The Edge of Autumn

Good morning, chickadees.  I was out working in the garden earlier, deadheading the Abraham Darby roses, weeding the raised beds, gathering ground cherries to make salsa, and harvesting scarlet runner beans for next year's seeds--and I thought of you.  As I worked, the sun warmed my skin without burning.  I looked up to see the bees hopping from the fennel to the bee balm to the anise hyssop.

The last daisies are opening and the phlox is nearly all gone by.  Even so, the dahlias are just beginning to hit their stride, the asters are on the verge of blooming, and the chocolate eupatorium has yet to even start.  We've a ways to go, and even though I know the frosts will come in another month, I can't help but love this very moment in the garden best.  Here, teetering on the edge, I savor every bit of September's sweetness as the tomatoes blush and the whole garden gives one last glorious push before the fall.

The Sun and the Moon and the Sea

There are days that stretch far beyond the limits of time.  

Clouds race endlessly across the blue, tides rise and fall,

and still the day continues, each moment of it holding fast to the part of one's mind where what matters most finds a home.

We share a day like this, my love and I.  The sun sets, the moon rises, and still we carry on. 

And what wonders we see.  Mythical birds one last night

before they leave their summer home

to fly back to the sea, where they have always flown.

Nothing about the day fades.  Each moment stays.

The sun has set again and again since then,

and yet this one persists.

We are rich with it.

Swept into silence by the wind, we watch the powder-white disc of the moon curve over the trees.

We could be infants or creatures from another world, how new this all suddenly seems,

and yet as ancient as the cry of a herring gull, the path of a snail through sodden sand.

And we wake early to find the sun again, impatient for the light,

even as the day before etches itself into our minds

lasting as long as we need it,

as long as we seek it,

as long as forever turns out to be.

Happy 20 years, Mr. Magpie.  

Note to you, my friends: I shot all of these photos over the weekend of the Super Moon this month.  The first ones are up off St. George Peninsula at Eastern Egg Rock, where Project Puffin has worked arduously for 40 years to restore the puffin population of coastal Maine.  If you ever have the chance to take a boat tour out to see the puffins, grab it!  They truly are wondrous little birds.  The sunrise pictures are on St. George Peninsula at Tenants Harbor.  The last couple of moonrise shots I took at the public landing in Falmouth Foreside.  

I am grateful every day that I live in such a beautiful part of the world.  

P.S. The other birds in the photos are an osprey, gulls (and other sea birds) flying over Eastern Egg Rock, and a great blue heron out fishing for his early morning breakfast. 

Here Comes the Sun

Breakfast at the ocean this morning.  We picked up bagels from our favorite shop and ate them in the cold, looking out over the waves. 

Back home in the yard under the great white pine, the crocuses are opening:

I find myself humming "Here Comes the Sun" at odd moments while I work on projects for clients today.  Spring must be here at last.

Tonight I'll be making spicy fried tofu, along with this delicious sriracha fried rice and some steamed greens with sesame oil and garlic.  

For dessert, I'm making homemade raspberry "ice cream."  In a blender, I pureed about 6 ounces frozen raspberries, 1 can coconut milk, and a couple tablespoons or so of raw honey.  The pink loveliness that resulted was divine. I poured it through a strainer to remove the seeds, then I popped it into the freezer.  So far, it seems to be freezing beautifully.  Tomorrow I'll let you know how it was!

I hope you are having a beautiful week, my friends!

The Sun, the Moon, and Everything in Between

I shot this photo of Portland Head Light just before nightfall with the sun setting (in a spectacular blaze of orange) behind me.  The colors here in Casco Bay are beautiful any time of year, but there's something special about a late winter sky.  If you can stand the tear-inducing wind long enough to get one semi-decent photo, then you are rewarded with remarkable, watercolor blues and pinks.

Two years ago I lived for a few months on an island just across the bay from this famous lighthouse.  Here in the city tonight, as I looked up at the star-pricked sky and the waxing crescent moon, I recalled how much more connected to the sun and moon and stars I felt on the island.  I woke every single day with the sun and I watched it set nearly every evening.  The ocean waves were just a few yards (on stormy days just a few feet) from my front door, and I walked the road that ringed the island rain or shine, telling time by the rise and fall of the tides.  Whenever I'm back there to visit with friends or even stay a night or two, I feel my heart slow down to an even rhythm.  Life's purpose and my place within it become clear when I look to the sun and moon to keep my pace.    

Winter Light

Just a note to say I'm thinking of you.  

The sunlight here is verging on perfect.

Spring is waiting in the wings.

I'm writing more each day than the one before.

Can't wait--but I must--to show you the words.

Tell me what you're making, sewing, building, writing, spinning 

into silk out of thin air.

x Gigi

  

     

Why I Live Here #1: Sunrise

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.  

  

Almost Sunset

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

Saturday Supper with People You Love

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

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