Autumn Apple Cake

Although I didn't grow up eating apple cake, I've made one in the fall for many years. It most likely was inspired by the plethora of delicious apples grown in Maine. I've never had a special recipe-just used what I found in the paper or online. That is, until this year.

There have been a few mistakes through the years with my apple cakes. A few years ago I hosted an American Guild of Organists potluck and my cake got stuck in the bundt pan. There was no covering up the disaster and we just had to make do. This group of folks had no idea that I (mostly) know what I am doing in the kitchen, so I was rather horrified!

Lat fall the Washington Post had a recipe that was billed as "THE apple cake you will make from now on." It was complicated-soaking nuts and dried fruits, making some sort of syrup-but I took on the challenge. I took it to another potluck and fortunately it easily came out of the pan. And it was delicious-moist and flavorful.  But worth all that effort?  Not really. It was meant to be served as is, simply, with no adornments. So I was not happy when the hostess brought out canned whipping cream and bottled caramel sauce to slather on top!

This year I have found THE recipe, courtesy of my friend Karen, who visited recently. Simple and mixed by hand, it covers all the bases and is MEANT to be served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I made it for guests last night and they scarfed it down.

Here's Karen, working her magic on fresh green beans from the farmers' market. And here's the recipe, which she found in a Neiman Marcus "friends" cookbook and originally came from a farm in New York State. I hope you'll give it a try- it's perfect if someone at your Thanksgiving table doesn't like pie.

Apple Cake

1. Cream together 1/4 cup Crisco (yes, really), 3/4 to 1 cup sugar, and 1 egg. 

2. Stir together 1 cup flour, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/2 teaspoon baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon baking soda and 1/2 teaspoon salt.  Add to creamed mixture.

3. Stir in 1 teaspoon vanilla, 1/4 cup chopped walnuts or pecans and 3 cups peeled and chopped apples.

4. Cook at 350 for 40-45 minutes.

It takes a bit of elbow grease, but you really can mix this all by hand-it's rather fun to do that. Enjoy!

 

Blessing In a Storm

 

    Last night we had a storm, and I mean a STORM. We could see it coming-great dark clouds rolling across the dining room window with increasing thunder making a molto crescendo.  Then the lightning, such as I've never experienced before. Jagged rods of light dancing across an unsettled sky and accompanied by incessant, timpani-like booms.  Sideways rain pelted the windows and the thirsty earth slurped greedily.

    Dear Prudy huddled in my lap, shaking and panting, and independent Moxie was even glad to come in the house. The lights flickered once, twice, and then they were gone. 8:30 pm and complete darkness.  I was annoyed-me, in my safe, sturdy house was unable to go ahead with the evening's plans of reading and knitting. That annoyance should have turned to prayers for those not so lucky, don't you think?

    So, an early to bed. Prudy and I chose the downstairs guest room-cooler, I thought, while Bill braved the upstairs. Within a few minutes the house became stuffy and hot and I was sweating while simply lying on top of the covers. And here comes the blessing...I opened two windows, put my pillow on the floor underneath them, and felt a breeze. AND I was able to hear the tree frogs, owls and crickets, normally shut out by closed windows, air conditioning and fans. I basked in their happy, contented sounds and perhaps even learned a lesson from them.

    My story is a drop in the bucket compared to the numerous climate tragedies the world is experiencing this summer.  Are you scared? I am. Worry gnaws at me and my baby efforts seem to amount to nothing.

I fear for my grandchildren and all those of future generations. How about you?

Higgledy-Piggledy

This is my higgledy-piggledy garden-a what, you say? According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary higgledy-piggledy means in a confused, disordered or random manner. That's my garden, for sure, but I've done it this way on purpose.

For years I've wanted to be the type of gardener that finds pleasure and healing in working in the dirt, the person that gets lost in the plants and looks up to find darkness descending. That has been quite a struggle-too often gardening was merely a chore and more the idea of working in the yard, as we said in Texas. Weeding for fun? Not for me.

Until...I began to notice the flower gardens of a couple of my friends (Doug and Debbie, that's you). Each had a contained space which was a repository for cuttings and transplants from others, end-of-season annuals and perennials, and plants that would self-seed year after year. No formal borders, no graduated heights. In short, a beautiful higgledy-piggledy display.

I loved these gardens and when we moved to Maryland I asked Bill to dig up a space for one as a birthday gift. As you might imagine that is a lot to ask for, but two years ago my dear husband did just that. The first year was spent getting the soil ready, weeding, removing rocks and planting a big red rose bush that blooms all summer. At this point it was starting to feel like a chore, sadly.

And then the pandemic happened and I had time, lots of it. A neighbor gave me iris, I planted leftover Easter lilies from church, I went to garden centers and bought just what I liked with no thought of color scheme or blooming schedule. I began to be that person that goes out to weed for pleasure!

As you can see from the photo above it really does look a mess, but that's exactly how I want it. Most days in the late afternoon I spend some blissful time checking on it-trimming, weeding, watering, clipping blooms for a bouquet. I sit down in one of the blue chairs and just look.

Lately I've been thinking of my life in terms of higgledy-piggledy.  Director of Music at an Episcopal church, accompanist for a community chorale, spiritual director, retreat leader, devoted wife of 38 years, mother of dear Emily, Nana to 3 beloved grandchildren, daughter whose role is quickly changing, fortunate friend of many.  Sometimes I struggle to keep my life's garden watered, weeded and trimmed. And I wonder is it too full?

As far as the flower garden goes, though, Moxie is always there to help and here he is in the nasturtiums.

Beauty

 The heavens bear witness to your wonders, O Lord

                                                              (Psalm 89: 5)

Mount Desert Island, Maine

Tuckahoe State Park, Maryland

Pikes Peak, Colorado

My garden, Maryland

As Mother Earth screams for attention, I contemplate her beauty and wisdom, and I grieve.

Quiet Mystery

 The clouds and light this morning colluded to from this impressionistic photo of the Tuckahoe River.  It looks as if I've used some sort of filter or edit function, but I don't even know how to do that.  The photo describes how I've felt the past few months-murky, dark, the line between reality and fantasy unclear.  Every day a step out into a world in which I am a stranger.  Waiting, waiting.

Can it be that we will make it thru the pandemic? That we will go to the grocery without fear, sing together, hug our loved ones? Hope is drifting in around the edges-a quiet mystery that I feel it yet don't quite trust. The anxiety that waiting brings seems all the more intense.

And yes, there have been silver linings to this enforced time of isolation.  Less rushing, more time for reading and gardening, gentle evenings with my husband.  I want to carry these forward as we go back to "normal."

Our world is reeling from so much loss.   Let us practice compassion and work for the common good, sustained by what unites us.

Days pass when I forget the mystery

Problems insoluble and problems offering

their own ignored solutions

jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber

along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing

their colored clothes; cap and bells.

                     And then

once more the quiet mystery

is present to me, the throng's clamor

recedes: the mystery

that there is anything, anything at all,

let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,

rather than void: and that, O Lord,

Creator, Hallowed One, You still,

hour by hour sustain it.

                                           "Primary Wonder" by Denise Levertov

Thin Place

 

Perhaps you are familiar with the idea of thin places, where one feels as if they have one foot on the earth and one foot in heaven.  It can happen in so many life situations and I myself have felt that way many times. From being held by a loved one to walking the cliffs of Inis Mor Island, it is a powerful, other worldly experience. And now, as I await the birth of a new grandchild, I am in a thin place once again.

Early on the morning of February 17 our granddaughter is scheduled to be born in Colorado.  This knowing that a new being will enter the world 2 days from now is a thin place for me.  The earthly part is substantial-surgery, with all the preparation, risk and recovery it involves.  And the heavenly? That's more difficult to wrap my mind around, but my heart knows it is true.  A new little person, one of God's beloved, is on her way.

How well I remember the first time I saw Zev and Ari.  For Zev, I walked up the outside stairs, schlepping my luggage, and standing in the door was my beautiful daughter holding her newborn boy. A piece of heaven, my heart overflowing.  And Ari?  Bill and I held him the day he was born. What else can I say? New life, firsthand.

This time we are 1600 miles away and due to Covidtide I will not be able to go and be with them.  I grieve, I pray, I look forward to holding her, and I wait, in this thin place.

Ode to Wendell Berry

 

When I despair I gather myself,

put the dog on a leash and

head out the door.

Walking thru a grassy field

I hurry

to the creek.

Hundreds of geese are honking

as they welcome each other back

from a day in the fields.

Overhead the buzzards circle

before smoothly landing

in just one lone pine.

I like to think they are

settling in for teatime

or happy hour.

This is the setting each winter

no matter the pandemic,

the unrest,

my personal despair.

Life goes on as I continue

to take comfort from

the routines of nature,

of which I am a part.

                                Inspired by Wendell Berry's The Peace of Wild Things