Poof!

 

 

 

 

She measures all the ingredients
with care and a practiced eye,
beats the eggs, stirs in the flour;
her cake will be light and high.

She slides the pan in the oven,
anticipates a prize,
when a peek in the oven later
shows it blithely on the rise.

But, sad to say, before it’s done
and risen light-fully,
the power fails for half an hour.
Her cake falls splendidly.

Swallows and Sweet Rolls — A Different Morning

Hello Everyone.

Ive had an unusual morning, the hours dappled with duties and naps.

I allowed a vision of fresh cinnamon rolls for breakfast to lure me from my bed at in the wee hours. I noticed some for sale Sunday evening where I bought my milk and the thought of fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon rolls buzzed around my mind all day yesterday. When I woke up at 4am the temptation to have some for breakfast overcame sleep.

This lure had an ally in our overflowing laundry hamper. I imagined having a couple of loads done and dried before the day got hot — a pleasant thought. Here in central Sask the air ALWAYS cools off overnight, a real blessing in the hottest summer days. By noon the trailer where we reside is toasty, being in the sunshine, un-dappled by overshadowing leaves. So it takes a fair bit to keep the place comfortable. Plus you don’t want to add to the indoor humidity by drying clothes. The earlier in the morning I can do the laundry, the better for us.

Upshot: by 4:30 am my bun dough was rising in the oven and a load of laundry was chugging away. I let the cat out, left the door open, and stood on our deck enjoying the fresh morning air. But a few minutes later the male barn swallow swooped past several times, quite close, twittering frantically. It’s rare he’d get that close; something must be disturbing him.

One thing about swallows: they know who their friends are. I find them friendly birds; if you pay them quiet, kind attention they learn to trust you — and will even come to you for help. I’ve observed different times when something is amiss, they fly almost by my nose, pleading for help in their own way. At the Villa one time a pair sat on a post right by the door, twittering in distress when a pair of English sparrows — a thousand curses on the species! — were invading their nest. Here, too, the swallows swooped around us to enlist our aid when those wretched sparrows stole their nest. You can’t mistake their little cries of “Help! Help!”

So I grabbed some shoes and went out to check their nest to see a cat or some other bird got into the building where they nest. Thankfully they’ve chosen a secure place. But there were several magpies — notorious nest-robbers — nearby in the back yard. Must have been what was bothering him; I chased them off and never heard anything more from the swallow.

Some people say barn swallows are so defensive they’ll attack people who come too near their nests. I haven’t found them that way. Or the birds here on the prairie haven’t learned to fear people? I go check their nest frequently these days to see if the little ones are cheeping yet and my presence distresses the parent birds a bit; they flap around some, but they’ve never dived at me. And it’s so sweet to see the little ones peeping out at you!

Anyway, the dough was rising, the laundry washing, the swallows settled, and I was free to check out the daily one-word prompts other bloggers have so kindly provided. I chose to use the following in this tale:

Daily Addictions: RESIDENT
Fandango’s FOWC: LESSEN
Ragtag Daily Prompt: DAPPLED
Word of the Day: DEVIATE
Scott’s Daily Prompt: PACKAGE

However, when you deviate from the tried and true, the normal routine — okay, I don’t exactly HAVE a normal routine, but for the purpose of this tale — you sooner or later have to make a course correction that will bring you back into the program again. If you lessen your hours of sleep in favor of sweet rolls and clean laundry, by 8 am when you’re ready to sit down and reply to the daily prompts as you usually would at this time, your eyelids become heavy and you start to nod off.

So I had a short nap and woke up in time to bake my buns. Which turned out very well. Wish I could send along a waft of cinnamon for you as you read this post.

By 8:30 am the buns were cooling on the counter and the second load was drying. Sweet!

I had an errand to do at the Villa, the seniors’ residence where I occasionally cook, so I packaged up half a dozen cinnamon rolls and took them along in case today’s cook might like to use them. I found one elderly gentleman walking down the hall and gave him a couple for his breakfast. did some sorting of recipes after I got home; I’d noticed quite a few in my Recipe box that I never use. “As you get older your tastes change”, they say. Truth is, as you get older you’re lean toward the old familiars.

Around 10 am I sat down to read, but soon fell asleep. As I said, less hours of sleep can play havoc with your schedule, but I think I’m awake now. I’ll reply to these prompt words, then I want to bake cookies.

Another deviation from routine: our church is holding Summer Vacation Bible School every evening this week and I’ve put my name down to supply four dozen cookies for tonight’s refreshment break. I’ll take my package of cookies over to church this afternoon when my husband gets home from his one-day-a-week book-keeping job in a nearly town.

Ah, I just got a pop-up from WordPress, offering to help me install a payment button! Hmm… You all know that you’re welcome to donate anytime, right? 🙂

Have a great day everyone.

André’s Blue Steak

“What is so Rare as a Steak Fried Blue?”
or “What to Do When Diners Linger at the Table”

André Gauvreau was in his 50s and on disability pension because of heart trouble and diabetes when we met him, so he had lots of time and he loved to visit. Through the years he’d worked at various cooking jobs across Canada and had quite the tales to tell.

In one of his accounts he was the head cook at a certain mining camp in northern Alberta and part of his job was to wash the dining room floor after dinner. But sometimes he had trouble getting the fellows out of the dining hall after the meal was over; they were inclined to sit for a lengthy gab-fest after the dishes were cleared away.

Then André discovered an effective method of clearing the dining room. Being French Canadian, he liked his steaks “blue”: charred on both sides and very rare inside. So after the other men had eaten he’d take a raw steak and throw it on the grill to singe it, then flip it over and singe the other side. Next he’d fork it onto his plate, take his utensils and go sit in the midst of the loiterers to have his meal.

He’d slice into the steak and blood would ooze out all over the plate. With great relish he’d start chowing down. The other guys took one look at his plate and remembered they had things to do elsewhere. He said it worked every time.

I’m sure our Aunt Helen would have said the same thing to him that she said to Uncle Henry one day when he’d fried himself a very rare steak. He asked her if she wanted part of it and she told him, “No. I can still hear that calf bawling!”

Beware the Christmas Bird

One day a few of the women folk in a certain family were preparing their festive bird. They sat the raw turkey on the counter ready for its stuffing, a big bowl of which had already been prepared. One sister began shoving the seasoned stuffing into back end of the large bird, though she thought she had made lots, the cavity didn’t get full.

“This isn’t quite enough,” she squealed to her two sisters. “Quick! Make some more.”

The other two threw more bread crumbs, onions, and seasonings into a pan and stirred it up with butter and water to moisten. “Here,” one of them said, handing her the bowl. She grabbed it and stuffed in more, but it still wasn’t enough.

“This turkey must have had an enormous set of innards,” she grumbled. “It still isn’t enough!”

One of her sisters walked around to the other side of the counter. “Don’t look now, but…”

The others hurried around and groaned as they saw dressing poking through the neck hole. A little pile on the floor bore evidence to the sister’s energetic thrust.

“Lesson 1 in Turkey Stuffing,” one sister quipped. “Be sure there’s a Stop at the end.”

Will’s Cooking Skills

Will set the bubbling pot of stew on the table beside the biscuits he’d just taken out of the oven. Then he tossed another chunk of wood into the stove. With the storm crashing outside like it was — the wind whistling in through whatever cracks it could find — he wanted the fire to stay good and hot.

He sat down at the table and bowed his head for a short grace — a prayer that the food would be edible as much as blessed. “Well, now let’s see what you’ve come up with, Will, my boy. Maybe this time…”

He ladled soup into his bowl, then stretched his long legs out under the table and reached for a biscuit. Still nice and warm. Can’t be that bad. The thing crunched when he took a bite, something like the cracking of a stick of kindling, but his teeth didn’t make much of an impression.

He dropped the biscuit onto his plate. It landed with an hopeless thunk. “I just gotta learn to bake!” He blew his frustration out in a long stream of air. “While I still have some teeth to eat with, that is.”

His thoughts jumped across the fields to the next section, where his brother Jim would be sitting down to a delicious supper, surrounded by his family. Will gazed out the window, imagining them gathered around the table. He could almost smell the meal. Grace was an excellent cook; Jim and the children would be well fed.

Thou shalt not covet thy brother’s wife, nor thy brother’s wife’s cooking. But I’d sure like to have one of my own. She doesn’t have to be pretty or so talented, Lord, just an old-fashioned girl that can cook like Ma and Grace.

He jumped when another crack of lightening lit up the yard, followed immediately by a heaven-splitting boom and a fresh wave of rain. The whole cabin seemed to shudder. Oh, dear Lord, please let this storm be over soon!

Loneliness squeezed Will’s chest, making him struggle for his next breath. Even if she isn’t the best cook… If she’d just be here with me tonight when the wind’s howling so wild. We’d wrap ourselves up in a blanket by the fire…

In a flash he saw again Rosanne’s cheery smile — a smile that would have warmed up his cabin perfectly on a night like this. Was she happy now with that school teacher who swept her off her feet and took her away to the city? Why did I dawdle around about it? Why was I so bashful? Why didn’t I ask her first? Will blinked and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

Will jerked the reins on his runaway thoughts. Smarten up, old boy. No point crying over spilled milk, as Mom always says. Things are what they are. He picked up the biscuit again, broke it into his stew, and poked it around with his spoon. That’ll soften it up some.

He took a spoonful of stew, frowning at the flatness of it. Maybe Grace could show him what to put in stew to give it some flavor. Then he shook his head and scolded himself. Hey, it’s food and you’re hungry. Just eat the crummy stuff and stop thinking about what it lacks.

He was about to take another bite when someone pounded on the door. Will jumped to his feet and hurried to the door, wondering what fool would be out on a night like this.

He flung open the door and saw a young man standing there. His Nash Rambler stood nearby. Though it was dark, Will thought he saw a face in the passenger window.

“Sorry to trouble you, but I hope you don’t mind me stopping awhile in your drive. The storm was getting so bad I couldn’t see a thing. And my sister’s terrified driving in all this lightening.”

“Don’t worry. You’re welcome to park there. Why don’t you both come in and wait out the storm inside where it’s warm.”

“Thanks so much!” The young man hurried back to the car to get his passenger.

Will cast a guilty glance toward his table. If only he had some decent food to offer. “I was just about to have a bite to eat. What about you folks,” he asked as the two young people stepped inside and shed their coats.

“Brought our own,” the young man said, holding up a sack. “Hope that’s okay. We’d expected to stop somewhere en route, but then this storm came up and I drove like mad to get where we’re going. Our older sister’s just had a baby and Vickie here is going to help her for a few weeks. We’re James and Victoria Franks, by the way. From Empress, on our way to Hatfield.”

“I’m Will McKinley.” He shook hands with his visitors. “You’re not that far from where you wanna be. Once the rain lets up it should only take you another twenty minutes or so.”

Vickie gave Will a great big smile. “Thanks so much for letting us stop over like this. It’s so fortunate James saw your lights.”

“For sure,” Will agreed heartily. He stared into her soft grey eyes and wondered if she could hear his heart pounding double time, louder than the rain outside. Oh, dear Lord, please let this storm last all night!

Oh, well. Hatfield wasn’t far away, if he should want to go visiting there some evening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One day, over at The Write Practice, our assignment was to write a fiction story about someone, giving special attention to developing the main character. I’ve shared with you the scene in Will’s farm home — then added the travellers arrival so as to give the poor guy a glimmer of hope. 🙂 So what do you think of Will’s character? Is he likeable or not, and why?