been under the impression that a certain itinerant preacher got in trouble with the imperial and temple authorities because he went around telling people what God wanted, not the other way around. Perhaps I've been mistaken all these years.
It seems that the younger folks like it because it provides them "with what they want." I hate to admit it but my knowledge of the gospels is more than a little rusty these days. However, I 've always been under the impression that a certain itinerant preacher got in trouble with the imperial and temple authorities because he went around telling people what God wanted, not the other way around. Perhaps I've been mistaken all these years.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
A TOUCH OF THE PROPHETS?
I caught part of a program on Northern Ireland and the "troubles" that lasted from the late sixties into the nineties. Fueled by, well blindness on all sides to be honest. I hadn't thought of this piece in years. It took a bit of internet digging since the LP it's on is in a really safe place. A really, really safe place. Look, the blessed thing is in the house I'm sure of that. It's not like it has legs. I didn't realize, or maybe I just didn't remember, that the person who recorded it was also the author.
I'll leave the name for the ending. But, I honestly believe that a piece like this has to come from the fringes; either the desert or the lands that border the cold wildness that's home to the North Atlantic gales.
THERE ARE TOO MANY SAVIORS ON MY CROSS
There are too many saviors on my cross,
lending their blood to flood out my ballot box with needs of their own.
Who put you there?
Who told you that was your place?
You carry me secretly naked in your heart
and clothe me publicly in armor
crying “God is on our side,” yet I openly cry
who is on Mine?
Who?
Tell Me, who?
You who bury your sons and cripple your fathers
Whilst you bury my father in crippling his son.
The antiquated Saxon sword,
rusty in its scabbard of time now rises—
you gave it cause in my name,
bringing shame to the thorned head
that once bled for your salvation.
I hear your daily cries
in the far-off byways in your mouth
pointing north and south
and my Calvary looms again,
desperate in rebirth.
Your earth is partitioned,
but in contrition
it is the partition
in your hearts that you must abolish.
You nightly watchers of Gethsemane
who sat through my nightly trial delivering me from evil—
now deserted, I watch you share your silver.
Your purse, rich in hate,
bleeds my veins of love,
shattering my bone in the dust of the Bogside and the Shankill road.
There is no issue stronger than the tissue of love
no need as holy as the palm outstretched in the run of generosity.
No monstrosity greater than the anger you inflict.
Who gave you the right to increase your fold
and decrease the pastures of my flock?
Who gave you the right?
Who gave it to you?
Who?
And in whose name do you fight?
I am not in heaven,
I am here,
hear me.
I am in you,
feel me.
I am of you,
be me.
I am with you,
see me.
I am for you,
need me.
I am all mankind, only through kindness will you reach me.
What masked and bannered men can rock the ark
and navigate a course to their anointed kingdom come?
Who sailed their captain to waters that they troubled in My font,
sinking in the ignorant seas of prejudice?
There is no virgin willing to conceive in the heat of any bloody Sunday.
you crippled children lying in cries on Derry’s streets,
pushing your innocence to the full flush face of Christian guns,
battling the blame on each other.
Do not grow tongues in your dying dumb wounds speaking my name.
I am not your prize in your death.
you have exorcized me in your game of politics.
Go home to your knees and worship me in any cloth,
for I was never tailor-made.
Who told you I was?
Who gave you the right to think it?
Take your beads in your crippled hands,
can you count my decades?
Take my love in your crippled hearts,
can you count the loss?
I am not orange.
I am not green.
I am a half-ripe fruit needing both colors to grow into ripeness,
and shame on you to have withered my orchard.
I in my poverty,
alone without trust,
cry shame on you
and shame on you again and again
for converting me into a bullet and shooting me into men’s hearts
The ageless legend of my trial grows old
in the youth of your pulse staggering shamelessly from barricade to grave,
filling in the book of history my needless death one April.
Let me, in my betrayal, lie low in my grave,
and you, in your bitterness, lie low in yours,
for our measurements grow strangely dissimilar.
Our Father, who art in heaven,
sullied be thy name.
by Richard Harris from the early seventies.
I'll leave the name for the ending. But, I honestly believe that a piece like this has to come from the fringes; either the desert or the lands that border the cold wildness that's home to the North Atlantic gales.
THERE ARE TOO MANY SAVIORS ON MY CROSS
There are too many saviors on my cross,
lending their blood to flood out my ballot box with needs of their own.
Who put you there?
Who told you that was your place?
You carry me secretly naked in your heart
and clothe me publicly in armor
crying “God is on our side,” yet I openly cry
who is on Mine?
Who?
Tell Me, who?
You who bury your sons and cripple your fathers
Whilst you bury my father in crippling his son.
The antiquated Saxon sword,
rusty in its scabbard of time now rises—
you gave it cause in my name,
bringing shame to the thorned head
that once bled for your salvation.
I hear your daily cries
in the far-off byways in your mouth
pointing north and south
and my Calvary looms again,
desperate in rebirth.
Your earth is partitioned,
but in contrition
it is the partition
in your hearts that you must abolish.
You nightly watchers of Gethsemane
who sat through my nightly trial delivering me from evil—
now deserted, I watch you share your silver.
Your purse, rich in hate,
bleeds my veins of love,
shattering my bone in the dust of the Bogside and the Shankill road.
There is no issue stronger than the tissue of love
no need as holy as the palm outstretched in the run of generosity.
No monstrosity greater than the anger you inflict.
Who gave you the right to increase your fold
and decrease the pastures of my flock?
Who gave you the right?
Who gave it to you?
Who?
And in whose name do you fight?
I am not in heaven,
I am here,
hear me.
I am in you,
feel me.
I am of you,
be me.
I am with you,
see me.
I am for you,
need me.
I am all mankind, only through kindness will you reach me.
What masked and bannered men can rock the ark
and navigate a course to their anointed kingdom come?
Who sailed their captain to waters that they troubled in My font,
sinking in the ignorant seas of prejudice?
There is no virgin willing to conceive in the heat of any bloody Sunday.
you crippled children lying in cries on Derry’s streets,
pushing your innocence to the full flush face of Christian guns,
battling the blame on each other.
Do not grow tongues in your dying dumb wounds speaking my name.
I am not your prize in your death.
you have exorcized me in your game of politics.
Go home to your knees and worship me in any cloth,
for I was never tailor-made.
Who told you I was?
Who gave you the right to think it?
Take your beads in your crippled hands,
can you count my decades?
Take my love in your crippled hearts,
can you count the loss?
I am not orange.
I am not green.
I am a half-ripe fruit needing both colors to grow into ripeness,
and shame on you to have withered my orchard.
I in my poverty,
alone without trust,
cry shame on you
and shame on you again and again
for converting me into a bullet and shooting me into men’s hearts
The ageless legend of my trial grows old
in the youth of your pulse staggering shamelessly from barricade to grave,
filling in the book of history my needless death one April.
Let me, in my betrayal, lie low in my grave,
and you, in your bitterness, lie low in yours,
for our measurements grow strangely dissimilar.
Our Father, who art in heaven,
sullied be thy name.
by Richard Harris from the early seventies.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
MEDITATION-WHAT FELL
Danger, curious person thinking in public.
For the sake of argument rewrite the story of the Fall in Genesis without the spiritual element and you find a story is as old as humanity. It’s repeated every time some guy tries to get a girl into his bedroom. It’s repeated every time a joint, a line of coke, even a cigarette is offered with the tired refrain of “everybody’s doing it,” “what’s the matter, you scared,” and the classic “nobody will every know.” There’s at least one problem with trying to keep a secret. No matter how deep you bury that secret at least one person will always know what happened. You can hide things from everyone but yourself. Buried deep inside it festers and creates a wall between you and everyone around you.
And if you believe that in some way the God of scripture set the forces of creation in motion that resulted in humanity and every other creature in the universe, including a certain tempter; there’s always “don’t tell Dad.” And there’s another old standby. Take out the King James sixteenth century language and you might find that the story takes on a five year olds’ playground singsong; “I know something you don’t know.”
Perhaps the death blamed on man’s fall in the garden wasn’t the physical death that the far right evangelicals claim. After all there’s no claim in scripture that our physical bodies were meant to be immortal. Even stars and planets are born, age and die. Something the writers who preserved scripture wouldn’t have, couldn’t have known.
Perhaps the meaning story isn’t death of the body but injury to the soul. When truth is ignored, trust is impossible and without trust there can never be love or hope. And without love or hope life is meaningless.
For the sake of argument rewrite the story of the Fall in Genesis without the spiritual element and you find a story is as old as humanity. It’s repeated every time some guy tries to get a girl into his bedroom. It’s repeated every time a joint, a line of coke, even a cigarette is offered with the tired refrain of “everybody’s doing it,” “what’s the matter, you scared,” and the classic “nobody will every know.” There’s at least one problem with trying to keep a secret. No matter how deep you bury that secret at least one person will always know what happened. You can hide things from everyone but yourself. Buried deep inside it festers and creates a wall between you and everyone around you.
And if you believe that in some way the God of scripture set the forces of creation in motion that resulted in humanity and every other creature in the universe, including a certain tempter; there’s always “don’t tell Dad.” And there’s another old standby. Take out the King James sixteenth century language and you might find that the story takes on a five year olds’ playground singsong; “I know something you don’t know.”
Perhaps the death blamed on man’s fall in the garden wasn’t the physical death that the far right evangelicals claim. After all there’s no claim in scripture that our physical bodies were meant to be immortal. Even stars and planets are born, age and die. Something the writers who preserved scripture wouldn’t have, couldn’t have known.
Perhaps the meaning story isn’t death of the body but injury to the soul. When truth is ignored, trust is impossible and without trust there can never be love or hope. And without love or hope life is meaningless.
Monday, January 11, 2010
BIRDS AND BELLS
With a bit of adaptation this would work for almost anyone. It’s still a beautiful piece.
Whatever befalls the earth, befalls the children of the earth.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
The air is precious, for we share the same breath.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
This we know, the earth does not belong to us; we belong to the earth.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
This we know, all things are connected;
Like the blood that unites on family.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
Our God is the same God,
Whose compassion is equal for all.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
We do not weave the web of life;
We are merely a strand in it.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
Whatever we do to web, we do to ourselves.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
From the Rhythm of Life by David Adam
David Adams was vicar of the parish on the island of Lindesfarne for many years. Although he is now retired he still lives on the island. Also known as Holy Island, it’s all of two square miles in area. The island has had some kind of religious foundation since 635 AD. It’s a place where you can be immersed in the sounds of the sea, the birds, the wind and the old church bells.
Whatever befalls the earth, befalls the children of the earth.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
The air is precious, for we share the same breath.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
This we know, the earth does not belong to us; we belong to the earth.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
This we know, all things are connected;
Like the blood that unites on family.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
Our God is the same God,
Whose compassion is equal for all.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
We do not weave the web of life;
We are merely a strand in it.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
Whatever we do to web, we do to ourselves.
Every part of the earth is sacred.
From the Rhythm of Life by David Adam
David Adams was vicar of the parish on the island of Lindesfarne for many years. Although he is now retired he still lives on the island. Also known as Holy Island, it’s all of two square miles in area. The island has had some kind of religious foundation since 635 AD. It’s a place where you can be immersed in the sounds of the sea, the birds, the wind and the old church bells.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
FROZEN MOONLIGHT
Glittering flakes:
The wind is breaking
Frozen moonlight.
Horiuchi Toshimi
I couldn’t find the perfect picture, or even a semi perfect picture to go with this poem. So much isn’t said in a haiku. A dark night, a cold night, dark evergreen trees perhaps, no lights beyond a house or courtyard, it’s snowing, perhaps a break in the clouds that allows a sliver of moonlight to join the dancing flakes. A blink, a breath and it’s gone.
The wind is breaking
Frozen moonlight.
Horiuchi Toshimi
I couldn’t find the perfect picture, or even a semi perfect picture to go with this poem. So much isn’t said in a haiku. A dark night, a cold night, dark evergreen trees perhaps, no lights beyond a house or courtyard, it’s snowing, perhaps a break in the clouds that allows a sliver of moonlight to join the dancing flakes. A blink, a breath and it’s gone.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
WINTER HAIKU
I was trying to rearrange the book shelves yesterday and stumbled across a little zen book with some seasonal poems. Each of those fuzzy clusters is a galaxy. Millions of stars in a tiny picture. Five hundred million years of time captured in a well.
I've got the buckets, but I don't think I'm going to see any stars around here for awhile.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
CHIRSTMAS PAST
Well, Christmas is over for 2009. I have to admit that it was harder than usual to get in the mood this year. But, the more lights we got up, the happier I got. We’ve had so much fog the last couple of weeks or so. Dark, chilly, and clammy. Just what you need to get in the mood for the season. So not.
The eastern Oregon sister and her family made it over for the first time in a couple of years. Things could have gone a little better in a lot of ways. They both teach and they were so darn tired that I was almost, almost, sorry they made the trip. Between the exhaustion and her inlaws she was just worn out by the time they left for home Monday morning. Sis so needed her own bed. It was good to see them though. Mom took sis shopping at Michael’s with her Christmas and birthday (poor kid was almost a Christmas baby) money. Turned her loose in the beading department and almost didn’t get her out before closing.
Portland wasn’t coming and then they were coming after all. Good thing we’d already planned on roasting two nice big chickens in the first place. Just didn’t have quite as many leftovers as we anticipated and thank heaven Fred’s wasn’t as busy as I thought they’d be for the last minute last minute shopping. Turned out my last minute shopping was really the next to the last minute shopping. Chalk up the last paragraph to post Christmas delirium.
Still didn’t have everybody in the same zip code. About the time we were putting the chickens in the oven, the freshman Duck was heading for LA and the Rose Bowl. What the heck, we fed him turkey soup and fresh bread the Sunday before. Merry sort of Christmas kid.
We did do a fair amount of baking for the holiday and in the part I like best, proceeded to send almost all of it out the door. Guess I knew deep down that we’d have twice as many people as we thought were coming.
Found a recipe for what turned out to be absolutely fantastic brownies. You can cut these really small and you don’t need to make fudge. Unless you really, really want to.
ULITMATE BROWNIES
Prep Time: 20 minutes
Cook Time: 40 minutes
Ingredients:
• 8- 1 ounce squares of unsweetened chocolate
• 1 cup butter
• 5 eggs
• 3 cups sugar
• 1 tablespoon vanilla
• 1-1/2 cups flour
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2-1/2 cups chopped pecans or walnuts, toasted
Preparation:
Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Grease and flour a 9 x 13 pan.
Melt chocolate and butter in a saucepan over low heat; set aside. In a mixing bowl, beat eggs, sugar and vanilla at high speed for 10 minutes**. Blend in chocolate mixture, flour and salt until just mixed. Stir in the nuts. Pour into prepared pan.
Bake for 35-40 minutes. (Don't overbake.) Cool and frost if desired, but that is not necessary.
** It's not required, but this is when it's very nice to own a stand mixer.
Found this on the internet and the poster is right, these brownies are the absolute ultimate for chocoholics. The author said she got two dozen out of the recipe. We cut ours more like one inch squares. A little went a long way.
The eastern Oregon sister and her family made it over for the first time in a couple of years. Things could have gone a little better in a lot of ways. They both teach and they were so darn tired that I was almost, almost, sorry they made the trip. Between the exhaustion and her inlaws she was just worn out by the time they left for home Monday morning. Sis so needed her own bed. It was good to see them though. Mom took sis shopping at Michael’s with her Christmas and birthday (poor kid was almost a Christmas baby) money. Turned her loose in the beading department and almost didn’t get her out before closing.
Portland wasn’t coming and then they were coming after all. Good thing we’d already planned on roasting two nice big chickens in the first place. Just didn’t have quite as many leftovers as we anticipated and thank heaven Fred’s wasn’t as busy as I thought they’d be for the last minute last minute shopping. Turned out my last minute shopping was really the next to the last minute shopping. Chalk up the last paragraph to post Christmas delirium.
Still didn’t have everybody in the same zip code. About the time we were putting the chickens in the oven, the freshman Duck was heading for LA and the Rose Bowl. What the heck, we fed him turkey soup and fresh bread the Sunday before. Merry sort of Christmas kid.
We did do a fair amount of baking for the holiday and in the part I like best, proceeded to send almost all of it out the door. Guess I knew deep down that we’d have twice as many people as we thought were coming.
Found a recipe for what turned out to be absolutely fantastic brownies. You can cut these really small and you don’t need to make fudge. Unless you really, really want to.
ULITMATE BROWNIES
Prep Time: 20 minutes
Cook Time: 40 minutes
Ingredients:
• 8- 1 ounce squares of unsweetened chocolate
• 1 cup butter
• 5 eggs
• 3 cups sugar
• 1 tablespoon vanilla
• 1-1/2 cups flour
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2-1/2 cups chopped pecans or walnuts, toasted
Preparation:
Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Grease and flour a 9 x 13 pan.
Melt chocolate and butter in a saucepan over low heat; set aside. In a mixing bowl, beat eggs, sugar and vanilla at high speed for 10 minutes**. Blend in chocolate mixture, flour and salt until just mixed. Stir in the nuts. Pour into prepared pan.
Bake for 35-40 minutes. (Don't overbake.) Cool and frost if desired, but that is not necessary.
** It's not required, but this is when it's very nice to own a stand mixer.
Found this on the internet and the poster is right, these brownies are the absolute ultimate for chocoholics. The author said she got two dozen out of the recipe. We cut ours more like one inch squares. A little went a long way.
Monday, December 21, 2009
HAPPY SOLSTICE
GREETING TO THE WINTER SOLSTICE
Brightener of darkness, hail!
Keeper of Clearness,
Opener of depths.
Gifts of plenty are arising,
Winter wonders, white snows fall.
Joyful be the heart within us,
Open wide the guesting door,
Wisdom waken in abundance,
Warm our beings to the core.
Caitlin Matthews
Happy Solstice, God Yule, Happy Shortest Day of the Year, whatever floats your boat. Now the sun starts moving back up the sky. At this time of year the rises behind the cedar trees in the next block and thanks to the hill behind the house we are in the shade by 1:30 in the afternoon. At the latest. Even with the half day of sun the untrimmed roses are trying to put out new branches and clover we planted in the garden spot is blissfully green. On the rare evenings when the sun is out at sunset it hits the top of another cedar tree. At least a block to the east of us.
So, here’s to the sun. Long may it shine. And it looks like we’ll have some fairly dry, if chilly weather for Christmas. Which means that the Umatilla contingent will make it safely through the Great Northwest Wind Tunnel. And hopefully the Portlanders will have a safe drive to Pasadena next week. They scored tickets to the Rose Bowl and I’m not quite sure how it works, but either the athletic department or the university have an arrangement with some of hotels to give the players families special rates. So they get to head south and watch my nephew warm the bench. Go Ducks.
Brightener of darkness, hail!
Keeper of Clearness,
Opener of depths.
Gifts of plenty are arising,
Winter wonders, white snows fall.
Joyful be the heart within us,
Open wide the guesting door,
Wisdom waken in abundance,
Warm our beings to the core.
Caitlin Matthews
Happy Solstice, God Yule, Happy Shortest Day of the Year, whatever floats your boat. Now the sun starts moving back up the sky. At this time of year the rises behind the cedar trees in the next block and thanks to the hill behind the house we are in the shade by 1:30 in the afternoon. At the latest. Even with the half day of sun the untrimmed roses are trying to put out new branches and clover we planted in the garden spot is blissfully green. On the rare evenings when the sun is out at sunset it hits the top of another cedar tree. At least a block to the east of us.
So, here’s to the sun. Long may it shine. And it looks like we’ll have some fairly dry, if chilly weather for Christmas. Which means that the Umatilla contingent will make it safely through the Great Northwest Wind Tunnel. And hopefully the Portlanders will have a safe drive to Pasadena next week. They scored tickets to the Rose Bowl and I’m not quite sure how it works, but either the athletic department or the university have an arrangement with some of hotels to give the players families special rates. So they get to head south and watch my nephew warm the bench. Go Ducks.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
PROTECTOR
Brighid was an Irish goddess, in many stories she was three sisters, all named Brighid. When the Christians came to the Isles Brighid became St. Brighid but her special care was still given to poets, healers, smiths, and crafters. An odd combination, but it does cover just about everything.
One special responsibility of the women of the house included putting the hearth fire to bed at night and rekindling it in the morning. Wonderful imagery in this poem. These women were traditional in every way but they were also very powerful in their own special way.
Brighid of the mantle, encompass us,
Lady of the lambs, protect us,
Keeper of the Hearth, kindle us,
Beneath your mantle gather us,
And restore us to memory.
Mothers of our mother,
Foremothers strong,
Guide our hands in yours.
Remind us how
To kindle the hearth,
To keep us bright,
To preserve the flame,
Your hands upon ours,
Our hands within yours,
To kindle the light
Both day and night.
The mantle of Brighid about us,
The memory of Brighid within us,
The protection of Brighid keeping us
From harm, from ignorance, from heartlessness,
This day and night,
From dawn till dark,
From dark till dawn.
Poem by Caitlin Matthews
One special responsibility of the women of the house included putting the hearth fire to bed at night and rekindling it in the morning. Wonderful imagery in this poem. These women were traditional in every way but they were also very powerful in their own special way.
Brighid of the mantle, encompass us,
Lady of the lambs, protect us,
Keeper of the Hearth, kindle us,
Beneath your mantle gather us,
And restore us to memory.
Mothers of our mother,
Foremothers strong,
Guide our hands in yours.
Remind us how
To kindle the hearth,
To keep us bright,
To preserve the flame,
Your hands upon ours,
Our hands within yours,
To kindle the light
Both day and night.
The mantle of Brighid about us,
The memory of Brighid within us,
The protection of Brighid keeping us
From harm, from ignorance, from heartlessness,
This day and night,
From dawn till dark,
From dark till dawn.
Poem by Caitlin Matthews
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
MEDITATION-POINT OF VIEW
Tom Cowan tells a story that echoes the old Irish tale of the voyage of King Bran. As the coracles of Bran and his men sail into the west they are met by a strange vision a chariot and driver are speeding west over the waves. The driver is Mannanan son of Lir one of the Irish gods of the sea. Where the sailors see ocean and dolphins Mannanan sees a field covered with grass and flowers.
Cowan’s tells the tale of two Irish hermits. The first leaves his hut by a lake to catch a fine, fat fish for his breakfast. As he casts his line he spots his neighbor hermit from across the lake. His neighbor is calmly walking across the water. Hailed by the curious boatman he tells him he is seeking flowers for his alter and what is his neighbor doing in a boat in the middle of a flower filled meadow. The confused fisherman tells him he’s looking for breakfast. “The fish are biting over by those foxgloves” says the second hermit and so they are. Each returns to his hut, one with breakfast, the other with his flowers.
Perhaps the difference between paradise and a desert depends on your point of view. And your ability to find a fine, fat fish swimming over by the foxgloves.
Cowan’s tells the tale of two Irish hermits. The first leaves his hut by a lake to catch a fine, fat fish for his breakfast. As he casts his line he spots his neighbor hermit from across the lake. His neighbor is calmly walking across the water. Hailed by the curious boatman he tells him he is seeking flowers for his alter and what is his neighbor doing in a boat in the middle of a flower filled meadow. The confused fisherman tells him he’s looking for breakfast. “The fish are biting over by those foxgloves” says the second hermit and so they are. Each returns to his hut, one with breakfast, the other with his flowers.
Perhaps the difference between paradise and a desert depends on your point of view. And your ability to find a fine, fat fish swimming over by the foxgloves.
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