The Longest Night, The Lemoniest Cake

Here we are, solstice again. This year went very quickly for me. I enjoyed it and welcome winter with open arms, her frost underfoot, her chill silver light. Beautiful, really, when you open your eyes every so often and put an effort into seeing beyond the reddened tip of your own nose.

My favorite light during winter is the golden glow radiating from the windows of houses and shops at night. I feel a welcoming, as if each window is an invitation, a call for camaraderie. I'm taking my usual holiday blog break to spend time with my family and friends, to laugh and love in warm corners by frosted windows. If I see you pass by and peek in, I'll wave and invite you in.
Until next week, be well, be merry, eat cake.

Lemon Cake (pithy directions)
*Cream together 1 cup sweet butter and 2 cups sugar.
*Beat in 3 eggs, one at a time.
*Mix together 3 cups flour, 1 tsp. baking soda, 1/4 tsp salt.
*Incorporate alternately with 1 cup buttermilk into butter mixture (begin and end with flour).
*Add 3 Tablespoons of lemon juice and lemon zest. Bake @ 300 for 50-60 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean. (I use loaf pans and make 2 cakes with this recipe.)
*After cake completely cools, glaze with mix of 1/4 cup softened butter, 1.5 cups powdered (confectioner's) sugar and 3 T lemon juice.
*Let glaze thicken and set before wrapping or just eat it right away like you know you want to. Makes for an excellent breakfast.

The Point

This was the point, two weeks ago, right before life became a complete blur. My husband worries I've lost my mind; I am so distracted. There are too many little details to remember. More to the point, too many little details I have to remember, but don't really care about. Holiday expectations, bah.

Yesterday, in the middle of the crazy, I bought a bag of lemons on a whim. Today I'll make lemon pound cakes because I can, not because I have to. Unobligative cake tastes best. That is one thing worth remembering.

Meret

Pattern: Meret (Mystery Beret) by Wooly Wormhead

Wool: Knit Picks Merino Style hollyberry - stash

Needles: US # 7 circulars

Mystery. Who doesn't love a good mystery? The thrill, the anticipation, the cliff-hangers, the twists and turns, the set up, and finally, all of the loose ends tied neatly into place (insert rimshot here). I appreciate an exciting and well executed mystery almost as much as I love my Meret. This is one of those knit projects that you whip up on whim, actually wear out, and wait for the inevitable comment from some stranger asking where you purchased your hat. And then, instead of sheepishly admitting you made it by hand (which often times translates to "Gee, now you know why it looks odd" ), you hold your head high and declare (loudly to draw an admiring throng) "I made this!" and strut off with a springy step and a kick ass sense of chapeau style.

Boring Process Details:

Knit to pattern for size M: read ahead for start row of lace chart. Used the roll/rib combo for the band, added one extra lace repeat for the slouchy effect, blocked wet flat, did a happy dance.

The Sentimentality of Here, There

I am often accused of not being sentimental, or more to the point, once I am "done" with a thing (object,person, circumstance) I am done with it completely. I do have the ability to walk away, sometimes far forevers away, from a thing I no longer need or find fulfilling. Whenever I am so accused I want to argue this simply isn't true but I can't. It is true. My nostalgia is carried within me, not in a photo or a trinket or a box of receipts. When I am struck by a wave of sentimentality, the pining comes from deep inside and it may not always produce tears, but it shifts me, moves me, affects my whole being. One such place that I will forever carry with me is the Missouri Botanical Gardens. I visited the grounds again during Thanksgiving holiday and before I even stepped out into the first courtyard, I felt a lightening, as if a corset of tension had been unlaced; I could breathe again.

This place has seen me single, engaged, married, a wife, twice pregnant, a mother, one day old, maybe ill, always dying. I have brought friends and loved ones to experience her seasons. I have mourned the loss of several of those dearest here at the lake's edge. There is no blame here, there is light. There is no vacuous chatter here, there is wind in trees. There is no anger here, there is beauty. There is no entrenchment here, there is constant change. There is no denial here, there is acceptance. These gardens look different every time I visit, but her loving embrace and tender kisses on the eyelids of my soul, bring me a peace and a sense of connectedness I rarely find elsewhere.

The Garden and her long light reminds me to live, to embrace change, because everything must change, no static thing will survive the hard frosts, the droughts, the floods, or the harvests. People forget, they want to cling sentimentally to what they once had or dreamed of having, and completely forget they are not dead; they can keep living, nurture their dormant roots and bloom once more. It is an effort filled choice each has to make for themselves, no other can give you what you need to be whole. And so, I cannot deny I am not one for mawkishness and tradition for the sake of it, but instead of unsuccessfully contriving a sense of nostalgia, I attempt to live so I find new threads of it everywhere I go. Threads that make the seams of myself hold fast, no matter what season I may face next.

Gypsy Gold

My quest to capture the last golden turnings of the season was successful. As an unexpected bonus, I made a new friend.

I had forgotten how much I like horses and how much they like me.

Maybe it's my disposition that attracts them. Or maybe I smell like a root vegetable.

He was so handsome my inner Southerner broke free and I declared him "right purty." He didn't seem to mind.

'Gypsy gold does not chink or glitter.

It gleams in the sun and neighs in the dark.'

Claddagh Gypsy saying

Autumnal Rains

Received record rains a couple days ago which felled the leaves outside my window. A friend called and invited me to hike the mountain on Friday. We are both afraid to miss it, this last quiet release, the halcyon sigh of Nature donning winter.

The Physics of Falling Leaves

Roman Payne wrote the title of this post, he was commenting on the suddenness of death, but some combinations of words are poems which deserve to be plucked from paragraphs and endlessly applied to listening ears.

The leaves are falling slowly here, reluctantly, dancing on the sun warmed air, slipping out of our grasp at the very last second when we exclaim Ah!, our traitorous breath launching the burnished treasures skyward again.

My need to be still, quiet, and reflective is strong now, but only because these desires are the opposite of what the fractious energies of the season promise. Life only gets busier, louder, spread out across town and country, often expecting me to be in two places at once; everyone needs something from me. In keeping with my contrary nature my response to busy weeks is to want to hide even if it has to be in plain sight. I want to pull in and float along, observing the revelry, but not fully participating. This loner behavior serves in letting me see the world around me but isn't fulfilling in a way I want right now. Maybe this year I'll participate with my whole self and allow the world to know me. Hopefully I won't be tempted to fly away on the first breath of 'Ah! There you are; now we have you!' like a leaf reluctant to end its independent adventure.