autumn water illustrates

"to make an end is to make a beginning..."

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 03:57:00 +0000

"For last year's words belong to last year's language

And next year's words await another voice..."





 and so we start anew.

bippity boppity boo

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 03:12:00 +0000

it's been a while,

hasn't it?

my days have been full.

no, fulfilling.

i've been witnessing

a little princess in the making.

on her 12th birthday

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Sat, 30 Jun 2012 20:54:00 +0000

In a Wonderland they lie,

Dreaming as the days go by,

Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream-

Lingering in the golden gleam-

Life, what is it but a dream?

~Lewis Carroll

i remember that age well-

or rather, i remember it fondly:

of lazy days and long bike rides down shaded avenues,

my black hair trailing like flags in the wind and

sweet smelling peonies lingered behind.

many moments as i silently watch her,

i think to myself how familiar this all seems,

as if i had flipped back to the early pages of my book

to read the preface again.

but i pinch myself gingerly:

while she seeks beauty as i do, and finds joy in many of mine,

she is not me.

not as quixotic nor meek nor scattered...

she is everything that i named her for.

expressive, emotive, emphatic.

she is everything aria.

"hydrangeas," photographed by aria

all photos were taken at the charming tiny boxwood cafe in houston where aria had her birthday luncheon.

note to self no. 04

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 02:57:00 +0000

perfect:

from latin per-‘through, completely’ + facere ‘do.’

perfect is
not flawless;
not ideal;
not superlative;
not exact;
not absolute;
not without equal.

perfect

is simply
seeing something through...

end notes ~ ebb and flow

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Thu, 17 May 2012 16:19:00 +0000

“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an
end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”

~T.S. Eliot~

i have come to love mondays--

just as i have begun to find a peculiar comfort
in the the rhythm of a hot iron

back and forth

paving the way for smoothness.

just as i now look forward to the opening of a new week,

ushering in not only a new beginning,
but a rhyme and a rhythm
usually absent from my blessed, messy weekends.

and for this past mother's day weekend,
for their grandmas,

the children and i made these figgy cardamon bread loafs:

sweetness and warmth and comfort

with a pinch of mischief--

all the stuff of that grandmas are made of...

in the bowl of a stand mixer,

stir together 1 cup of warm milk (110 degrees F) with

2 1/4 tsp. of active dry yeast and

1/3 cup sugar.

allow the mixture to sit for ten minutes.

in another bowl,

whisk together 3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, 1 tsp. kosher salt, and 1 tsp. cardamon.

add the dry ingredients and 2 large eggs to the yeast mixture.

using the dough hook, knead the dough on medium-low speed until it starts to look shaggy.

while continuing to knead, add 6 tbsp. unsalted butter (room-temperature and cut into chunks).

knead until the dough is fairly smooth,

about 10 minutes.

dump the dough onto a floured work surface and flatten into a disk.

scatter 1 1/2 cups quartered dried figs over the dough and gather it into a ball.

knead the dough gently to incorporate the figs.

gather the dough into a ball, transfer to an oiled bowl, cover with plastic wrap and

let rise in a warm, draft-free spot until doubled,

about 1 hour.

line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

on a lightly floured work surface, divide the dough into 3 equal pieces.

roll each piece into a rope about 16 inches long.

with the ropes laying next to each other, pinch the top ends together and proceed to braid the ropes, tucking the ends underneath the braid.

place on the prepared pan, cover loosely with a kitchen towel, and let rise until puffy,

about 45 minutes.

position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 350 degrees F.

in a small bowl, beat 1 egg with a little water.

brush the dough gently with the egg wash and

sprinkle generously with turbinado sugar.

bake until golden brown,

about 35 minutes.

cool completely on a wire rack before slicing.

recipe from home baked comfort

note to self no. 03

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Fri, 11 May 2012 20:45:00 +0000

all that is gold does not glitter,

not all those who wander are lost;

the old that is strong does not wither,

deep roots are not reached by the frost.

from the ashes a fire shall be woken,

a light from the shadows shall spring;

renewed shall be blade that was broken,

the crownless again shall be king.

j.r.r. tolkien

i am blue

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Wed, 09 May 2012 19:27:00 +0000

on one of those mild-mannered mornings,

when neither sun above nor children underfoot

demanded our attention,

we rendezvoused at a local nursery.

"what color would you like?" you asked me.

"blue," i said. "i'm feeling blue."

we packed our two cars with a dozen or so

like newlyweds going to the kennel for their first puppy,

but coming home with a litter.

all the way home, i glanced in the rearview mirror

and smiled at their constant murmur and excitement.

you carefully read up on water intake

and sun preference and ph balance;

you found a cozy spot for each one,

places to regard.

we waited.

doted on each burst of bloom.

and marveled with each syncopated blooming

how utterly unblue they are.

note to self no. 02

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Sun, 06 May 2012 02:39:00 +0000

"you are so young,
so before all beginning, and i want to beg you,
as much as i can, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart
and to try to love the questions themselves
like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue.
do not seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them.
and the point is, to live everything.
live the questions now.
perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it,
live along some distant day into the answer.
resolve to be always beginning--to be a beginner!"

from rainer maria rilke's letters on love

the sweetest gift

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 17:10:00 +0000

“Sweet, crazy conversations full of half sentences,

daydreams and misunderstandings more thrilling than understanding could ever be.”
― Toni Morrison, Beloved

aria's gift to reverie on her birthday.

can a 2 year old be any luckier than to have such love?

after the rain

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 17:19:00 +0000

after a storm is

the best time to hear a bird sing.

when your senses have been muffled

by clashing thunder and dribbling raindrops--

the silence of creatures

is broken by the voices of birds

harking that yes,

yes,

the roses are barely tethered to their stems,

branches are now driftwood over a sea of green,

and hydrangeas whimper with unwonted weight,

but come out!

come out!

come out and see

all the clamoring was for naught--

behold the victorious

still standing,

still able.

whilst the arrogant rain is no more than

puddles to be kicked about.

note to self no. 01

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 04:33:00 +0000

"i think everything in life is art.

what you do. how you dress.

the way you love someone,

and how you talk. your smile

and your personality. what you

believe in, and all your dreams.

the way you drink your tea.

how you decorate your home.

or party. your grocery list. the

food you make. how your writing looks.

and the way you feel.

life is art."

quote via

endnotes ~ ode to the color red

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 04:21:00 +0000

everything is blooming most restlessly;

if it were voices instead of colors,

there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.

--rainer maria rilke

just because

she is learning to count,

and we've already counted 4 yellow bananas,

5 green apples,

6 cara oranges,

7 red plums it had to be...

just because they were the most beautiful thing

in the grocery store--

but not quite as lovely

as those red lips.

the plums were too lovely to eat.
but finally i emboldened myself and made

this plum buttermilk cake for aria,
who flips through my martha stewart magazines,
watches my endless number of recorded cooking shows for me
(my t.v. viewing nowadays is only for barney)
and gives me a litany of baked goods she would like to try.

who sometimes--
when her craving gets the better of her--
schedules in my calendar
(a few weeks ahead)
certain handheld apple pies
and macarons,
macarons,
and more macarons.

but today wasn't for a day macarons.
today was a plum day.

preheat oven to 400 degrees.
butter and flour an 11-inch round tart pan.

in a large bowl, whisk together
1 1/2 cups cake flour with 1 cup whole wheat flour,
1 tablespoon baking powder, 1/2 cup natural cane sugar and 1/2 teaspoon salt.

in a smaller bowl, whisk 2 large eggs with 1 1/2 cups buttermilk.
add 1/4 cup melted and cooled butter and the zest of 3 lemons.

stir in the buttermilk mixture to the flour mixture until just combined.

spoon the batter into the prepared pan, pushing it to the outer edges. scatter or strategically lay 8-10 thinly sliced plums on top of the batter. sprinkle 3 tablespoons raw or turbinado sugar on top.

bake for 20-25 minutes or until the cake has set and a toothpick to the center comes out clean.
serve with a dollop of cream.

notes:

~recipe adapted from super natural every day
~original recipe calls for 2 /12 cups whole wheat pasty flour instead of the 2 different flours
~i used about 7 medium sized plums.
~slice each plum into 8 even slices

endnotes ~ the mystery of eggs

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 15:59:00 +0000

reverie sitting with belle--her new kitty from the easter bunny

it's lovely being two,

because the exact number of eggs

collected in your monogrammed basket

is of little concern.

and how, all of a sudden, did hundreds of

colorful plastic eggs get tucked into your

mother's shrubs and flower pots

is too heady to think about.

and how many gooey chocolate-filled eggs will mom

discover during her memorial day barbecue--

well, that's too much calculation.

no, when you're two,

meandering around, as you normally do,

(but curiously, with a bunch of little friends this time)

and you stumble upon a pink egg or two

and mom cheers you on,

then afterwards,

pops the egg open and instead of yellow mucus sliding out,

you discover tiny chocolate eggs

inside

--well, that's the stuff that dreams are made of.

and you catch on that

colorful plastic eggs are now

your new favorite thing.

nigella lawson's chocolate guinness cake

a long weekend is a gift;

we had a delightful day with friends,

another day with family,

and one to slow down,

and take it all in.

hope everyone had a splendid easter also.

i baked this cake to relish during these blessed gatherings.

and saved a miniature one for

a quiet moment.

endnotes ~ this side of paradise

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 05:04:00 +0000

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

~Robert Frost

much was accomplished this past saturday

in our little patch of green.

we trimmed and weeded and mulched

and made room
for something new to behold:

nothing excessive--

just a little something

for a grin within.

and as i look around at the profusion of buds,

my heart is giddy for the days to come.

that evening,
when the promising work was near done,
we took advantage of some clippings from the kaffir tree

for a light thai dinner

of spicy pork larb wrapped in butter lettuce

and snippets of cilantro and mint from the potager...

dry fry 1 tablespoon jasmine rice in a small pan over medium heat
until the rice is nice latte brown.
shake the pan occasionally to move the rice around and browning is even.
using a spice grinder or small blender or pestle and mortar,
ground the rice until it almost forms a powder.

in a saucepan, cook 16 oz. ground pork
with 3 tablespoons lime juice
and 1 tablespoon fish sauce
over high heat.
separate the meat into small, crumbly pieces.
when meat is fully cooked, transfer it to a large bowl.

in the same saucepan, sauté 2 oz. finely sliced shallots
with 2 lemon grass stalks, also finely sliced (white part only)
until shallots are softened.

add the shallot and lemongrass mixture to the cooked ground pork.
then add the rice powder,
5 finely chopped scallions,
1/4-1/2 tsp. chili powder
and 5 finely sliced kaffir lime leaves (or 1 tablespoon lime zest).

adjust seasoning and spiciness to preference.

serve with butter lettuce.
garnish with cucumber slices, mint, cilantro, thai red peppers.

recipe adapted from the food of thailand

now

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 02:57:00 +0000

so much can be said about the splendor

that is now,

but sometimes,

it's nice to silently take hold of piffling things:

like the frills of new leaves,

like the lingering scent of honeysuckle blooms,

like that nudging sense of grander things to come.

so easy to be lured into this reverie.

ma petite souris

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 03:25:00 +0000

your birthday comes to tell me this

--each luckiest of lucky days

i've loved, shall love, do love you, was

and will be and my birthday is

e.e. cummings

words of wonder

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 21:29:00 +0000

its that time of year again

when the kids prepare for their annual poetry recitation contest.

and while i try to read a poem a day,

this is a great opportunity for me to get them to

read poem after poem after poem

just to find that right one for them.

and just as i am reveling in the beauty of words and their configurations,

i get hold of this brilliant letter

written by robert pirosh, an aspiring screenwriter,

who sent this letter out to all the major studio execs in hollywood...

Dear Sir:

I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave "V" words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land's-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.

I like the word screenwriter better than copywriter, so I decided to quit my job in a New York advertising agency and try my luck in Hollywood, but before taking the plunge I went to Europe for a year of study, contemplation and horsing around.

I have just returned and I still like words.

May I have a few with you?

Robert Pirosh
385 Madison Avenue
Room 610
New York
Eldorado 5-6024

needless to say, mr. pirosh landed a few interviews.

thank you letters of note

new buds

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 04:21:00 +0000

the red buds are blooming,

i had two trees planting in the front of the house a few years back--

one in front of my laundry window
to help make the chore just a bit more

pleasurable.

it's amazing how something so tiny

could bring such delight,

but lucky me,

i'm reminded of this often,

everyday, in fact,

when i see the cascade of pale green leaves

starting out from their branches;

the small drops of dew blanketing the sleepy earth,

and when i behold this:

the sprightly pitter pattering
of a precious pixie who

always hovers near me,

taking in her own images of

small wonders,
many for them first time.

but i haven't been completely distracted.

i've started juliette's lessons on drawing
and will be back soon
with proof of some
diligence.

hush

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 05:01:00 +0000

asked recently
to name my favorite book,
i found myself befuddled.
too many books,
too many loves.
one that i am thoroughly enamored of is
ishiguro's remains of the day.
asked about the plot of the book:
nothing.
nothing happens.
but if one wanted a sample of exquisite writing,
of character exploration,
of internal conflicts,
of biting insights,
one would be pressed to find anything better.

another novel is by the lost and found writer, sandor marai,
a lyrical writer whose voice is

reminiscent of gabriel garcia marquez.

embers is a poignant novel of an old general
who waits patiently to confront his childhood friend
to address a betrayal that occurred 41 years ago.

i'm now reading a tiny little thing:
carr's a month in the country,
another plot-challenged novel of a war veteran
who agrees to restore an old church mural with the
intention of getting over a broken marriage.

why these quiet, uneventful, plotless books?

because while it's delightful to dance with a toddler

who prefers lady gaga blaring at 8 in the morning,

and it's amusing to hear about their friends' pranks and their unholy amount of homework and how
"mommy you need to get home now because i've waited all day to pee"...
and dinnertime inevitably includes
dropping utensils, screaming babies, bickering siblings, and joking over body odor...

quiet is lovely.

but its not just books:
i like the soft puttering of vintage typewriters...
i like the sound of pouring tea...
the scratchiness of a pencil making its mark on paper...
the calmness of dusting sugar on a cake...
a silent smile of a friend walking by...

listen

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 20:40:00 +0000

this drumroll of raindrops lures me back to easy days

when i snuck away from my university courses

to idle in a french café.

the man behind the counter, probably the owner, with his white curls and unwhite apron,

rarely glanced my way,

maybe because i came too often,

or i stayed too long--

either way, he busied himself chatting with two jobless and insouciant men
who sat securely on their barstools.

no one else noticed the raindrops staining the cobblestone floor, the white linens.

the wooden chairs nor dusty wine crates lining the brick walls didn't utter any complaints.

only the background music moaned

of unrequitedness,

of incessant rattling.

i returned to shakespeare,

sometimes swallowing up three plays in one sitting--dragging myself home later,

drugged and baffled as to who isn't related to whom or who isn't dead yet?

in-between these poetic gulps, i watched a few hurried passers-by, sipped cold latte, and decoded the scratchings on the accompanying chair.

only when a wet gust rattled the wine crates did the owner turn heroic and leapt out of his fort

to close the weathered doors.

another latte?

cheese plate? a pinot?

i smiled to decline. my gaze returned to shakespeare.

when i can hear the rustling behind the counter,
assured that he was subsumed again,

i would press my shoulders into the back of my chair, stretch my legs, push my hands in my jean pockets.

i'd inhale the trapped smell and
heed the raindrops banging on the door...

many times i seemed lost to you--

but if you only knew where to look...

it would be that corner table.

shakespeare and i went back and forth,
vergil would take his place as needed.

nietzsche and i bonded a few times. schopenhauer was a bad date.

i confess i fell in love with checkhov in that corner--

and byron was here of course, alone, whenever he was in the mood.
then there was housman, dear housman--impatient and unrelenting with his question...

finally i told him straight-out:

i have you in my heart.

for a.c.e

this and that

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 19:42:00 +0000

my latest modus operandi: a canon rebel t3i

it has hit me today

like a pebble meeting a windshield

that i am a dilettante indeed.

indeed.

a word or two here,

a dab of paint there,

a few scribbled lines,
a run through the piano keys,
a whisk of this and that,

and now--

some snapshots

of reverie

of my morning latte,

of flowers lying around...

oh why not?

because you say,

a jack of all trades is a master of none...

wisdom once warned but now flagrantly dismissed

well, yes, perhaps.
but i will never be bored.

of course, there is that little something
wendell berry once wrote:
it may be that when we no longer know what to do,
we have to come to our real work,
and when we no longer know which way to go,
we have begun our real journey.

indeed.

breathless

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 22:15:00 +0000

had someone screamed fire!--

i wouldn't have heard it...

had someone begged for help--

i wouldn't have noticed...

had someone congratulated me

for winning the lottery--

i wouldn't have cared...

i was too stunned--

too full of excitement and giddiness...

reverie said her name for the first time.

she and i were picking out a new carseat.

she knew it was for her.

with two simple gestures--

a tap to the seat
and a pat to her chest,

she said revie.

yes. yes.

for reverie.

whispers

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 03:35:00 +0000

men in her life
graphite on 19.5 x 25.5 paper

halfway there,

and then i stopped.

stopped for lunch.

stopped to make dinner.

stopped to pick up reverie.

the brief interruption

was all the time necessary

for this small silver-tongue voice to whisper:

"hat's too small."

"sunglasses are off."

"hair's misplaced."

"buy her a real birthday present..."

open

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 03:10:00 +0000

image unknown

not that i am aimless

or hopeless

not that i am void of any

passions

or ambitions.

but this year

i plan to

drift

and go where

the wind blows

and if i'm lucky,

the wind will sometimes be
no more than a gentle
caress
like willow branches flirting
with weathered grass blades

and i will find myself
stilled,

lost in the dance.

a little wish for everyone,

including myself,

for the new year:

may my heart always be open to little

birds who are the secrets of living

whatever they sing is better than to know

and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry

and fearless and thirsty and supple

and even if it's sunday may i be wrong

for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully

and love yourself so more than truly

there's never been quite such a fool who could fail

pulling all the sky over him with one smile

thank you e.e. cummings

light

noreply@blogger.com (A.W.) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 06:11:00 +0000

May the birth of Jesus

fill your heart

with light

and wonder.

Merry Christmas!