Bonfire with Dad-Dad

                 “Shall I throw more moss on the bond-fire?” Nicky asks, his little face serious, intent on the job he’s doing.

                  “OK, just do it carefully,” says Dad-Dad, sighing; this has to be the 20^th time Nicky’s asked the same question.

                  Nicky pushes his sleeves back, takes a deep and serious breath which he releases through his teeth as he chooses the piece he wants from the pile.  Solemnly he carries it over to the bonfire in outstretched arms, taking sturdy steps.

                  “I’m helping keep the flames back, aren’t I?” he looks over his shoulder, nodding and making the curls on his head bounce. “This is important work.” With respect he stares at the fire whilst he throws in his handful of moss, careful to keep his feet on the invisible mark Dad-Dad has pointed out.

                  “Dad-Dad, can I stand a little closer?”

                  “No.”

                  “Should I watch from here?”

                  “Yes, don’t go any nearer than that.”

                  “Why not?”

                  “Because the fire’s hot, Nicky.”

                  “Why is the fire hot?”

                  “Because it’s burning the dead leaves and branches.”

                  “Is that why it crackles, Dad-Dad?” Nicky bends down and selects a twig from the ground.

                  “I guess so.”

                  “What makes the crackles?”

                  “I think it’s the branches when they snap in the flames, Nicky.”

                  “Why aren’t you sure?” Nicky asks, inspecting the details on his twig, without losing a moment of the bonfire or the conversation.

                  “Because … um let me see … because, I don’t really know.”

                  “Why don’t you know?”

                  Dad-Dad is losing his patience.  As Dad-Dad turns, Nicky flings his twig into the fire, poker-faced.  He is stands watching the flames hands on hips, his chubby little feet slightly apart.  The silence seems to startle him and Nicky turns to meet Dad-Dad’s baffled gaze with a sharp questioning look.  A little furrow begins to form in his brow where his annoyance always shows first.

                  “But, why don’t you know Dad-Dad?”

                  “I – er, I just don’t know Nicky.”

                  “But why?

                  “Look Nicky, I have no more answers in my head right now, can we have a little break?”

                  “Why? Did your head get empty?” Worried, Nicky glances around the area where Dad-Dad has been working.

                  “Yes, that’s right.  It got empty.  Maybe in ten minutes or so something will pop back in again.  Who knows.”

                  “Oh.” Nicky’s shoulders sag a little and he stares at the ground shoving his hands in his pockets.

                  “Run along now Nicky, go inside and find Mum-Mum.”

                  Nicky’s eyes light up, he pulls his hands from his pockets and looks hopefully at his grandfather. “Do you think she’ll have some answers in her head, Dad-Dad?”

                  “Yes, Nicky, I’m sure she will,” grins Dad-Dad, a naughty twinkle in his blue eyes.

                  Without a backward glance, Nicky kicks open the garden gate and runs off to find his grandmother.

Three green apples

Photo by Jackie Richards

Three green apples on the trampoline

Early one morning

When London was asleep.

Three green apples standing in a row,

When no one was watching

Thought they’d have go.

“You go first then,” Middle said to Babe.

“No, let One-Eye first,” he

Squeaked a little scared.

“Fine!  I’ll be first to go,” he said with confidence,

But that’s when she came out

And snapped this pic instead.

Pita Bread - doing it better

 

    I need to stick around my sisters a whole lot more, for many different reasons.  But the reason today, is because they know so much more about food and interesting ingredients than I do.

    Being just a foolish “look-and-cook” person, I never really pay much attention to recipes and cookbooks.  I sort of throw thing together on a wing and a prayer – the faster the better – and make do with whatever comes out.

    However ... my sisters, who were both here for a week just before the wedding, rented a beautiful house, which had an empty kitchen.  So off they went on two separate expeditions, to fill the pantry.  Most of the food was consumed with relish.  But I was lucky enough to bring home some leftover ingredients.  Among them:

    Sesame oil.

    Organic olive oil.

    Sounds silly doesn’t it?  But I’m intrigued.  I usually grab the lightest (and cheapest oil) off the shelf, as long as it says ‘olive’ somewhere on the label.

    So I’m getting ready to make my Thanksgiving Pita Bread after practicing the other day, but I’m itching to depart from the recipe (already!)

    Having decided to exchange the white flour I'd used in practice session #1, for whole-wheat flour, I was ready to begin.  But I wanted to kick up the flavor a notch.

    That’s when these two ingredients come into play.

    Who in the world uses Sesame Oil?  Jackie does.  She went to all the trouble of buying a whole bottle of this stuff, to cook a delicious pistachio chicken dinner.  I have the remaining nine tenths of the bottle at home.  Unscrew the lid, put my nose in it, and BANG!  It’s love at first sniff.  Exchange #2 – I’m putting this one in, instead of the regular old pale oil I used the first time.

    Organic Olive Oil?  What’s that all about?  Sharon knows.  She only purchases organic foods now, after spending years learning about processed foods and the damage they can cause.  She bought this oil for her divine pasta dish and I’m the lucky recipient of the remaining three fourths.  Sprinkled some herbs into it and I’m learning all about the glories of dipping bread.  I never thought oil could taste like this.

    The sesame whole-wheat pita bread with organic dipping oil was gobbled up.  Smelling it cook and watching it be devoured was fascinating.  

    Thanks Jackie and Sharon!

    (I’ll tell you about the duck-liver pate I whipped up, in the black dish, another time.  It’s gone too.)

The Dorchester Sc. III

(A scene from "The Dorchester" ... a one act play about relationships.)

“But why does she pick on Bettina all the time, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Peter.  Bloody difficult woman to understand, your mother.”

“Yeah.  You can say that again.”

“Frustrating…”

“Opinionated …”

“I’ll say, Peter!  Lately she’s been so opinionated about everything, it’s like she’s the only authority on anything.”

“Must be tough, Dad.”

“It is.  But I just switch off.”

“Good for you.  Wish Bettina could do that, though.  But I guess being the daughter in law she feels she needs to be on her best behavior all the time.”

“Bloody shame, lovely gal that wife of yours.  But as for your mother, there are days when I feel like pushing her down the stairs!”

“Dad!”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, Peter.  You see, I’m getting more and more intolerant of it all.  In fact, the other day I came up with the perfect description of her …”

“Yeah?”

“Laughed the rest of the day about it …”

“Well, what was it then?”

 “She’s … how can I explain … let’s see, prickly, functional and rather ubiquitous, but very unpleasant.  She’s turned into something you would hope to ignore and not have to set eyes on – let alone get up close and personal with …”

“Dad!”

“Yes, son, I’m afraid it’s the truth, your mother reminds me of a toilet brush these days …”

“A what, Dad?”

“Oh yes, quite a fancy one, with all the useless bells and whistles, but a toilet brush in the end.”

Brown

I promise I will always adorn your soft brown eyes.  I will be just the right consistency and stay with you all day or all evening.  My sparkles with sparkle, my powder will stick without smudging.

I promise to lie quietly in your bag or on your bathroom shelf; I won’t judge you if you pick one of the others.  I’ll still be here when you want me, ready when you need me.

I promise my little sponges will be supple and helpful in their application task.

I promise … What?  What are you doing?  On no! You’re upset. You’re going to throw me away?  No.  Please don’t throw me away!

I promise I’ll do better – please don’t throw me away.

Wait.  That’s my double sponge applicator – what are you doing?  You’re washing it?  Washing and now … Oh no!  You’re using it to put on something pink and mauve.  Oh dear. 

What happened?  You’ve decided that fashions have changed and you’re not into browns and beiges any more?  Oh no, what am I to do?

Am I being made redundant?  It doesn’t seem possible, I still have so much left to give.  Please you don’t understand!  I’m not old.  I’m not yesterday’s color.

Oh. Help!  I’m being stuffed into a box; it’s a dark smelly box full of other bits of smelly old makeup. I'm not like them, I'm still full of sparkle and twinkle.

What a sad day.  I remember the day you took me off the shelf at the store and the sound of your sigh of delight … Oh no!  Please don’t shut the bo …

Argh!  What’s this brightness?  Where am I?  Huh?  I can see little brown eyes, who are you?  You look like a little you.  But that’s not possible; you just had your 20^th birthday the other day.

What’s that you’re saying?  You’re going to try Mommy’s old makeup?  Old?

What?  Are you your Mommy’s daughter?  You can’t be more than what … ten?

Oh my goodness, have I been shut in that box for over ten years?

Oh! Oh! Ahhh! You’re lifting me out.  Ahhh, how good this feels.  Yes, yes open my lid and see my sparkly shade of brown.

I promise to always highlight your lovely brown eyes and give you special sparkles.

Old?  No, no I’m not old – I’m ageless, timeless.  I will never let you down.

Cracked?  On no, just work your fingers over the surface of the powder.  Yes, yes, like that!  The shadow will soon come to life for you.

I promise to always be thoughtful and loyal, I promise to always do what I say I’m going to do.  I promise to never be judgmental, I promise to love you unconditionally, to watch over you, to care, to share …

I promise I’ll be perfect eye makeup even if it’s for little girls dressing up with big dreams

I promise to wait here, whether you ever want me again or not.

I promise to always love you always, whether you need me or not.

Just please don’t put me back in the b …

Down at the beach

Punta del Este, November 2010

Down at the beach

We’re all equal, the same;

Fat ones and thin ones

The bald and the vain.

The backdrop is blue

And the water azure,

The laughter of children

Bad temper can cure.

The waves thunder in

And then leave with a sigh ...

Water’s great breath

Gives us all such delight.

The rich and the poor,

The strong and the weak,

Get even amounts of

Sun, sand, waves and heat.

The great equalizer

All made by one God

At the beach we’re all equal

As He planned that we should.

Pita Bread

         

         I’m writing this new YA book about a sultan and decided on the spur of the moment yesterday, to do a little research and hands on experience.  So I roped Carlos in (and being the newly wed hubby he said “of course dear, I’d be happy to help.")

Home-made pita bread!  What fun, flour flying everywhere, the blind leading the blind, where each of us wanted to be the leader, yet neither totally prepared to take the fall.

 Recipe in hand, accompanied by ample instructions and pictures, we set about deciphering the language of yeast, cooking stones and kneading versus punching.  We were in hysterics.  It was something like an episode of Laurel & Hardy, with Carlos reading the instructions and me doing the work (perhaps that’s where the mistake was?).

“Put on a surface and kee the dog for ten minutes or till you’re tired,” he reads.

“Kee the dog?” I'm laughing out of control and so is he, (but Laurel & Hardy didn't laugh, did they?)

“Yes! Yes, that’s what is says here.”

“Where are my damn glasses?” Under the flour, of course.  “I still can’t see Carlos, where? Everything’s fuzzy.” Of course, flour all over my glasses as well.

“Here, it says dog,” flour on the recipe now, still can’t read.

“Dough!  OK, that sounds like ‘doe’ as in “Doe, a Deer …” ah forget it, it doesn’t make sense, you don’t sing.” We laugh.

“Yes, yes, like I said, dog-h,” and he tacks on an 'h' to make be happy.

We alternately knead the dough, and push and punch the dog-h, but I tell you what … there was some really, really good pita bread as a result.

Carlos made a bowl of dipping oil with herbs in it … Mmmm.  What a little feast, cup of tea anyone?