While discussing favorite summer deserts with a foody friend, we decided that Tiramisu was a definite contender for a first-place summer desert.
While harvesting larkspur seeds with me, a dear friend asked, “How do you abide with God?” I was initially startled by the question, but then at ease and quite forthcoming with my answer.
Your early summer, late spring vegetables are ready for harvest. Stand on your porch. Gaze out on your abundant fresh produce and figure out the answer to the most frequently asked question. “What’s for supper?”
Do you feel imprisoned? Are you locked up by grief and pain?Read the story of Job again and figure out which character you are?
Several of you requested the recipe for my blackberry cobbler after I posted a picture of it on FB for the occasion of my husband, Tim’s, birthday. I’m calling it “any fruit cobbler” because this same recipe and technique can be used for any fruit in season. I especially remember mom making peach cobbler and “toot” (mulberry) cobbler in Lebanon.
I’m on my second year of growing poppies. These majestic yet delicate flowers evoke so many memories for me, especially the profusions of them blanketing the terraces and meadows at the wake of springtime in Lebanon.
A kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth, One is nearer God’s heart in a garden, than anywhere else on earth!
Are you finding yourself with more spaces for contemplation during this season of isolation?
I’ve always cooked for pleasure, and part of that pleasure was anticipating the certainty of smiles of appreciation and enjoyment on our guests’ faces. However, yesterday morning, after an uncomfortable night of off-and-on painfull sleep, I was inclined to lay on the couch and binge watch something engrossing.
I wept. Commiserative grief, survivor’s guilt, and all-consuming powerlessness pushed at my soul after listening to the news about all the plants full of COVID infected but non-symptomatic mothers and fathers. This drowning sadness triggered in me historical vignettes of the marginalized WWII prisoners dejectedly lining up to enter what they thought was a work camp, but for the old, feeble, or the very young, was a death march into the incinerators.