Along about now, I begin to dream of Paris in April . . . .
~ courtesy of CadyLuck Leedy of “ThatTravelLadyinHerShoes”
On this frigid January morning, I can imagine myself sitting just outside this imaginary door somewhere in the imaginary Greek Islands, basking in the warmth of a Mediterranean sun, instead of a real-life winter Pacific Northwest.
Too many words, here?
Sometimes, words are all I have to keep me company. I relish them. I read them. I write them.
And I listen to them.
The first harbingers of spring . . . .
This old Southern gal grew up with Christmas fruitcakes, usually the dark ones my Mother’s sis made each year and sent over. In my younger years, I used to make the Williamsburg White Fruitcake, a much lighter version based on Colonial Virginia recipes and covered in thick white icing — after the cake had been doused in brandy, that is. Sis used port on her cake, and Daddy sipped port with his fruitcake.
A good month before Christmas, “Stir-Up Sunday” was the day my family and I mixed our fruitcake, each taking a turn while reciting the Collect of the day: “Stir up, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people . . . .” from the old Book of Common Prayer. The results? A mighty good fruitcake!
Alas, I can no longer stand long enough to assemble and mix all the ingredients for a fruitcake, and Sis is long gone to her heavenly reward. These days, I simply make cranberry bread for brunch, tea, whenever; that suffices nicely.
A winter drive in the Cascade foothills on a sunny day . . .