Image stolen from my friend and fellow empty nester, Duo Dickinson.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Looking for signs
"My Mother looked for signs all the time. A person would be curt to her at the supermarket and she would view it as a sign that she should be nicer to strangers. Joseph would give her an unexpected smile and she'd retrace all her actions to see why she deserved it. Once, we arrived home to a snail at the doorstep and she said it was a sign to slow down, and she took a walk around the block at a funereal pace, saying there was something in there for her if she just took her time. She came back just as vivid-faced as ever. Thank you, little snail, she buzzed lifting it up and placing it in the cool shadows of a jasmine bush. She was always looking for unexpected guidance and at that garage sale the world had spit up just exactly what she'd asked for, and what could be a better omen that? So it must've been a real blow, on her wedding day, to find out that the larger hand in action was the hand she was then holding."
from The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake
by Aimee Bender (via the lovely Maureen)
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
-- Mary Oliver
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
-- Mary Oliver
Sunday, August 29, 2010
A red-tailed hawk pays us a visit
Two things I noticed today which may be connected:
i) A family of quail has made their home in our chicken run.
ii) A hawk (whose family lives in the fir trees on Horseshoe Canyon ridge) landed on the deck without a care that the Maharishi was shouting to me to come look and bring a camera. I did.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Miss W, age 10
Oh my goodness, my friend Nicky, who I was BFFs with from age 9 to 11, and who now lives in Australia, just sent me this picture. I'm the one on the second horse from the left and as you can see, I've done my own braiding:
Lágrimas
While working as a pastry chef intern at Grace and bld in Los Angeles, my daughter waxed lyrical about the sugar snap pea salad. She said it was the best thing she'd ever tasted. Ever since, we've tried to replicate the recipe. With these hot days of late summer in Los Angeles (100F is so boring), we long for cool, refreshing food And now, as if by magic, from the amazing blog Hedonia (via Saveur), appears a recipe for Lágrimas :
From Hedonia:
From Hedonia:
Lágrimas
Adapted from Boquería, New York
This is a pretty straightforward salad, so to try to go so far as a formal recipe would be a touch overkill, no? Let me put it in suitably imprecise terms, and you can tailor it to your taste. Most importantly, use a light hand. All the ingredients should be in service of the fresh sweetness of the peas. Savor the peaness. Wait, that came out wrong.
A fistful of fresh sugar snap peas, trimmed and thinly cut on a slight bias
A couple radishes, shaved thin
A wad of mint leaves, cut into a fine chiffonade
Several small dollops of creamy chêvre
A few shakes of rice wine vinegar
A healthy drizzle of peppery extra-virgin olive oil
A pinch of salt
A good crack of black pepper
Combine all ingredients in a bowl and toss gently.
i carry your heart with me
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
.................................................................... i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)
by e.e. cummings,
from Complete Poems 1904-62.
(via 3quarksdaily)
Bon voyage
Hollywood is deserted at 5:30am. A couple of cars, fluorescent streetlights, unusual calm. The lights opened up for us as we hurtled towards LAX, N & me, one, two, three, four -- all green, in an unprecedented show of support from the universe. He's going back to the east coast, to college, after a year at home and I'm both delighted and miserable. The Maharishi puts a cup of tea down next to me this morning, a lot earlier than usual, sits for a moment, says, "Think about the families whose children are shipping out to Iraq or Afghanistan, how they feel." Yes, it's true. My son isn't going to war. We pull up to the curb at Terminal 3, pull four bags out of the car, pile them onto a trolley. I kiss him goodbye, try not to be embarrassing, drive back up Century Blvd, La Cienega, Fairfax, watching the sky, the impossibly pretty pink and blue sky as the sun rises, wondering why don't we come out in this, early in the morning, greet the day, as this is the best time, the most glorious, when everyone else is sleeping, pull out my camera, try to capture it, lose for a moment my hatred of this city as the sun comes up over the piecrust of hills.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
English ghosts
When you grow up in England, particularly in old houses in the country, your world tends to include more of a range of things. More things co-exist. Layers of things. You know, paraphernalia. With emphasis on the para. My father would talk about ghosts quite matter of factly and although I don't think our house was haunted, we knew that there were ghosts in the older part of the farm. Friends had ghosts in their houses and I can remember with absolute clarity every single haunted room I stayed in -- from the friars in the old chapel in Hinton Waldrist, to the eery chill I felt in one of the bedrooms in my sister's house near Buntingford (although I was 15 at the time and quite impressionable) to the clinking armor witnessed in a Very Grand house party in Yorkshire while we were at Oxford. There was a Grey Lady in the Golden Valley near Ashridge and a dashing 1930s motorist who lingered around midnight by the lodge to Ashridge House (witnessed by my parents' best friends on numerous occasions, even when they weren't pleasantly squiffy, although the ghost did appear on the same road my father drove off of, in the middle of the night, after a good dinner with his friend Muddy in Little Gaddesden.)
Of course my husband, who grew up in new-ish apartments in Beverly Hills, thinks this is all a load of hooey and won't hear a word about it.
While staying with a very old and dear school friend in Dorset this summer, in an elegant late 18th century country house, I slept very poorly. Minky and I shared an awfully pretty room with waxy chintz curtains, a view of the stables, a bathroom full of delicious Floris soap, starched white sheets that were cool to the touch and lots of fat, new glossy magazines piled on the round table by the bed.
At breakfast the following morning, with the sun streaming in, and delicious bowls of grapefruit and cups of tea, my friend asked me how I slept. I told her that it was a bit of an odd night, and felt a little foolish saying that I felt something in the room. It wasn't malevolent, I said, just unsettling. (Minky told me later that I grabbed her hand and wouldn't let go all night long.)
At one point in the night it struck me that no-one would believe me, and that I needed evidence. So, with a shaking fingers, I took this intrepid picture with my phone:
Come on, even the Ghostbusters would be impressed.
When dawn came up (and what a cheery relief is the first light of dawn after a disturbed night) I took this picture of the sun coming through the curtains:
And a picture of the view from my window:
I told my story as amusingly as possible but like a scene from a scary movie, my friend grabbed both my hands, looked into my eyes, and said "I should tell you that other people have felt that room is haunted. I didn't really want to say anything yesterday in case it freaked you out. But I can tell you now." I giggled nervously. "In fact" she went on "when G stayed in the room above yours he felt as if someone's hands were on his neck, trying to strangle him."
Ruh-Roh!
Back in Los Angeles, no-one would listen to my ghost story. My son told me with a smirk that he didn't believe in fairies or dragons either. My husband rolled his eyes at me.
But today, I feel vindicated. In my in-box is a letter from my friend in Dorset, which includes this paragraph:
Of course my husband, who grew up in new-ish apartments in Beverly Hills, thinks this is all a load of hooey and won't hear a word about it.
While staying with a very old and dear school friend in Dorset this summer, in an elegant late 18th century country house, I slept very poorly. Minky and I shared an awfully pretty room with waxy chintz curtains, a view of the stables, a bathroom full of delicious Floris soap, starched white sheets that were cool to the touch and lots of fat, new glossy magazines piled on the round table by the bed.
 |
| Minky in our pretty, blue room |
At breakfast the following morning, with the sun streaming in, and delicious bowls of grapefruit and cups of tea, my friend asked me how I slept. I told her that it was a bit of an odd night, and felt a little foolish saying that I felt something in the room. It wasn't malevolent, I said, just unsettling. (Minky told me later that I grabbed her hand and wouldn't let go all night long.)
At one point in the night it struck me that no-one would believe me, and that I needed evidence. So, with a shaking fingers, I took this intrepid picture with my phone:
 |
| Regardez le menacing gape of the fireplace! |
Come on, even the Ghostbusters would be impressed.
When dawn came up (and what a cheery relief is the first light of dawn after a disturbed night) I took this picture of the sun coming through the curtains:
 |
| Colefax and Fowler, naturally |
And a picture of the view from my window:
 |
| What could be more normal than a willow tree and a stable clock? |
Ruh-Roh!
Back in Los Angeles, no-one would listen to my ghost story. My son told me with a smirk that he didn't believe in fairies or dragons either. My husband rolled his eyes at me.
But today, I feel vindicated. In my in-box is a letter from my friend in Dorset, which includes this paragraph:
"Oh yes....I checked out the bedroom you stayed in....and you were right, there was something there! It has moved on now and feels so much better. Poor you. I am sorry you had such a disturbed night; at least next time you come all will be peaceful ."
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
My nemesis: Francis Bacon
My husband calls me Doctor Doolittle. He thinks I'm good with animals. He thinks it's funny. I wish I were an animal communicator but I'm just an animal mumbler, really. Yes, I talk to the animals, mostly my dogs, because they're the only ones that will listen. I greet them when they walk into the room, ask them questions, and answer for them, you know, if the telepathy isn't working. Doesn't everyone? I know it's verging on Miranda Hart territory. Horses I'm okay with too. I mumble at them, tell them they're handsome, scratch their ears. I rescue spiders from the shower, humming birds, and once I sat in the road on Laurel Canyon with a deer who'd been hit by a car (Mike Tyson was the only person who stopped to ask if I needed any help and I've loved him ever since, tattooed face and all.)
The truth is, dear reader, I'm not awfully fond of people who don't like animals.
But there is one animal that is anathema to me. She is, in fact, my nemesis. And her name is Francis Bacon. She is a pig. And I don't mean that perjoratively. She is literally a pig. A big, fat, grumpy pig that grunts and lives in my best friend Lucy's kitchen.
Lucy made me lunch today. It's a sweltering day in Los Angeles, 100°F (38°C), which makes impossible to get into a car without first turning on the air conditioning and swathing one's seat with a towel. Lucy's house is big and dark and cool and airy, with lovely thick walls and cold, wood floors. She'd opened all the doors to let the air circulate and we found refuge in the kitchen to catch up after a summer apart.
Francis didn't notice me at first (did I mention that she is partially blind?) but as soon as she caught my scent, she stamped her trotter, squealed indignantly and rushed at me, her teeth aimed at my calf. As her snout was covered in dirt (she'd no doubt been practising her truffling skills in the garden), I had a large round mark on my leg. "Your pig tried to bite me" I said. Lucy laughed, looked down at my leg and said "Oh dear." Being the Alpha Femme in the house, Lucy put on her deepest, strictest voice and said "Out, Francis. Out." Francis all but ignored her. "I know" she said, brightly. "I'll put myself between you and her, you know, like a Switzerland."
The theory is that pigs like a social hierarchy and they don't like that hierarchy disturbed. It makes them antagonistic. Normal visitors, apparently (or maybe Lucy said this to make me feel better) don't bother the pig. It's only people she knows Lucy loves. Like me. Great. A pig is jealous of me.
Had I been better prepared, I would have brought with me a pig board, pictured below, to protect myself.
Because you need armour of some kind when a 300 lb animal with a bone to pick decides to charge you. And they're remarkably agile for their size. Those little trotters work with surprising alacrity. A veritable whirl of pinkness.
Here, just in case there is any doubt, are Francis' teeth.
Lucy told me what she thought was a charming story, about Francis being locked in the garage with the barbecue charcoal, which she rolled around in until she took on a perfect shade of black. When they found her, it seemed she might be dead, poisoned by the carcinogenic coals. "Thank God, she was only sleeping" said my friend. "Gosh, that MUST have been a relief" I said, with the most sympathy I could muster.
The truth is, dear reader, I'm not awfully fond of people who don't like animals.
 |
| Rex Harrison as Dr Doolittle |
But there is one animal that is anathema to me. She is, in fact, my nemesis. And her name is Francis Bacon. She is a pig. And I don't mean that perjoratively. She is literally a pig. A big, fat, grumpy pig that grunts and lives in my best friend Lucy's kitchen.
 |
| Francis Bacon, photo credit: Lucy Dahl |
Lucy made me lunch today. It's a sweltering day in Los Angeles, 100°F (38°C), which makes impossible to get into a car without first turning on the air conditioning and swathing one's seat with a towel. Lucy's house is big and dark and cool and airy, with lovely thick walls and cold, wood floors. She'd opened all the doors to let the air circulate and we found refuge in the kitchen to catch up after a summer apart.
Francis didn't notice me at first (did I mention that she is partially blind?) but as soon as she caught my scent, she stamped her trotter, squealed indignantly and rushed at me, her teeth aimed at my calf. As her snout was covered in dirt (she'd no doubt been practising her truffling skills in the garden), I had a large round mark on my leg. "Your pig tried to bite me" I said. Lucy laughed, looked down at my leg and said "Oh dear." Being the Alpha Femme in the house, Lucy put on her deepest, strictest voice and said "Out, Francis. Out." Francis all but ignored her. "I know" she said, brightly. "I'll put myself between you and her, you know, like a Switzerland."
The theory is that pigs like a social hierarchy and they don't like that hierarchy disturbed. It makes them antagonistic. Normal visitors, apparently (or maybe Lucy said this to make me feel better) don't bother the pig. It's only people she knows Lucy loves. Like me. Great. A pig is jealous of me.
With Lucy between us, the pig and I glared at each other.For better or for worse,A pig is a pig,and ever moreshall be it so.
Had I been better prepared, I would have brought with me a pig board, pictured below, to protect myself.
 |
| a pig board |
Because you need armour of some kind when a 300 lb animal with a bone to pick decides to charge you. And they're remarkably agile for their size. Those little trotters work with surprising alacrity. A veritable whirl of pinkness.
 |
| Photo credit: Lucy Dahl |
Here, just in case there is any doubt, are Francis' teeth.
 |
| Lucy: 'I told her "Bum wants a photo of you" and that is what she gave me (you!)' |
Lucy told me what she thought was a charming story, about Francis being locked in the garage with the barbecue charcoal, which she rolled around in until she took on a perfect shade of black. When they found her, it seemed she might be dead, poisoned by the carcinogenic coals. "Thank God, she was only sleeping" said my friend. "Gosh, that MUST have been a relief" I said, with the most sympathy I could muster.
 |
| Photo credit: Lucy Dahl |
Monday, August 23, 2010
Daimler Dart
My brother's lovely blog on Horse & Country TV this month includes a picture of his most excellent 1961 Daimler SP250 (Dart). Formerly flame red, this is the car that my mother drove us to school in when we were tiny, with its terracotta leather seats, no seat belts and the roaring vroooooom of a land speed record breaker.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Crunchy Dill Pickles from Cooking With My Kid
Last week, our kitchenwas the setting for a photo shoot for the stars of Cooking With My Kid, Rebecca and Gus.
If you haven't checked out Rebecca & Gus's excellent blog, please look at this recipe for Crunchy Dill Pickles.
If you haven't checked out Rebecca & Gus's excellent blog, please look at this recipe for Crunchy Dill Pickles.
Homemade ricotta
Sundays call for an easy lunch in the garden, especially when it's hot outside. The Maharishi sliced some sweet heirloom tomatoes (from Trader Joe's -- particularly good now) and topped them with a still warm homemade ricotta cheese and some chopped chives. Easy and utterly delicious.
Ingredients
1/2 gallon whole milk (not ultra-pasteurized)
1/8 cup white vinegar
salt
olive oil
chives, chopped
Method
Warm the milk in a non-reactive pan (he uses a Le Creuset)
Just before it boils, add vinegar
Stir for one minute & the curds will start forming
Remove from heat
Strain through cheesecloth & a strainer (the longer it sits in the cheesecloth the more whey will drain off -- this is according to your personal preference)
Spoon on top of tomatoes
Salt (Maharishi says "generously")
Drizzle with olive oil
Sprinkle with chopped chives
Serve immediately
Ingredients
1/2 gallon whole milk (not ultra-pasteurized)
1/8 cup white vinegar
salt
olive oil
chives, chopped
Method
Warm the milk in a non-reactive pan (he uses a Le Creuset)
Just before it boils, add vinegar
Stir for one minute & the curds will start forming
Remove from heat
Strain through cheesecloth & a strainer (the longer it sits in the cheesecloth the more whey will drain off -- this is according to your personal preference)
Spoon on top of tomatoes
Salt (Maharishi says "generously")
Drizzle with olive oil
Sprinkle with chopped chives
Serve immediately
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Midsummer, Georgia Avenue
Happiness: a high, wide porch, white columns
crowned by the crepe-paper party hats
of hibiscus; a rocking chair; iced tea; a book;
an afternoon in late July to read it,
or read the middle of it, having leisure
to mark that place and enter it tomorrow
just as you left it (knock-knock of woodpecker
keeping yesterday's time, cicada's buzz,
the turning of another page, and somewhere
a question raised and dropped, the pendulum-
swing of a wind chime). Back and forth, the rocker
and the reading eye, and isn't half
your jittery, odd joy the looking out
now and again across the road to where,
under the lush allées of long-lived trees
conferring shade and breeze on those who feel
none of it, a hundred stories stand confined,
each to their single page of stone? Not far,
the distance between you and them: a breath,
a heartbeat dropped, a word in your two-faced
book that invites you to its party only
to sadden you when it's over. And so you stay
on your teetering perch, you move and go nowhere,
gazing past the heat-struck street that's split
down the middle—not to put too fine
a point on it—by a double yellow line.
-- Mary Jo Salter (via Writer's Almanac)
crowned by the crepe-paper party hats
of hibiscus; a rocking chair; iced tea; a book;
an afternoon in late July to read it,
or read the middle of it, having leisure
to mark that place and enter it tomorrow
just as you left it (knock-knock of woodpecker
keeping yesterday's time, cicada's buzz,
the turning of another page, and somewhere
a question raised and dropped, the pendulum-
swing of a wind chime). Back and forth, the rocker
and the reading eye, and isn't half
your jittery, odd joy the looking out
now and again across the road to where,
under the lush allées of long-lived trees
conferring shade and breeze on those who feel
none of it, a hundred stories stand confined,
each to their single page of stone? Not far,
the distance between you and them: a breath,
a heartbeat dropped, a word in your two-faced
book that invites you to its party only
to sadden you when it's over. And so you stay
on your teetering perch, you move and go nowhere,
gazing past the heat-struck street that's split
down the middle—not to put too fine
a point on it—by a double yellow line.
-- Mary Jo Salter (via Writer's Almanac)
Brambles & Damsons
Damn. This always happens. The day before every flight home, anxiety kicks in, and I find myself sweeping through my mother's house for treasures from my childhood -- a little leather box, a heart-shaped pendant cut out of clay which I made in the Lower Remove, two tiny liquer glasses given to me by my grandmother, my English exercise book from 1973 (choc-a-bloc with hilarious tales), a Czechoslovakian glass cigarette box from a great great aunt, certificates for swimming the 1/4 mile, piano (Grade 2), Pony Club C test, ballet, acting, Duke of Edinburgh, old Gilman & Soames school photographs (I'm the one with the largest hair), old pictures. All of these are furiously wrapped in newspaper and stuffed into my suitcase. There are books too. My copies of Koestler, an old Giles annual, Woolf's Orlando with the tattered cover, a little book on Blake I found in High Wycombe. And goodies from Waitrose: fennel tea, rose harissa, Rescue Remedy. Postcards from Liberty. Two pots of honey from my brother's Scottish bees.
The thing is, I hate leaving this place. We've been away from Los Angeles too long. I miss my lovely husband, the greater and lesser spotteds, my bed, but I love that I can sit in my mother's kitchen overlooking the Vale of Aylesbury at six in the morning, with my cup of tea, and the sky is palest pink and the oak trees are still, and there are rabbits cropping (a word I learned from my ten year old self) on the lawn. I love that we went to Mr. Leach's farm stand yesterday afternoon to find a marrow of just the right size to stuff for supper for the three of us, that there were scores of big, fat green marrows lined up on a table, all for 60p (mine was 30p because, in comparision, it was a tiddler). I love that I could walk the dog for miles in Ashridge yesterday in mixed woodland (silver birch, oak, some fir) and not see another human. Although some West Highland terriers did interrupt my very scientific self-timed portrait on Berkhamsted Heath.
You see, the house we grew up in is here, just a few hundred yards away from my mother's house. But it has changed a little, as you will see from the following two photographs:
And life goes on. Of course it does. Change is good. But change does still tug annoyingly at one's heart strings. The house we grew up in was messy, rambling, covered in ivy, full of flowers and trees and vines. The house now is very smart, elegant and refined, and hidden behind an enormous wall.
But there are still sloes in the hedgerows.
And horses that greet us in Claridge's field.
And cattle that lie down in the pasture on soft mornings.
And old beech trees, silver birch and naughty dogs to walk with.
(That naughty dog is asleep on my pillow. I invited him into the kitchen but apparently he doesn't "do" 6:00 am.)
At the bottom of the garden is an ancient garden, full of fruit trees, amongst them four damson trees, heavy with purple fruit. I've promised myself I shall make damson jam, and secret it into my suitcase, with all my other treasures. My mother is preparing for 25 women from her Keep Fit class (hopefully not in leotards) to come to tea. Downstairs, she has laid out tables with white, embroidered cloths; we've pulled tables out of the garden shed and let them be washed by the rain; there are cucumbers and smoked salmon in the fridge for sandwiches, plenty of brown bread. My damson jam-making must be done on the QT and quickly for we must leave here at noon to catch our plane back home to Los Angeles. And of course there has to be one last walk, one more reason to take photographs of nettles and bracken and tiny, wee birds I can't name, to listen to the London train hurtle by the Grand Union canal, to eat brambles fresh from the bushes, the way one does in England when Autumn's on the doorstep.
The thing is, I hate leaving this place. We've been away from Los Angeles too long. I miss my lovely husband, the greater and lesser spotteds, my bed, but I love that I can sit in my mother's kitchen overlooking the Vale of Aylesbury at six in the morning, with my cup of tea, and the sky is palest pink and the oak trees are still, and there are rabbits cropping (a word I learned from my ten year old self) on the lawn. I love that we went to Mr. Leach's farm stand yesterday afternoon to find a marrow of just the right size to stuff for supper for the three of us, that there were scores of big, fat green marrows lined up on a table, all for 60p (mine was 30p because, in comparision, it was a tiddler). I love that I could walk the dog for miles in Ashridge yesterday in mixed woodland (silver birch, oak, some fir) and not see another human. Although some West Highland terriers did interrupt my very scientific self-timed portrait on Berkhamsted Heath.
You see, the house we grew up in is here, just a few hundred yards away from my mother's house. But it has changed a little, as you will see from the following two photographs:
 |
| circa 2010 |
 | |
| circa 1996 |
But there are still sloes in the hedgerows.
And horses that greet us in Claridge's field.
And cattle that lie down in the pasture on soft mornings.
And old beech trees, silver birch and naughty dogs to walk with.
At the bottom of the garden is an ancient garden, full of fruit trees, amongst them four damson trees, heavy with purple fruit. I've promised myself I shall make damson jam, and secret it into my suitcase, with all my other treasures. My mother is preparing for 25 women from her Keep Fit class (hopefully not in leotards) to come to tea. Downstairs, she has laid out tables with white, embroidered cloths; we've pulled tables out of the garden shed and let them be washed by the rain; there are cucumbers and smoked salmon in the fridge for sandwiches, plenty of brown bread. My damson jam-making must be done on the QT and quickly for we must leave here at noon to catch our plane back home to Los Angeles. And of course there has to be one last walk, one more reason to take photographs of nettles and bracken and tiny, wee birds I can't name, to listen to the London train hurtle by the Grand Union canal, to eat brambles fresh from the bushes, the way one does in England when Autumn's on the doorstep.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Meanwhile, in the flower tent
 |
| Prize-winning onions |
 |
| All kinds of garden flowers |
 |
| Jams & Curds |
 |
| Flowers arranged in a bowl of water |
 |
| Even pansies, sunflowers, sweet peas |
 |
| Wooden spoon folk |
 |
| While my mother & Minky strolled near the castle & bouncy castle |
Cortachy Highland Games & Dog Show
One of my favorite events when visiting my brother in Scotland is the Cortachy Highland Games, held each August at Cortachy Castle near Kirriemuir. Of course, we loved the Pipers...
...and the Highland dancers...
But the highlight was the dog show.
We had a couple of competitors...
And we faced stiff competition...
But there were plenty of classes for everyone...
Everyone seemed awfully professional...
But the girls soldiered on bravely...
...despite a furious wheelbarrow race going on in the adjoining ring...
...Rosie took Tiny through his paces...
...but he wasn't awfully keen on the inspection by the judge...
However, in the "Judge's Favorite Dog" class, Rosie (the dog) led by handler Daisy, was victorious. A terrific triumph for the Rottal team.
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