mulligatawny

Function: noun
Etymology: Tamil milakutanni, from milaku pepper
+ tanni water, Date: 1784
a rich soup usually of chicken stock seasoned with curry

I twittered this week about mulligatawny, one of my very favorite soups. There are lots of variations, but the one below is my particular version. I like to make my own chicken broth with a little stewing chicken. It's a bit more time consuming, but the rich, flavorful broth is well worth the extra effort. Keep in mind that it tastes best while wearing woolly socks.


Willow's Chicken Mulligatawny

(all amounts are approximate)

4 quarts homemade chicken broth
1 16 oz. can diced tomatoes
4 cups tomato juice
4 each, carrots and celery, chopped (eggplant is good, too)
1 large onion, diced
1/2 cup chopped parsley (or 2 Tbsp dry)
2 cups cooked brown rice (or 1 cup raw)
6 to 8 tsp curry powder (I like it spicy, start with less, add as you go)
2 tsp thyme
2 tsp pepper (I threw in some whole peppercorns)
salt to taste
a bay leaf or two
4 to 6 cups cooked chicken, diced
2 apples, peeled and chopped

Combine all ingredients except chicken and apples. Simmer until vegetables are tender, but still firm. Add apples, continue to simmer until apples are tender. Add chicken, cooked rice and heat through. Adjust seasonings. Remove bay leaves.

Note: This makes a ton of soup. The recipe can easily be halved.

Just tell me if this isn't just as good, if not better than the Soup Nazi's.

sepia saturday, double date 1913

These are more wonderful photos from my grandfather's collection.
On the left, is my Great-Grandfather Glenn Hanna, my Great-
Grandmother Ida Belle Lewis, her brother Austin, and his girlfriend,
Mary Boone. They are on the dry, stony ground of Albuquerque, NM
in the spring of 1913.

Don't you love how the guys are dressed to a tee, with hats, coats
and ties, even in the outback of old New Mexico? Poor Ida Belle
doesn't look too thrilled about the whole episode. Maybe she didn't
fancy the idea of posing on the ground? I happen to think they're
looking glum on purpose to be funny. I would love to know who was
behind the camera. It was most likely Uncle Guy, older brother of
Glenn, our dashing young photographer, from one of my earlier posts.

Here they are on the same day, looking a tad bit happier.
.

For more Sepia Saturday posts, click [HERE].

faux nose

I mentioned in one of my posts last week about watching Ken Burns'
The Civil War. (I fell totally in love with the charming Shelby Foote,
may he rest in peace.) Anyway, since I was in the historical mini-
series mode, I picked up HBO's John Adams, 2008, at the library,
which I happen to be enjoying even more the second time around.

The first scene in which David Morse appears, as George Washington,
I gasped, "Wow, what a difference a nose makes!" The Adams series
is excellently cast, by the way, with Paul Giamatti brilliantly (actually,
brilliantly is an understatement) portraying John Adams, in the first
50 years of the United States. If you've not seen this, add it to your
queue right now.

Morse's faux nose brought to mind some other intriguing film noses,
including Nicole Kidman's faux in her Oscar winning performance of
Virginia Woolf in The Hours, 2002. I just picked up a copy of
Michael Cunningham's book at the thrift store last Friday. I think
I'll read it in honor of Virginia Woolf's 128th birthday this week.

Another great faux nose performance is that of Anthony Quinn as
Auda Abu Tayi in David Lean's epic Lawrence of Arabia, 1962. This
particular nose seems right at home on Quinn's rugged face. I'm
surprised it stayed so well intact in all those blazing desert scenes.


Gérard Depardieu has a pretty good nose going on himself, so they
didn't have to add that much to make him into Cyrano de Bergerac,
1990. I have a huge crush on him, by the way. I adore him as the
bumbling Georges in Green Card, 1990 and as Rodin in Camille
Claudel, 1988.

And don't forget all the wonderful Balls Brothers' noses worn by
Peter Sellers as Chief Inspector Clouseau. I don't know which is my
favorite, the pirate, the hunchback...

or the melting shnaz.

red car

In honor of Nuala ni Chonchuir’s newly released book of poetry,
Portrait of the Artist with a Red Car, TFE is sending out his famed
Poetry Bus. Make sure you drop by his blog on Friday for the big
celebration. Tickets for the bus must include a poem with the words
"red" and "car". Mine is as follows...



My heart skipped a beat
when he tossed me the keys,
"Yup, she's yours," he said.
A surprise; what a treat.

Second hand and deep red.
Not the fiery, blood red
of the sleek and the sporty;
more a friendly apple red,
a tootsie pop red.

Her engine sputtered 'round,
known to stall at lights
and crawl up town at night,
top down, wind grabbing my hair.

Heat barely there, seeped out
of funny holes in the floor.
Rain spattered above
though the roof and the door.

She was my first love.
I was utterly smitten
by that clunky old bug
in a rug, sweet volks of a car.
.


willow, 2010
.

picture borrowed from google images

i'm a twit

Well, I did it. I, the one who always maintained that Twitter was all
a bunch of silly chatter, finally twittered my first tweet. And you
know what? I think I'm going to enjoy it. After all, it is all about
words, right? I love the dance of words, and Twitter just happens to
be another form of dancing a wordy jig. So, I'm kickin' up my woolly
socks and cuttin' up a rug or two. Does this mean I'm now a twit?

You know, Twittering has always reminded me of the "Pick-a-Little,
Talk-a-Little" scene from The Music Man.

"I'll tell."

"No, let ME tell!"

birdie pic borrowed from Google images

the hoosier

While thumbing through Catherine Seiberling Pond's lovely book, The Pantry, its History and Modern Uses, I noticed a little section on the Hoosier cabinet. Well, I am nutty about the word "Hoosier", not only because I happen to be born Indiana, but I love its quirky sound, and use it often in my poetry.

"Hoosier" is a term used to describe those of us who hail from the state of Indiana. The word is derived from a pioneer days greeting. When approaching a home, you shouted,"Hello, the cabin!" to avoid being shot. The inhabitants would then shout back, "Who'sh 'ere?" Hence, over time, the slurring became "hoosier".

Anyway, a Hoosier cabinet (also known as a "Hoosier") is a type of cupboard, hugely popular in the 1910s to the 1930s, before built in kitchen cabinetry was the norm. Named after the Hoosier
Manufacturing Co. of New Castle, Indiana, they were also made by several other companies, most also located in Indiana.

The typical Hoosier had three main parts; the base, with a large compartment and drawers, a slide out counter top, and a shallower top section with smaller compartments and drawers. Besides all the nooks and crannies, it was outfitted with all kinds of nifty accessories, like a built-in flour bin/sifter and metal racks holding special sized glass jars for spices and staples.

With ads that told rural housewives that "A kitchen without a cabinet is like a farm without a plow," Indiana firms including the Hoosier Manufacturing Co. and the McDougall Co. sold millions of these cabinets to women all over the country. I remember my dear grandmother had one in her rural Indiana kitchen back in the 1950s.

photo: borrowed from the blog "Apartment 2024"

.

.

************************************
~PS~

It was suggested in the comments of my previous post

on Blakeman's Lady Winter, that perhaps she looked

a bit like me. Hmm, perhaps that's why I'm so drawn to her.

Funny, synchronicities.
.

lady winter

Isn't this piece of stained glass fabulous? It's "Winter", 1948, by the
painter and stained glass artist, Charles Francis Blakeman. This
lovely lady is one of four, of a panel of stained glass, appropriately
called The Four Seasons.

From 1921 to 1926 Blakeman worked in Paul Woodroffe's stained
glass studio in Chipping Campden. In 1926, he left to work for F. L.
Griggs, who needed help printing his etchings. Blakeman studied
printmaking at the Royal College of Art in London and worked for
Griggs until 1930. In his later career, he was based mainly in
London, and assisting the distinguished stained glass artist
Wilhelmina Geddes, the famous Irish stained glass artist, from the
Arts and Crafts Movement.

I discovered this wonderful piece of art, as well as the artist, over
at the talented Annette Emm's blog Fairy Shoes and Other Things.
Thanks, Annette. I loved it so much I had to post it on my sidebar.
Examples of his amazing work can be seen at Court Barn Museum,
in Chipping Campden, Gloucestershire, UK, where Annette plans to
do some workshops this year.

Lady Winter is bestowing a deliciously cold, slow, steady rain in my
neck of the woods today.

Charles Blakeman on the left, 1923, outside Woodroffe House

what you smilin' at?

There were lots of suggestions as to what the image in my candle
might be, including Whoopi, my Cherokee ancestor, and High
Chieftain. Some of you saw animals and trees. Some of you
suggested I sell it on eBay. Some of you thought I needed a bit more
water in my nightcap. But the comment that really caught my fancy,
was Roy's suggestion that it looked like Nina Simone.

Well, I can't help but agree. Both photos even have a light spot in
the same location near the nose, mysteriously enough. So, what
does it all mean? Well, for starters, I'm thinkin' maybe I need to
listen to more Nina.

So, here she is, ladies and gentlemen, singing "Willow Weep for Me",
a choice I thought most appropriate, especially since Lorenzo got me
hooked a few weeks ago. Turn your volume way up and enjoy. Hope
you're having a great weekend, my friends.

sepia saturday

born October 20, 1956

.

lived across the Midwest, including

Indiana, Michigan, Illinois, Kansas, Missouri;

the last 27 years in Ohio

.

sometime artist

.

soccer mom

.

spoiler of children and dogs

.

flibbertigibbet

.

entrepreneur

.

entertainer extraordinaire

.

empty nester

.

genealogist

.

woolly socks fanatic

.

bibliophile

.

hopeless romantic

.

poet

.

duchess

.

magpie

.

me

.

For more Sepia Saturday participants click [HERE].

this gives me the willies

Did you hear that Holiday Inn is offering a trial human bed-warming

service at three hotels in Britain this month? If requested, a willing

staff member at two of the chain's London hotels and one in the

northern English city of Manchester will dress in an all-in-one fleece

sleeper suit before slipping between the sheets.

Holiday Inn said the warmer would be fully dressed and leave the

bed before the guest occupied it. They could not confirm if the

warmer would shower first, but said hair would be covered.

Okay, this is just about the quirkiest hotel thing I've ever heard.

Is this a normal UK thing to do? Sounds pretty darn stinky to me.

I don't even like to sit in a seat that's still warm from someone

else's body heat. This gives me the willies, not the woollies.

.

my muse

Speaking of bathes and creative inspiration, most of my creative
thinking is done in the bathtub, or happens to strike during the night.
Like I mentioned earlier this week, I keep a tablet and pencil on my
nightstand for any sleepy inspirations I might need to scribble down
in the dark.

Lately, in my delicious tub soaks, I've noticed a silhouette in the wax
of my candle. I know, I know, you're thinking I've been soaking a tad
too long. No, she's not the Virgin Mary, but, I like to think of her as
my muse, perhaps the spirit of a Cherokee fore mother there to
comfort and inspire me. She kinda looks like Whoopi Goldberg, too.


Anyway, last night, I was revisiting Ken Burn's The Civil War, and
the charming Shelby Foote was telling about the circumstances of
Julia Ward Howe's (she was a huge activist for women's suffrage, by
the way) inspiration to pen the famous words to "The Battle Hymn
of the Republic."

Of the writing of the lyrics, Howe remembers, "I went to bed that
night as usual, and slept, according to my wont, quite soundly. I
awoke in the gray of the morning twilight; and as I lay waiting for
the dawn, the long lines of the desired poem began to twine
themselves in my mind. Having thought out all the stanzas, I said to
myself, I must get up and write these verses down, lest I fall asleep
again and forget them. So, with a sudden effort, I sprang out of bed,
and found in the dimness an old stump of a pen which I remembered
to have used the day before. I scrawled the verses almost without
looking at the paper."

So, always listen to your muse. And keep a pen and paper handy.

bath or shower?

Snow's gone,
mashed mud skies,
dishwater suds and melted air

lash steel to my bones;

makes me old,
no coat, no skin.

Mine's been taken,
left bare, naked,
nowhere to go,

but a ritual soak in the tub;

forgotten pan in the kitchen sink,

waiting a scrub.


willow, 2010



You might have noticed this homage to Frida Kahlo I posted on my sidebar this week. It's in celebration of my freshly grouted bathtub at the manor. I don't know about you, but I much prefer a bath over a shower. Lately, the grout was looking sadly worse for wear around my tub, so I had resorted to showering, giving the old grout the "out of sight, out of mind" treatment.

Well, I'm happy to report, the grout is now freshly repaired, and I am once again enjoying my regenerating daily bathes. It's a habit I totally relish, with candles, bubbles and scent. I emerge a new woman. Since the snow has melted, and the dark, muddy cold has returned, a steamy bath is an absolute necessity.

peepy peeks and chocolate

voy·eur (voi-yûr') n.

1900, from Fr. voyeur (1898), lit. "one who views or
inspects," from voir "to view," from L. videre "to see"

It's crazy to think how many lives I take a peek at, in a single day.
I'm fascinated by their mundane activities, in a magpie sort of way;
what they're munching, what movies they're watching, whether or
not they're wearing their woolly socks. Not only that, I get a
strangely satisfying glimpse of what they're thinking and how they
might feel on a given day.

I guess it's safe to say, I have become a Peeping Tom, or should I
say, Peeping Willow. (Heh-heh, as opposed to weeping willow.) No
wait, isn't Peeping Tom the guy who was struck blind because he
looked at Lady Godiva? Maybe I don't want to be Peeping Willow.
Godiva, on the other hand sounds oh-so-chocolaty-good. (Just a
sec, while I grab a dark Ghirardelli square.) Sorry, munch-munch,
I digress.

Anyway, I've actually become quite attached to these peeps who
are only a click-of-the-mouse away. My closest "3-D friends", as I
like to call them, only meet for lunch about once a month, at best.
Even then, they don't get so delightfully specific and personal.

On the other side of the chocolate coin, I often wonder about all the
hits on my site meter. Who are these mysterious peeps, compelled
to visit every day? Only about 15 percent, of those who pop in for a
peek, leave a comment. The scary thing is, I can only guess they are
just as obsessed with me, as I happen to be, with my peepy peeks.

photo: Peter Sellers in The World of Henry Orient

a writey taggy post

I don't usually do the tag thing, but this week I was quite

flattered to be tagged by a new blog friend, the talented writer and

published author, Roz Morris. You might like to visit her super

blog Nail Your Novel to see how she expertly answered these

questions, as well. Thanks Roz, this was fun.

1) What’s the last thing you wrote? What’s the first thing
you wrote that you still have?
The last thing I wrote was a poem for last week's Theme Thursday
called Oscar Performance, dealing with people who make it a habit

of fooling the public, when their private lives are insane. We all know

them. And you know, I couldn't tell you the first thing I wrote.

2) Write poetry?
Yes, I've recently started writing poetry, as my gentle readers are
well aware. I bombard them with it weekly, poor souls.

3) Angsty poetry?
Although angst can fuel all kinds of art, especially song lyrics, I
wouldn't consider mine to be in this category. I've always thought
angst poetry to be a tad on the inferior side, when it comes to what
I consider to be good poetry.

4) Favorite genre of writing?
Poetry, most definitely.

5) Most annoying character you’ve ever created?
Since I write mostly poetry, I would have to say the most annoying
character in my pieces would have to be the bizarre clown in my
parody piece Anti-Clown.

6) Best plot you’ve ever created?
I have a plot outlined for an autobiographical novel full of curses,
blackmail, and even an attempted murder. Truth is sometimes
stranger than fiction.

7) Coolest plot twist you’ve ever created?
Well, if you can call a poem "cool", I think one I wrote called Back
Alley is pretty cool. It's an after death piece, in which my light-

-and-tunnel-thing happens to be a back alley.

8) How often do you get writer’s block?
I don't really get writer's block. For me, it's much like talking. I
can talk to almost anyone about anything. And it's like that with
my writing. Sometimes inspiration comes in the bath or in the

middle of the night. I keep a pad and pencil by the bed, if I can find

it in the dark. I also keep a notebook with favorite phrases and words.

I'm not ashamed to write simple sentiment.

9) Write fan fiction? No.

10) Do you type or write by hand?

Type. I type as I think, and it's much easier than writing by hand.

If I happen to jot down an idea or two, I sometimes have a hard

time reading my own silly writing, especially if it's written in the

dark.

11) Do you save everything you write?

Yes. Poems don't take up much space.

12) Do you ever go back to an abandoned idea?
I usually like my ideas. It if doesn't work for one piece, at least part
of it will work in another. I never throw them out completely.

13) What’s your favorite thing you’ve ever written?
I don't really have a favorite. There are parts of many of my poems
that sing to me, but there is no one piece that holds that special spot.

14) What’s everyone else’s favorite story you’ve written?
I would be flattered to think my readers might have favorites.

15) Ever written romance or angsty teen drama? Never.

16) What’s your favorite setting for your characters?
My novel is set in the Midwest, since that's what I know best.

17) How many projects are you working on now?
I write at least one piece of poetry a week, plus my blog posts,
of course. My book? Well, I need to get busy, don't I?

18) Have you ever won an award for your writing?
I was chosen "Blog of Note" by Blogger in December of 2008.
Does that count?

19) What are your five favorite words?
I don't have faves, but I like plethora, putz, panties, ping-pong
and ponytail.

20) What character have you created that is most like
like yourself? Me.

21) Where do you get your ideas for your characters?
From the people in my life. Like I said, truth is stranger than
fiction.

22) Do you favor happy endings?

No. A happy ending isn't necessarily a good ending.

23) Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as
you write? Absolutely.

24) Does music help you write?
I love music, but I can think more clearly in a quiet atmosphere.

25) Quote something you’ve written. Whatever pops in
your head.

"She beckons me with withy broom, sweeps circled heaps of embers,
St. Brighid offers solace in her cinders." from my poem Patron Saint.

I'm not going to tag anyone, specifically, but it would be fun to
see how Jen Chandler , Vicki Lane and Tina Lonergan might answer.

salt and pepper dance

Magpie that I am, every Friday I make it a habit to swoop down on
my local Goodwill thrift store, and quickly browse the books and
housewares. Besides the thrill of the treasure hunt, when I shop at
Goodwill, I'm supporting job training and placement programs for
those with disabilities and other disadvantages. Yesterday, these
two cuties begged to come home and dance at the manor. I conceded,
since they were only $1.99 each. Such a bargain.

They immediately gave me a warm and woolly moment, bringing to
mind a poem by Wymond Garthwaite, illustrated by Grace Dalles
Clarke, I loved as a child, called "The Salt and Pepper Dance" from
Poems to Read and To Learn, Golden Press, 1955.
.

One day, or no, one night--
It happened just by chance
The Salt and Pepper pots
Decided they should dance.

They skipped and skupped about
As merry as could be,
For Salt and Pepper pots
So seldom dance, you see.

They jigged and jumped and jogged--
They really did too much--
The pepper sprinkled out
And made them sneeze "Ker-Snutch!"

"Ker-Wish! Ker-Wash! Ker-Chow!
The dancers now were through.
"We'll have to stop, " they said.
"We'll have to st--Ker-Choo!"

By the way, if you are wondering where to donate to help with the
Haiti disaster, I highly suggest Goodwill Industries. Click [HERE]
for their website and donation instructions.

emma

Emma

Shadows of my family

hang from your smile,

like the chain

on your clean lace blouse.

Galena Kansas,

branded on the photo,

tags your face, like cattle

marked for market.

Committed, they said.

Pay no attention

to that girl

behind the curtain.

Days of silence

in a dark corral,

only the absent rattle

of pain and shackles.

The smile, tucked away

in a hope chest

with your locket

and ruby slippers,

waits for the scarecrow

and tin man to link arms

and steer you along

that yellow brick road

to the sky.

willow, 2009

Emma was my great-grandmother. She was committed to Central
State Hospital in Indianapolis shortly after the birth of her first
child, my grandmother, in 1914. It's tragic to think she may have

been institutionalized for life, for something as simple, and treatable

today, as postpartum depression.

For more Sepia Saturday participants click [HERE].

magpiety

Okay, I admit it. I'm in love. I've had recent flings with Donald Hall
and Charles Simic, but this week, I am head over heals in love with
Czeslaw Milosz. I just brought home all 776 pages of his New and
Collected Poems from the library, and I am in paradise. His poems
are a marvelous combination of intelligence and soul.

Milosz, (June 30, 1911 – August 14, 2004) was a Lithuanian born
Polish poet and author. From 1961 to 1998 he was a professor of
Slavic Languages and Literature at the University of California,
Berkeley. (Bill Moore, by the way, was fortunate enough to be one
of his students in a class of Polish Romanticism. Lucky guy.) In
1980 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. He is widely
considered one of the greatest poets of the 20th century.

I like to think of myself in a magpie-ish kind of way, since I love

collecting all sorts of odd shinies for my nest, both tangible and

intangible. This delightful piece immediately caught my little

magpie eye. I never realized, until now, that what I have is a simple

case of magpiety.

.

.

Magpiety

.

.

The same and not quite the same, I walked through oak forests

Amazed that my Muse, Mnemosyne,

Has in no way diminished my amazement.

A magpie was screeching and I said: Magpiety?

What is magpiety? I shall never achieve

A magpie heart, a hairy nostril over the beak, a flight

That always renews just when coming down,

and so I shall never comprehend magpiety.

If however magpiety does not exist

My nature does not exist either.

Who would have guessed that, centuries later,

I would invent the question of universals?

.

.

.

Czeslaw Milosz, 1958

.

.

photo: me, 14 Jan 2010

surface

Oscar Performance



On the surface,
your exterior is cool,
collected, refined;
everything pulled
together, as expected.
But, I'm no fool, dearest.

Your poise is a plot,
a dull noise, a fake set,
like a Hollywood backlot.
The interiors aren't empty,
they're full of trouble.
No stunt double;

you don't mind getting wet.
I've seen the outtakes,
clips on the cutting room floor;
your roar over hangers,
uneaten food,
drips down the hall.

You deserve an Oscar
for the meat fork blunder,
the blood on the wall,
the scene with the knife.

God, it's a wonder
you weren't locked up for life.



willow, 2010


This product is meant for entertainment purposes only. All characters and
events in this poem are (maybe) fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental. Void where prohibited. Not
recommended for children. Use only in a well-ventilated area. Keep away
from fire or flames. Shading within garment may occur. Avoid contact with
skin. Reader assumes full responsibility. You need not be present to win.

For more Theme Thursday participants click [HERE].

the world of henry orient

I recently saw this film, which I haven't seen in several years. I love the Pink Panthers, but The World of Henry Orient (1964) happens to be my favorite Peter Sellers film. I posted on this movie back when I first started blogging, way back when just you, me and the fencepost were readers. I decided it was well worth revisiting.

The sparkling screen play, by Nunally Johnson, is adapted from the novel by his daughter, Nora Johnson. It's the story of two 13 year old girls, delightfully played by Tippy Walker and Merri Spaeth, who have a crush on a seedy and untalented concert pianist, Henry Orient, hilariously portrayed by Peter Sellers. Set in a charming 1963 Manhattan, it's based on the fresh idealism and innocence of the young girls, and immediately brought back my own girlish exuberance of the time period.

There's also a masterful performance from Angela Lansbury, who's in her nasty-mother-Manchurian-Candidate mode. Funny, touching and utterly delightful, this jewel of a film is entirely underrated. Add it to your Netflix queue, pull on those woolly socks, my friends, and

take a trip down memory lane.

warm woollies of the week

Life happens. Plans are spoiled. Things break. We all have bad
hair days. We certainly don't have to go searching for the negative
in this world of ours. So, in the spirit of considering life's simple
pleasures, and ac-cent-tchu-ating the positive, here at the manor,
these are a few of my warm woolly delights from this past week.
Hope a woolly one is in store for you, as well, my friends.

1. My daughter's operatic laugh wafting through the phone.

2. The three peaceful doe who come in the late afternoon, to nibble
the pretzels I leave on top of the snow.

3. Homemade fries with a huge puddle of ketchup. (Do you crave
them in the winter like I do?)

4. The delightful southern accent of my dear friend FireLight.

5. Wet gloves drying on the radiator.

6. The warm clean scent of a stack of freshly folded white towels.

7. Being hypnotized by flames of the fire, until the warm red coals
lull me to sleep.
.
8. The softness of my favorite brown wool shawl around my
shoulders, like the hug of an old friend.

9. The luminous pools of Omar Sharif's eyes in Doctor Zhivago.

10. Sonnet number III from Sonnets from an Ungrafted Tree, by
my good friend, Edna St. Vee. (That's Edna St. Vincent Millay, by

the way.)


She filled her arms with wood, and set her chin
Forward, to hold the highest stick in place,
No less afraid than she had always been
Of spiders up her arms and on her face,
But too impatient for a careful search
Or a less heavy loading, from the heap
Selecting hastily small sticks of birch,
For their curled bark, that instantly will leap
Into a blaze, nor thinking to return
Some day, distracted, as of old, to find
Smooth, heavy, round, green logs with a wet, gray rind
Only, and knotty chunks that will not burn,
(That day when dust is on the wood-box floor,
And some old catalogue, and a brown, shriveled apple core).



photos: my feet in woolly socks, doe at the manor, fireplace at

Willow Manor, Omar Sharif on my TV

cough drop protocol

In second grade, we were allowed to bring cough drops to school and keep them in our desks. Since I had a cough, my mother let me take an orange box of Luden's Originals to school. They were as big as footballs and had a barely tolerable, medicinal taste.

I was the new kid on the block, as usual, since my family moved on the average of once every two years, which I hated, by the way. Just as soon as I felt warm and woolly, and made a few friends, it was time to pack up and hit the road. But, I digress. Anyway, I was clueless as to the "cough drop protocol" at my new school.

Psst. I'll trade you cough drops. The girl with the curly red hair whispered to me, when the teacher turned her back.

Okay. Sure.

She took a little round red piece from a funny looking white box with two old men on the front, and handed it over, under my desk. I had never tasted anything so mouth-watering-good as a Smith Brothers wild cherry cough drop. I was in heaven. It was even better than my favorite butterscotch Lifesavers.

Bleh! What's this? She whispered loudly, spitting my sticky Luden's football into her hand.

What I didn't realize, was that cough drops were the approved "candy of choice" at school. Everyone had a "cough" and brought delicious wild cherry ones to enjoy on long snowy afternoons. When I asked my mother if I could please have some Smith Brothers cherry flavored, she refused, because they were "just like candy" and didn't work for coughs. Hmm. Little did she know.




I finally got rid of a pesky cough that's been bothering me for months. My grown-up cough drop of choice is Ricola sugar free cherry. It brings back delicious memories of lovely borrowed Smith Brothers. But, if you're in need of a really high powered drop, forget the Luden's
and go for straight for the Fisherman's Friends, my friends.

palestine

Albuquerque 1910



Palestine, against
the furnace, cursed:
God, this hellish air
has made for worse.

Blows hot and fierce,
worm that will not die;
pierced those born,
but cannot keep.

Thirsty for
his Hoosier plow,
brave green fields,
mending springs
that bubble deep.

Corn stalks beckon,
wave in breeze,
flax hair maidens,
call retreat

over ladder back
iron tracks,
to plant his son
in their cool black sod.



willow, 2009



My great-great grandfather, Palestine, (Isn't that the greatest
name?) moved his family from Indiana to the dry climate of
Albuquerque, New Mexico in 1910, in an effort to save his handsome
25 year old son, Guy, ill with tuberculosis. When all hope for
recovery was lost, the family returned to Howard County, Indiana,
where sadly, Guy died on March 16, 1913. He was an avid
photographer, as you can see in his portrait below, following in the
footsteps of his father and grandfather.
.
Palestine and Mary, Guy's parents, are in the above photo, on the
left, taken in Albuquerque, 1910.
.

Guy Hanna, self portrait

For more Sepia Saturday participants click [HERE].

a little woolly socks supper

I'm not usually big on using cans of cream of mushroom soup in

my recipes, but this one is an exception. In these cold, winter

months, I love to throw something in the oven and let it bake all

afternoon. This recipe is delicious paired with rice or mashed

potatoes. Yup, you took the words right out of my mouth. It's a

woolly socks supper.

Willow's Saucy Mushroom Pork Chops

(4) 3/4 to 1 inch thick pork chops

1 onion, sliced

1 can cream of mushroom soup

3/4 cup apple juice or cider

1/4 cup white white (optional)

2 tsp Worcestershire sauce

2 tsp snipped fresh thyme or 1/2 tsp dried thyme

1 clove garlic, minced

2 cups fresh sliced mushrooms

In large skillet, with a bit of oil, brown chops over medium high

heat. In separate bowl, combine soup, juice, wine, Worcestershire,

thyme, garlic. Mix well. Fold in mushrooms. In oven proof pot,

place onions on bottom, then layer chops and pour soup mixture

over. Cover and bake 300 degrees for about three hours or until

sauce has cooked down, is thick and chops are tender.

Yummity-yum.

(And hey, I got a new set of white dishes for Christmas, since they
look especially nice in the bloggy food pics. Love 'em.)

my demendante dress

I can't see polka dots today without being reminded of my

Demendante dress. Do you ever name your clothes? Well, I did,

and still do. This particular dress happened to be one of my very

favorites in high school. It was a wonderful little silky nylon navy

blue number with white polka dots, complete with an elastic mesh

waist, and elastic at the scoop neck, and sleeves. Very '70s. Very chic.

Mrs. Demendante was a little old woman (gosh, now that I think

about it, she was most likely the age I am now; funny how that

happens) who attended my family's church. My sister and I would

wait until the very last minute, before the organ prelude finished, to

dash in and grab a seat that was anywhere, but directly in front of

Mrs. Demendante. You see, this dear woman had the most annoying

habit of slurping her dentures through the entire service, and for

some odd reason, she enjoyed finding a spot in the pew directly

behind my sister and me. We would start out giggling, but by the

time the preacher was finished, we would be gagging like hell, and

not from the fiery sermon, either.

Well, one fine Sunday morning, I happened to be wearing my oh-so-

classy polka dot dress, feeling like a million bucks, when we slipped

in at the last minute; no Demendante in sight. Just as the prelude

ended, the dear missing woman appeared right next to me, in the

same pew, wearing my navy polka dot dress, only about 16 sizes

larger. We were now Bobbsey twins, separated only by age and

size.

.

And you know what? It turned out to be her favorite dress, as well.

For some uncanny reason, we would choose to wear it on the same

Sundays, and greet each other with wry little smiles.

.

That, my friends, is how my favorite polka dot dress came to be

known as "Demendante".

photo: my favorite polka dot Boleslawiec mug

one liners

I'd forgotten this cute little Japanese ear cleaner was nestled among
my pencils; I'm afraid to stick her in my ear.

James Joyce's whopper epic, Ulysses is waiting for me at my library
branch; I'm in the mood for an epic, but we'll see how far I get,
before I shelve it. (Elizabeth promised me a prize if I finish, hopefully
before Bloomsday.)

This is the last week of winter break for son #2; I am completely
ignoring the five foot iceberg of laundry that has grown on the
landing outside the Batcave.

My hair is in dire need of a trim; I'm starting to remind myself of
Benjamin Franklin. (we resemble dead presidents here at the manor)

The Christmas tree is still up and collecting dust; I think I'll go for
that "Miss Havisham's manor" look in Great Expectations, all I need
now is the wedding dress. (Besides, it's an imposter. I can leave it up
till Ground Hog's Day, if I want.)

So far today, I've had one clementine and one small bowl of

Cheerios; the last of the white chocolate-peppermint covered

pretzels are sending powerful subliminal messages through the

pantry door.

.

Think it's time for a nice big cup of tea to stave off the growlies; the

first week after the holidays is the hardest. Care to join me?

.

xx~~ Wills

.

an error in the calculation

A Song on the End of the World


On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be.


Czeslaw Milosz
translated by Anthony Milosz


I read this lovely, thought provoking poem, posted by Relyn and
thought it so apropos for the new year. Not only thoughts about
seizing the day and living life to its fullest, but being good stewards
of the earth, as well.

It also brought to mind the rather humorous story of my fourth
great-grandfather, Rev. Robert Goodloe Harper Hanna. "Harper"
was one of the earliest ministers in Carroll County, Indiana. He
belonged to a denomination known as the Primitive Methodists and
preached the Millerite doctrine. If he believed this radical doctrine,
personally, he certainly failed to impress the outside world with his
sincerity.

Here's the account, according to the History of Carroll County,
Indiana by Thomas Helms, Chicago: Kingman Brothers, 1882.

One morning in April, 1848, John Payton rode by Hanna's farm
and saw him setting out an orchard. The inconsistency of his
preceding at once struck Payton, who elected that a number of
years must elapse, in any event, before he could expect any
return of his labor, and if the final destruction of the world were
so nearly at hand, was not his an unnecessary outlay of labor?

With this in mind, Payton addressed him:

"How is this, Brother Hanna? This is April, and if your
account is correct, the end of the world will come in
June next. It scarcely looks consistent to be doing
such work so nearly the borders of eternity."

"Oh well", replied Hanna, "we can't tell exactly; there
may have been an error in the calculation."




photo from The Library of Congress

skeleton leaves & stereoscopes

After my recent post on doppelgängers, in which I included an image
of a stereoview card of Lincoln, my sweet artist friend, Suki, was
kind enough to surprise me with one of my very own! The vintage
stereoview card she sent, pictured below, (click to enlarge) shows a
lacy funerary arrangement of skeleton leaves, in memory of
Abraham Lincoln.

After the death of Queen Victoria's beloved Prince Albert, in 1861,
funeral art became quite an elaborate fashion. Skeleton leaves,
those from which the pulpy part has been removed by chemical
means, and the fibrous part alone remaining, have been an element
of artistic design for years. They're also known as "phantom
flowers", a perfect ingredient to a frilly Victorian death memorial.

I'm sure you've seen these wonderful bits of vintage ephemera, the
stereoview cards, with dual images side by side. They were slipped
in the rear tray of a stereoscope and viewed through an eyepiece,
creating the illusion of depth, similar to the perspectives that both
eyes naturally receive in binocular vision, or 3-D. The stereoscope
was an early version of my beloved little red plastic Viewmaster.
Oh, the hours of complete bliss, clicking away to the magical land of
Sleeping Beauty, and visiting far off places like the Grand Canyon.


Thank you so much, Suki. You know how nutty I am, not only for
Lincoln, but for wonderful vintage ephemera, as well. If you're not
familiar with this talented, red beret clad little lady, pop over to her
artsy blog, Paint, Poems and Ponderings and say hello. Tell her
Willow sent you.
.
photos: skeleton leaves click [here] for source
stereoscope and viewmaster from google images

ham bone + woolly socks

Speaking of food, a tradition here at the manor is to make a steaming pot of bean soup from the ham bone left over from Christmas Day brunch. This earthy delight is perfect for a snowy January afternoon. Pair it with some homemade cornbread and you'll be in heaven. Or, if you've had quite enough carbs, a nice bunch of crunchy celery is good with it, too.

Willow's Ham and Bean Soup

1 meaty ham bone
1 two lb bag of dry great northern beans
3 carrots diced
3 ribs celery diced
1 onion diced
2 cloves garlic minced
1/2 tsp thyme
1/4 tsp white pepper
1 tsp salt, plus more to taste

Boil beans in a large pot on stove top for 2 minutes. Turn off heat and cover. Let stand for 1 hour. Drain and rinse beans.

Place ham bone, beans, vegetables and spices into the large pot, (about a 7 quart size) cover with water (about 2 inches from the top), cover and bake in 300 to 325 degree oven for about 4 hours, checking periodically and replacing any water that may have cooked off. Broth should be dense and beans soft.

Remove ham bone and cut up any large chunks of meat, and return meat to pot. Check for flavor and adjust seasonings. Enjoy, in your woolly socks, my friends.

time to move on

Chocolate Corpse

.

.
Time to move on
from the pralines
and sprinkles.
I've had my fill

of peanut brittle
and fudge.
Which means
my little wrap

of holiday pudge
is pushing
on buttons till
it tingles, and it

tastes like crap.
How could I ever
say no to Godiva?
I'm kinda

resembling a
a chocolate corpse.
Please,
no more torts.

Give me
the crunch
of a bunch
of fresh celery.

.

.

.

willow, 2010

.

.

.

photo: my world famous chocolate cake