The importance of the angle

“I don’t care much for facts, am not much interested in them; you can’t stand a fact up, you’ve got to prop it up, and when you move to one side a little and look at it from that angle, it’s not thick enough to cast a shadow in that direction.”
William Faulkner

(a bowl of freshly picked blueberries / Julie Cook / 2015)

Ode to the importance of angles. . .

I’m not talking about geometry or trigonometry
I’m not talking about Physics or Calculus
I’m not talking about cartography or the study of trajectory
I’m not talking about cameras, photography or architecture
I’m not talking about framing or woodworking
I’m not talking about golf, tennis, football, baseball, soccer, or hockey. . .

I’m simply talking about picking blueberries. . .

Upon first inspection of my blueberry bushes, I readily and immediately see exactly what needs picking.
Those lovely succulent orbs of royal blue to purple to practically black dangling and dotting the green backdrop like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

Working feverishly in the heat of day, gingerly canvasing the bush, I begin the task of pulling, plucking and gently twisting until the bush gives release of her tiny treasures. . .as I notice several berries sporting tiny little piercing holes. . . pecked neatly in the center of each berry.
As in pecking birds. . .
I am more than willing to share my bounty with my feathered friends but I would hope that the birds would pick and take as opposed to pecking, damaging and leaving.

Resigned to having no choice in my sharing, I let out one long heat laden sigh. . .

After an excruciatingly hot 40 minutes or so of slowly making my way round and around the bush, standing on tippy toes and squatting way down low, it appears as if I have gotten all the berries that are ripe, leaving those red and green berries for another day as they still require a few more days.

The thoughts of a cool AC and an even colder cool shower were sweetly beckoning to me like a siren to the weary sailor. . .that is until I bend over, picking up a few berries that had fallen down into the pine straw. . .and that’s when happenstance would have it’s wicked way with me.
I cast my gaze slightly upward, up underneath the bush. . .and that’s when I saw it.. . or rather that’s when I saw them. . .
I was aghast.
Dangling high and low, as if to tease even more sweat from my heatstroke brow, there hanging and hidden from the sight of the obvious are a myriad more overtly ripe blue and purple berries.

Hidden from the sight of the obvious.

I begin crawling up and under, scrounging on bended knees, reaching and stretching ever upward, around and over. . .agin and agin. . .
Plucking until, thinking triumphantly, I have finally gotten every last berry. . .
. . .that is until I turn my head to the left. . .

And that’s when it hits me. . .
This picking business isn’t about the obvious. . .no, not at all.
The key to successful picking is knowing about the angle.
The obvious is one thing.
The obvious is easy.
Everyone sees the obvious.
Even the birds see the obvious. . .taking full advantage of such obvious pickings.
The key to success, the key to the fullest basket or bowl of berries,
isn’t resting in the obvious. . .
No. . .I have discovered, in the heat of this late June day while clutching a burgeoning bowl of berries, that the key to success lies not in the obvious. . .
but rather the key lies hidden in the all important angle.

Being keen to bend, cocking ones head, peering up and over, or under and around.
With the angle of vision being paramount. . .

Being able to go into any endeavor, be it picking berries or solving any of life’s toughest troubles, knowing that what greets you initially is not all that there is—for there is certainly more— will be the true ticket to success—

So the next time you’re faced with one of life’s vexing problems—don’t consider the obvious, that which is staring you in the face. . . be willing to cock your head, looking over and around, up and above, hidden and way down low . . .

You might just be surprised at how quickly you’ll fill your cup,
your heart, your life, your bowl. . .
filling it full with even more ripe berries than what you had initially expected. . .

Now it’s time for that shower!!!

Tarnished

“Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean,
who is neither tarnished nor afraid.”
Raymond Chandler

(polishing a few silver pieces / Julie Cook / 2015)

There once was a time, several generations ago, when young brides-to-be would receive silver items as wedding gifts. Sterling silver, as well as silver-plate, trays, bowls, silverware, etc. all most often monogramed. It was all the rage. Girls would register at various stores for a particular silver pattern such as something produced by the likes of Reed and Barton, Gorham, Tiffany, Wallace to name but a few. Gifts would range from place settings, a single serving piece, picture frames, ornaments, candle sticks. . .with the list going on and on.

As each generation seems to set its own mark on the world, it appears that today’s modern day brides-to-be are a bit more practical in their choices of what sorts of gifts they’d like to receive. Coffee machines–as in cappuccino, espresso, single cup. . .towels–both kitchen and bath, sheets, glasses, plates, bar ware, cookware, outdoor serving items, candles, goodies form Crate and Barrel, William Sonoma, Pottery Barn, Macys as their lists go on and on.

By the time I got married, almost 35 years ago, silver was not as popular a wedding gift as it was in, say, my mother’s day. The cost of sterling silver had begun a slow assent upwards and the truth be told, the upkeep and usability of silver was quickly loosing its appeal and practicability. Shiny pretty silver certainly has a wow factor but keeping that brilliant mirror surface sheen is another matter entirely.

We all know from basic chemistry that certain metals, when exposed to various substances, can change. In the case of silver, especially sterling silver, a mixture of air and hydrogen sulfide turns the surface of silver items, at first a cloudy dull grey gold which will, if not wiped away, eventually turn black.

Tarnish luckily is not a permeant problem. However if salt is added to the mix, a silver piece really has problems! The salt will corrode the surface, eating into several layers of the silver, pitting the item–with the damage sadly being permanent.

Polishing silver, in order to remove the tarnish, is an arduous painstaking task. It is a labor intensive, time consuming and messy process. When the silver piece is polished, using a cream paste and soft cloth, a thin micro layer of the surface is taken away as the tarnish resides only on the top layer—the other layers remain intact. Rust on the other hand is a corrosive reaction on certain metals which eats through layer upon layer, eventually destroying the metal.

Tarnish is often what deters folks these days from wanting to buy silver items. The upkeep in today’s busy, everybody’s working world, is enough to turn anyone away from the beautiful things found in today’s antique and specialty stores.

As we all know. . .tarnish will always comes back.

I’m a lot like silver.

Being exposed to certain elements, I eventually succumb to the effects of “tarnish.” I lose my brilliant surface appearance, my beauty fades as I eventually turn a very dull lifeless black.

I allow the oxidizing agents of the world to affect my sheen and brilliance. I become sullied and dulled by the exposure to negative elements. Not merely the eating and drinking of the wrong elements for my betterment, but to the more shady and insidious elements. . .those negative things which I expose my eyes, ears, heart and mind to. . .be it certain forms of entertainment such as music, television, movies, even down to the books and magazines I choose to read. . .I allow negativity, violence, foul useless language, sexual promiscuity and selfish gratification to permeate my world. I am lured away from that which helps to keep the tarnish at bay.

God looks and sees a once brilliantly shining creation dulled and darkened by the exposure of time away from Him. . .His word, His people, His realm.
My perception dims.
I can’t distinguish that which is positive and that which is the negative.
Exposure to the world verses exposure to my Christian spirituality. . .as sadly I choose, even often unknowingly, the world.

I allow an often tired body and mind to choose the easy way. . .the path of less resistance to dominate and take over. In order for me to choose God and His desires, it calls upon certain factors such as vigilance, diligence, observance, prayer, fasting, communion, reading and digesting the Word, healing, confession, even praise—often times not easily felt or desired. Sometimes it all seems to be counter to my mood, my disposition, my feelings, my abilities, my strength. . .a conscious choice and determination must take hold. . .

Yet thankfully God does not tire of polishing or re-polishing.
He doesn’t mind the time and effort spent.
He doesn’t mind the elbow grease required to wipe away the heavy layer of darkness which encases my entire being.

Slowly but surely the black is lovingly removed as the tiny areas of brilliance begin to reemerge.
God holds me, enfolds me within His welcoming hands. He gently, yet determinedly, focuses in order to rub over and over those negative tarnished areas of my heart and soul.
Allowing the brilliance, that is His creation. . .
to shine forth, yet once again. . .

“For just like the lightning, when it flashes out of one part of the sky, shines to the other part of the sky, so will the Son of Man be in His day.
Luke 17:24

Editors and signposts

“Let the reader find that he cannot afford to omit any line of your writing because you have omitted every word that he can spare.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

The safest road to hell is the gradual one – the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.
C. S. Lewis

(tools of a trade / Julie Cook / 2015)

Many years ago when I was early on in my college career, I can vividly remember telling
my mother that I thought something was wrong with me–with the way I learned, or better yet,
the way I didn’t / couldn’t learn–that which today is referred to as a learning disability.

Often frustrated that learning, which seemed to come so easily to others,
did not come easy for me.
By all outward appearances I was quite bright and articulate, excelling in some areas,
struggling to merely get by in others.

Nevertheless, I mustered on often battling extreme frustration and disappointment.
Constantly studying, seeking out tutors, practicing, staying after class for help…
only to come up frustratingly short–
failing or nearly failing tests I just was certain I could pass.

We now know that not all learners process information the same as others.
It often takes a keen educator, who constantly observes and accesses their students,
to be able to present material, using a variety of delivery methods,
while hoping to tap into each students strengths.

I can still remember Mother simply shrugging, telling me that I was fine.
Yet today as I have watched my now grown son struggle throughout his entire life with an
early diagnosed Learning Disability and Dyslexia…
as I’m pretty certain I know from whence his troubles originated…

Math was my nemesis, as it remains so much to this day–
I made certain that I would pursue a career path which did not require Algebra or Geometry,
let alone something as obscure as Calculus.
Science, although I was intrigued by Science,
did not fair much better in my brain.
The Biology side of the Science world was more readily digested then that of Physics or Chemistry.
There were formulas, numbers, symbols and equations–
all things my brain just wouldn’t or couldn’t seem to unwrap.

Thriving however in the study of History and the study of the social sciences,
otherwise known as social studies,
I found myself enthralled by the endless stories which make history History.
Not necessarily with each and every aspect of history,
nor of the history of each and every culture,
yet for the majority of study,
history was the area in which I became a sponge.
I was equally intrigued with the political aspect of human history.
Throw in Theology and the history of the ancient faith of Judaism,
as well as that of the later emergence of Christianity,
and I was all ears.

English was ok but there were problems there as well.
Spelling was an issue, as those of you who read this blog well know.
Between spellcheck, autocorrect and my brain,
not all words in the blog posts are correct—
of which I greatly apologize.
And to my defense I never received a good foundation in sentence structure or grammar.
For whatever reason,
I never had a class or teacher who really taught grammar usage and writing as it
should have been taught.
It seemed that I usually ended up in a class where it was a given that all learners
had already been steeped in the basic foundations.
Sadly, I was the one learner in the lot who was not so versed.
Yet I did enjoy the literature aspect of English—with myself,
yearning one day, to be able to express my thoughts and ideas through writing as well.

Being able to express myself was always important. I found that writing,
first in a journal / diary form as a young girl, then as I grew older,
through the writing of letters.
It was in the writing of letters where I was finally allowed to fully express my thoughts.
It was a place my often frustrated brain could and would freely soar.

In the days before computers, word documents, pdf files, jpg images…
I alone helped to sustain the United States Postal Service by keeping them busily in business.
I loved buying and sending cards.
I would spend hours writing letters–especially letters that I would write,
more like epistles, to my godfather–
who is now 92 and a long retired Episcopal priest.
I have often referenced him and his influence in my life in previous posts.

The letters were often written with a myriad of misspelled words despite the large
dictionary by my side.
There were gaping gaps in the written thought as I thought much faster than I wrote.
The letters were laced with outrageous sentence structure,
which in turn would make any english teacher cringe,…
yet they were letters written with passion, honesty and humility.
And despite the holes, the poor sentence structure or the youthful angst,
my godfather would receive each letter expectantly, happily, and lovingly…
all without judgement of content or the editing of grammatical structure–
this from a man who made a living writing and speaking.

Our correspondence began when I was around the age of 15.
My early letters were laced with the pangs of innocence and adolescence.
Yet as I aged and matured those letters became more complex,
even troubling, as I fought my way, often with fraught emotion,
through the often tangled jungle of life.
I wrestled with my faith and beliefs.
Life was not always easy nor kind.
There were obstacles, illnesses, deaths, disappointments, poor choices, grave mistakes,
coupled with a few triumphs, glimpses of joy and moments of contentment.

Always with love and often, no doubt, with great frustration,
he would offer words of either encouragement, warning, or mere advice…
yet his words were always laced with love.
It was here, within the correspondence of a young girl, now grown woman, where I learned about unconditional love.

I never filtered my words or emotions yet perhaps today, looking back,
I see that it would have behooved me to have used a bit more restraint—
yet he never faltered or expressed disappointment.
My Godpoppa, the busy world at large Anglican leader,
would never specifically tell me what to do,
despite my often desperate queries.
He never would say yes or no but rather he’d offer wisdom woven with advice all of
which he hoped would allow me to eventually find my own way.
He was a signpost of guidance, of the miles thus traveled and of miles yet to be traveled.

So on this new day of this new week, in the early days of a brand new year—
do you need an editor or do you need a signpost?
Are you in need of direction or correction on this journey of yours known simply as life?
Or are you like most of us, simply indeed of both—
sometimes needing to be pointed in the right direction while receiving a bit of
much needed revision to your plots and plans…
May you make the most of the guidance, advice, love,
direction and assistance you receive along the way and may you be blessed,
as I have been,
with more signposts than editors.

White

White is not a mere absence of color; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black. God paints in many colors; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white. G. K. Chesterton

(Photograph: a standard azalea bloom/ Julie Cook 2013)

I love having plants/ bushes that have white blooms in the yard. I don’t know if it’s because they are neat and clean when viewed, elegant and noble, or tend to make the biggest statement—“here I am, I may be merely white but I am the excess of all light!”—As an art teacher I would always explain to my kids that black, white and grey were not colors but actually conditions of light. Black would be the absence of light, grey a tone and white would be the excess of all light.

Discussing color theory is a course unto itself and tied very closely to science–physics, chemistry, you name it. It can be complicated, and I think, quite interesting, but I always needed to keep it neat and simple as my kids were more interested in painting rather than about understanding how the colors they chose worked .

One day we’ll talk about color, you and I, as I dearly love the history of color and paint–how certain colors were made–blue being a most expensive color for artists such as Michelangelo as it was made from grinding the semi precious stones, Lapis Lazuli to a paste and adding a binder. Many colors were made from insects, bones, and unfortunately lead. Those who ran the early local paint shops were often in mortal danger from the inhaling of fumes, the handling and mixing of molten metals, and dangerous chemical reactions. It was not a profession of longevity.

Today we may simply appreciate the pretty white blooms we see in the garden, those images that we so eagerly capture with a photograph. I, myself, enjoy allowing my imagination to wander back in time to those who once tried capturing the same sort of image, who had no cameras– and as to how those artists, who throughout time, did so with at a bit of a risk, but none so great as to those who made the paint……. we’ve come a long way…

Cooking and Creativity vs Baking and Chemistry

Some of you reading my posts may have noticed that I have a category for “Cooking/Creativity”.   Whereas these two activities are indeed separate, in my world they are as intertwined as kudzu and the South.  Many folks most likely equate Creativity with the Arts—the Visual Arts in particular.  And yes, there is certainly truth to that.  An artist may take, for example, a canvas, tubes of paints and  a small army of brushes—mix in a little water and light as needed, along with a little of this and a little of that  for effect and…. voila, a beautiful image emerges for all to view and enjoy.

Cooking is very much along the same principle.  A cook/chef takes a few pots and pans, some fresh (or even frozen) ingredients—mix in varying portions of liquids, oils, heat , a little of this spice and a little of that herb and…. voila, a beautiful plate that pleases not only eye but palate as well.  And oh how I find so much pleasure in both pursuits but if the truth be known, it is the latter that truly quenches my soul.

After spending upwards of 10 or more hours a day at school, I found it almost necessary to come home and cook supper.  My kind husband would constantly tell me that I could/ should just keep things simple, maybe just a sandwich or we could even go out to grab a bite if I was too tired…. I wouldn’t hear of it!  Especially after the most stressful of days.  Being allowed to come home to my kitchen was a welcomed relief.  It was in my kitchen where I could simply immerse myself in the thoughts of the day, sorting out mistakes, miscues or relish in the small victories all the while as I would start whatever it was going to be for supper.

From cornish hens with a glistening, translucent amber orange marmalade glaze or to the magic wonder of fish or chicken en papillote accompanied by an orchestra of fresh vegetables and herbs  —it was here that I found my zeal for the “creative.”

Many years ago when my mom was in ICU battling cancer ,and I was a newly married young woman, I would go each day to the ICU Waiting Room carrying an arm load of cook books–upwards of 8 at a time.  As I would sit for hours waiting for the  three 15 minute times of visitation allowed in a 24 hour period, I would read page per page , cover to cover of every type of recipe and cookbook imaginable. It was my therapy and my catharsis.  Maybe I needed to know that in the dark shadows of death, where I had found myself in vigil for my mom, Creativity, which I equate with life and living, was still very much present and attainable.

But what about baking you ask.  I once read that if one fancies oneself as more of a cook then that just means that one tends to be more “creative”.  If one fancies oneself as more of a baker, one tends to be more “scientific”.  I find that a pretty good analogy–or actually description of the two.  The baker needs precision and must rely on the chemistry of ingredients to make the “magic”.  The perfect blend of baking powder and or soda, along with fats, sugars, yeast, water and heat–there is indeed true magic that takes place.  From the rising or proofing of bread to the final baking.  Heavenly aromas arise from one’s oven when making yeast breads from scratch.  It may sound simple and easy—trust me, it is anything but!!

It is in that baking process where I do struggle….as my personality is not patient enough for baking.  That whole mixing, kneading, waiting, punching, kneading a little more, waiting, rising, rolling, baking…..you get the point.  Part of my plan during this retirement has been to perfect ( I use that term oh so loosely) the making of various breads from scratch.  I will do a post on the cinnamon rolls at a later date…today, however, I need something that I can count on as a success and not as a wing and a prayer.

I will leave you today with a recipe for an oldie but goodie  simple desert.  Some may think this more of a fall or even winter desert.  I find it is perfect year round.  I was at the grocery store earlier where I found fresh Meyer Lemons.  Large and full of juice– they looked almost like  oranges–as their peel has a beautiful yellow/ orange warm yet bright hue.  And the fragrance is not to be denied let alone the flavor!!!!!!  If you have never tried a Meyer lemon—there will be no going back once you do….this particular desert is traditionally served with a lemon sauce, or glaze or even lemon curd.  It is taken from the Joy of Baking.  The Joy of Cooking was probably the very first cookbook I received, even while I was still in college.

I hope you will enjoy this simple yet flavor satisfying Ginger cake… as I certainly will later this evening.

Gingerbread Cake:  Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (177 degrees C) and place rack in center of oven.  Butter and flour a 9 inch (23 cm) round or square cake pan with 2 inch (5 cm) sides.  In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, salt, ground cinnamon, ginger and cloves. In bowl of your electric mixer (or with a hand mixer), beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy (about 3 minutes).  Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.  Add the lemon zest and molasses and beat to combine. Scrape down the sides of the bowl as needed. Add the dry ingredients and milk, alternately, beginning and ending with the dry ingredients.  Beat just until incorporated. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top with an offset spatula.  Bake for 40 – 45 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean.  Remove from oven and let cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes before removing cake from pan.  Let cool completely and then, if desired, frost with the Lemon Icing. Lemon Icing:  Mix together the sifted confectioners’ sugar and lemon juice until smooth.  (The icing should be thick but still spreadable.)  Pour the icing onto the center of the cake and spread with an offset spatula.  Some of the icing will drip down the sides of the cake.  This cake will keep for several days at room temperature.   Can serve with softly whipped cream, lemon curd, or slices of apples sauteed in a little butter and sugar. Makes one – 9 inch (23 cm) cake Gingerbread Cake: 2 cups (260 grams) all purpose flour 1 teaspoon (5 grams) baking soda 1/4 teaspoon salt 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon 1 teaspoon ground ginger 1/8 teaspoon ground cloves 1/2 cup 113 grams) unsalted butter, room temperature 1/2 cup (105 grams) light brown sugar 2 large eggs Zest of 1 lemon (outer yellow skin of lemon) 1/2 cup (120 ml) unsulphured molasses (To prevent the molasses from sticking to the measuring cup, first spray the cup with a non stick vegetable spray.) 1 cup (240 ml) milk Lemon Icing: (Optional) 1 1/2 cups (150 grams) sifted confectioners’ (powdered or icing) sugar 2 – 2 1/2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice