Buddha quotes:
“If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.”
“When you like a flower, you just pluck it. But when you love a flower, you water it daily.”
Offer, howl, caress
Artist hands shape the southwest
Observe, imagine
goldenbrodie Haiku 6/28/16
Sticks, pricks, keep distance
Made of beauty and the beast
Stark desert finds them
goldenbrodie Haiku 6/27/16
Asparagus green
Spikes and spears from noble crown
Straight, narrow, plate it!
goldenbrodie Haiku 6/20/16
“True wisdom comes to each of us when we realize how little we understand about life, ourselves, and the world around us.”
Socrates, we continue to benefit from your common sense.
When I saw my father take out the black cast-iron skillet, I knew that a favorite of mine was going to hit the table within 30 minutes. This morning food magic happened while the coffee pot was percolating cheap java with chicory and the cooked bacon sat waiting. Lard, white flour, salt & pepper, milk, in that order would be turned into white gravy. There was no recipe or cookbook. Skillet hit one of the four burners. First, a scoop of lard out of the lard-jar melted in the heated pan. Then the flour. His hands moved with purpose and confidence. His large, dented, stainless steel spoon with a wooden handle was part of his system. He’d stir the stuff using a smooth circular motion, blending and blending the grease with the flour until he saw the right consistency. Next, milk was slowly added while the stirring continued. Both of his hands were in action. Stirring with patience and watching for the right moment, he’d add the salt and pepper. And voila, there was the white gravy.
We’d eat it on white bread and beg for more. If we were really lucky, the gravy topped some of his homemade biscuits to complete this Virginia country beginning for the day. Chipped beef-gravy, red-eye gravy and sausage gravy made by him were also favorites.
Dang, I would love to have some of Daddy’s white gravy, but even more than that, I’d give anything for kitchen time with him and watch the magic he made for us.
What’s your Daddy food? Would enjoy you sharing about your Daddy Food as we approach Father’s Day.
Neighborhood flowers
Virginia June beauty
Butterflies please come
GoldenBrodie Haiku 6/13/16
Years ago several of my relatives had enough land to grow their own fruits and vegetables. My grandparent’s fruitful garden and Aunt Myrtle’s fertile plot remain fresh in my mind.
There was a planting pattern that they shared. There were rows, neatly furrowed and maintained on a weekly basis. Corn was planted in the outer rows, so their height would not create too much of a shady shadow. Then came the pole beans & peas and so on, according to anticipated height. Next to the last were rows of mounds of squash, cucumbers and watermelons. The last of the rows were dedicated to growing tomatoes with the final rows reserved for marigolds and other flowers. My grandmother would plant marigolds between her tomato plants. The gardens were neat and tidy and a place that the chickens enjoyed visiting.
While chickens were the source of fresh eggs and finally fried chicken dinners on Sundays, they were also used during the growing season as weeders, tillers and de-buggers. Everybody and everything had a job. My Uncle Frank was proficient at putting up chicken wire in temporary sections of the garden, then skillfully with little effort on his part, he’d guide his hens into the area. The chickens seemed to be so cooperative with my uncle and for good chicken reasons. Once in their designated temporary spot in the garden, they would feast on the grubs and pests that liked to feast on the plantings and their roots. They would peck and pick through the soil, peck at and eat the weeds and just have a chicken good old-time. My young eyes enjoyed watching the garden flourish, while waiting in anticipation for the coming bounty.
Later in life I learned that my family used excellent farming practices and to some point practices of organic gardening. I never heard the word organic used by my Shenandoah Valley family members. They were outstanding farmers, men and women alike. Each had a hand in growing. The women canned tomatoes and peaches and you name it and put up preserves, jams and jellies and pickles. My favorite bounty from the canning shelves in the cellar was the bread and butter pickles and the watermelon rind. I looked forward to my grandmother serving them proudly on her condiment tray at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Now I visit our local farmer’s markets for produce and flowers. Do I wish that I had chickens and some land for a good size garden? Of course I do, but I am grateful for all the memories and knowledge of farming given to me.
And the farmers markets are incredible.
Lawns are green where I live in Virginia. Many folks work very hard at keeping their green spaces weed free. Countless well manicured neighborhoods pay herbicide companies to lay down fertilizers and weed killers. Virginia lawn services busily mix-up and spread the “death cocktails” for the eradication of the clover and dandelions.
Please note the protective mesh that surrounds the dandelions in the lush gardens at Blarney Castle, Ireland. No lawnmower is going to mow these beauties down and no polluting herbicides are taking them out of the natural environment. 
Label them a weed.
Refer to them as a flower.
I go with flower.
My freckles and pigtails perfectly balanced my small frame. My knees were sticking out from my thin little legs. My skin was soft and creamy and my eyes were as blue as could be. I needed a pretty princess in my wee life.
So, I loved Princess Elizabeth. I played with Princess Elizabeth paper dolls. We shared our birthday month of April. We were both brunettes and I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She married her prince the year I was born and immediately following my fifth birthday she became Queen Elizabeth II.
I watched her coronation on our funky boxy television. The reception was horrendous but that did not stop her beauty from shining through as she approached Westminster Abbey in her gold “Cinderella like” coach. The BBC broadcast was the first major event to rattle the radio’s place in society. The coronation of Queen Elizabeth II on June 2, 1953 is said to have been watched by more people on television than heard it on “the wireless”. And I was there, right up in front of our TV. My mother kept telling me to get my head out-of-the-way. I was fixated on my lovely princess going queen on me.
Her crowning moment became part of my life story and on this June 3, very unconsciously, I was drawn to blog about my princess/queen. Oh the rhythm of life.
Photo: Google Images
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