The Zen of Pie Dough – A Thanksgiving Memory

Me Making Pie in 1959

The Zen of Pie Dough

(click above to read)

I wrote this about seven years ago. It came to me while I was making the Thanksgiving pies. I remember thinking the words while I rolled out my pie dough and worried I would forget it, so I wiped my hands on my apron, grabbed a legal pad and wrote it out in one fell swoop! The hard drive with the original piece crashed long ago, but I was fortunate enough to have it published – here is a PDF.

For Every Bird a Nest…

I call this blog Paraphernalia for a reason. It isn’t necessarily about one single topic. Anyone who scrolls through the whole blog knows that in addition to my reading and writing interests, I love Jane Austen and the Brontes and FASHION PLATES and anything 19th century! Sometimes I take a wide turn and enter the land of whimsy and share a fairy newsletter. I love visual things. Pretty pictures.

All of these things have percolated in my brain and while I try to finish my writing project, something I feel I just can’t post here quite yet, I am dipping my toes in the design world a bit. I have been taking some digital design classes and I think I am going to document some of my progress here because that is what I am doing right now.

I have a backlog of books to write about, but now, these visual adventures are what have me engaged and happy. Be prepared for a lot of pretty pictures. I will be posting my design concoctions here!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Lady of Shalott – Just Because I Love it So

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
	  To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
	  The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
	  Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
	  The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
	  Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
	  The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
	  Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
	  Lady of Shalott."

	     Part II.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
	  To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
	  The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
	  Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
	  Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
	  Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
	  The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
	  And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half-sick of shadows," said
	  The Lady of Shalott.

	     Part III.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
	  Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
	  Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle-bells rang merrily
	  As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
	  Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
	  As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
	  Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
	  As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
	  Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
	  She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
	  The Lady of Shalott.

	     Part IV.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale-yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
	  Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
	  The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse--
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
	  Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
	  The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
	  She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
	  The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
	  Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
	  The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
	  Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
	  The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
	  All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
	  The Lady of Shalott."

 

Around My House…

 

I have a list a mile long – but here are some pictures of what I have been doing… Merry Christmas Eve!

Feather Tree

 

Mitten Cookies

The little cake village

 

 

Christmas books...

‘Tis the Season

(I made this with Scrapblog.com – try it – it is very fun)

Blogging Thanksgiving

Pie baking, stuffing, sweet potatoes… Let’s live blog Thanksgiving!!

We begin with the pies. Here is a picture from my vintage 1950 Betty Crocker cookbook…

Vintage pies

We are making pumpkin (naturally) and pecan! But first … my favorite part of Thanksgiving – my mother’s pumpkin pie recipe:

NOW! Onto the pie baking!

Crumble 2/3's cup of butter into 2 cups of flour until it kinda looks like cornmeal

Add 1/4 cup of REALLY cold water and gather into a ball - flour the table and get EX CALIBER the rolling pin... more about EX CALIBER later.....

Roll, roll, roll

Place in pie pan and trim so you have will tidbits for cinnamon rollups

Flute edges by pinching with thumb and index finger - PRETTY!

 

The pie filling - made with CREAM!!!

Make cinnamon rollups with left over dough: roll, slather with butter, sprinkle with cinnamon, rollup!

Bake on an upside down cake pan that is dented and old and belonged to your grandmother probably. They taste better if baked this way.

TIME FOR YOUR CLOSE UP, Cinnamon rollups!

Here is a pecan pie recipe – do all the same stuff except with pecans and dark corn syrup this time!

I Remember Mama…

Nancy Ann – A Life

►

Songs my mother taught me
In the days long vanish’d
Seldom from her eyelids
Were the teardrops banish’d

Now I teach my children
Each melodious measure
oft the tears are flowing
oft they flow from my mem’ry treasure (Anton Dvorak)

My mom and I used to sing this together. It was a heavily marked song in my great grandmother’s song book. It is an old timey tune, full of pathos and emotion written back in the days when people’s lives were more precarious than our own. It is my favorite.

One of my favorite old movies is “I Remember Mama” with Irene Dunne and  Barbara Bel Geddes. I have made my own little movie to remember my own mom, Nancy Ann. She was my rock and my best friend. My mom loved the Metropolitan Opera and listened to the radio broadcasts every Saturday. She had a gorgeous soprano singing voice (think Kathleen Battle) and was sunny and bright, always eager to listen to YOUR story and an amazing voice teacher. She was the best grandmother ever and I want to share her with you here. I used music which represented the era she came from, she and my dad loved Andy Williams, hence the Moon River and she enjoyed a classical music career with her wonderful second husband, a composer in his own right, Eloy Fominaya. The final song is Mi Chimano Mimi, her favorite aria, from Puccini’s La Boheme, sung by her favorite soprano, Renee Fleming.  I think the internet is a wonderful way to highlght the lives of people who deserve to be known by others.

(Bumped again by popular request) My Really Exceptional Stuffing (I made this up myself)

 

Stuff this guy!

 

2 Boxes of Gourmet Seasoned Croutons - Crumble a bit with your BARE HANDS so they aren’t so lumpy (DON’T USE GARLIC CROUTONS!!!)

3 Celery Stalks – chopped 

1 Big Onion – finely chopped – FINELY! FINELY MEANS FINELY

1 Granny Smith Apple – chopped

1 Bulging handful of Golden raisins – (make sure they are dropping on the floor from your hand when you transfer them to the big bowl across the kitchen- that’s how you know you have enough)

2 sticks of BUTTER (the better to kill you with!!!)

1/4 Cup Ice Water

3 Eggs – Beaten within an inch of their life

Melt Butter in an attractive, copper bottomed pan reminiscent of Julia Child. Throw the celery, onions, apple and raisins in the melted butter. Bubble around until the onions and celery are translucent. Taste them a lot. Beat the eggs during this interlude. Pour the celery, onions, apples and raisins over the crumbled croutons and stir and stir until mixed. Taste a lot before you add the eggs. Add the eggs. If you are feeling Russian Roulette-ish, taste again once the eggs are added. With a zig zag motion, pour the cold water over all and stir, stir, stir. STUFF THE TURKEY. Place left overs in a pretty casserole dish, choose the little one you received when you got married from a distant non relative friend of your mother who you called Aunt Patty, this type of casserole works best. If you do not have a non-relative named Aunt Patty who gave you a simple, yet pricey casserole dish, Pyrex works just as well. 

I LOVE MY STUFFING~~~~

 

UPDATE: Three people have now asked for my recipe – on this blog I call that a quorum – I think I will make it a tradition! I have not been blogging much lately. I needed a little break. But, I think I have some blog ideas brewing.

All Hallows Eve

Happy Halloween

Will the Real Elizabeth Bennett Please Stand Up?

Anyone can be Eiizabeth Bennett

I attended a lecture yesterday given by the Jane Austen Society of North America North Carolina Chapter. The speaker was Inger Sigrun Brodey, who teaches comparative literature at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. I am attaching her Curriculum Vitae because it is so impressive. It was a fun lecture focusing on Jane Austen’s impact on pop culture, primarily through film adaptations, both foreign and domestic as well as the recent rise in violent portrayals of the books as exhibited by the Zombie books such as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. These zombie adaptations leave me cold, but are fun to leaf through at a book store since 80% of the book is Jane. Altered, but still mostly Jane such as, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.”

There was one great point made during the lecture which I keep thinking about. No one KNOWS what any of Austen’s heroines look like. She never describes them, except for the occasional sparkle in the eye (we do know Elizabeth Bennet had dark eyes but dark what? brown? hazel? blue?) Each heroine is a  sort of blank canvas. ANYONE, ANYONE can be Elizabeth Bennett or Emma or the Dashwoods. Any type. Any girl can put herself in Elizabeth’s muslin dress and become Mrs. Darcy. We can each insert ourselves into the plot. Facebook has, as was pointed out to me yesterday, 29 ‘quizzes’ that attempt to pinpoint “which Jane Austen Heroine are you?” (I am always Fanny Price, by the way.)

One of the take away messages I received from the lecture was this ‘blank slate’ theory makes it possible for other cultures to identify with and adapt her novels as well. The Japanese, apparently, adore her as do the Indians. In India, Jane Austen was required reading for years. Now, Bollywood is turning out one Jane Austen knock off after another: Bride and Prejudice (Pride and Prejudice) Aisha (Emma) etc.

As part of her program, Inger Brodey showed pictorial collages of all the actresses who have played Elizabeth Bennet and no two are the same. She then showed a similar collage of the Darcy’s and they all look alike! I pointed out they all had a “Heathcliff’ look about them – brooding, tall dark handsome. It was an interesting cultural note – we assume what ‘that sort of man’ must look like – but there is no consensus on ‘that sort of” heroine. Fascinating. Will the real Elizabeth Bennett please stand up?