waiting for flying squirrels

We sat in the woods in the February twilight as the naturalist ran the feeder down and up a tree, trying to lure flying squirrels from their nests with the pulley squeak. Nothing. The cold nosed about, finding every seam on my coat, squirming its way in. The wind picked up. Again, the feeder flew down and up the tree. Unlikely they'd appear tonight, inhibited by the sound of the wind which masks the noise of predators. Mauve clouds slid across the graying sky, still a stark backdrop to the swaying trees, the rush of wind, and the moment came clear, alive. Breathing, relaxing into the cold, the night. A final feeder squeak, this time a successful lure, and the night gliders appeared.

Spring advances

The singleton aconite has turned into a field of them. They've spread down the gully with the runoff, providing a splash of vivid yellow visible from the upstairs window.

window seat quilt

Inspired by some batik that Bill brought back from Indonesia, this quilt fills a windowseat that we pass several times each day. The craft of the handmade--interplay of shape, color, design, rhythm that results from an artist's interaction with materials and the world--is fundamentally pleasing, and adding my own interpretive layer is immensely satisfying.

riverducks

February 14, 2009

Translucent leaves clinging to the beech all winter are ghosts of the summer, beckoning through the woods. They bridge the seasons, reminders, as the pussywillows announce what's ahead.

An uncomplicated relationship

My husband's aunt, a survivor of both breast cancer and an anxious past, was open, gregarious, and a lover of laughter by the time I met her. Family, yet apart enough to avoid the layers, tangles, and history of those relationships, we could just be, in a constant state of enjoyment. As is too often the case, the final two years of her life were beset with ailments, hospital stays, pain, and, finally, unbearable fatigue as she relinquished her fierce will. During one stint of confinement, her sister sent this azalea. It survives them both. Not hardy, it winters in the house, summers on the decaying deck, and, every February, warms me with memories of my showy, elegant friend.

At my desk

Proximity to the C&O Canal is a gift. Today was quiet, but for the helicopter patrolling the river: heron's squawk, water seeping through the lock, mallards muttering to one another, and greetings of the very occasional passersby.

Iceland pebbles

We picked these stones from a beach near Grundarfjordur, Iceland, and keep them on a tiny plate; emblematic of the island, they are dramatic, scoured, volcanic.

Buttermilk Biscuits

Inspired by the buttermilk in the fridge. Recipe from The Gourmet Cookbook:
2 c flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 stick cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces
3/4 c well-shaken buttermilk, plus additional for brushing

Sift together dry ingredients. Blend in butter with your fingertips until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add buttermilk and stir just until a dough forms. Gather dough into a ball, and gently knead 6 times on a floured surface. Pat into a 1/2-inch thick round; cut out biscuits. Brush tops with buttermilk and bake at 425 degrees for 12-15 minutes.
I realized 1/2 way through that we didn't have enough baking powder, so the end result didn't rise up. Very flaky, though; despite our critique, we ate them all.
When the kids were little, biscuits were a regular on our breakfast menu--Bisquik, rolled, sandwiching sausage or bacon. Warm kitchen, smells of baking.

February 8

snowdrops, winter aconite, hydrangea's hinting buds--these little glimmers birth an unreasonable excitement, requiring, as they do, a hunt, increased attention, a return

February 8, 2009

Our canal loop this January has been filled with water and ice. The river has run high, runoff from the snows in Pennsylvania as well as our local rains pushing at the islands and creating ice floes. Tiny ice shelves hang out over the rush as the channels quiet. One warm day, and a turtle edges out to absorb the sun.

witch hazel

unexpectedly cutting through the bleakness