November and December

November - with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes - days full of a fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees. What cared they? Old Tom had built his roof well and his chimney drew.
"Warm fire - books - comfort - safety from storm - our cats on the rug." Said Barney,"would you be any happier now if you had a million dollars?"

December. Early snows and Orion. The pale fires of the Milky Way. It was really winter now - wonderful, cold, starry winter. Days of clear brilliance. Evenings that were like cups of glamour - the purest vintage of winter's wine. Nights with their fire of stars. Cold, exquisite sunrises. Lovely ferns of ice over the windows of the Blue Castle. Moonlight on birches in a silver thaw. Ragged shadows on windy evenings. Great silences, austere and searching. Ice-grey twilights, broken by snow-squalls, when their cozy living room with its goblins of firelight and inscrutable cats seemed cozier than ever.

~ L. M. Montgomery, The Blue Castle

A Challenge I Was Given and How I Have Acheived It

This weekend marks the fourth Thanksgiving of my marriage to Roman Mallery. Each year we have had the over-indulgent, and highly enjoyable experience of a table-loaded meal with our respective parents and siblings (on separate days, thankfully). This year is no different, all the usual hallmarks of the holiday, traditional dishes, family games, the round-the-table-expressions-of-particular-thanks. Every year the table is a little more crowded as many babies rapidly swell our ranks (my in-laws have twelve grandkids and counting). A crazy weekend to kick of the round of holidays.

In this big picture story, there are always details that form us. Details like dessert. Every year I have contributed to the dessert table. While my dear husband has raved about my cooking skills from day 1, there is one area where I never quite measured up to his expectations.
 Pies.
And a Thanksgiving without pie would be drastic.
It seems I had rather a lot to live up to in the pie department. Roman's dear Grandma Mallery is a pie maker whose fame has spread across the northwest. All who know her rave about her pies. Roman's mother is not bad herself, and one of my sister-in-laws has a knack for the flakiest piecrusts you will find anywhere. So with each November I find myself scouring my cookbooks and the internet to make a pie that my husband truly enjoys. Last year I pulled off a Sweet Potato Meringue Pie that knocked his socks off and this year I think I may be able to join the ranks of Mallery women and their pies. The lard piecrusts have been far more successful than butter. Lard rendered from the pig we helped raise and now stocks our freezer. Yesterday's Apple-Sour-Cream-Crumb Pie achieved the highest praise from my husband yet. Last weekend I made a test pumpkin pie that was rapidly consumed by my son, daughter, and husband. Today I made three more Pumpkin Pies for our Mallery gathering tomorrow and if my son's longing gaze is any indicator, they should be alright.

In conclusion,

I may not ever achieve the level of recognition that Grandma Mallery has in her 80+ years,

and I don't think pie will ever be my specialty.

However, I think have given my husband a satisfactory improvement in the last four years

and I can safely say that I have accomplished a great personal challenge.

And buying a pastry mat, the kind that marks each size circle, has been the smartest purchase this baking season.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

 

Valley of Vision

Lord of Heaven,

Thy goodness is inexpressible and inconceivable,
In the works of creation thou art almighty,
In the dispensations of providence all-wise,
In the gospel of grace all love,
And in thy Son thou hast provided for
 our deliverance from the effects of sin,
 the justification of our persons,
 the sanctification of our natures,
 the perseverance of our souls in the path of life.
Though exposed to the terrors of thy law,
 we have a refuge from the storm;
Though compelled to cry, 'Unclean',
 we have a fountain for sin;
Though creature-cells of emptiness
 we have a fullness accessible to all,
 and incapable of reduction.

Grant us always to know that to walk with Jesus
 makes other interests a shadow and a dream.
Keep us from intermittent attention to eternal things;
Save us from the delusion of those
 who fail to go far in religion,
 who are concerned but not converted,
 who have another heart but not a new one,
 who have light, zeal, and confidence, but not in Christ.
Let us judge our Christianity,
 not only by our dependence on Jesus,
  but by our love to him,
   our conformity to him,
    our knowledge of him.
Give us a religion that is both real and progressive,
 that holds on its way and grows stronger,
 that lives and works in the Spirit,
 that profits by every correction,
 and is injured by no carnal indulgence.
Amen.

There Was A Child Went Forth

There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching eyeles of years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song
  of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal and the cow's calf,
And the noisy brood of the barnyard of by the mire of the pondside,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became part of him.
His own parents, he that had father'd him and she that had conceiv'd him in her womb and
  birthed him.
They gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward everyday, they became part of him.

~Walt Whitman