The Magpie's Fancy

For You . . .

2012-01-29T23:57:00.001-05:00

. . . with love and ranunculus blooms.

Wishing you a week of beauty and adventure.

Welcome to new followers and subscribers, and thank you to old friends.

Special thanks to Marilyn over at Delights of the Heart for trying out last week's Five-Minute Freewrite. You can read her freewrite here.

I'll post another exercise later this week.

x Gigi

Pudding Days

2012-01-26T03:42:00.002-05:00

What is it about ice storms and cold that sends me running for a spoon and bowl? I can't seem to stop making pudding this winter. This evening, after dinner, Mr. Magpie said, "So, what kind will it be tonight?" The man knows me so well. What kind, indeed. A simple chocolate it was. No whipped cream or fancy sprinkles. Just the pudding, plain and pure. Other nights it's been butterscotch. Next week it will probably be banana (trust me when I say this recipe's special . . . and decadent). I can barely wait.

P.S. Aren't those sweet polka-dot pudding cups? My sister found them for me at Goodwill about a hundred years ago, and I've used them nearly every time I've made pudding since then. My sister's the best.

Five-Minute Freewrite: Remember

2012-01-23T02:33:00.002-05:00

It's been ages since I offered a writing exercise--not for lack of desire, but because my life, tutoring, photography, and writing (big writing projects in the works that I can't tell you about just yet) haven't left me time. I want desperately to keep going with The Magpie's Pen, but the reality for now is that I cannot, so I'll toss some exercises in here from time to time.

Some of my favorite writing exercises are quick, five-minute ones you can do anywhere, anytime. I find that there's never an excuse for not writing when I can always find five minutes in my day to pull out my pen and writing notebook. I find some of my favorite raw material this way. Here's the instructions, followed by my own freewrite. If you give it a whirl, please let me know how it goes!

The Exercise: Find a photograph you took two years ago. Choose one that evokes a very particular memory. Study it for a minute or two, then open up your writing notebook (if you don't have one use whatever paper you have on hand, but then go out and find a notebook to make your very own just as soon as you possibly can!), set your watch/phone/clock/kitchen timer for five minutes and go. Don't stop or edit or worry about grammar. Just write what you remember about that photograph, that day, the mood, the light, the smells, sounds, and sights. If your mind leaps from the memory to something else, follow it. Just keep your pen moving until the five minutes are up.

My Photograph and Freewrite:

The feel of cold sand against the palms of your hands, the rush of wind between untucked shirt and skin, and then the wish for five more minutes of daylight. This must be what it feels like to die. You imagine there is never enough time for the search, treasure map in hand, pocketful of nothing but a washed and dried receipt, palimpsest of inked purchases, of wants and perceived needs--when all around you there are plates and bins and trays of time that you leave behind, never taste, never try. Your feet grow cold, shadows on the snow turn blue. From somewhere at the edge of the marsh comes a wild cry.

I'd love to hear about your freewrite. If you try this, feel free to share a favorite line in the comments. I promise to share more exercises very soon.

Candlelit Breakfast

2012-01-21T23:08:00.000-05:00

The cats woke me at dawn with cries for food and love and the sound of my slippers shuffling down the hall to start the rhythm of their day. I filled their china bowls, shifted the curtains, watched the first flakes of another storm, then turned with a shiver to put the kettle on.

In the bedroom my love still lay asleep, wrapped in cotton and linen and the shifting pictures of a morning dream. Here, in the tiled kitchen, I lit a matchstick, let it touch each candle on the table until I'd burned the match to its quick and the wicks flickered gold against the grey.

I scooped silver forks and spoons from their chest, set out the Polish amber crystal for juice, glazed blackberries with maple syrup until they glittered like onyx.

The spiced pumpkin pancakes sizzling in the skillet were not silver dollars, but rich, golden coins. True, you can't buy love, I thought, but breakfast makes a good trade.

The kettle whistled, my love awoke, and now full of all they needed, the cats fell back asleep in their rocking chair, lulled by our soft laughter and the schoosh, schoosh, schoosh of snow blowing against the slate roof of the church next door.

My heart, now full, found the rhythm of its day.

Goldilocks Goes House Hunting

2012-01-18T13:27:00.001-05:00

This is one of those grainy realtor photos that you find on Trulia or Realtor.com. Not a great shot, horrible lighting, and awkwardly cropped, and yet . . . and yet.

After months of clicking through homes and feeling like Goldilocks--this one's too big, this one's too small, this one's outrageously overpriced AND too small, this one has no soul, this one has lots of soul but no yard, this one's a gem but in a run-down neighborhood (I've rented and owned my share of those, thank you very much)--I stumbled last week upon a fixer-upper. That's a glimpse of the living room in the photo above. It's a Victorian on a pretty, tree-lined street in one of my favorite neighborhoods. It's near coffee shops, restaurants, and nature trails, it has a large old barn out back and, while the yard is on the small side, there's plenty of room for gardening.

Most of all, it has rooms like this one: hardwood floors, lovely woodwork, two slate fireplaces, and loads of potential. It's cheap because it needs work, and it has beautiful bones. Like Goldilocks finding Baby Bear's porridge, when I gaze at the photos, I think to myself, "perhaps it could be just right."

Only one other house has made my heart sing quite like this one during my search these past several months. It was a pretty Greek Revival with parquet floors that sold for tuppence last June. Four months later, it was back on the market for twice the amount. Someone had bought it, "fixed it up" very cheaply (and I think poorly), and turned it over. Believe me, I know the very same thing could happen with this one if we don't move quickly.

And yet . . . and yet. I hesitate. It's not the fact that the house needs TLC that makes me pause. That has never scared me before. In fact, Mr. Magpie and I have bought two homes before, and both times we jumped in without a second thought. We made an offer on our first home after looking for just one day. Our offer was accepted and we were moved into the house in a month's time. We bought the second home, a loft in an old textile mill, while it was still under construction. In fact, it was basically just a white box with some windows overlooking a canal the day we made our offer. That's how we've always rolled when it comes to buying homes. We love it, so we take the leap.

What's different this time? Honestly, I think it's age and life experience. I think it is finally finding (or in our case, coming back to) a city we love and can imagine staying in for the rest of our lives. One might think this would make us more willing to dive in even faster, buy a place, stake our claim. Instead, we are taking our time, proceeding with caution, tasting many, many bowls of porridge before deciding which one is just right. I don't mean perfect, nor do I mean lavish. I think the right home has more to do with a gut feeling than designer back splashes and custom shower heads. While those things are dreamy, what makes me stop in my tracks when I see certain homes has much more to do with the way sunlight falls on the wooden floors or the care a master craftsman took a hundred years ago when he built the front stairs.

And all this brings me to wondering what you love in a house. I'd love to hear what makes a certain entryway or kitchen or porch feel just right to you.

Sustenance: An Exhibition by Michael and Christine Jones

2012-01-16T17:59:00.001-05:00

Generations, by Michael Jones, 2011, oil and charcoal on canvas, 20"x20"

. . . We grow,

we sustain, we wait for purple stars of Spring.

~Excerpt from "Rotondo Farm" by Christine Jones, 2011

In keeping with my word for the year, inspire, I thought I'd share the work of two people whose approach to art and life never ceases to inspire me. I first met poet Christine Jones and her husband, painter Michael Jones, a couple of years ago when I began working with Christine on her poetry. Since then, I've had the good fortune of meeting with Christine on a regular basis, and I've watched her poems grow and blossom into rich reflections on her many passions, including running, swimming, gardening, and writing, to name just a few. Some of her recent work appears in The Offering, published by the University of Massachusetts Lowell.

Michael is a professional painter and a professor at the University of Massachusetts Lowell where he teaches Art Law and directs the Legal Studies Program. The U.S. Olympic Committee commissioned him to create the Triathlon poster for the 2004, 2008, and 2012 Summer Olympic Games. He painted the official portrait of Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps, and his paintings have been exhibited at museums throughout the world.

Rotondo Farm: Winter Farm Stand by Michael Jones, oil on canvas, 2011, 24"x48"

Over the past two years, Michael and Christine have shown collaborative exhibitions of her poetry and his oil paintings at the Cape Cod Museum of Art and the Tsongas Gallery in Concord, Massachusetts. This month they have a new exhibition at the Whistler House Museum of Art in Lowell, Massachusetts.

The exhibition, Sustenance, demonstrates a careful attentiveness to the everyday, especially as it pertains to the natural world. As they write in their artists' statement: "Our paintings and poems reflect our joy of the discoveries and simple pleasures we find together every day. A farm stand under snow reminds us, a hole-punch in the raven sky reminds us, and sprouts in a Dixie Cup remind us that in nature there is something to sustain each one of us."

The couple have two homes in Massachusetts, one on Cape Cod, and the other in the Merrimack Valley, thus their work is inspired by the waves and sand dunes of the Atlantic as well as the quiet peace of inland farms and Thoreau's Walden Pond.

Rotondo Farm: Fall Farm Stand by Michael Jones, oil on canvas, 2011, 24"x48"

For weeks

we waited for the seeds

we planted

in Dixie Cups

to become winged leaves . . .

~Excerpt from "The Garden Series I" by Christine Jones, 2011

While the show runs until February 24, I'm excited to say that there will be a reading and exhibition reception this coming Saturday, January 21, from 2-4 p.m. Directions to the museum can be found here. Christine will be sharing some of her poems, and it promises to be a wonderful event. I for one can't wait! For more information about the show and the artists, visit the Whistler House Museum's website.

I've worked with hundreds of writing students and poets over the years, and few have had the commitment to the process of revision--of re-seeing a work--as Christine does. I want to share one more excerpt from a poem that she revised many times. Her persistence and patience were met with a poem that the reader wants to return to again and again, discovering something new each time. I'll end here with the poem's first few lines:

Time is not a bird.

It does not fly.

It is the branch when the bird alights

shaking the leaves to wake the wind.

It comes right in.

~Excerpt from "Time is Not a Bird" by Christine Jones, 2011

Story Fragment

2012-01-13T00:28:00.001-05:00

Before the heaviest snows came, the girl walked for many miles, her feet echoing over wooden bridges, clambering over tree roots, and shuffling through leaves tattered as forgotten letters.

She never followed railroad tracks, preferring to cross them and move on, off into the cover of the forest. She was not sure what she sought, but her feet and her heart knew she wouldn't find it in the cities where the railway led.

Each night she made her bed from the forgotten leaves, with pine needles as her pillow.

Always the towers of distant cities beckoned to her, but still she moved on, deeper into the wild. As winter slipped further into its icy slumber, ponds and lakes froze, turning to silver mirrors that reflected the sky. Sometimes the girl slid and spun across the glass surface, pretending the clouds were beneath her and she was a red-tailed hawk, circling the world below in great, sweeping gyres. Often, she broke small bits from the edges of the sky to hold in her mouth, letting the ice melt and and slip down her throat, making her shimmer inside.

In her pack she carried a folding knife and bits of hard crackers and a notebook and pencil for remembering small but important things. She wasn't lonely as she walked among trees and grasses and reeds. She knew the calls of birds and the chatter of squirrels. She knew the comings and goings of foxes. She knew the way of things--how they begin and how they end and all the in-betweens.

She knew nothing is certain, all is ever-changing, for she had seen in winters past how even the thickest of ice melts and the sky returns to its proper place in the heavens. Yet she came to value uncertainty as much as her trusty knife and pencil. Long ago, the old man had taught her that everything we fear can be honed and shaped into the finest of tools. She had sharpened and polished uncertainty until it glistened each evening in the light of the setting sun.

A Year and a Word II

2012-01-11T00:22:00.001-05:00

By Marlowe Miller

Already it's January 11th, and I haven't told you my word for the year yet. Last year's word was grace, and I loved that word, mostly because it helped me to look closely, to seek grace in each day. And on those days when I went looking and didn't find it, I gradually realized that if I sat still long enough, grace would find me. Part of the process was just breathing and being and noticing the small gifts each day brings. The other parts were more challenging. I focused on complaining less, offering thanks more, and letting others know how much I appreciate them. It shouldn't be hard to do these things, and really it's not. I think for me, it's just a matter of remembering to do them more. And maybe it's also about feeling comfortable enough in my own skin to simply say what I think and feel. One might think that after all these years of being a writer that wouldn't be such a tough thing for me to do. Writing truth is one thing. Speaking it is another. I'm learning . . . piece by piece.

Over the last few weeks, as I considered what word I wanted to tuck into my pocket and carry with me for 2012, I realized that I wasn't going to just chuck out last year's word. It's coming with me, too. Perhaps in a few more years, my pockets will be bulging with all the words I'll collect.

By Marlowe Miller

The word I'm adding to my stash this year is inspire. I wanted a verb, and I needed one that connects to all aspects of my life. I am inspired by many amazing makers and thinkers and doers of deeds, and I also hope to do some serious inspiring of my own this year.

I can't think of a better way to kick off an inspiring year than to share with you the work of one of my dearest friends. Her name is Marlowe Miller, and these gorgeous glass creations I'm featuring in this post are all hers. She is one of the most creative people I know in so many ways--with textiles, paper, paint, you name it. She's also a fellow magpie, and she turns the objects she discovers into exquisite jewelry, some of which I have featured here in past posts.

But today I wanted to show you her most recent creations, these gorgeous glass mosaic windows. She uses salvaged windows to make them, and each piece she makes is completely one of a kind. You can find more of her work at her blog, Orts and Fragments. I love her use of color, and I find myself mesmerized by the blues in all three of the pieces here. Most of all, I love the sense of movement in all of her pieces. I feel the wind blowing, the stems shooting up from the earth, and each blossom opening.

By Marlowe Miller

In the spirit of my word for 2012, I'll be sharing more work by people who inspire me in the coming months. I have a feeling it's going to be a very good year.

After the Tree

2012-01-06T01:08:00.000-05:00

Okay, I admit it. After I took all the ornaments off the tree and packed them away in their tissues and pretty boxes, I fell into a deep funk. For the past month, the evening view from my favorite spot on the couch had been this:

With the tree gone, the room felt bare. No, not just bare--blank. I'm guessing maybe you've had that feeling before, too. I think I feel it more right now because we're living in an apartment and can't paint the walls or hang loads of paintings. I like white and clean, simple lines without a lot of clutter, so I'm okay with that, but magpie that I am, suddenly I was really, really missing the sparkle.

So I decided to put a bit back.

I grabbed a string of white lights with a white cord and tied on lots of tulle bows to soften it.

Then, using a couple of map pins on one side and my old apple ladder on the other, I hung the lights over the little red stove. It's not a forever kind of decoration, but a fun-for-January kind of twinkly bit of cheer.

The little red stove leads me to one more note about light and sparkle. I crave light all year long, but especially during the winter months. One of my favorite ways to get it during the winter is from a fireplace. Alas, the apartment has no fireplace. What was a poor magpie to do? I bought a very reasonably priced electric one just before Christmas. I don't usually like the look of electric fireplaces. They often seem fake and flimsy to me, but I found this one online at Plow & Hearth, and I love it. I swear they're not paying me a commission, but maybe they should, since everyone who comes into my living room now wants this stove. My mother and sister both bought one after seeing mine, and I know a few other people who are planning to buy them as well. You can run the flames with or without heat, and this little stove that could cheers up the entire room. Best of all, the surface is always cool to the touch, so I can use the top to display a wooden bowl of pine cones--or whatever my magpie heart desires.

I just thought I'd share this info in case anyone else would love a fireplace but can't have one where they are living. If you have an old mantle, that would look fabulous with this stove, too. I'm keeping my eyes peeled for the perfect one. In the meantime, the tulle-dressed lights add a little whimsy, warmth, and shimmer to these cold January nights.

New Year's Walk

2012-01-01T21:08:00.002-05:00

It wasn't about resolutions or starting the new year right.

It was just a walk.

It was just dried berries and salt air and reeds rattling in the afternoon wind.

It was just a squirrel finishing his supper before sunset.

It was just the black lace of bare trees tatted to pink satin clouds.

It was just the sun showing off her finest gown

before she rode away over the mossy hills.

It was just a catch in the throat, a halted step,

as night filled in the spaces

between the branches of the apple trees,

and we realized

with wonder that we

were not alone.

New Year's Poem

2011-12-31T13:48:00.001-05:00

Tennyson wrote this poem more than a century ago, and its words seem as timely as ever. Wishing you joy and peace in the new year.

In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells]
by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Winter Sunshine Recipes

2011-12-29T11:38:00.001-05:00

Hello, hello from the cold but sunny North! I hope everyone who celebrates the December holidays has been having beautiful ones. Mr. Magpie and I have been busy visiting loved ones near and far, and now it is our turn to host some of our favorite folks as we welcome the New Year. In the midst of all this revelry, I have been putting more salted nuts, heavy cream, and chocolate in my mouth than I care to think about. All of it was and is scrumptious, but I'm in some serious need of light, healthy food. For me at this time of year, the simplest, most delicious way to make this happen is to buy armfuls of citrus fruits and have them in every meal.

At breakfast, this usually means pink grapefruit. My favorite way to serve it this time of year is to slice it and sprinkle a teaspoon or two of brown sugar--light brown, dark, demarara, whatever you've got--on each half. If you like, you can also sprinkle on a little bit of sea salt. This sends it over the top! Then I pop the halves on a foil-lined baking pan and pop them under the broiler.

After a couple of minutes, the result is a lacquered grapefruit that's sweet, but not too sweet. It's also wonderfully warm on top with a skim coat of bruleed sugar, while underneath it's still cool and tart. I first ate grapefruit this way about 20 years ago at a bed and breakfast here in Maine, and I've preferred it this way ever since.

My go-to citrus recipe for the rest of the day is a jar of liquid sunshine that I pour on top of nearly everything . . . and use as a dipping sauce for nearly everything else. This mojito sauce recipe comes from Daisy Martinez, and you can find it here. I originally made this a few years ago as a dipping sauce for tostones (fried plantains), and I love it for that, but now I use it on rice, to marinate meat and vegetables, as a salsa for chips, stirred into spicy beans--you name it. I tend to make a double batch and keep it in the fridge for a few days, using it as ~~needed~~ craved.

Last, but definitely not least, I want to share a little salad I made the other night for just the two of us when we were in between holiday visits. We needed something light--a palate cleanser of sorts between rich, heavy meals--so I combined two favorite winter flavors, pomegranate and citrus, with a third favorite, fennel, to make this salad:

The Magpie's Winter Salad

Serves 2 as meal, 4 as a side salad.

Dressing

Juice of 1/2 lime

Juice of 1/2 orange

Juice of 1/4 grapefruit

Splash of red wine vinegar

Small dollop dijon mustard

Small dollop honey

Olive oil to taste

Tablespoon or so of fresh, chopped dill

Salt and pepper to taste

Combine all ingredients in a lidded jar (So that's what all those Bonne Maman jars I saved were for!) and shake well. This recipe makes extra dressing to use for a couple of days--YUM!

Salad

1 head Boston or Bibb lettuce, washed and chopped

1 small head radicchio, washed and chopped

1 fennel bulb, thinly shaved

1/4 red onion, very thinly sliced

1 orange, thinly sliced

2 Tablespoons pomegranate seeds

A few oil-cured black olives (optional, but they really add a wonderfully salty kick--I added mine at the last minute, after I'd taken the photo, and I was so glad I did!)

Toss lettuces together in a pretty bowl.

In a small bowl, marinate fennel and red onions in a little of the dressing for about 15 minutes, then toss in with lettuces.

Top with the rest of the ingredients and drizzle on dressing.

Finish with salt and pepper to taste.

Hope you enjoy these recipes, my friends! Wishing you plenty of sunshine in the New Year!

The Merry Magpie

2011-12-16T16:55:00.000-05:00

I am a magpie year round, collecting bits and pieces of vintage bling, flash, and sparkle, but at the holidays, my love of all that shines is at its peak. There's no season I love more, especially because so many truly beautiful vintage ornaments can still be bought for a song at flea markets, yard sales, and even antiques shops. In fact, I often find them for much better prices than their contemporary knock-offs, and their wonderful patina is for real rather than manufactured.

When they are broken or missing their little top inserts--or if they are too small to hang on the tree, I simply sprinkle them liberally around the house in bowls, vases, under bell jars, or even in pretty tea cups and wine glasses in the china hutch.

Some of my favorites are ones my mother bought for me many years ago from the estate auction of writer May Sarton. Sarton has long been among my favorite writers, and when she died, my mother gave me several boxes of ornaments that she'd bought at the sale of her estate. Each year I have the joy of opening boxes of the very ornaments that Sarton herself hung on her tree each Christmas.

This isn't to say that I don't love new ornaments, for I adore them, too! If it shines, I crave it, which is why I bought the beautiful red garland in the photo above a few years ago. This year I combined it with some very old and rather "distressed" (which I LOVE) red and silver balls in a pretty pewter tray on the kitchen table. In the center, I placed an old candle jar that I'd saved and washed out after I'd used up the scented candle that came in it. I don't have the budget to buy tons of new candles this year, so I simply poured some sugar in the jar: first white, then a little red (think cookie sugar from the grocery store), then more white. I nestled a votive into the top, and now I have a candle I can keep reusing all season--and into the winter. I just keep replacing the votives for a a few pennies each time I burn one down to its end.

My favorite new ornament is one sent to my by my friend Vicki Archer of French Essence. Like most girls I know, it has long been a dream of mine to visit Paris, so when Vicki's package arrived in the mail this week, I was over the moon. An Eiffel Tower of my very own! I don't think I'll put this one away when Christmas is over. It may need to tide me over until I get to the real thing.

Wishing the Merriest of Holidays to everyone, especially my fellow magpies! More seasonal sparkle soon . . .

Wishes

2011-12-09T23:33:00.001-05:00

It is easy to tally the challenges and disappointments of a day. Much harder it is to simply exist among its blessings, recognize its gifts. The best gifts of this season are as simple as the paperwhite's bloom, as ethereal as its scent. Here, where winter can be much longer than any other season, a single blossom is a small wish granted. May your small wishes come true today and every day (for they are often much sweeter than the big ones), and may you always have the time to savor them.

Blossoms & Blessings

2011-12-05T16:46:00.001-05:00

As the days grow shorter and we head closer to the longest night of the year here in the Northern Hemisphere, I can think of no better way to bring a bit of warmth and cheer to the house than to force a few bulbs. Above are some paper whites I started last week. The photo is nearly a week old, so these little guys are now on the verge of blooming as I type this post. I'll include a photo of their blooms in my next post.

I try to plant a few bulbs each week, so I'll have several weeks of blooms during the bleakest part of winter. I've also planted some amaryllis. As I mentioned in my last post about budget-friendly wrapping ideas, I'm on a tight budget this year, so all my Christmas decorations must be beautiful while costing next to nothing. At a buck a bulb, or less, paper whites fit the bill for me. They last days and days, smell beautiful, and you only need a few to make a big splash. In fact, nothing is lovelier than a single paper white sheltered by a glass hurricane chimney or an "upcycled" jam jar! You don't even need soil to force paper whites--just a shallow bowl or lipped tray and some water. Keep the roots (not the bulbs) well watered in indirect sunlight, and you'll have blooms in 2-3 weeks.

I'll be sharing several more ideas for celebrating the holidays on a budget, and I welcome you to share yours here, too! I loved hearing about your gift wrap ideas in the last post. Special thanks to my friend Sande, who featured my wrapping post at her exquisite blog, A Gift Wrapped Life. Sande inspires me every week with her creativity and her eye for beauty, so I was honored that she shared my much more humble efforts on her beautiful site.

Finally, I know that as special as the holidays are, they can also be a difficult time for many folks. I've certainly had years when I just wanted to draw the curtains and sleep through Christmas. If you are having a tough time this year, please know there are always people who care. The expectations surrounding the winter holidays can just be too much to bear, especially during tough economic times. This year, some of my friends have been counting their blessings each day on their blogs or on Facebook. I think rather than expecting so much from myself (or others) this Christmas, I am just going to count my own blessings, and then share some of them with those who have too few to count.

Simple Gifts

2011-11-29T15:46:00.001-05:00

I adore the holiday season. Not just Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, but the whole season. I especially love to surprise people I treasure with little gifts throughout the month. For my sister and mother, this usually means small but useful trinkets like pretty holiday napkins or votive candles.

Maybe the best part of giving (and for me, receiving!) gifts, is the wrapping. When I was a kid, I loved to wrap all the presents for my mother each Christmas. She would hand me a box and tell me who it was for, and then I'd wrap it accordingly, pretending I was one of the women in the department stores who gift-wraps items for customers at Christmas. I especially loved to curl the ribbons with my mother's sharp scissors. I think I often even wrapped my own presents without knowing it until afterwards. My mother was sneaky that way!

This year I'm using my old standbys, plain brown craft paper and white tissue, so that I can dress them up in whatever way I fancy. I often like to include a small extra gift on the outside of the package that relates to the gift on the inside of the package.

In the case of these cocktail napkins, I tied a white porcelain spoon, for serving mustards or chutneys at holiday parties. I also tucked in a sprig of fresh bay leaves, which can be tossed into a pot of sauce or soup for flavoring. I love using simple baker's twine for a little present like this. It reminds me of candy canes, which I covet, plus it's economical. A large spool (enough to last me at least a year) costs $10. Oh, and I reuse tissue whenever I can! If it's wrinkled, I just iron it out and it looks like new.

I found the galvanized star gift tag as well as the baker's twine at one of my favorite local Portland shops, Folly 101, but you can find them online, too. You just write the recipient's name with chalk or a grease pencil, and then they can erase it and reuse the tag when they give a gift--or hang it on their tree as an ornament.

One of my girlfriends has her birthday at the beginning of December, so I packed her up a box of Magpie finds, including these tiny pinecone votives. I couldn't resist them, plus they're the state flower of Maine, so I'm sending her a little piece of the place I love.

Just before I closed the box, I tossed in a few fresh bay leaves to make it look and smell beautiful when she opens it.

The box itself is a silk-covered one that came with a scarf I recently bought. I always save pretty boxes to reuse, and this one fit the treasures I'd found for my friend perfectly. I simply tied it with a very wide piece of ribbon that I bought last year during the after-holiday sales at Christmas Tree Shop, when they were selling gorgeous ribbon for almost nothing.

Like nearly everyone I know, I am on a serious budget this year, but I still love giving gifts to the people I treasure. I'm making several gifts, giving smaller presents, and reusing nearly all my wrapping materials, but I don't think that means the presents can't be just as wonderful as ever. Maybe even more so.

I'd love to hear from you about your holiday shopping, crafting, baking, and wrapping this year. What are your plans for the season?

Autumn Road

2011-11-20T16:54:00.001-05:00

Some roads you take with a purpose in mind, but I prefer roads that lead to the unexpected. I took these photos on an old farm road that hugs the Connecticut River near my husband's hometown. We were just wandering when we discovered Cruise, who, according to the sign on his fence, gets bellyaches from apples, but loves carrots, and can eat as many as you give him.

Sadly, we had no carrots, but we made promises to Cruise for our next visit. I suppose this means that this little back road will now have a purpose.

Somehow I think it will still hold plenty of surprises, too.

The Magpie's Workshop

2011-10-28T23:10:00.002-04:00

We snuck in a beautiful, sunny day here after several days of grey and rain, and just before--if the weather reports prove correct--SNOW tomorrow night! I was writing in my workshop and couldn't resist the lovely sunlight. Out came my camera, and I shot a few glimpses of where I work each day.

One look at these photos will help explain the name of this blog. I am a magpie through and through, collecting baubles and other interesting bits to use in craft projects, for creative gift-wrapping, or just to display. I buy up old jars of buttons and beads at flea markets and old keys wherever I can find them. Those old milk bottles in the top photo are from local dairies, and I use them to hold my knitting needles and antique clay marbles. In the photo below, you'll see a few of the keys in my collection, framed by a vintage sea-glass mosaic frame that I bought twenty-five years ago in a junk shop. In true magpie style, I've left some space to add more keys! The beautiful little watercolor of a lighthouse beneath the keys is by my high school art teacher, Sandra Crabtree.

Here's a close-up of one of those keys and that lovely frame.

My workshop steps up and out onto a pretty sunporch on the other side of that door. In the photo below, Dill is doing his best to ignore me while the watering-can bird seems ready for his close-up.

One corner of my little porch. The wooden E is an antiques shop find. I adore letters!

My workshop also doubles as a guest room, but I like to use the little iron and brass bed for doing some serious creative thinking . . . a.k.a naps. The print above the bed is by the fabulous Maia Larkin. The two watercolors at top and bottom above the table are by my dear friend and brilliant painter Nancy Nichols. That wonderful bear, Theodore, was my mother's when she was a baby.

My collecting habits include things like artists' paintboxes, old paintbrushes, and sets of vintage colored pencils. You can still find many of these things for a song at flea markets. The painted cabinet in the background below was a very, very beat-up medicine cabinet that I bought for almost nothing and then painted with wildflowers. It's now a curio cabinet on my work table. Next to that number 40 is a stack of vintage French embroidery-floss cards. I tell you, nothing escapes this magpie's eye.

My bookshelves contain books, of course, but also favorite items, like my miniature Gashlycrumb Tinies lunchbox, which I bought at the Edward Gorey House on Cape Cod. If you have never been to that wonderful little museum dedicated to the late artist's amazing work and collections (he was a magpie, too), I can't recommend it enough!

Last, but not least, a handful of fab buttons. I use them for everything: to top packages, to make jewelry, to glue onto magnets . . . you name it. If I can sew it or tie it or glue it onto something, I will use it!

My workshop is where I go to create, to write, and to work on photos, but most importantly, it's where I go to dream. Most of my best ideas are formed here amid my magpie treasures with the sunlight streaming in through the bamboo blinds. How about you? Where do you go to create and dream? What place inspires you most?

Why I Live Here #2: Autumn Woods

2011-10-25T19:13:00.004-04:00

Tiny Raspberry Tarts

2011-10-15T17:38:00.000-04:00

It strikes me that the title of this post sounds a little like a new doll line for girls that's a cross between Strawberry Shortcake and those horrible Bratz monstrosities with the giant lips, but I promise it has nothing to do with anything so awful. Quite the opposite. I was in need of a little comfort last night, as were a few other folks I know and love, so I made us some very tiny and quick tarts. I thought I'd share the method with you, since they are really, really good to make for kids, and they couldn't be faster.

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees.
Line a large cookie sheet with parchment.
Roll out two crusts'-worth of pie dough. You can use homemade or the Pillsbury pre-made stuff. If you use pre-made, roll it out a tiny bit thinner and use both crusts in the box.
Cut circles in the pastry with a biscuit cutter (or the floured rim of a glass).

Dab a spoonful of seedless jam (those crafty Trappist monks make a good one and it saves me from straining the seeds) in the center of half the rounds. Be generous, but also be sure to keep the jam away from the edges.
Brush a little beaten egg around the edge of each circle to act as glue, then press another circle on top of it.

Crimp the edges of each circle together with a fork or pastry crimper.
Brush the tops with a little egg wash to give them a wonderful golden-glazed finish in the oven.
Make four small slits in the center of each with a sharp knife
Pop them in the oven. I baked mine for eight minutes, turned the sheet, and then baked them for about 6 or 7 more minutes until golden brown on top.

Once they're out of the oven and cooled a bit, you can mix together a few spoonfuls of confectioner's sugar with a tiny splash of milk (regular, almond, soy--whatever you like) and then let the kids drizzle glaze on them with a spoon (or piped through a ziplock baggie with a tiny hole cut in one corner).

Most of them will get eaten straight off the pan, but if there are any left, plate them and enjoy. They are a fabulous alternative to pop tarts, and you can fill them with anything you like: brown sugar and cinnamon, chocolate, lemon curd, apple or pumpkin butter--whatever tastes good and will fit inside the crusts!

Hope you're having a wonderful weekend. It's a perfect fall day here. We spent the morning at a local farm, and tonight's a hayride with the nephews. Life can be so hard, but I am grateful for those small moments of sweetness, and I savor each and every one of them. xo

Why I Live Here #1: Sunrise

2011-10-11T14:46:00.001-04:00

The colors in these shots are not augmented or exaggerated, I promise. Coastal Maine is simply a beautiful place to watch the sun come up. That first shot was taken this morning on the Eastern Promenade in Portland, looking out towards Peaks Island (where we lived in the Fall of 2009). The rest of the shots are of Portland Head Light in Cape Elizabeth. I have lived many, many places, and there's nowhere else that makes me feel the joy that I do when I sit on a big, craggy rock by the sea, watching the sun take its sweet time to rise over Casco Bay.

Crisp

2011-10-08T13:22:00.003-04:00

Have I mentioned that October is my favorite month of the year? Here in Maine it means apple-picking, cider, trees with leaves the color of lit matches, crisp nights of the open-the-window-a-crack-and-pile-on-the-blankets variety, and chilly days of the pack-up-the-picnic-basket-and-dress-warmly-to-share-lunch-by-the-sea (or the pond, or the stream, or on top of the little mountain just up the road) variety.

To be honest, we're having a bit of an Indian Summer this weekend, but that is lovely, too. And it doesn't keep me from baking. So, here's my Apple Crisp recipe. It's one I sort of made up as I went along several years ago. I've tried many varieties of apples for making crisp, but I usually come back to a blend of Granny Smiths for tartness (always, always, always) with Cortlands and/or Macouns for sweetness. I love McIntosh apples for eating, but I never use them for baking, because I like the apples to hold a little of their shape in a crisp, tart, or pie, and McIntoshes simply don't. They turn to applesauce instead. Cortlands and Macouns were bred from the McIntosh crossed with other varieties to make the best of their traits and eliminate some of the mealiness that McIntoshes can have.

Now, I know many folks are very choosy about accompaniments for their apple crisp. Some insist on whipped cream, others like ice cream, and others like caramel sauce and ice cream. I say, to each her own. I don't care for caramel sauce on mine because I like the apple flavor to be the highlight, but I do love a scoop of either vanilla bean or coffee ice cream served alongside the warm crisp. Another fantastic accompaniment, especially if you love combining savory with sweet, is some very sharp cheddar cheese. When I was a girl, my dad would often slide a slice of cheddar under the "lid" of a slice of apple pie. I thought it was a strange thing to do until the first time I tried it, and then I understood. Oh, boy, did I. The same principle applies with apple crisp.

The Magpie's Apple Crisp

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
Butter a 2-quart baking dish
Peel, core and slice about 8 apples (I use 4 Granny Smiths and 4 Cortlands or Macouns to achieve a blend of sweet and tart)
Fill the baking dish with the apples and squeeze the juice of half a lemon over them. Toss to coat the apples with the juice. Set aside.
In a large bowl, toss together:

1/2 cup white flour

1/4 cup wheat flour

1/4 cup old-fashioned oats

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1/2 cup brown sugar

a handful or two (to taste) of chopped pecans

Blend into the topping ingredients with a pastry blender or fingertips:

1/2 cup unsalted butter

Sprinkle the topping over the apples.
Bake at 375 for 50-55 minutes.

NOTE: I jotted this recipe down in 2006 as I went along. It was one of those special recipes that came together like a dream. At the end I wrote: "Serve warm with ice cream. Give Todd extra!" Reading this makes me smile every single time. Enjoy, my friends.

P.S. A special thanks to Maureen Nichols for including my Cinderella pumpkin photo in her post at The Inspiration Studio today!

Taking Stock

2011-10-05T15:26:00.003-04:00

Oh, it has been too long since I posted here from my heart to yours. I could say that I've been busy, which would be true, but that's not the whole reason. Mostly I've been putting all my energy and heart into work, friends, and family, and I've had little left to share on the blog. This has never, ever happened to me before. I hate it! I mean, I love all those other parts of my life, but I've always had room in my life for blogging, no matter how busy I've been. Honestly, I think I've just felt drained. We had company staying with us nearly every weekend over the summer and early fall, which was a joy, but I think I'm coming to the realization that my life is a little out of balance at the moment. Because all of my work involves writing, teaching, and photography, I need loads and loads of alone time, but I haven't had much of that in many months. Maybe it's time for a little autumn re-prioritizing. In fact, I think it's time for a retreat.

So, this morning I decided that I would devote several hours today to giving The Magpie's Fancy a new header and a new overall mood for autumn, my favorite season. As soon as I placed this lovely Cinderella pumpkin on my grandmother's old silver tea tray, I knew I had the image that I'd like to see each time I come here for the next couple of months. I'm usually kind of a stickler about polishing my silver, but in the fall I like a little tarnish. It warms up the metal and goes beautifully with pumpkins, gourds, and leaves. Okay, and I just can't seem to get around to polishing right now!

I haven't quite finished with the blog design redo, but I was anxious to catch up with you and share news about my photography. Several of my photos are now available for commercial use through Getty Images. You can find the link here and on my sidebar under "My Other Nests." I have other news as well, but that can wait for a later post!

In the meantime, I'm excited to begin blogging in earnest again, and to share with you the creative work I've been doing for the past several months. I'm also anxious to come visit you. Thanks for sticking with me even though I've been absent so much. I've been giving much thought to why I began blogging in the first place. I've come to several realizations that I'll be sharing in upcoming posts. Taking stock--that's what autumn is all about for me. More soon. xo

A Very Special Event: Du for a Cause

2011-09-26T14:14:00.001-04:00

Hello, friends! I'm excited to share news about an upcoming event organized by my sister-in-law, Sue Scott. Sue recently started an organization called DU for a Cause. "DU" is short for duathlon--a kids' run, bike, run event--that Sue plans to hold every year to raise money for children in need. This year's DU is being held on October 22nd in Bernardston, Massachusetts.

Sue and her husband Tom live in Western Massachusetts with their four very active kids. She and I chatted this past week about the DU, and I thought I'd spread the word here on The Magpie's Fancy in case there are any local readers with kids who would like to participate, or folks who live far away but would like to donate to DU for a Cause. Read on for my interview with Sue:

Why did you choose to make this annual event a duathlon, and why for kids?

Our kids have been interested in triathlons and duathlons, and we realized there weren't any in our area. To get kids involved in this kind of event is important because it teaches them that they can all help make a difference in a child's life. I wanted my kids to know that they play an important role in other people's lives, and participating in the DU will give them the opportunity to do good things for others.

I know that this year's DU is dedicated to helping Dylan Snow and his family. Can you tell us a little bit about Dylan?

Dylan is a 2-year-old boy who lives in Bernardston, Massachusetts, and he has been at Boston Childrens' Hospital since January 2011. Really, the scary part is that doctors don't know what Dylan has. Many doctors from all around the world have been working on him and his situation.

Dylan Snow

What has the community's response been like to the DU for Dylan so far?

We are starting to get registrations in, and sponsors have been extremely supportive to get this moving. We have a lot of volunteers, and many businesses have donated items for the DU.

Can people contribute to the DU for Dylan if they don't have kids or if they live too far away for their kids to participate?

YES! Donations are very much appreciated. You can make checks payable to Sue Scott, with DU for a Cause in the memo line. Donations can be sent to Sue Scott, 167 West Rd, Bernardston, MA 01337.

What do you envision for the future of DU for a Cause?

My wish is that in the future over 100 children will participate in the DU with the hope that they will know that by running and biking their way through a course they are helping a child in need. I want children to know that they can make a difference in others' lives, not just their parents, but kids can DU IT!!

If you live in the Bernardston, Massachusetts, area and have kids who would like to participate in this year's DU for a Cause, here's more information about the event and how to register:

Date and Time: Saturday, October 22, 2011, at 12:00 noon
Location: Pioneer Valley Regional High School, Northfield, Massachusetts
Registration Fee (includes and T-shirt): By October 11, $10/child, After October 11, $15/child

Age Groups and Distances: Children will run and bike the following distances:
5 and under: run 1/4 mile, bike 1/2 mile, run 1/4 mile
6 & 7: run 1/4 mile, bike 1 mile, run 1/4 mile
8 & 9: run 1/2 mile, bike 1 mile, run 1/2 mile
10 & 11: run 1/2 mile, bike 2 miles, run 1/2 mile
12 & 13: run 3/4 mile, bike 2 1/2 miles, run 3/4 mile
14 and up: run 1 mile, bike 3 miles, run 1 mile

To register, send the entry fee, along with the information below to Sue Scott, 167 West Rd., Bernardston, MA 01337. Registration on the day of the race will begin at 10:30.

Please include this information with your entry fee:
Child's name
Age (on day of race)
Email
Address
Phone Number
Emergency contact name and number during DU
Child's nickname
T-shirt size (CM CL AS AM AL)

For more information, you can contact race organizer Sue Scott at 1-413-522-4980.
You can also like DU for a Cause on FaceBook to help spread the word!

Note to Self

2011-09-13T20:43:00.000-04:00

Just This

2011-09-07T21:55:00.000-04:00

Nothing more--or less--today than these end-of-summer cosmos. On difficult days it can be a feat of the will just to look closely, just to see something well. I'm grateful for these flowers, for having eyes to see them, and for having a heart that knows their worth.

The Blueberry Cake

2011-09-02T01:04:00.000-04:00

A year ago I posted my memere's blueberry crumb cake recipe, and today as I baked what seemed like my 522nd blueberry cake--or at least my 473rd, I thought, "I need to share that recipe again." And later as my husband helped himself to his third piece and declared it his favorite dessert in the world, I thought, "Truly, I need to share that recipe again."

Photos of the cake are lovely and all, but they do not do it justice. You simply need to try the recipe for yourself.

The only thing I will add is that I often make it with buttermilk instead of soured milk, as I did today, and I love it that way, too. If you can get wild Maine blueberries, they are the best for this recipe because they are small and sweet and more complexly flavored, but regular high-bush berries are fine, too.

I can't think of a better end-of-summer treat than this simple, lovely cake. I especially like it with a cup of Earl Grey tea, and I have never in my life stopped at one piece. In fact, I've never seen anyone eat just one piece of this. My memere was a fine baker, indeed.

Special thanks for all the wonderful recent comments, and welcome to new followers and subscribers! I haven't been able to visit your blogs as often as I like recently because of my writing schedule, but I look forward to catching up with you soon. In the meantime, have a beautiful weekend, my friends!

Wild

2011-08-31T12:34:00.000-04:00

Summers when I was a girl I'd travel in an ocean liner with my mother and sister to visit my mother's parents in the tiny village of Beaver River, Nova Scotia. The ship was grand for such a humble destination, but over the years I grew accustomed to the many decks, the slot machines, and the lounges with polished brass railings to grab onto when the seas began to roll, something that happened often in the tempestuous Bay of Fundy.

My favorite childhood books always had a portal of sorts that led to a magical place: the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland, the hidden door in The Secret Garden, the wardrobe in the Narnia books. Looking back, I realize that on those voyages the sea itself was my portal. We booked a passage through its waves, carried our bags up the gangway under the light of the moon and stars, and then spent ten-hours tossing and turning, cradled in the great vessel's hull.

And when we arrived on the other side of the bay--the other side of the world as I knew it--there was the confusion of customs, the hugs and exclamations about how much we'd grown from my grandparents, and then what felt like a long drive down a road that hugged the coast--the Evangeline Trail in fact. The destination was a little white farmhouse with a steep-pitched roof in front in the traditional Nova Scotian style. Here's what I loved most about visits to that house:

the wood stove in the kitchen where my grandfather cooked pancakes, the smell of which pulled us out of bed before our eyes were even open;
the dark anadama bread made by a woman down the road--we had it with nearly every meal, but my favorite way to eat it was sliced thick and smeared with butter and homemade raspberry jam;
the grand old barn behind the house jam-packed with antiques and treasures;
the fire pond beside the driveway, surrounded in summer by thousands of purple lupine sentinels;
the old washing machine with the crank handle we turned to wring out the clothes before hanging them on the line to dry;
the acres of fields and forest, and the sound of the ocean's roar muffled only by the mounds of sea-swept stones piled on the beach.

The one thing I loved the very best, though, was the short dirt road to the beach. The air there smelled like salt and hay and scrub pines. The pebbly road satisfied a child's need to make noise with each footstep, counting out the rhythm of our pace as we walked, singing all the summery songs we'd learned on 45's by the Carpenters, John Denver, and Carly Simon.

And then there were the wildflowers. The road was edged with every kind I knew: Queen Anne's lace, wild sweet peas, rugosa roses, daisies, Indian paintbrushes, lupine, black-eyed Susans, clovers, and buttercups. There were many I didn't know, too, and for those I invented names like curly purples, whiz-bangers, and tiny starlights. Every afternoon on our way back to the farmhouse, my sister and I picked armfuls of wildflowers to bring to my mother and grandmother who helped us fill vases and pitchers and jelly jars with flowers for the whole house.

I seldom have the chance to pick wildflowers anymore--at least not in such great abundance. I always steal a few roadside Queen Anne's lace each year or a handful of rugosas, but nothing can match the wild and sweet excess of those childhood bouquets.

I had a taste of that memory yesterday at Jordan's Farm in Cape Elizabeth, where you can pick a large bunch of farm flowers for $4. They may not be wild, but the feeling of having hundreds of blooms to choose from, the butterflies and bees whirling around me as I cut the stems--it was its own portal of sorts. I felt that if I just kept walking down that row of black-eyed Susans, I might end up on a dirt road in a place on the other side of the world I as I know it, my arms full of blossoms, my heart and mind full of people long since gone.

Irene

2011-08-30T17:47:00.000-04:00

Thinking today about our neighbors in New Hampshire and Vermont--and others up and down the Eastern Seaboard--who were hit much harder by Irene than expected. Here in Portland, Maine, it was windy and rainy, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. As the storm hit, we went for breakfast at Becky's Diner down on the waterfront, along with loads of other locals, then checked out area lighthouses and landings in Cape Elizabeth, Portland, and Falmouth. For as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow put it, "The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain."

Sending best wishes to those recovering after the storm.

The Journey Back to Quebec: Part II, How to Recover Four Years of Forgotten High-School French in Four Days

2011-08-28T18:53:00.001-04:00

My last post ended with Monsieur Magpie and me hightailing it for the Canadian border, singing, "We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout. We been talkin' 'bout Jackman ever since the fire went out . . ." at the top of our lungs. Once we'd made it over the border though, the singing stopped and the serious practice began. One of the many painful truths we have accepted after twenty years together is that our combined knowledge of the French language puts us at about the level of a five-year-old native speaker. This isn't such a good thing when one considers that between us we have studied eight years of high-school French.

Interestingly, too, we each have very different sets of skills. Todd knows his verbs--how to conjugate, how to use tenses, how to string them together to show actions that happened yesterday or that might happen tomorrow. I, on the other hand, have managed to maintain a large store of nouns and other vocabulary words in the old metal file drawers of my brain. I can tell you that la bougie means the candle (or the spark plug), but I can't quickly tell you to blow la bougie out before it catches the curtains on fire. Needless to say, after two decades of studying, teaching, and making a living as a writer, I know which tools are most important to have at one's disposal when communicating. It's easy to look up a noun in a dictionary, but the ability to craft a sentence that makes sense is not so simple. Todd is thus a much faster and more fluent French speaker than I am. I, with my brain for minutiae and lists, fumble along, spouting nouns and colorful adjectives, and gesticulating wildly. I do sprinkle in a verb or two from time to time, but my sentences lack any sophistication.

So, what to do about this problem?

For us the answer was--and is--simple. Dive right in and talk. So talk we did. We had conversations both long and short with locals everywhere we went, and we found that every single person we met was more than happy to talk with us. Armed with a pocket dictionary and a book of common phrases, we spoke as much French as we possibly could. We also asked countless questions about words, expressions, and turns of phrase.

I found that the more I spoke, the more I wanted to speak . . . and to listen. Whether discussing medieval illuminations with the owner of one of the best pen shops I've ever visited, Quebec politics with a fantastic graphic artist, or great local neighborhoods with a man we met on the street, I loved listening and discovering new nuances of this beautiful language along the way. By our fourth and last night there, we didn't need to resort to any English when we chatted with our waitress at Chez Victor (the best burger place ever, including veggie burgers). It sounds silly to be excited about speaking very basic French at a restaurant, but the fact that she didn't automatically switch to English as soon as she heard our American accents was heartening for us. Many folks will politely shift over to English if they know that French is hard for you, but we learned that if we asked them to use French with us, most people were happy to help us stumble along.

As an American who loves talking with people visiting my country, it was a thrill to meet so many like-minded folks in Quebec. It was also a thrill to think so hard every day that my head hurt. Even when Todd and I were just talking to each other, we tried to speak in French as much as possible. Now that we're back in the U.S. we're still at it, messing around with sentences and looking up words.

I kick myself for being such a lousy student all those years ago in high school. I couldn't be bothered to learn the language of my own heritage, my father's first language, and one that carries me back to some of the best memories of my childhood. The motto of Quebec province, which can be found over the main entrance to the Parliament building and on every Quebec license plate, is something one can't help but feel, especially within the stone walls of Vieux Quebec. Je me souviens. The French may have lost to the English on les Plaines d'Abraham in 1759, but this is a deeply French place. It endures. Et quand je suis à Québec, je me souviens aussi.

The Journey Back to Quebec: Part I, Go on Up to Jackman

2011-08-23T18:59:00.000-04:00

Bonjour, mes amis! I'm sorry I have been away for so long--from my own blog and from yours, too. This is the longest blogging break I have ever taken. It wasn't expected, but it was necessary. Summer swept me away this year with weekly visitors at our home in Portland, lots of work, and then, at last, a long-awaited journey to Quebec City avec Monsieur Magpie.

We are lucky here in Maine that Quebec is our neighbor to the Northwest. This means we have a little taste of Europe just a short drive away. Still, it had been many years since either Todd or I had been to Quebec City. In fact, neither of us had been there since we were children. We suspect that perhaps we both visited during the same summer back in the 1970's. Maybe we passed each other on the same street, no? A romantic thought, and one I choose to believe.

This year it just felt right to both of us that we make a pilgrimage there to celebrate our 17th wedding anniversary, summer, childhood memories, and life in general. My heritage on my father's side is French Canadian, and Quebec City is the place where my own parents spent their honeymoon 50 years ago this summer, so what better place to visit? And what better time to do it?

When I was a girl, my parents packed us kids into the back of the faux-wood-paneled station wagon, and we headed up to Canada during a heat wave. Back in those days nobody in our part of the world had air conditioning in their cars, so it was a sticky, grumbling trip through logging towns and the low mountains of the Kennebec River watershed. Moose country. Lumber country. The maple-sap and pine-scented world of my roots.

Then we hit Jackman, Maine, the last real town before the Canadian border, and even my eight-year-old self knew we were at the edge of anything familiar. Border towns tend to be edgy in more ways than one, and Jackman didn't disappoint with its diners, roadhouses, and ramshackle motels.

And all these decades later, Jackman feels nearly the same. I won't lie. For me it possesses a slightly ominous air that was only enhanced on this trip by the fact that when I walked over to take photos of the abandoned train station, a young man pulled up next to the station and stared at me from his car. He just sat there in the empty lot, watching me, one finger tapping the steering wheel. I edged as far away from his car as I could as I made my way back to the convenience store where we'd parked, but he never took his eyes off me. It wasn't until I met back up with Todd at our car that the creepy guy finally drove away. This, coupled with the motel in Jackman that doubles as a place for all your taxidermy needs, lent our fifteen minutes there a distinct Hitchcockian flavor.

Once we were on our way, though, our temporary case of the heebee-jeebees disappeared as we sang songs about Jackman to the tune of the Johnny Cash/June Carter Cash song "Jackson," dove back into practicing our French, and tossed around possible plans for our stay in Quebec. Other than our B&B reservations, we had no firm itinerary, for Mr. Magpie and I are avid travelers, but not very good tourists. What I mean is that we bristle at itineraries and pamphlets listing the requisite "attractions," preferring to stumble upon wonderful surprises as we go and to strike up conversations with locals and fellow travelers alike. Quebec, we would discover, is one of the best places in North America to do just that.

Next Installment: Part II, How to Recover Four Years of Forgotten High-School French in Four Days

Anniversary Pavlova

2011-08-07T10:17:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, Mr. Magpie and I celebrated our seventeenth wedding anniversary with a stroll through the farmers' market in Deering Oaks and an afternoon of cooking together. It seemed only right since on that very day seventeen years before we cooked all the food for our own wedding. Well, it took more than a day--and lots of help from friends and family--but we did, indeed, cater our own wedding. And my Aunt Jan did our flowers, and my uncles took our photographs, and loads of people we love lent their talents to making it an extraordinary day.

So last night it was a joy to cook for my mother and sister and our nephews. At the center of the meal was a steaming, heaping bowl of mussels cooked in white wine and olive oil with garlic, hot pepper flakes, and a handful of chopped parsley. And of course there was plenty of bread for dipping in the broth.

Dessert was a pavlova--one of my very favorites: chocolate and raspberry. The recipe is a Nigella Lawson one, and it couldn't be easier. If you can't eat wheat, this is a perfect recipe for you, as a pavlova is essentially a giant meringue with cream and fruit on top. It's not a dry, chalky meringue, but a wonderfully chewy one with lovely, bittersweet chocolate bits folded in. I topped the whole thing with edible flowers from the farmers' market. If you're worried that your kids might not like it, I can tell you that my nephews ate two helpings each, ignoring all silverware in the process.

I want to say something wise and profound about marriage to close this post, but when I look back over the past seventeen years, I feel neither wise nor profound, just fortunate. My husband is funny and smart and kind, and we both have one very important trait in common: curiosity. Whatever else is difficult or challenging or stressful, we hold onto this tenaciously. It makes every day new and makes the best of our dreams possible.

Almost Sunset

2011-08-03T11:54:00.000-04:00

I shot these at the community gardens at Gilsland Farm the other night. The sun was sinking and the gardens were awash in golden light.

Much to report here, but I'm off to meet an old friend for lunch, so I'll check back in soon with news, recipes, and musings. I hope you're having a creative and rewarding week. I've become a little addicted to Pinterest. Anyone else? If so, please let me know, so I can follow your pin boards!

xoxo Gigi

What to Save

2011-07-29T23:08:00.000-04:00

The photos in this post are ones I took more than a year ago, but I've just gotten around to processing them tonight. They are of peonies and sea thistle on the windowsill of our old loft. When I look at them now, I vaguely remember the day I photographed these. It was nearing sunset. I was sad, so I'd bought myself flowers, and I snapped shot after shot of them as the sun slid down behind the old brick mill across the canal.

I have blocked much of that spring from my memory, I realize now as I skim through old photographs. It hasn't been a purposeful forgetting, just a failure to remember, a failure to hold on. I let whole days fall away, sloughing off the calendar like dead skin.

Memory and time feel different to me now. I gather up moments, days, and press them to my face like blossoms. When they finally fall from the stem of my weeks, I scoop them into bowls and jars and drawers to save, letting their scent linger.

Let the sun slip from the sky. Let night's heavy lid close over my dreams. I remember all that I need, all that is good, all that my heart can hold.

London Memories: Pretty in Pink

2011-07-25T18:33:00.000-04:00

At Broadwick Silks

Mr. Magpie is a British Literature scholar who focuses on the Modernist Period. That means many things: he owns a lot of books, he writes a lot of books, he knows a thing or two about the Bloomsbury Group (especially Lytton Strachey), he racks up many hours in archives working on his library tan, and, of course, he's wicked smart.

At St Luke's in Chelsea

Fortunately for me, it also means he has to travel to England every year or two for research, and I get to tag along. While he's holed away in the British Library or the BBC archives, diligently transcribing manuscripts, I'm usually off gallivanting about London, soaking up every bit of the city I can, from Bloomsbury to Borough Market and beyond.

Looking up in the rose garden at St Paul's Cathedral

This year, though, we won't be making a trek to London. We've got too much on our plates already, so the next trip will have to wait another year. In the meantime I'm missing it something fierce.

At Spitalfields Market

And so, this past weekend my longing led me to dig back through photos from our last stay. As I dug, I discovered a plethora of pinks. I'd never realized just how much pink I'd managed to capture on that trip. There it was in everything from the pink-netted fabric at Broadwick Silks in Soho (see top photo) to the lush heirloom roses at St Luke's in Chelsea (second photo) and the stunning St Paul's Cathedral in the center of London. And again I spotted it in the handmade shawls in the stalls at Spitalfields Market on a Sunday morning.

Snog Frozen Yogurt, Soho

Even at night, hot pink shimmered in shop windows on that trip, whether I fancied a Snog . . .

or a velveteen-flocked chandelier. Note: I said yes to the snog, but no to the light. Can't quite picture it in my house!

Portobello Road

And then there's Notting Hill's Portobello Road on a Saturday morning in August. Even though the shot above isn't entirely pink, something about all those girls shopping for vintage bling screams pink, pink, pinkity-pink to me.

Who can resist the pastel homes in Notting Hill? My favorite facades are those painted unabashedly Neopolitan-pink.

But always, I come back to the roses. London has heaps of them in gardens and shops and hidden spots. Here are a few for sale at Borough Market. If you've never been to this Market, you must go. It truly is one of my favorite places on Earth. Buy yourself some lunch late on a Saturday morning: a loaf of bread, some cheese from Neal's Yard Dairy, some gorgeous fruit, and a cup of incredible coffee from Monmouth Coffee Co. And don't forget to buy yourself a rose. Then sit by the Thames with your delicious treasures and your gorgeous pink bloom, watching the river flow.

I think I'll do just this on my next London visit. Maybe I'll even coax Mr. Magpie from his dusty archives long enough to join me. If so, I'll give him a dark pink rose of his very own.

Breakfast and Other Pleasures

2011-07-19T11:51:00.002-04:00

Breakfast this morning was a plate of cherries, a bowl of museli and yogurt, and a cup of pomegranate green tea. I ate the cereal with a big, old silver spoon--too big for my mouth--and relished every bit. Some mornings are like that; I'm just hungry and happy to be sitting at the table, the cats climbing on counters and in cupboards and all sorts of other places they shouldn't, the seagulls causing a ruckus outside my window, and an electric fan aimed directly at the back of my neck, whizzing merrily away.

I am having the best summer I can remember since I was maybe a little kid. Nothing is certain, nothing is going particularly smoothly, several things are lousy . . . but there are beaches to walk, greasy slices of pizza to inhale, concerts in the park to enjoy, and friends and family with whom to enjoy them.

At night I dream of a house and hydrangeas and lemonade on a fine, broad porch, but mornings are about the here and now, about breaking a sweat and getting work done. And I relish it all.

If life isn't a bowl of cherries, then maybe it's a plate of them--a pretty plate, its glaze crazed and worn, but all the more lovely for being useful.

On Fear, Trust, and What Makes a Home

2011-07-10T15:49:00.001-04:00

I turned around today and saw the past year slipping off into the distance. Last year at this time we had just signed the lease on our apartment in Portland and we were preparing to rent out the loft we own down in Massachusetts so we could move up here. We were emerging from a very difficult and dark time in our lives and finally making a move that we'd longed for for years. It wasn't ideal; the current housing market meant we couldn't simply sell and make a clean break. On the other hand, we were moving to our favorite city. That was more important than buying a dream home, especially after the battles we'd been fighting in a place that felt very, very unhappy to us.

Suddenly it's a wonderfully full year later and I feel a little frazzled, a little edgy, a little on the verge, if you know what I mean. We've just rented out our old loft to new tenants for another year, which means another year of not selling it, which in turn means that we won't be buying another home this year. As much as I'd like to settle in and put down roots in a permanent home in this city we love so much, I'm trying to tell myself that I'm okay right where I am for the moment. We're here and we have a roof over our heads, and the city is our oyster. I'm grateful for all these things, but I will admit that the renting thing is getting a little old. Renting when I was twenty was great--and even when I was thirty during grad school. But now that I've owned two homes of my own and I'm nowhere close to thirty, renting doesn't sit so well with me anymore.

I want to paint my walls any damn color I please again. I want to design--at last--the kitchen of my dreams. And most of all, I want to create another garden. For now I dig around in my mother's gardens and grow herbs on my porch, but I am an obsessive gardener so this never seems to be enough (why am I obsessive about everything I love? Are you this way, too?). I can deal with the drunk guys who sleep on our back steps (ah, urban living)--or sometimes even our front steps--but I want to plot and plant and putter among the weeds again.

Don't get me wrong, this is a rockin' apartment, but it's an apartment, and it's not ours.

I'm trying to be more positive about the situation. We have ocean breezes. We have a huge kitchen and hardwood floors. We have loads of sunlight and pretty rooms. Our neighborhood is bursting with book shops, coffee shops, galleries, and restaurants. Oh, my goodness, I am lucky, lucky, lucky.

And I will share a marvelous secret about our apartment with you. If you live near the water here, you have the privilege of witnessing the seagulls raising their babies on the rooftops of Portland. If you simply look up anywhere on the East End, you'll see mamas, papas, and baby gulls on the rooftops where they nest each summer.

This is our second summer here, and thus we are getting to know our second baby gull. He spends a lot of time looking in our kitchen window, practicing his squawking (which sounds more like squeaking at this point), and following his mama back and forth across the roof next door.

As sweet as this is to watch, it is not without its terrifying moments. Baby gulls are not exactly sure of foot, and that roof is quite steep. There have been many near misses. Last year we became very attached to the little gull who lived next door, and then he was attacked and killed one hot afternoon by an osprey. It was a very good day for the osprey, but a terrible day in all other respects. The gull parents are so attentive and caring, that it was heartbreaking to us. I keep wondering this summer if these are the same parents back to give it another try on this same rooftop.

And that's just it I realize. We lost so much a year ago. I lost a job and many friends. I also lost all confidence in myself. Truly. All of it. I felt utterly alone and desolate. This has been a year of trying again. And again. Much good has come of it. I still feel the losses daily, but I make myself try harder. It's an old cliche about picking yourself up and dusting yourself off, but cliches are born from truths worth repeating.

This rented apartment has sheltered us while we've reinvented our lives. In my heart that makes it the best of homes. And when I feel afraid of failing again, which I do almost daily, I look out the kitchen window. There's that flightless (for the moment) bird, making its way across the roofline, guided by its mother, but trusting in its own two feet.

Summertime Suppertimes II

2011-06-30T12:07:00.000-04:00

Menu

Fresh Pea & Watercress Salad with Lemon Vinaigrette

Whole Wheat Pasta Tossed with Lemon, Olive Oil, and Parmesan

Cod Cheeks Fried in Olive Oil

Fresh Pita

Strawberry Shortcake

What do I love best about summer? Maybe it's fresh local vegetables and fruit. No, not maybe. Definitely. I took some of these photos as soon as I came home from the Portland Farmers' Market yesterday. The peas are in--and they are gorgeous. Dinner had to feature them, along with local radishes, watercress, scallions . . . and so much more.

And so a salad was in order. First, the vinaigrette. When I know we'll be eating the whole salad in one sitting, I usually make my dressing right in the bowl. I always use the same cracked, well-loved, wooden bowl. This recipe is for a large salad for two or side salads for three or four.

First, I smash a garlic clove and rub it all over the inside of the bowl. I set the clove aside and save it to chop up for another dish.

Next, I squeeze in the juice of half a lemon. To that I add 2-3 tablespoons of really fruity extra virgin olive oil. I love Aria for salads. It's a Greek oil that's fruity and just a little grassy. It goes well with lemons. Then I spoon in a teaspoon or so of dijon mustard and a half teaspoon of raw honey.

Season with sea salt and fresh cracked pepper, then whisk.

The result is a creamy, tangy, and slightly sweet dressing. If you always use the same wooden bowl for your salads, and you rub it with garlic each time you make dressing (rather than adding minced garlic), you will get incredible depth of flavor in all your dressings. I make many kinds of dressing, but this lemony one is my favorite in summer. To it, you can add any herbs you like as well. I tend to leave my fresh herbs in large pieces and I toss them right in with the salad.

So, on top of the dressing I added lots of watercress, a few handfuls of quickly blanched peas (I blanch them for about a minute then shock them with ice water to stop the cooking), thinly sliced radishes, roughly chopped mint and basil, a chopped scallion, and some shaved parmigiano reggiano.

Finally, I toss the whole thing to coat. Confession: when it's just Mr. Magpie and me, we share it straight out of the bowl. Who needs plates?

And last night we dipped in our dressing the most amazing pita bread I've ever eaten. Just look at those pillows of floury goodness! They are made by a local Portland baker, Ariel's Hummus, so if you live in Maine and want some incredible pita and hummus, stop by their table at the Wednesday market in Monument Square.

Along with the salad and pita, I floured some cod cheeks and fried them in olive oil (not extra virgin, just ordinary cooking olive oil). I kept them simple, just seasoning them with salt and pepper and squeezing a little lemon over them at the end. I know it sounds weird to eat cod cheeks, but I promise you that they are delicious, tender, and flaky. About the size of scallops, they have a very mild flavor that won't smell or taste "fishy," even to people who are a little afraid of seafood. You can get them at any good fish market. I buy mine at Harbor Fish Market.

Last, but definitely not least, we had the quintessential summer dessert: strawberry shortcake. For me, this means the strawberries go on top of biscuits--not cake, not sweet biscuits. Just buttermilk biscuits. And I have to whip my own cream with a little sugar and vanilla. No cream from a spray can. I'm a ~~control freak~~ purist.

These strawberries came from Jordan's Farm in Cape Elizabeth. That place is a little piece of heaven.

Speaking of heaven, we've got more strawberries in the kitchen, so I'm off to eat some straight from the bowl. Wishing my American friends a Happy Fourth of July weekend! We have a houseful of nieces and nephews coming. There will be baseball, two sets of fireworks, the beach, and, I'm sure, many, many practical jokes. Should be a blast--literally and figuratively. Hope you have a happy, safe holiday.

xo Gigi

Summertime Suppertimes

2011-06-26T08:28:00.001-04:00

The picture above is of one small corner in our kitchen amid the wonderfully floury mess of pizza night. Note that none of the lines in the photo appear to be plumb. That is because we live in a very old former rectory, and nothing in this house is plumb! I like to think that it adds character. :) Included in the shot are a couple of random peaches awaiting their role in another meal, a bowl of cherry tomatoes, one of my Nigella cookbooks, my beloved mixer, and the "Frozen Foods" sign from my father's old grocery store. When I was a girl, my father managed a downtown supermarket (remember those?), and this is one of the signs that marked the aisles. An employee saved the signs after they'd been taken down and replaced during a store renovation. A few years after my father passed away, that same employee gave the signs to my mother, who shared them with us kids. I have cherished my "Frozen Foods" sign ever since. It reminds me of some very happy times at my dad's store; it also reminds me of the days when small, local grocery stores were the norm rather than the exception.

Central to my childhood--and to my life ever since--were home-cooked meals. Both of my parents were wonderful cooks. We ate good, healthy meals around the dining table together nearly every night of the week. Mr. Magpie's mom is also a wonderful cook, and they also ate from-scratch meals around the table as a family. Mr. Magpie and I don't have kids, but we love to cook, and we still sit down to our meals together. When people talk about the challenges of married life, I often think that if more couples cooked meals together there would be more happy marriages. Cooking is relaxing and sensual. Working with all those gorgeous colors, textures, tastes, and aromas is like giving yourself--and your partner--a beautiful gift.

I used to cook professionally, and my tendency is to be very bossy in the kitchen, but there is one thing that I leave entirely in the very capable hands of my husband: pizza. The man makes gorgeous, crispy, flavorful, thin-crust pizza. That's a shot of one of his pies above. He makes his own dough and his own sauce. This sauce is a simple one with a little garlic, some fresh herbs, olive oil, San Marzano tomatoes, a pinch of turbinado sugar to cut the acid, and salt & pepper. The toppings are olives, vidalia onions, and red peppers, topped with mozzarella and parmigiano reggiano.

My contribution to the meal that night was a salad--but not just any salad. This one comes from Nigella Lawson's Endless Summer, and it's a watermelon salad with feta, black olives, and lime-marinated red onions. It is my current favorite. If you try it, I have a feeling it will be yours, too. You can find the recipe here. Oh, and it calls for mint, and I used orange mint from my porch herb garden. Heavenly.

We've been cooking up a storm around here lately, so I'll be sharing more summertime suppers with you soon!

Summer Solstice: The Promise

2011-06-21T17:01:00.001-04:00

I promised you peonies. Here, at last, are but a few of the thousands unfolding their hearts at Gilsland Farm right this very moment. You'll notice that while many are planted and carefully kept in the gardens, others are allowed to grow among the wildflowers in the fields. I love them grown both ways.

Tucked in with the photos I've included a few translated haiku about peonies. Wishing my friends in the Northern Hemisphere a Happy Summer Solstice. I'm off to climb a mountain now. A little one, but a mountain nonetheless.

My rice bowl

filled to the brim

one peony

~Buson

My hut garden

is narrowed by

blooming peonies

~Nabuti Sato

"The peony is this big!"--

the child's arms

outstretched.

~Issa

In the stillness

between the arrival of guests--

the peony.

~Buson

I See the Moon (in Everything): My Obsession

2011-06-16T05:06:00.001-04:00

Ember Grove

As Mr. Magpie and I were leaving the house last night for our evening walk around the neighborhood, I said, quite casually, "I think I'll bring my camera." This, of course, is a little like a scuba diver saying, "I think I'll bring my oxygen tank," a fact I realized even as I was uttering the words, and which was confirmed by my husband's uncontrolled laughter. Many of you know what I'm talking about. Our husbands, friends, and families have come to accept that dinner won't be served until each dish has been photographed in just the right light with steam rising tantalizingly from the pasta/potatoes/risotto. They know that any visit to a new restaurant will require shots of the decor, the specials board, the entrees, and the creme brulee. They no longer bat an eye when we haul out our cameras at greenhouses, antiques shops, used bookstores, and, the big one . . . cafes--for who among us can resist snapping a foamy latte on a granite counter with a pretty heart fashioned from the milk froth?

Angela Adams

I'll come out and say it: I am an addict. I'm hooked on the click, the frame, the snap, and shutter. I'm hooked on light and color and control. That's right, control. I decide what to leave in, what to leave out. I decide how bright or dim, how focused, how blurred, how washed out or saturated with color. Most of all, I'm hooked on remembering moments--flashes of perception and thought and feeling. A photo brings back smells and sounds and emotions. It brings back physical sensations: the feel of cobblestones beneath my feet, the salt breeze coming in off the bay.

Squid and Whale Tattoo

Last night, as we made the long loop up the hill and around our neighborhood, Mr. Magpie waited patiently while I snapped pictures as if our little world would disappear tomorrow. The thing is, for me it would. At least this version of it would, this twilit June night under a full moon when the air felt soft and still warm from the day. The streets were quiet. Nearly everyone was inside watching the Bruins beat the Canucks for the Stanley Cup. As I framed a shot of the moon rising over our park on the bay, joyous shouts rose up and tumbled out the open windows of one of the old Victorians on the Prom. The Bruins scored their first goal of the night just as I took the shot below.

By the time we made it home, I had taken 86 photographs. Just like that. Nearly half were of the moon. But then, as I looked through the shots, I began to see the moon in all of them; circles emerged, full moons and half moons and silvery crescents. I realized then another reason I'm obsessed with photography: patterns. This fascination also lends itself to my love of writing and of art in general. I love patterns--the ones I see in a field of daisies, in a well-wrought poem, or in a lovingly designed room.

Add caption

And so, it was there in the O's of a favorite restaurant's sign--the moon was in the spoon--

and soon, I found it in the patterns of windows . . .

Laura Fuller Glass

in the spectacles (or lunettes as in lune, as in moon) in a favorite studio

in the creamy white of a bloom . . .

Willa Wirth

in the display and sign of an amazing jeweler . . .

Otto Pizza

in the pies at a beloved hangout . . .

and strung on a line behind a neighbor's place.

The moon was everywhere at once, and it was up to me to find it. And that's just it. Camera in hand, I am both treasure-seeker and archivist. And the treasure usually lies where I least expect it--in a mood or a color or shape . . . or something else I didn't see at all until I peered through the lens.

Blossoms and Rain

2011-06-13T02:30:00.000-04:00

It's worth soaking one's new sneakers in the wet grass to get shots of these flowers after a storm, and with a brand new lens no less. And then there are the groundhogs, wild turkeys, redwing blackbirds, American bluebirds, goldfinches, swallows, chipmunks, squirrels, frogs, and various other beasties to meet.

All this after a beautiful weekend of friends and family. Life is good. Yes, indeed.

This last shot is of just one of the many, many peony beds I've been promising. I'll share them this week! A few plants are already blooming, and the rest are coming soon. What a show, and what a tease I am.

I hope you all had a beautiful weekend. I have been completely swamped with writing work, but I am making my way slowly around the blog world once more and am looking forward to seeing you soon.

In the meantime, if you are craving a writing exercise or two, fly on over to my writing blog, The Magpie's Pen, where I offer an exercise every Friday.

Wishing you a week of curiosity and adventure . . .

Promises, Promises

2011-06-07T23:21:00.000-04:00

So, I know I promised photos of the hundreds of peonies at Gilsland Farm, and they will be coming soon. They haven't quite bloomed yet, but in the meantime, here are a few lovelies tucked into an ironstone pitcher in my kitchen. I processed them using Kim Klassen's "Just Cause" and "Subtly Yours" textures.

We have been enjoying the most perfect of days lately: warm, but not hot, with dry air and clear skies. It will end soon, this dreamy spell, but in the meantime there's that optimism to cherish. Tonight as we sat in the stands at a Portland Sea Dogs game, I got the kind of goosebumps you only get at the ballpark or when you watch a baseball movie, like Bull Durham, which I've seen more times than is probably healthy--maybe 108--just as many times as there are stitches in a baseball or beads in a rosary. Oh my, that opening, when Susan Sarandon walks to the ballpark, climbs the stairs, and steps into the heart of the stadium, and her dreamy voice drawls, "It's a long season and you gotta trust. I've tried 'em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball."

Baseball feels to me inseparable from summer. Sure, it begins in spring and ends in fall, but its soul is rooted in summer, that season of promises--the promise of long days stretching out into impossibly long weeks, the promise of ten more minutes at the pool, five more minutes on the ferris wheel, three more seconds of a very first kiss. Never mind that when it ends we'll wonder where it went so fast. For now, summer feels endless, and that is enough.

Saturday Supper with People You Love

2011-06-06T15:44:00.000-04:00

Is there anything better than spending a Saturday morning at the farmers' market? The only thing I can think of that equals it in joy is cooking supper later that day with people you love. Mr. Magpie's sister and her husband stayed with us over the weekend, and we did just that. There was much shopping for ingredients at the farmers' market, the fish market, and the Italian market, then later on after a full day of adventuring, much cooking in a sunlit kitchen.

We made several dishes: gnocchi with aglio olio and fresh herbs, steamed fiddleheads, chicken thighs cooked in olive oil with rosemary, shrimp grilled with garlic and chiles, salad with homemade balsamic dressing, and more. But one of my favorite things we made is one of the simplest. For an appetizer, and to smear on fresh-baked luna bread from Micucci's, we made radish butter. All you need to make it is good, unsalted butter and some fresh, organic radishes. Finely mince the radishes and then mix them into the softened butter. Serve it in a cute dish (I used an espresso cup) along with great bread and crackers or raw veggies. I sprinkle it with sea salt and fresh-cracked pepper (and a few snips of chives). It's sweet and peppery and creamy . . . all with a radish-y bite that I love!

The gnocchi were soft and slightly chewy, with lots of parmigiano reggiano and fresh basil. Heaven.

For desert, we macerated raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries in local honey and served it over meringue cups with a drizzle of dark chocolate and a small scoop of coffee ice cream. Summer in a bowl!

It was a memorable meal, but the best part was cooking it with people we love, and knowing there will be many more meals like this one to share.

Opening My Eyes

2011-06-03T21:02:00.000-04:00

One way to open your eyes is to ask yourself,

"What if I had never seen this before?

What if I knew I would never see it again?"

~Rachel Carson

A Sense of Place

2011-05-31T09:11:00.000-04:00

The scent of lilacs and the sight of thousands of buttercups sprinkled across a field are so deeply associated with childhood for me that I forget my grown-up self entirely when I encounter them. Toss in a lily pond teeming with plump pollywogs, and I'm a goner.

Wild turkeys, on the other hand, are something I never saw as a child. These days I see them quite often. I suppose this has something to do with how much of their habitat humans have stolen with our never-ending sprawl of Tim Horton's and Targets. Or maybe there are more of them now than there were 30 years ago. That's a lovely thought. Does anyone know if it's true?

I am lucky. I live in a port city that is small enough to feel neighborly, yet large enough to be cosmopolitan. And best of all, it is sprinkled within and around its borders by fields, ponds, rivers, and marshes. I've shown you Gilsland Farm before, and here it is again in these photos. The home of the Maine Audubon Society, this place is simply stunning. If you visit Portland and love bird watching or just taking walks in a peaceful place, you can drive or bike two miles north of the city center, and suddenly you are in the middle of fields bordering an estuary and home to loads of wildlife, from turkeys to hawks to bullfrogs to osprey. Oh, and don't forget the groundhogs!

In a few days I will have a treat to share when the hundreds and hundreds of peonies bloom at Gilsland. For what's a blog in late spring without photos of peonies, right? In the meantime, I want to thank everyone who wrote kind comments and emails in response to my last post. I was feeling more than a little shaky. You all are a boost to a girl's spirits. Thank you for your generosity and friendship . . . and welcome to new readers and followers.

Requisite springtime-blogging photos of peonies coming soon!

Far Away

2011-05-26T11:48:00.000-04:00

This post is a blend of explanation and apology for being so absent from blogging lately. The sad truth is that it won't be very good at either explaining or apologizing, because I don't have much time this morning to write it. While I've been feebly managing to cobble together a weekly post each for The Magpie's Fancy and The Magpie's Pen, I've barely been around to visit my favorite blogs in over a month. Please believe me when I say I miss all your beauty and brilliance! And please forgive me for missing your posts. In addition to my regular freelance work, I'm in the middle of a rather all-consuming, collaborative writing project, and while it's wonderful, it leaves me little time or psychic energy for other writing or even for taking and processing photos.

The shot above is of a centerpiece at the wedding of two good friends of ours this past weekend. The bride's parents are from India, and they had a traditional Hindu ceremony, which I loved, especially since the priest explained to us what was happening and why at each step. And the attire! So many beautiful saris in every glittering jewel color imaginable! My friend's sari was ivory with deep red and gold accents. She was stunning. The day after the wedding we watched our youngest niece compete in her first triathlon. She's eight, and it was a thrill to watch her finish the race, exhausted, but still smiling, just as she nearly always does. What a weekend of milestones and celebrations.

I'm anxious to catch up with all that has been going on in your life, too. Please tell me that you have crazy times like this, too! When things calm down I will drop by to visit you and marvel at your latest creative work.

Before I sign off for today, I thought I'd share with you a poem. I was asked to give a reading at the wedding reception, and I chose this one by Jeffrey McDaniel. It is both funny and deeply moving, which make it a joy to read aloud--and it is, I think, a perfect wedding poem.

The Archipelago of Kisses

We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

~Jeffrey McDaniel

xo Gigi

On Memory, Mood, and Manipulation

2011-05-20T12:10:00.003-04:00

Here in Coastal Maine, as anyone will tell you, we haven't really had a spring this year. It has been cold. Period. We've had a few hours of glorious sunshine, but not the kind of slow, golden afternoons that warm your bones after a long winter. And mostly we've had more than our fair share of rain, clouds, fog, drizzle, and mizzle. I took these photos in Falmouth down at the town landing on a rare sunny afternoon, and then I processed them to look a little like 1970's postcards. I always loved the overly saturated colors of postcards when I was a kid. They were like real life, only in Technicolor.

The sky on the day I took these wasn't actually very blue. It was more the slightly bluish-white of bone china. The shades of blue you see here I added, which made me feel deceitful, but also a little god-like. There were people at the landing on that day: a mother playing with her young daughter, a woman beach combing, a fisherman in his boat, several men on a building site. I avoided capturing any of them in these shots because I wanted the images to feel a bit lonely and moody.

Photography, like writing, is a manipulative art form. When I teach writing to students (which I do a lot of, if you are ever looking for a writing tutor or coach), I like to remind them that to write is to manipulate the perception of the reader. Since you have total control over what to emphasize and what to downplay as well as what to reveal to and what to conceal from the reader, you should think of it very much like how a photographer thinks of framing and processing a photograph. Everything--point of view, color, texture, mood, light, and so much more--is in your hands. What a thrill . . . and a responsibility.

Because my whole life is wrapped up in writing--and has been for a very long time--I think about small details everywhere I go. I look at the angle of a rooftop, consider the shape of puddle, and note the hemline of a woman's dress. No, that is an understatement. I obsess about these things. And now that I am an enthusiastic amateur photographer (who is beginning to get a few paying gigs), I obsess about such details even more than before. It's a lousy habit if one is to accomplish practical tasks, but it's a glorious habit if one is to craft anything of beauty or even interest. Ah, and that's just it. I didn't want to make these particular photographs beautiful exactly. I wanted to make them capture a certain mood, a certain angle of light and memory from about 1975. That memory isn't pretty or picturesque so much as it's intensely saturated, scrubbed with bright white sunlight, slightly blurred, and more than a little lonely. But lonely in a way that I rather enjoyed that spring when I was eight years old--and still enjoy now all these decades later.

Now

2011-05-13T23:11:00.000-04:00

"Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back.

Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can't build on it;

it's only good for wallowing in."

~Katherine Mansfield

There are days when I obsess about the future, but if I'm to be honest, I would say that I tend to fret about the past even more. A completely useless habit, this, and one that I find is best remedied by a long walk in the woods or by the water. At Gilsland Farm there's both, so it's just about the perfect place to find yourself a little piece of now and simply inhabit it.

I hope that as the hours speed forward in their wild way this weekend, you find some now of your own to cherish.

Thank you for another week of inspiration. xoxo Gigi

Enchanted Weekend

2011-05-09T23:45:00.003-04:00

In the week since my last post, spring has finally arrived in earnest. There are certain days in May when I can't quite believe that the world can be so beautiful--when trees rain pink petals and the sun, like a willful child, refuses to set until long past its bedtime. This past weekend was filled with three such days in a row.

Friday nights are free nights at the Portland Museum of Art, and the first Friday of each month is also Art Walk night, when all the galleries in the Arts District stay open late and the streets fill with gallery-hoppers. Those are Cheap Date nights for us. They usually include a slice of pizza at our favorite joint or an ice cream cone (caramel and sea salt for me) at another favorite haunt.

And then there's the fun of the museum.

I'm not sure which I love more: staring at the art or staring at the people as they stare at the art. I love to see how a piece engages the viewer. Certain pieces seem to invite touch or even play. This is what always makes me a little crazy about museums. I completely understand and respect all the rules, but I still long to touch!

Once back out on the street anything goes. We can hula hoop until nightfall, if it ever comes.

Later in the weekend, Mr. Magpie and I celebrated Mother's Day with my mum at her house, which happens to be the house where I grew up. We spent the day working in her garden and cooking together. The forecast had called for rain, but we saw nothing but sunshine and blue skies full of impossibly puffy, white clouds the whole day long. Lucky ducks.

Dinner was mostly grilled outside: shrimp marinated in lime, olive oil, garlic, jalapenos, scallions, and cilantro; new potatoes tossed in olive oil with salt and pepper; and portobello mushrooms marinated and stuffed. The only things not grilled were the fiddleheads, which my mother steamed and tossed with butter, which is the simplest way to make them, and maybe the most delicious.

Have you ever had fiddleheads? Here in Maine they are a celebrated springtime treat. They are simply fiddlehead (ostrich) ferns that have sprouted through the soil but have not yet unfurled. Available for just a few weeks in the spring, they are a highly prized find at farmers' markets and local grocers. You can't eat just any variety of fern, so don't run out and pick some for cooking. Buy them from a reliable supplier. Just as with mushrooms, there are certain locals who know where the fiddleheads grow, and they keep their harvesting spots a secret, making these magical greens all the more special to those of us who love their flavor. To me, fiddleheads taste like spring and childhood, because my memere always cooked them in late April or early May. She often cooked them with bacon and always tossed them with butter. Some people serve them with vinegar on the side and others like them with hollandaise sauce, but I'll take them tossed in butter every time.

For dessert, I made a strawberry-almond meringue and sponge cake with cream.

It sounds over the top, and it is, and we loved every bite of it!

Later in the evening, there was still plenty of sunlight left, and I couldn't resist capturing a few shots of the yard as the sun's rays slanted through the pale green of the trees' sprouting leaves.

I hope your weekend was every bit as lovely,

especially all you mothers and grandmothers out there in blogland.

Simply Bloom

2011-05-02T23:41:00.001-04:00

This spring, some of the first trees to blossom in my neighborhood grow just inside the gates of the old cemetery. I took these shots a half hour before sunset. What glorious light with which to work, what wonders to admire.

My City at Night in the Fog

2011-05-01T00:00:00.000-04:00

I have been wanting to show you more of where I live . . .

. . . and then the fog rolled in the other night and I knew it was time.

This place is always beautiful, but late on a foggy night

something a little spooky, but also quite magical, occurs.

One senses aspects of the city that are hidden by daylight,

overlooked by the casual eye.

The city's spires reach higher into the night sky

and the trees share some of their secrets.

All the usual haunts become the set of a film noir feature,

and every doorstep glows in the mist.

My city beckons long after the last shops close--

its flowers bloom beneath the streetlights,

and my favorite places

wait quietly in the dark.

There is color, but it's muted,

and the fog blurs the line between the present and the past

until time ceases to exist

and there is only the cry of seagulls,

the scent of ocean mist,

and the echo of footsteps down a cobblestone street.

A Week of Beauty and the Giveaway Winner!

2011-04-29T15:19:00.002-04:00

Hello, my friends! I assigned everyone who entered the giveaway a number, then I used Random Number Generator to select a winner of the Novica gift certificate, and I'm pleased to announce that the lucky person is Patti! I happen to know that Patti is a very talented artisan herself, so it's wonderful to share this prize with her.

Thanks to everyone who entered, and to everyone who visits The Magpie's Fancy. I love the community of people I've met here over the past two years.

The collage above is of various shots from my week. That's my little sunporch, and down in the right corner is the creamy lemon meringue pie I made for Easter. I'll be posting the recipe for it on HubPages this weekend, and I'll let you know when it's up.

Wishing you all a beautiful weekend. Like you, my heart and thoughts are with everyone who has been affected by the horrible tornadoes this week. Each day lately seems to be a reminder to live life to its fullest and cherish one another. xo g

Wishful Thinking and a Giveaway

2011-04-27T08:32:00.000-04:00

I'm engaging in a little Wishful Thinking at Reverie-Daydream today. Please come visit me there!

Also, if you haven't registered for my giveaway, you can do it here.

The prize is a $75 gift certificate to Novica--

a truly beautiful online catalog full of handmade beauty from all over the world.

Deadline for registering is this coming Friday at noon EST.

I hope you're having a beautiful week.

Welcome to new followers and subscribers!

Remembering Why

2011-04-23T22:09:00.001-04:00

The childhood scents of Easter were always milk chocolate, of course, and baked ham, and the overwhelming scent of my favorite purple hyacinths--for I adored anything purple and anything from my father, and this flower was his special gift to me every year, its little pot wrapped in pink foil and tied with a wide yellow ribbon.

And then there were the sights of Easter Mass: the church crowded with grownups and children alike, kneeling stiffly in their best dresses and suits, and every female wearing a new--or newly decorated--straw hat. My own was white straw decorated with fabric daisies and bearing a white elasticized cord that hooked under my chin to keep the hat firmly on my head. The straw made my scalp itch, and throughout the homily I tugged at the cord, certain that it was going to choke me to death before we ever got to communion. Even so, I loved Easter and what it represented. It seemed to me a day of mysteries and questions at the end of a long month of mysteries and questions--and, of course, sacrifice. The big question among all my Catholic friends every year was always, "What are you going to give up?" My answer was always candy. The obvious choice, but also, looking back, the wise one, because it made that hollow chocolate bunny taste all the sweeter come Easter Sunday, but also because giving up some small thing that we truly desire is a good practice in life, as in Lent. Even as a very little girl I knew it was a meager gesture in the face of the magnitude of Christ's sacrifice, and yet all the children I knew made it quite solemnly, a credit to the people who raised us to see ourselves as one small part of something much greater than ourselves.

I still remember asking my Catechism teacher repeatedly why Good Friday was called "good." I was eight years old, and I kept saying to the poor woman, "but it can't be good, if Christ died. That's not good." She sighed and said, "Yes, Gigi, but he rose again. That's why Good Friday is 'good.' He died so that he could rise again." I sat in the large, dimly lit church every morning during Holy Week, peering up at the stations of the cross, wondering why Christ had to die and rise again. Why, I wondered, couldn't he just have kept on living, making loaves and fishes and doing other wondrous deeds. Sister Edwina had led my class all around the church the previous week, showing us the stations and teaching us about Christ's Passion. Now I sat beside my family in our pew and realized that my question about Good Friday was only the the first in a long line of hard questions that I would be asking for the rest of my life.

Today, as my husband and I colored Easter eggs and he made the traditional potato, kielbasa, and horseradish borscht from his mother's recipe, we talked about the Easters of our childhoods, each of us living in small New England towns, he an altar boy in a Polish Catholic church and me the granddaughter of French Catholics. Our upbringings were shaped by traditions and foods and words and gestures imbued with a history that we couldn't have imagined as we hunted for eggs and chocolates in the wet morning grass, our baskets hooked in our elbows, feet racing to discover the next secret hiding place. Little did we know that life would always be full of mysteries, and that decades later we would still be searching.

I looked up this afternoon from dipping a perfect white egg into a bowl of blue dye. "Why," I asked my husband, "do we still make all the traditional dishes, and why do I remember exactly how your dziadzi liked his borscht--with lots of horseradish stained pink by beet juice?"

"Because," he replied, "so many of the people we love have died. We make these dishes to remember them. We remember them to feel connected. They helped to make us who we are."

In the face of mysteries and questions, these gestures--these flavors and smells and snapshot memories--help us remember where we came from, help us shape who we wish to become, and to make each day, in the most profound sense, truly good.

A Very Special Giveaway

2011-04-22T08:44:00.004-04:00

Hello, my friends.
As promised, I have a very special giveaway to share this week.

The prize is one $75 gift certificate from Novica.

If you have never shopped at Novica, you are in for a treat. All of their products are handcrafted by artisans from all over the world. Novica works in association with National Geographic to connect buyers directly with artists and craftspeople. As they explain in their mission statement: "We want you to know about who you're buying from. We want you to feel that attachment to the product and to the hands that created it."

Photo from here.

I recently ordered two items from the Novica website, the "Wine Garden" silk batik shawl by Yuni Kristina from Bali that is pictured above and a gorgeous pair of chalcedony earrings crafted by Thai jewelry artist Khun Boom. Novica items are shipped directly from the country where they are made, so my items arrived separately, but very soon after I ordered them, and they came packaged in beautiful gift boxes. In fact, the scarf came in the deep-red and black silk box in the photo above--a box that I will definitely reuse for storing jewelry.

Just as you see in the photo, the scarf is a rich red decorated with a lush floral batik pattern. Yuni Kristina explains that she learned the art of batik from her mother when she was a young girl and that her mother is still her inspiration: "She and I still design together, especially the floral and bird motifs that are typical in Pekalongan batik." This artist's talent is obvious, and I know I will be wearing this scarf in the summer as a light shawl with sundresses, but it will also look great with a black t-shirt, jeans, and some silver jewelry.

Photo from here.

Speaking of jewelry, Khun Boom's designs are stunning. I will be ordering more of her jewelry both for its beauty and value. All of her work is reasonably priced, and I had a difficult time choosing from the many designs I loved. This particular pair of earrings, "Sublime," caught my eye with its simple sophistication. Boom has a tremendous amount of design experience, which is evident in all her work. Like Yuni Kristina, she is very inspired by her mother.

Each item from Novica is accompanied by a story card telling you a little about the artist. You can also read a full profile or watch a video of each artist on the website. I follow the company on Facebook, and I've noticed that if a customer posts a special request on Novica's Facebook wall, the company is more than happy to talk with artisans about customizing an order.

Novica offers a wide range of jewelry, clothing, and home decor products, with a strong focus on eco-friendly gifts. They also have a fair-trade corporate gifts section, including gorgeous stationery, art glass, sculptures, and much more.

Another reason I like Novica is that they have a microfinance program. In addition to buying products, customers can provide loans to gifted artists in developing nations. The loans are provided to artisans at 0% interest. If you make a loan, once it is repaid you can earn a 15% bonus when you spend the repayment money at Novica.

I am thrilled to be able to offer this giveaway. The $75 gift certificate can be used to purchase anything the winner desires at Novica. To register for the giveaway, you simply need to become a follower of The Magpie's Fancy (if you aren't already) and leave a comment below. Please be sure to include your email address in your comment so I can contact you, if you win. The deadline for registering is Friday, April 29th at noon EST.

I've Been Missing You

2011-04-20T23:35:00.000-04:00

It has been ages since my last post. Please forgive my long absence. Mr. Magpie and I have been housesitting for friends back on the island where we lived last year. We haven't had regular internet access while we've been there, which has made me realize just how much I depend on it every single day for both work and pleasure. I have also been very busy with several writing and photography projects. Many wonderful things have been happening on the photography front--things that I can't talk about yet, but that I will sometime later this year. How's that for a tease?

I have also had a terrible cold, which I'm only now emerging from. Being bedridden and sans internet left me feeling quite sorry for myself for a couple of days. A few very brisk island walks cured me of most of my self pity, though, and they also rewarded me with several marvelous bird sightings, including my first great blue heron of the year as well as multitudes of cardinals, robins, chickadees, and crazy starlings. So spring must be here even if it still feels like winter. At least there are a few hardy flowers braving the cold, including an elegant hellebore that I will share just as soon as I have time to process some photos.

Please come back and visit me on Friday when I will be hosting a most special giveaway. I can't wait to tell you all about it. In the meantime, here's a lovely Kate Rusby video just for you.

All for Fun and Fun for All

2011-04-11T17:20:00.000-04:00

Our youngest niece came to visit this past weekend. Here's a partial list of what we did:

played board games, including The Scrambled States of America, Headbands, and Double Shutter; rode the ferry to the islands; gobbled gelatos at Gorgeous Gelato; giggled; built fairy houses in the woods on Mackworth Island; attended a Sea Dogs minor league game along with our nephews; giggled; went bike riding and walking on the East End Trail, where we explored the trains at the Narrow Gauge Rail Museum, climbed on old cannons, and played in the playground at the park; watched movies; told knock-knock jokes; gigggled; drew pictures with glittery fairy pens; and last, but definitely not least, constructed paper monsters--loads and loads of paper monsters.

The photo above shows just a few of the army of monsters we built. Everything we did was fun, but I cannot begin to tell you what a hit the paper monsters were--for all three of us! We bought the book on a whim at the comic book store and then we couldn't stop making them.

If you click on the link above you'll find the book/kit we used, but it will also show you several other books. This one has fifty monsters, plus extra blank templates that you can color in yourself. All of the monster patterns are perforated, so you just punch them out, fold them, and then glue them together. We found that adhesive glue dots worked best for us--no sticky fingers! There are three levels of difficulty. The advanced patterns are quite challenging, but do-able, and all three of us found the easy and intermediate ones fun to do.

And now I am playing catch up on deadlines and loads of work, but it was good to have a weekend of giggles and glitter and monsters named things like Nom Nom, Zombunny, and Grumpy Gramps.

Grace

2011-04-06T15:27:00.000-04:00

Some heartaches last longer than you think you could possibly bear--longer than you can count or measure. And yet, you find yourself months or years later, still bearing them, and maybe even thriving. "How can this be?" you wonder. The ache hasn't lessened with time; no, that hasn't changed at all, but one thing has changed. You have grown stronger.

You are the plant that bloomed once--a million petals thin as dragonfly wings--and then when the last of the blooms fell away, a gardener cut you all the way back to your stump. To the passerby you were dead--or worse--you'd never even existed.

The snows came, the rains, the ice; dark clouds loomed low over the garden's dark crust. Nothing changed. At least not on the surface, but roots do their best work with no one but the earthworms for an audience.

And when the sun returned, you were ready.

This post is dedicated with love and thanks to an old friend who give me a big gift yesterday.

P.S. I have questions that need answers over at The Magpie's Pen today! Hope you'll stop on by. xo

Spring

2011-04-03T19:52:00.003-04:00

"I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees."

~Pablo Neruda

Cabbages & Roses

2011-03-29T14:37:00.001-04:00

Spring inspiration from Cabbages & Roses--

nooks and rooms I could move right into.

I know what you're thinking:

"Wasn't she just complaining earlier this month about

staged & styled rooms?"

Well, yes I was.

What can I say?

I'm fickle.

By the way,

how come when I leave books in piles on the floor

it looks like a mess,

but when they do

it looks chic?

For even more ideas, visit here.

Maine Maple Sunday

2011-03-28T18:16:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was Maine Maple Sunday, with syrup farmers all over the state opening up their sugar shacks for tours and tastings. We visited Merrifield Farm in Gorham, where the wait was over an hour in freezing temperatures just to get in to see and smell the sap boiling. New Englanders and Canadians take their maple syrup seriously, so it was well worth the wait--plus there were pancakes served with fresh syrup, maple cotton candy, ice cream with syrup (yes people ate it in the cold), samples of maple cream, ox cart rides, live string band music, and much more.

The entrance to the sugar house. Folks were still smiling after the hour wait.

The farmer gave everyone samples of dark maple sugar--incredible!

Boiling the sap. It takes approximately 40 gallons of sap to make just one gallon of syrup. The syrup season runs for just a few weeks in the early spring, thus explaining the high price of maple syrup. These farmers work incredibly hard, and they don't get rich from producing maple syrup. It is definitely a labor of love.

My favorite part of the morning was heading out back where syrup was boiling the old fashioned way in large kettles over wood fires. It smelled like the best breakfast you've ever tasted.

These are vintage maple sap buckets. Most farmers don't use these buckets anymore, opting instead for a system of plastic tubing, but I love these old beauties. You can still find them at flea markets around New England or online through dealers. I like to use them as planters.

What a sweet Sunday.

The Fairy Village of Mackworth Island

2011-03-25T21:59:00.001-04:00

To find it you must travel toward the far side of the island

where the trees grow denser, casting long shadows across your path.

The fairies of Mackworth like the shelter of towering trees,

but they also love clearings where the sun shines golden--

--all the better for seeking and finding building supplies for the village.

The most elegant homes are deeper in the forest,

where the fairies have lived for generations.

But closer to the water's edge, young fairies

have tossed up McMansions

twice the size of their parents' well-built abodes.

Some are cute, but shoddily built;

others use age-old techniques,

built to weather the island's storms.

While most fairies prefer homes on the ground,

some have built penthouses

with glorious ocean views,

or sweet efficiencies

with room for just one or two.

They don't mind if we visit,

but they'll roll out a glittering carpet of frost for our departure,

always anxious to see the back of humans,

who, though well meaning,

are rather bumbling

and not quite clever enough

to understand the plans and schemes

and dreams of the Mackworth fairy folk.