Sunday, February 27, 2011

Sunday Promises

MORNING :

woken by a sunny window.
porcelain white curtains blow.
snack at eleven thirty.
strawberry, maple syrup and tea.

NOON :

back from wine cottage.
at doorstep, a gift package.
scented candles, hershey kisses
and a card. holiday wishes.

EVENING :

 three friends and family of eight.
happy. cooking homemade feast.
dinner. later, movie with cousins and friends.
kids tent under bed.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

In a Summer Afternoon


With a dowdy guise and sweating brow
he fleeted to the garden window.
The dirty knuckles tapped the pane,
then tried to smooth his unkempt mane.
Quarter of an hour behind,
a louder tap, the second time.

Climbing up the wooden chest
his friend, inside, mutely raised
the panel. A pair of irish eyes
met his, restless, by the garden fence.
Lifting emptied, dirty mustard jars
he joined his friend. They ran a race
to the sunny, yellow wheat fields.

A weekend, last of every month
in groups they hunt, after lunch
for dragonflies. The count inside
the mustard jar, rates their pride.
One with lowest lends his prize,
to the winner; a blue feather
of a kingfisher.




image link

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Mellowing down in sweetness ( again )

My bookshelf beckoned me today, and I found myself lifting up O Henry's 100 stories collection. I opened the classic to the contents, thumbed through the list on the non-white pages and settled to read Witches' Loaves. It was a simple, light hearted read like most other O Henry stories, that casually advanced to an unexpected ending. 

O Henry is an obvious favorite; scent of aged, crisp, tanned,  printed pages is another favorite. However my choice of story today, was only because I knew there would be words of baking and bakery mentioned. This might sound a little insane; or a lot, I think. It's an attraction I cannot resist. There is a thing between me and anything " bake-related ". And that " thing ", only we both will understand. I have a weakness for french bread; an even severe weakness for muffins and cupcakes. Sometimes, a lot of my muse is surrendered to it.

For a little history, cupcakes are also called fairy cakes in british english. Before muffin tins became available, they were baked in ramekins or molds, hence the name cup cake.

I have given up trying to stop accumulating cupcake mouthfuls into my system. It just doesn't work. Well it does work, like I mentioned here the last time, but not for long.




photo credit : pure & yummy

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Love




" A dog has no use for fancy cars, big homes,
or designer clothes.
A water log stick will do just fine.
A dog doesn't care
if you're rich or poor, clever or dull,
smart or dumb.
Give him your heart and he'll
give you his. "

- Marley and me

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

A Carnival


Stilt legged and masked clowns,
kids, riding in merry go rounds;
twelve german, czech and swedish boys
playing war with soldier toys;
green, wild apple trees
scenting across crowded streets;
People pass by, pushing carts
calling out, "apple tarts",
"pink crystal sugar drops",
"candy canes" and "lollipops";
"roasted beef and chicken wings",
"cinnamon sugared doughnut rings".
upside down umbrellas caught
raining toffee, toys, thrown out
by parade troups, calling loud
"..an' how 'bout some Tonka toys
for you, and you, ma' good ol' boys? "




phtography : Tim Irvings

Monday, February 21, 2011

Pointless Sights

With prints in pink, and pastel white;
cotton clouds stuffed inside
cushions, tended my lazy sides.

See through screens, string-tied,
formed perfect pleats of snowy white.
Windows framed a standstill sight
of a swing, outside.

Feet raised up a cream
colored recliner; in a dream,
of strawberry fields and rain,
and a pony in a forest lane,
I slumbered.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Love for art and an Evening muse

Sometimes it feels like a requirement to empty the mind. Not to tense, not to dream, but to release it off it's own duty. Presumably, that is one of the hardest things in the world to do. Or maybe some of us do it and when we are out of the whole phase, just don't realise it. It  happens to me, when I paint. I have let it remain an unconscious effort, the former and latter.

That is probably why I love the art. To be lost in the time of work, and come out intensely content with the colored canvas. However, sometimes it's not about how well it ends but the time spent doing it.

" All true artists, whether they know it or not,
create from a place of no-mind,
from inner stillness. " - Eckhart Tolle
                          

Over the years, while my hobby taught me finesse the strokes, I found a specific love for pastel painting. Sure, it does get a lot messy (which I really don't mind ) if I'm handling soft pastels, but it also gives the picture a kind of pleasing, subtle look. Like the one below, by L.C Hills. Which, in a slightly different context, has instigated my muse.




Breakfast pastel by Laura Coombs Hills
Staged in a medieval manor,
I saw her there, Ms. Claire;
out the window, culling berries.
" You must be baking for your niece ",
came a voice; a passer-by
her neighbor, aged seventy five.
" Well, yes, she came at noon, today,
she's staying for the holiday ".
Everyday, at four, she came
granny Mosy, was her name.
They shared ginger bread and sweet
gossiped over evening tea.
She came, walking with her stick
brought daffodils, mint leaves and fig.
They cooked each other's recipe
of spices, bread and apple pie.
" It's one of them, berry muffins, eh? "
said, the wrinkle faced, with winking eyes.
She smelled the bake in month of may,
for the niece, in her days of stay.
" I'll send some, Mosy, in an hour ",
Ms. Claire voiced from the garden, far.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Toast with strawberry sauce

After uselessly staring at a number of Nigella Lawson episodes, I decided to take it one step forward. To try out a recipe ( and thus make myself useful ). A simple breakfast or a snack.

Doughnut French Toast with strawberry sauce - recipe

INGREDIENTS :

(serves : 2)

2 eggs
4 teaspoons vanilla extract
60ml full-fat milk
4 slices from a small white loaf or 2 slices from a large white loaf, each large slice cut in half
25g butter, plus a drop of flavourless oil for frying
50g caster sugar

SAUCE :

150 g hulled strawberries
4 tbsp castor sugar
lemon juice

METHOD :

1. Beat the eggs with the milk and vanilla in a wide, shallow bowl.

2. Soak the bread halves in the eggy mixture for 5 minutes a side.

3. Heat the butter and oil in a frying pan, and fry the egg-soaked bread until golden and scorched in parts on both sides.

4. Put the sugar on a plate and then dip the cooked bread in it until coated like a sugared doughnut
 
5. For the sauce, whizz up strawberries, icing sugar and a spritz of lemon juice in the blender, to make a sauce to pour or puddle over.
 
 


Saturday, February 12, 2011

Yellow Crown

There she stood,
on the cold forest floor, 
rooted forever,
to a feckless living. 
Spending years of time, 
like the rest around, 
lined along the forest lake.  

And then one day,
from faraway, high,
came a hope, a reason
some kind of "light";
rays, so bright, yellow and gay,
like a hand held out, as if to say,
"Reach out for me, and Ill be there."

A wait, a while, and then some time,
witnessed her feel, the fading glow.
She swung around, looked up and down
searching, wishing it lasted long.
Silent waves of air
brushed by, while she stood there,
numb, in the night.

As years went by,
she grew, sky high;
reaching out, in the days of light.
When those around, looked in awe;
some glad, some jealous, some felt so small,
she stood there
swaying, by the yellow lake.

" lay your light on me ",
she said, " all my life, till we last".
It never died, the love for life
nor the light, that kept her
alive. A promise, kept;
she got one, too, from the
warmth beneath the summer sun.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Closed Door

A place, detached.

I've opened a stranded door. It is wooden, cracked, with a cold knob. Inside, it felt like a blinded walk, in the dark. Where darkness, seemed, to be a realised choice. It's all I find, behind the door. A space, left, undefined. A walled containment of seclusion, away, from the changing seasons.

Many have passed by. For some, it is a life's cubicle. The door closed, from inside. Only, now nothing mattered. For it's just a place.  

Detached.


away from

 

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Cold Coffee

Long left forgotten. Against the polished window, that mirrors its stance. Hush words linger around, hardly reaching the white walls. Yet, those words make a sound sense of the worthless wait. Sense indeed, that it is worthless.

There is the room, two racks, and then a couch. Nothing has changed since the day before. Nothing except the moments, lost; moments of warmth wrapped in those hands.

Reflections painted the glass wall. Those that aroused the need to beckon. Rushing through the inert air, the dense aroma weighed around the lingerer on the phone. Stop. A silent glance at the brew by the window. An anticipating moment, a foot stepped forward. On second thoughts, said the look on the eye, maybe not.

One more try, or maybe more, again through the void air. An efforted attempt at a loss, it did not matter anymore. All that remained was a lifeless reflection, still by the window, a coffee gone cold.