Sunday, January 12, 2014
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Soundings
Dark in itself is not energy; it is a lack of light, which is is a visible wavelength of electromagnetic radiation that also has properties exhibited by particles. Light has substance, dark is simply the absence of it. Think the same way about cold, as the absence of heat energy. Looking out this nighttime window, there is a thick fog rolling in, illuminated by the mostly orange city sodium lights, thus filling the dark with the dull flame of a smothering phantasm.
When very small and visiting my grandparents on their street which was a cathedral with arching elm trees, we had to leave our house out in the country by 5:30 a.m., to be dropped off by my father and then picked up again at the end of his work day. My mother and I would let ourselves in and sit quietly waiting for them to wake not long after we arrived, just as dawn was rising. But often there was fog, a roiling dragon of wet cloud scuttering up one street and down the next, over the sidewalks of slate and through the leaves of the trees. At the time, Buffalo was still an important harbor on the Great Lakes, and many ships would try to find their way past the shoals with nothing but skill and the assist of a diaphone, a two-toned foghorn.
I remember my Mom saying, "Shhh. Listen," and a far-off, low pitch would sing out in the amorphous air, while the smell of the Lake told of freighters and tugs, of blue pike and giant sturgeon. Ghostly, forbidding, hollow, it would send a thrill up my spine as if hearing an abyssal voice from a riparian sepulcher; a verdict that was also a life saving guide, a guardian. The sound would bounce off the fog ensuring that the lonely, shoulder-heaving sigh was heard for great distances.
The valves used the same principle as a Wurlitzer organ, and in fact were constructed by Robert Hope-Jones, the originator of the theatre organ. It pointed away from shore, and performed at 128 decibels, the same as a jet engine; signs warned to stay back at least fifty feet. Still standing, it was silenced about 1962 when technology caught up with the shipping industry; the pipes are rusted but observable at the South Buffalo Lighthouse.
Mom told me that the foghorn was helping the boats in the harbor reach the docks safely, for there were many breakwaters and places to run aground. Coal was being brought in for the steel mills and foundries, grain was shoveled into silos to make flour. My Uncle Ray worked on a tug that nosed the huge ships up the Buffalo River, slow and steady, to the grain elevators that unloaded tons.
He would often come home chilled, in spite of a heavy peacoat.
What sounds pierce the air now? There was a bottle light on the breakwater that would emit a screech every few minutes until recently; now in the morning the only announcing sound I hear is the train, as it huffs and sounds entry into the Exchange Street tunnel; listening, I can hear it make the next tunnel in Depew, ten miles away. The lift bridge at the foot of Ferry Street blasts out a warning before the immense, cantilevered tank fills with water that causes the bridge to tilt upwards, allowing masted boats and tall cruisers access through the channel. Still, railroad crossings clang warning bells when the gates go down on either side of the track, churches and college belfries ring out carillons or the equivalent thereof, and some factories yet have whistles to mark shifts.
I have a gong. Not overlarge, but not the smallest, either. It leaves a pleasant, low sound vibrating through the room when struck that seems to clean the air and chase away negativity. A different message than a warning or timekeeper, it is there purely because of it's musicality, but it does perform as a signal to start the day or to allow the subconscious night to begin. Like a thank you, with the sound waves stretching to who knows where.
Good night, good night, traveller. It is three days since the blizzard and the warm temperatures have brought rain, melting the snow. Two days ago I heard the trees alive with sparrows and cardinals calling in clear, strident tones; I am here, I am here. Oh, it was a good feeling that they made it through the unbearable winds and below zero weather. After you tighten the latches and switch out the lights, before you sail to dreams, lay and listen, listen for signals. Shhhh.
When very small and visiting my grandparents on their street which was a cathedral with arching elm trees, we had to leave our house out in the country by 5:30 a.m., to be dropped off by my father and then picked up again at the end of his work day. My mother and I would let ourselves in and sit quietly waiting for them to wake not long after we arrived, just as dawn was rising. But often there was fog, a roiling dragon of wet cloud scuttering up one street and down the next, over the sidewalks of slate and through the leaves of the trees. At the time, Buffalo was still an important harbor on the Great Lakes, and many ships would try to find their way past the shoals with nothing but skill and the assist of a diaphone, a two-toned foghorn.
I remember my Mom saying, "Shhh. Listen," and a far-off, low pitch would sing out in the amorphous air, while the smell of the Lake told of freighters and tugs, of blue pike and giant sturgeon. Ghostly, forbidding, hollow, it would send a thrill up my spine as if hearing an abyssal voice from a riparian sepulcher; a verdict that was also a life saving guide, a guardian. The sound would bounce off the fog ensuring that the lonely, shoulder-heaving sigh was heard for great distances.
The valves used the same principle as a Wurlitzer organ, and in fact were constructed by Robert Hope-Jones, the originator of the theatre organ. It pointed away from shore, and performed at 128 decibels, the same as a jet engine; signs warned to stay back at least fifty feet. Still standing, it was silenced about 1962 when technology caught up with the shipping industry; the pipes are rusted but observable at the South Buffalo Lighthouse.
Mom told me that the foghorn was helping the boats in the harbor reach the docks safely, for there were many breakwaters and places to run aground. Coal was being brought in for the steel mills and foundries, grain was shoveled into silos to make flour. My Uncle Ray worked on a tug that nosed the huge ships up the Buffalo River, slow and steady, to the grain elevators that unloaded tons.
He would often come home chilled, in spite of a heavy peacoat.
What sounds pierce the air now? There was a bottle light on the breakwater that would emit a screech every few minutes until recently; now in the morning the only announcing sound I hear is the train, as it huffs and sounds entry into the Exchange Street tunnel; listening, I can hear it make the next tunnel in Depew, ten miles away. The lift bridge at the foot of Ferry Street blasts out a warning before the immense, cantilevered tank fills with water that causes the bridge to tilt upwards, allowing masted boats and tall cruisers access through the channel. Still, railroad crossings clang warning bells when the gates go down on either side of the track, churches and college belfries ring out carillons or the equivalent thereof, and some factories yet have whistles to mark shifts.
I have a gong. Not overlarge, but not the smallest, either. It leaves a pleasant, low sound vibrating through the room when struck that seems to clean the air and chase away negativity. A different message than a warning or timekeeper, it is there purely because of it's musicality, but it does perform as a signal to start the day or to allow the subconscious night to begin. Like a thank you, with the sound waves stretching to who knows where.
Good night, good night, traveller. It is three days since the blizzard and the warm temperatures have brought rain, melting the snow. Two days ago I heard the trees alive with sparrows and cardinals calling in clear, strident tones; I am here, I am here. Oh, it was a good feeling that they made it through the unbearable winds and below zero weather. After you tighten the latches and switch out the lights, before you sail to dreams, lay and listen, listen for signals. Shhhh.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Bedtime Story
I have this bed that I dragged home both by foot and in the old Ford Escort wagon I owned; the headboard wouldn't fit in the back and be damned if I let anyone else get this treasure. Everything else fit inside the car, the rails, the hardware, the footboard; the headboard had an immense crack running through it but there was potential. I staggered home a long half block down the street to the apartment Bri and I were in at the time, carrying this wide, lopsided find. In heels.
Went back and got the car, and if the tires danced home from the joy of finding a cracked antique, I was just as pleased myself. The bed had been in a garage for years, was missing ornaments and had that split. One of the rail hooks was missing, but it was beautiful, an Eastlake walnut three quarter bedframe which needed a thorough scrubbing. O lucky day! Probably the best haul out of the garbage in my history. I changed clothing and got out the furniture oil and rags; assessment began.
To assemble it, I needed a replacement d-shaped brace for the end of a rail, but where the hell to find one? The date stamped on the others says June, 1871, so you know Home Depot won't have it. The Old House Journal supplied a listing for a southern company that would cast a part from whatever you sent down to them; I wrapped up one of the other three braces and mailed it off to North Carolina where indeed, it was duplicated. And it fit.
A carpenter was able to mend the split and turn new ornamentation on his lathe; another company fitted finials. The famous and nearby Home Depot cut slats for me, and a pediment that matched the style was found on eBay. It was like assembling a puzzle when all the pieces were brought together, a tall yet narrow behemoth of deep colors, with inserts of olive wood. Biggest problem was yet to come, which was finding a mattress in the necessary size; they weren't made anymore and because the braces had to be secured with additional pieces of wood, the whole computation was thrown off as it was.
The project had built an expense budget that I kept level with artwork I did for people, mostly of their kids. A couple of dogs. A house portrait. Inside murals. I got it together, but flopped my twin mattress on top, which sufficed and left an area to store reading materials on either side. It's a handsome thing, this bed, and was used until the day I stood on the frame to get a waggly spider and thus recracked the headboard. Aughh! The spider blessed a small god and got away; I flumped down, miserable.
The split was long, and as I had no resources at the time due to college fees, (textbook: $160, are you kidding me?), it was braced and put away until a year ago, when a very kind friend and her husband offered to repair it, using an ample piece of walnut from her Rhode Island uncle's old loom. All the pieces were now ready for reassembly, but I wanted a three quarter mattress and to special order one to be made was exorbitant, a dilemma until this memory foam stuff appeared. You order a mattress online, it comes rolled up in a box; you uncurl the thing like a fruit roll-up and wait three days before it expands fully to what it's supposed to be. It is in the fourth hour of decompressing, and I can only hope, as according to online reviews, that it softens up a bit. Wonderful! says Jay of Quincy, MA.
So, I am rebuilding the bed and the cats are delighted with the old mattress propped up in the hallway; they climb it like the Matterhorn, run the length and hiss names at each other. The pediment and crown found on eBay will be refinished, and then I shall sleep soundly in my Victorian Eastlake bed, circa 1871, made by T + Son, as inked on the inner sides of the rails.
Tonight, after three days of blizzard, the sky here is overcast with only a slow flutter of snowflakes idling descending to building ledges, branch, or ground. Lord knows how any birds survived this bitter cold, they don't hibernate and can only hang on with their tiny feet as the gales blew. The weather bureau says that tonight there may be sightings of the Aurora Borealis; I've seen them twice in my life. The first time I was eight years old, and the skies were lit with pink and brilliant blue streaks; the second, I was in my twenties, and saw the phenomena appear as a slow, wavy green curtain. I would love to see them again, unlikely here for the low clouds obscure the universe, and otherwise, they rarely reach this area.
There is a place in Finland that has constructed glass igloos in order to observe the Northern Lights and stars, for there the Lights are an every night event and were once thought to be the snow cast up to the sky by the tail of a great fox. The Algonquins saw them as fires built by the Great Creator, to show the earth his ongoing love. Today, the visitors to Finland look up and see the same moon and the same almost-eternal rotation of the stars as I do in my position on the other side of the world. Magic or science or creation, the crackling static is a gift to us, showing that in spite of whatever travails exist, there are celestial embodiments of beauty to delight in.
This is a cold night, the snow crunches under foot. I am inside now, and warmed, turning in to silently burrow under wool and quilt. Imagine a dream before you slip away to sleep, let it rock you to slumber. Rise up with the morning, meet the day.
Went back and got the car, and if the tires danced home from the joy of finding a cracked antique, I was just as pleased myself. The bed had been in a garage for years, was missing ornaments and had that split. One of the rail hooks was missing, but it was beautiful, an Eastlake walnut three quarter bedframe which needed a thorough scrubbing. O lucky day! Probably the best haul out of the garbage in my history. I changed clothing and got out the furniture oil and rags; assessment began.
To assemble it, I needed a replacement d-shaped brace for the end of a rail, but where the hell to find one? The date stamped on the others says June, 1871, so you know Home Depot won't have it. The Old House Journal supplied a listing for a southern company that would cast a part from whatever you sent down to them; I wrapped up one of the other three braces and mailed it off to North Carolina where indeed, it was duplicated. And it fit.
A carpenter was able to mend the split and turn new ornamentation on his lathe; another company fitted finials. The famous and nearby Home Depot cut slats for me, and a pediment that matched the style was found on eBay. It was like assembling a puzzle when all the pieces were brought together, a tall yet narrow behemoth of deep colors, with inserts of olive wood. Biggest problem was yet to come, which was finding a mattress in the necessary size; they weren't made anymore and because the braces had to be secured with additional pieces of wood, the whole computation was thrown off as it was.
The project had built an expense budget that I kept level with artwork I did for people, mostly of their kids. A couple of dogs. A house portrait. Inside murals. I got it together, but flopped my twin mattress on top, which sufficed and left an area to store reading materials on either side. It's a handsome thing, this bed, and was used until the day I stood on the frame to get a waggly spider and thus recracked the headboard. Aughh! The spider blessed a small god and got away; I flumped down, miserable.
The split was long, and as I had no resources at the time due to college fees, (textbook: $160, are you kidding me?), it was braced and put away until a year ago, when a very kind friend and her husband offered to repair it, using an ample piece of walnut from her Rhode Island uncle's old loom. All the pieces were now ready for reassembly, but I wanted a three quarter mattress and to special order one to be made was exorbitant, a dilemma until this memory foam stuff appeared. You order a mattress online, it comes rolled up in a box; you uncurl the thing like a fruit roll-up and wait three days before it expands fully to what it's supposed to be. It is in the fourth hour of decompressing, and I can only hope, as according to online reviews, that it softens up a bit. Wonderful! says Jay of Quincy, MA.
So, I am rebuilding the bed and the cats are delighted with the old mattress propped up in the hallway; they climb it like the Matterhorn, run the length and hiss names at each other. The pediment and crown found on eBay will be refinished, and then I shall sleep soundly in my Victorian Eastlake bed, circa 1871, made by T + Son, as inked on the inner sides of the rails.
Tonight, after three days of blizzard, the sky here is overcast with only a slow flutter of snowflakes idling descending to building ledges, branch, or ground. Lord knows how any birds survived this bitter cold, they don't hibernate and can only hang on with their tiny feet as the gales blew. The weather bureau says that tonight there may be sightings of the Aurora Borealis; I've seen them twice in my life. The first time I was eight years old, and the skies were lit with pink and brilliant blue streaks; the second, I was in my twenties, and saw the phenomena appear as a slow, wavy green curtain. I would love to see them again, unlikely here for the low clouds obscure the universe, and otherwise, they rarely reach this area.
There is a place in Finland that has constructed glass igloos in order to observe the Northern Lights and stars, for there the Lights are an every night event and were once thought to be the snow cast up to the sky by the tail of a great fox. The Algonquins saw them as fires built by the Great Creator, to show the earth his ongoing love. Today, the visitors to Finland look up and see the same moon and the same almost-eternal rotation of the stars as I do in my position on the other side of the world. Magic or science or creation, the crackling static is a gift to us, showing that in spite of whatever travails exist, there are celestial embodiments of beauty to delight in.
This is a cold night, the snow crunches under foot. I am inside now, and warmed, turning in to silently burrow under wool and quilt. Imagine a dream before you slip away to sleep, let it rock you to slumber. Rise up with the morning, meet the day.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Hold Tight
Small pleasures are the sweet liquescence filling the chalice of life; like drops of nectar gathered by bees, they are delivered as minor achievements that contain bits of happiness, modicums of success. Sure, there are goals met in larger context: the arrival of a child, a graduation, a home, a sustaining love, a lifelong struggle to find an answer met; these exist but in singular, spaced doses. What I am thinking of are the minor joys, the jelly-side-upness of the day. Without them, there is drudgery, leading to feeling ineffective, unloved, futile. This is how to be happy; the necessity of grief is real and will continue to be so, there is no soul that hasn't met the blunt force of hammer to hope, it is to our credit that we haven't slid back into the antediluvian ooze of time, into some subterranean burrow void of light. Stretch, my friends. Take chances. There are many that you will win.
Some bits of history; few better, a short pandect worse than average. You've been there in varied manner, can't tell me otherwise. My childhood was not happy, I held my breath for at least the first eighteen years, scared to death of the man who was my father. Even as a grown up, visiting him to see if he was alright, he would shuffle towards me in his walker but I always, always made sure there was a clear path between me and escape. Throughout my life, he would swing at me, cursing my existence, yelling Biblical tracts about whores and how my then six year old self would be no better. I tempted him. You take it from there.
His alcoholism reinforced his self-righteous delusions, plus his role as a Master Sergeant responsible for teaching the men hand to hand combat during WWII both combined into a constant hurricane of hell for my mother, brother, and myself. My brother had it better, but we were kept separate, I was not to contaminate the boy with girl germs. John was stirring Jello one Thanksgiving morning, he was two years old, standing on a stool, watching the orange swirl created with the spoon. My father entered the knotty pine kitchen, and went ballistic. Any excuse to tear up a holiday set him off on a gleeful tirade, and here we go; you're making a woman out of him, I don't ever want to see him doing a woman's job, and smash went Mom's china turkey platter against the wall.
My defense was to disappear into reading and drawing, to roaming the fields of Clarence, New York, learning where the first of anything would bloom, and to be as ungirlish as I could. I envied the bubble bath and dresses of my next-door cousin, but learned to put on a grateful front for the Zorro costume Dad brought home for me. The play guns and baseball mitts were ridiculous, but of course, I thought there was something wrong with me, that I didn't live up to the dream. We always had paper and crayons, it was acceptable that I indulged in something that was truly mine, my drawing; Mom adored me, and was also glad that finally there was a silent leeway for my existence. I still wasn't allowed to eat at the dinner table, supper was given to me on the floor in the living room, on a spread out newspaper. No complaints allowed, but I was just as happy to be away from the regular table; the tension my father exuded flooded the air with an angry, generated charge. Why put yourself in the line of fire? It's the reason I changed my name legally to Coburn.
But this missive was to be of the happiness to be found in the day, for it is there if you recognize when you are at the receiving end of a gift of wonder. I learned many things from that growing experience; patience, kindness, compassion; that there are people who have been through better and those who have been through much worse. That animals are healers, that there are people who are as well. That being who you are is valid, as long as there is no harm to others; that my faults are human, and do not make me unlovable. Working together brings strength, having a common purpose fosters unity.
So, my ones, admire the mollusk, who forms its shell from calcium carbonate to be a house carried on the animal's back. Look, a hyacinth bulb for two bucks and now there is a green sprout and roots in the glass; a dear friend sends over a plate of leftovers, the cat purrs and brings cat toys, yeast grows to make bread, and the universe hums to a thunderous music in spite of human foibles. Life goes on. Do what good you can for the world.
There is a fable that a monster is chained to the side of a mountain; to keep the chains strong, the elaborate colored eggs called pysanky are made. In years when there are enough pysanky, the monster is held tight; else the chains break and evil is loosed to roam the earth. These:
Cold weather, the direst in 40 years say the media outlets, will arrive in this town by tomorrow evening. I am here, there is warmth, gas in the car, and food. A node is forming on the orange tree that was grown from a seed. There are new paints and paper. I am a lucky girl. Sleep safe. Goodnight.
Some bits of history; few better, a short pandect worse than average. You've been there in varied manner, can't tell me otherwise. My childhood was not happy, I held my breath for at least the first eighteen years, scared to death of the man who was my father. Even as a grown up, visiting him to see if he was alright, he would shuffle towards me in his walker but I always, always made sure there was a clear path between me and escape. Throughout my life, he would swing at me, cursing my existence, yelling Biblical tracts about whores and how my then six year old self would be no better. I tempted him. You take it from there.
His alcoholism reinforced his self-righteous delusions, plus his role as a Master Sergeant responsible for teaching the men hand to hand combat during WWII both combined into a constant hurricane of hell for my mother, brother, and myself. My brother had it better, but we were kept separate, I was not to contaminate the boy with girl germs. John was stirring Jello one Thanksgiving morning, he was two years old, standing on a stool, watching the orange swirl created with the spoon. My father entered the knotty pine kitchen, and went ballistic. Any excuse to tear up a holiday set him off on a gleeful tirade, and here we go; you're making a woman out of him, I don't ever want to see him doing a woman's job, and smash went Mom's china turkey platter against the wall.
My defense was to disappear into reading and drawing, to roaming the fields of Clarence, New York, learning where the first of anything would bloom, and to be as ungirlish as I could. I envied the bubble bath and dresses of my next-door cousin, but learned to put on a grateful front for the Zorro costume Dad brought home for me. The play guns and baseball mitts were ridiculous, but of course, I thought there was something wrong with me, that I didn't live up to the dream. We always had paper and crayons, it was acceptable that I indulged in something that was truly mine, my drawing; Mom adored me, and was also glad that finally there was a silent leeway for my existence. I still wasn't allowed to eat at the dinner table, supper was given to me on the floor in the living room, on a spread out newspaper. No complaints allowed, but I was just as happy to be away from the regular table; the tension my father exuded flooded the air with an angry, generated charge. Why put yourself in the line of fire? It's the reason I changed my name legally to Coburn.
But this missive was to be of the happiness to be found in the day, for it is there if you recognize when you are at the receiving end of a gift of wonder. I learned many things from that growing experience; patience, kindness, compassion; that there are people who have been through better and those who have been through much worse. That animals are healers, that there are people who are as well. That being who you are is valid, as long as there is no harm to others; that my faults are human, and do not make me unlovable. Working together brings strength, having a common purpose fosters unity.
So, my ones, admire the mollusk, who forms its shell from calcium carbonate to be a house carried on the animal's back. Look, a hyacinth bulb for two bucks and now there is a green sprout and roots in the glass; a dear friend sends over a plate of leftovers, the cat purrs and brings cat toys, yeast grows to make bread, and the universe hums to a thunderous music in spite of human foibles. Life goes on. Do what good you can for the world.
There is a fable that a monster is chained to the side of a mountain; to keep the chains strong, the elaborate colored eggs called pysanky are made. In years when there are enough pysanky, the monster is held tight; else the chains break and evil is loosed to roam the earth. These:
Cold weather, the direst in 40 years say the media outlets, will arrive in this town by tomorrow evening. I am here, there is warmth, gas in the car, and food. A node is forming on the orange tree that was grown from a seed. There are new paints and paper. I am a lucky girl. Sleep safe. Goodnight.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Redundant Comfort
The wind chill hit fifteen below, pragmatically closing the area schools with a quiet, frigid air system solemn as Marley's ghost. Being on an upper floor of the building, I gain the mostly pleasant heat rising from the floors below, and have no need to turn on the steam radiators, only on the coldest of nights. Even then, I'd rather just toss on another wool blanket.
But on a day like today, you can do three to five things at once, for there is no hope of getting me outside unless a friend needs a trip to the emergency room, which is unlikely to happen. Predicted cold got me to the grocery yesterday to get the elixirs of life, namely cat food, milk, and white popcorn kernels. There are several types of popcorn, the mostly decorative blue, black jewel, red, yellow and white. The usual, sanely priced popcorn comes in yellow; it pops larger, fluffier and has a cornier flavor than the white, which I currently am fond of...smaller, sweeter and full of good things for your eyes. Like lutein.
There are even divisions of types within the colors; corn that is meant to be covered in caramel pops in a rounder shape; movie popcorn is meant to pop large and sturdy; the home brands are engineered to pop fluffier, with more jagged edges to catch butter. There I go again. Too much information.
But this morning after coffee, what does one do when it's this cold and you want some background warmth? One of the more forbidden of sins these days, bake bread. When did bread become an enemy? I have many friends doing the gluten free business and they are meowing about how their health has improved, they feel better, and so forth. I haven't tried it yet, even though I gave up carbs for a damned good long time as well as butter; no, the brain didn't work any quicker nor did the weight disappear. And what else is there in life, if there is no bread nor butter? Just a bit. Maybe another. Look at me daintily dabbing on a modicum of butter. Eensy. Did you know that butter contains more
Vitamin A and selenium than most foods?
Well, there is now a loaf of bread rising to bake, and let me say that on a very cold day, the aroma of bread filling the apartment makes it brighter, cozier, and Marley's ghost has sat down in anticipation of one slice, buttered. The teakettle has shrieked accomplishment in boiling water, and tea is steeping. I am sanding a bed rail to fit a D-ring from 1871, and have plans to paint canvas. Want to get this bed together first; pay no attention to the sawing noises, cussing out of cats who want to see what's going on, or any number of colorful swears. These animals have no concept of handsaws, kerfs, or miter boxes.
A cold night coming again; be warm, be safe, pull up the covers. Toss out a handful of seed for the birds, and if you can, put out a dish of warm water. They will eat snow as a last resort for hydration, but the amount that it lowers their tiny body temperature does not outweigh the necessary intake of food to produce warming energy. And food is scarce. So it helps. Sleep deep, sleep well. Goodnight.
But on a day like today, you can do three to five things at once, for there is no hope of getting me outside unless a friend needs a trip to the emergency room, which is unlikely to happen. Predicted cold got me to the grocery yesterday to get the elixirs of life, namely cat food, milk, and white popcorn kernels. There are several types of popcorn, the mostly decorative blue, black jewel, red, yellow and white. The usual, sanely priced popcorn comes in yellow; it pops larger, fluffier and has a cornier flavor than the white, which I currently am fond of...smaller, sweeter and full of good things for your eyes. Like lutein.
There are even divisions of types within the colors; corn that is meant to be covered in caramel pops in a rounder shape; movie popcorn is meant to pop large and sturdy; the home brands are engineered to pop fluffier, with more jagged edges to catch butter. There I go again. Too much information.
But this morning after coffee, what does one do when it's this cold and you want some background warmth? One of the more forbidden of sins these days, bake bread. When did bread become an enemy? I have many friends doing the gluten free business and they are meowing about how their health has improved, they feel better, and so forth. I haven't tried it yet, even though I gave up carbs for a damned good long time as well as butter; no, the brain didn't work any quicker nor did the weight disappear. And what else is there in life, if there is no bread nor butter? Just a bit. Maybe another. Look at me daintily dabbing on a modicum of butter. Eensy. Did you know that butter contains more
Vitamin A and selenium than most foods?
Well, there is now a loaf of bread rising to bake, and let me say that on a very cold day, the aroma of bread filling the apartment makes it brighter, cozier, and Marley's ghost has sat down in anticipation of one slice, buttered. The teakettle has shrieked accomplishment in boiling water, and tea is steeping. I am sanding a bed rail to fit a D-ring from 1871, and have plans to paint canvas. Want to get this bed together first; pay no attention to the sawing noises, cussing out of cats who want to see what's going on, or any number of colorful swears. These animals have no concept of handsaws, kerfs, or miter boxes.
A cold night coming again; be warm, be safe, pull up the covers. Toss out a handful of seed for the birds, and if you can, put out a dish of warm water. They will eat snow as a last resort for hydration, but the amount that it lowers their tiny body temperature does not outweigh the necessary intake of food to produce warming energy. And food is scarce. So it helps. Sleep deep, sleep well. Goodnight.
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