Thursday, January 23, 2014


As expected, we spent the day yesterday clearing snow, resting, clearing snow, recovering, clearing snow... Two longish lanes, this hill with such a fine view, our country home...

During the storm on Tuesday, I baked sticky rolls. I could never repeat the recipe.

For the dough, I used left overs and only measured the amount of liquid, not the composition of the liquid. The water used to soak and rinse the nearly empty honey jar. The dollop of Half and Half gone-to-sour-cream in its container (that's liquidy and also enough fat). Plain water to make two cups. One packet of active dry yeast. 

On a counter near the wood stove, so pleasantly warm, the yeast activated beautifully.

A big handful of old fashioned oatmeal. A small handful of psyllium fiber. A small handful of rice flour. A large handful of whole wheat flour. Some salt. Enough white flour to make the dough smooth and flexible and lovely in these both measuring and non-measuring hands.

And then, when the dough had risen, I rolled it and spread on it as much brown sugar, raisins and walnuts as it would hold, and sprinkled cinnamon generously. Then I rolled the dough-with-filling into a log, sliced, scooped the spilling bounty into a baking pans prepared with a layer of butter, a layer of Log Cabin syrup. Raised. Baked just so. Turned upside down and pans lifted off to let that sweetness soak in and cool.

Sinful. Delicious. Better than I've ever been able to buy. Comforting and satisfying. Teamed with other nutrients in the day, "real food," they made me feel so happy with every bite. I weigh less this morning that I weighed before I started eating those sticky buns. Oh, wait, we did move all that snow...

Tuesday morning, 1-21

Ten o'clock in the morning, and I've just returned from my ordinary three mile walk outdoors. Ordinarily an hour, today a little longer, it's slick underfoot.

The natural-world-quiet has a different sound on a snowy day. The snow flakes themselves whisper. The creek water is not yet frozen, it chuckles. But small wild creatures are mostly gone to ground. Except for the last minute shoppers at my bird feeder when I came back home.

I want to simply experience this beauty.

Anchored in reality, though, I'm also sigh.

I feel the gray, and the weight we'll shovel, feel that old, Here we go again.

Both-and. Sigh. Smile.