Hand In Hand on the Path to Peace

I was not called to fight with swords;
I was commanded to uplift with words.
Every one of us has a perfect child,
Though some are living as if raised in the wild.
We are so in bondage to the people of our pasts
That someone must help us to find the right paths.
We have had the face of our Creator reshaped
By those who wanted our spirits to break,
So that they could move in with their greed and their lusts,
Convincing us that they were the ones we could trust
To mold our thoughts and hold our hands
While we walked together to The Promised Land.
But what they sowed was fear and discontent
Giving the face of The Almighty a human imprint.

My Creator is big, and strong, and Pure Light,
A Being of Infinite, Awesome Might.
My Protector holds me and dares any other,
With selfish intent to call himself brother,
Or sister, or friend, or leader of lambs;
Only those who seek Oneness may take our hands.
I will be careful whose hand I take;
Sometimes I've made almost fatal mistakes.
Many have helped pull me from the fire;
They are now wishing that we could all retire.
Still, we come when our babies cry out in pain,
Knowing our torments will be worth the gain
Of eternal life, and joy, and peace,
As we hold them until their terrors cease.

When we can't discern where the path might be
We need earthly angels to help us to see.
As we walk away there's a stamp on our hearts
Where we've accepted a command to continue our parts.
For no soul can stay strong when left all alone;
We have to house many in our spiritual homes,
To lift, and soothe, and serve each other.
We've become, in essence spiritual mothers,
And brothers, and sisters, and fathers, and friends,
Walking together until the path ends,
Back in union with the Great Light,
The Power of Goodness, and Growth and Delight

A Place of Protection and Peace

We have finished the memorial service honoring Don; we think he was pleased. We know that his siblings felt comforted by the way we honored their big brother, and that pleases us. It's always interesting to watch families, especially blended families, in times of stress trying to avoid the landmines that inevitably present themselves. All evidence is that everyone involved is going home whole, and that's about the best outcome there can be.

There's always a period of emotional "hang-over" for me after putting so much concentrated energy for so long into a completed project. At the end, my tendency is to jump headlong into another project, just because the adrenaline has taken over where my brain used to be. A little "hair of the dog that bit me" seems like a good idea at these times, and I become like a freight train careening downhill with no brakes.

Thank The Almighty for placing Richard in my path. He doesn't even attempt to stop the train; he simply lays down a stretch of sidetrack which slows me down and guides me safely home. It's impossible to go ninety-to-nothing on these mountain roads, so the energy saved can be channeled into more peaceful pursuits, like a retreat with one of my favorite people.

I've wanted to start a retreat center ever since the worst time my life fell apart over twenty years ago. Sometimes, too much comes crashing in on us at one time, and our lives spin so fast with no forward motion that our batteries die. Unlike in Peter Pan where all we had to do was believe in fairies and clap our hands to bring the spirit of Tinkerbell back alive; in real life, we sometimes have to be hooked up to a strong energy source to rejuvenate ourselves. The life Richard has provided me is my jump start. I'm thrilled when others want to plug into that protection and peace.

...And Richard's sumptuous salads are always good fuel.

Seriously Saucy

Bread pudding with bourbon sauce was the goal for the day
Don didn't like what he called bugs, so we made it a different way.
Apricots, cherries, and nutmeg made the pudding good;
Cajuns use what's on hand in creating all their food.

When it came time to make the sauce, we used no bourbon after all;
A bottle of Jack Daniels came to hand in the closet in the hall.
Nobody seemed to notice the sauce had a little different flavor;
There didn't seem to be any complaints as this dessert was savored.

Talking About Tara

An absolutely perfect fall day in Atlanta,
Rocking on the veranda overlooking a manicured lawn.
Soaking up the ambiance that Scarlett must have enjoyed
Before Sherman burned the heart of Southern Hospitality.
Red beans cooking in the kettle in the perfect kitchen,
Everything in order, as in a Southern home it should be.

The busy Buckhead boulevard seems many miles away
From this backyard heaven under dogwood and magnolia trees.
What a gift I've been given to create my Cajun cooking
For the particular palate of my friend, an executive chef.
I like to think I'm Scarlett in this imaginary movie
But I know I'm more like Prissy just trying to do my best.

Commercial Kitchen Cooking

I'm hanging at a mansion today,
In the most perfect kitchen,
Feeling oh so wealthy,
And it won't cost me a thing.

Today we're making red beans,
With lots of Andouille sausage,
In a big steam kettle,
And I can hardly wait.

I'll love to be working
In a commercial kitchen,
Cooking up good things
For lots of folks to eat.

I'll hang out with Chef Holly,
Making her honey's favorites,
To feed all his friends
As we party him to paradise.

Luscious Lava

I feel fulfilled regarding chutney "needs" now, but I still have plenty of fruit for pear butter, waiting to be pressurized. Meanwhile, I've discovered a whole new pear passion.

Mamie has been talking with great enthusiasm about Esther's pear honey. I came across this concept several years ago while searching the internet for pear preservation recipes, but I had no need to try it until Mamie kept mentioning her longing.

I was at a pot luck lunch honoring one of our precious people who recently died, when I came upon Esther. We got to talking about this delicacy that Mamie so desired, so I asked Esther her secrets. After coming home with a basic list of ingredients, I went online and found proportions and procedures, just in case I had any extras of the pear pearls that Richard had peeled.

I did end up with a few cups of Richard's pear pearls waiting for a home, and Josie had handed me a ripe pineapple a few days ago. Why not try something new? With a bit of whirring in the food processor, the pineapple and pears were ready to be cooked down with sugar into the golden elixir called pear honey.

For those who have never made jams and jellies, cooking down jam is like living in a kitchen with a spitting volcano. The syrup is so thick that it becomes superheated on the bottom of the pot, so that every time a bubble or a stirring spoon breaks the surface, a few balls of the molten luscious lava fly onto everything in their path. This can cause some serious damage to the skin of anyone unwise enough to be within range. And if the temperature isn't regulated just so, the whole stove and floor surrounding it become a hardened lava field upon cooling.

The pear honey is as good as it looks, so I'm now anxious to get a taste test to Esther and Mamie. Will it pass the muster of the canning queens?

As for the pear butter, I just won't have time to finish it today because I'm going back to Atlanta to finish preparing for Don's Party Into Paradise. After pressurizing the pears, I'll simply stick them in the freezer. I will, hopefully have our Coker Creek Kitchen Club going at the Smoky Mountain Christian Camp very soon after I arrive back here. Then, all the parties interested in sharing methods for good old down-home cooperative cooking and other homey endeavors can congregate for some family-style fun.

Maybe it will be the beginning of our very own Coker Creek Creative Camp, sort of like Foxfire and other folk schools, but probably more full of fun.

Trying To Train a Chicken

I went to see Mountain Mama and was a bit alarmed by the long scratch from her ear, across her cheekbone, all the way to the bridge of her nose. It looked like she had been sword fighting like The Three Musketeers. She is ninety, after all, so we worry about her health. I asked her about it, and she started laughing.

It seems that she was trying to train one of her chickens. Mamie has very nice nesting boxes for her hens, so she makes every attempt to have them lay in them; but,she says that some chickens are rather opinionated about where they want to roost. One of her layers didn't agree with Mamie's motel plan, so she set herself up on the top of a door that is still opens to the outside.

Mamie was fed up with the cheekiness of this chicken, so she decided to give her a nudge in the right direction, which would have been down to her real roost. She shut the door, hoping to have the bird relocate herself to her proper place. This method sort of worked. The hen was dislodged; in her hurry, and with a flurry, she flew down to Mamie's head. Darkness had descended,so the hen apparently thought that Mamie's hair was a nice warm bed of straw at a comfortable height and distance for her to reach in one leap.

The startled Mamie didn't see the hen hopping off her perch; all she felt was something landing on her head. This led to the natural reaction of giving whatever it was the brush off. This hen was having no part of this, and grabbed Mamie's cheekbone with her claw, hanging on for dear life. Mamie's hand was already in brushing motion, so she's left with scar from her duel with a hen hanging on to her squatter's home.

Mamie's mountain daughter tended to her wound, and it seems to be healing nicely. But I am left wondering exactly who trained whom.