A Garden Door

~ 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.

Christmas Cake

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.

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