Bacon Blueberry Pancakes

Bacon Deprived Abby Lab

Bacon Blueberry Pancakes.

Cook 6 slices of bacon, blot with a paper towel and chop. Thaw 1 cup of frozen blueberries, rinse and pat dry with paper towels.

In small bowl mix 3/4 cup plus 2 Tablespoons of milk and 1 Tablespoon apple cider vinegar (I use Braggs) Let sit for a few minutes.

In aother bowl mix 1 cup flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon baking soda, 1 Tablespoon of sugar, 1 teaspoon of baking powder (I use Hain sodium free) and a pinch of Cardammom (or nutmeg if you don't have Cardamom).

To milk mixture add a splash of vanilla, 1 egg whisked and 2 and 1/2 Tablespoons of melted butter (add in very slowly while whisking).

Add wet ingredients to dry, mixing JUST until combined then gently fold in blueberries and bacon. Cook on a hot griddle. (or better yet, get your spouse or partner to cook for you).

Abby can't do grains but she did get a piece of bacon so she is quite happy.

INSERT LINA AND OLE JOKES HERE

There was a little gathering for a meal with some work folks today, a  casual pot luck we do every so often after finishing up a big project.  I was to bring dessert, a small pan of brownies.  Then the call came in.  Unit Z is back from Albonia!!! There's extra people!.

Something was needed that would feed more than a small handful of folks.

My Mom was Swedish/Norwegian,  myStepmom Norwegian. My Dad's Mom was Scot/Irish and a Hoosier from Indiana as well.  If there's anything a "Scandahoovian"  woman can do, it's whip something tasty of the baked goods variety for the oven up out of nothing.

So what to make?   In the cupboard there is breakfast stuff, almonds and steel cut oats, in the fridge, few fresh berries, a couple jars of Scandahoovian jams (you could substitute your favorites) and basic baking ingredients.

May I present -

Scandahoovian Double Berry Streusal Bars . With a tender, crumbly, oh so buttery cookie base topped with tart, but not too tart, fruit and a sweet/spicy (shhhh, it's Cardamon) streusal topping, they vanished faster than the normally snarfed up brownies.  I had to stealth ninja steal three from the plate at the end of supper so I could have one later and maybe share a couple with cookie deprived friends.

Happy Pi Day

For my math nerd friends.

Still Life with Reloading

I took 3 weeks off to finish Book #5.  In past years, I'd spend that time with Dad, but I'm going out again in just a couple of months for his 99th birthday, so he told me to just hunker down and finish it as he wants to read it before he is gone.  It's about flying, not specific details about my career or the specifics of any other job but just the lure and call of the sky, including his experiences in the 8th Air Force in World War II.

But now it's time to return to work, hours of travel, the groan and rumble of an airplane, the vibration felt from the yoke to my bones, the cadence and sorrow of air rushing past, left behind in the wake of strained metal. There are hotels in the city, waking to the staccato bursts of sound from the street, cars, shouted curses, and horns. Even where I used to live, in a subdivision with cookie cutter homes with enough insulation to drown out the sound of brushing your teeth, there was no such thing as real quiet. There's the neighbors' lawnmower at 9 pm, dogs barking or a shouting match off in the distance between people caged too long, living eight feet at away from the next house.

You either adapt to it, or you get away. I voted for the getting away part of the reason I sold the original "Range".  A four-lane addition to the road from a less than good part of the city to the north end of our little town brought with it gang graffiti and crime. Properly values were crashing. We had our first rape. A woman was beaten to death with a claw hammer. There were a number of break-ins and smash and grab burglaries in my neighborhood, kids, the cops said, taking small electronics, cash, and booze, but it worried me. I realized that I was close enough in that if there was trouble, I wouldn't be able to defend the place too long even with back up. I wanted to be further out. If not full time, at least a place for the weekends and holidays. Not so far out that when I go walk along the creek I hear the sound of a banjo, but far enough to be away from the major roads and cities in the event of a disaster where the unprepared come to loot the prepared. So I made the decision to sell the place before prices dropped even more, and save for a chunk of land.
Someone said, "you're going to get your own Walden Pond?" I've read Thoreau, who chronicles his life off the grid in his writings. I found his words moving but found little in common with a middle-aged man who probably couldn't field dress a deer if he had to. But there was one thing he wrote of that I have always identified with. He talked of judging the cost of something but how much life you had to expend to get it. I left a relationship long ago for that reason because in terms of cost to my being for what I got from it, it violated my sense of thrift. It's the same reason I got rid of a huge house of space I didn't need any longer and unnecessary possessions. Things are precious when they are few and carefully selected. If you squander yourself on things that give you nothing back, someday, when you need that part of yourself to survive, you may find yourself bankrupt.

So I gave away to those in need or sold half my possessions, rooms of furniture, all the useless decorative clutter, keeping only the art that I truly liked, my books, the furniture that's handcrafted and comfortable and the tools of my life that I really need. Some said I was foolish, as a woman alone, there's safety in a busy town, a steady finality in the noise of a large neighborhood. So there is, as well, in the sound of the scrape of metal against a pine box. These are the people who also tell me that I shouldn't have a gun, the police will take care of me; those that speak imperiously and loudly, not hesitant of argument, simply impotent to conceive either.


I bought a "fixer upper" on the water on a couple of acres.  It allowed me to save a bit of money and it was in a safer area, further from the city but close to where I can get into work. There would be my time alone, walks out, firearm on my hip, lest I encounter a mob of chipmunks. There would be my times to just sit, out on a felled log. Time to stop, without schedule as I watched the sky turn from the subtle grey of an unpainted church to the deep purple darkness of a priest's robe, the stars impenetrable and invisible, as if waiting for us before they showed themselves.

Barkley would be sitting by my side, hoping we're under a dog biscuit tree, soon to shed its fruit. We would wait, serene and still, the moon shining on nibbled shadow, content to just sit underneath the starry sigh of heaven. The only other lights were as far off and distant as memories of shame or pride or loss, barely remembered like the smell of decay, sensed only in the instant of its knowledge and then fading to dim memory as you move away from it. Dark and far away, as such things should remain for as long as possible.
From where we sat, an owl would call, the sound unintelligible amongst the vernal branches. As a satellite tracked the sky, the owl called again, a call to go home. And within, there would be an old Victrola, a ham radio, lots of books and some board games for when I have those I love to stay with us. There would be my little computer to write and communicate. In much of the daily breath, I drew there would be noise, but it would be the sound of a blade striking wood, the sun shimmering off of the blade like silver. It would be the crack of a rifle shooting on a range just a few miles away, the tool I would use for provision and protection. It would be the hum of machinery as the shop took shape, room for more tools, room for more freedom. There would be voices, but they would be those of reasoned discourse among friends, as though many of us lived in a time of rural living, we were not so naive to think it doesn't deeply impact us, our safety and our liberty, keeping us wary and watchful

It would be a life of still, dense sound; the sound of freedom. A life of remote quiet, the world outside spinning slowly into green smoke. It would be a life on my terms as best as is possible, walking the uncertain spaces that open before me in the deepening fields, walking out into the constant trees, alone when I need to be, but not forlorn, intractable and accountable. Walking on forward, rhythmic steps into the hushed, secret shade of life off the grid.

Now that I'm back in a big city, no regrets as it brought me to a life with my best friend,  who has his dream job here, back to a quiet hushed bungalow that's as old as time on two lots in the city,  full of 100-year old trees. Something happened between the night of my previous life and the dawn of my new one but I could not be happier, even if living in Mordor.  I may have more laws, corrupt politicians, and burning cold, but I still have my freedom and love to keep me grounded.

When it's time for both of us to retire - we will leave this place, back to that Trinity of space that is earth, God, and nature.  But until then, I'll savor the sound of a hundred-year-old home, the twitter of birds outside, and the sound of a reloading press in the shop, making our elements of freedom.

To the Bridge and Back

There are some of you that visit here, that know Barkley and my shared history and how his book came to be. There are others, dog lovers like us, some brand new visitors from the blog hops, that probably wonder how "The Book of Barkley came to be.

My Big Brother, an ex-submariner, was diagnosed with Stage 4 Esophageal cancer in 2013.  He and I were adopted together as small children, though I only found out very recently that we weren't biological siblings. But we were closer than a lot of siblings, though our careers often kept us thousands of miles apart when he was under the water, and I was piloting airplane miles above the earth.

He finished with chemo and radiation, dropping 100 pounds on his six foot two frame.  He moved in with our widowed Dad so they could support one another, and to get out of his house, as he couldn't hold on to it,  having lost his job as a Navy Contractor.  I lived 1500 miles away and had a job that had me living out of the suitcase too often, but I visited them as often as I could, during all of my vacations, and on every long weekend.

He held his own, even if towards the end, everything he ate got smashed in a blender.  Pretty much all he could get down was some protein shakes. (I thought he was joking when he said he'd put my leftover cheese omelet I brought back from a restaurant with some leftovers, in there with the juice, fruit and ice cream but he said it was tasty except "I don't think the hash browns were such a good idea".

But we had some time, to do some grieving, for the loss of some older family members, including our Step-Mom who stepped to the plate after our Mom died fairly young from cancer.  We also had some time to do some laughing, especially as now he could share all the embarrassing childhood stories with my new husband who met him for the first time.  But we also  had a lot of time alone, up late, talking about our Dad, about growing up (or our inherent refusal to),  He told me more than once "you're a good writer, you need to put this down in a book" and I'd just laugh and say, "maybe after I retire".  He said, " we don't always get to retire, do it now".

At that point, I realized that the one  thing I am glad I did not hear from him in his end days was, "I wish I'd. . ."

I've heard so many people say "I'll do that when I'm older, when I lose 20 pounds, when I'm retired". We got through life saying "I would, but it probably wouldn't work out" or " I'd like to but. . ." We too often base our actions on an artificial future, painting a life picture based on an expectancy that time is more than sweat, tears, heat and mirage.

You can't count on anything. For out of the blue, fate can come calling. Barkley was in fine spirits at my wedding, weeks later limping; a few weeks after that--gone to the Rainbow Bridge.  In a flash, life robbed even of the power to grieve for what is ending. I think back to when my brother and I were kids, going down a turbulent little river with little more than an inner tube and youth, risking rocks and rapids and earth, just to see what was around the bend of that forest we'd already mapped out like Lewis and Clark. The water was black and silver, fading swirls of deep current rising to the surface like a slap, fleeting and gravely significant, as if something stirred beneath, unhappy to be disturbed from its slumber, making its presence known.  A fish, perhaps or simply fate. 

I was in the paint section of a hardware store the other weekend, looking for a brick colored paint to paint a backdrop in the kitchen. I noticed the yellows, a color I painted my room as a teen. I noticed the greens, so many of them, some resembling the green of my parent's house in the sixties and seventies, yet not being exactly the same color. The original was one that you'd not see in a landscape, only in a kitchen with avocado appliances, while my Mom sang as she made cookies. I remember Big Bro and I race through the house, one of us soldier, one of us spy, friends forever, stopping only long enough for some of those cookies, still warm. Holding that funky green paint sample I can see it as if it were yesterday.  Memories only hinted at, held there in small squares of color.

What is it about things from the past that evoke such responses? A favorite photo, for some, a piece of clothing worn to a special event, a particular meal, things that carry with them the sheer impossible quality of perfection that has not been achieved since. Things that somehow trigger in us a response, of wanting to go back to that time and place when you were safe and all was well. But even as you try and recapture it, it eludes you, caught in a point in your mind between immobility and motion, the taste of the empty air, the color of the wind

Today is a memory that months from now, could be one of those times.  You may look back and see this day, the person you were with, the smile on your face, the simple household tasks you were doing together. Things, so basic in their form, as to, at this time, be simply another chore, cleaning, painting, another ordinary day, while the kids played outside and the dog barked merrily along with them. It might be a day in which you didn't even capture it on film, no small squares of color left to retain what you felt there as you worked and laughed together, in those small strokes of color, those small brushes of longing.

Twenty years from now, you may look at yourself in the mirror, at the wrinkles formed from dust, time and tears around your eyes, at the grey in your hair and you will think back to this day, the trivial things that contain the sublime. On that day, so far beyond here, you may look around you, that person with you in your memory no longer present, and you want it all back. Want it as bad as the yearning for a color that is not found in nature, in the taste of something for which you search and ache, acting on the delusion that you can recreate it, those things that haunt the borders of almost knowing.

You touch the mirror, touch your face and wish you'd laughed more, cared less of what others thought, dove into those feelings that lapped at the safe little edges of your life, leaped into the astonishing uncertainty.

My brother spent years running silent and deep under the ocean, visiting places I can only guess at as he will not speak of it, a code about certain things I share with him.   But I knew the name.  Operation Ivy Bells.  He understands testing the boundaries of might and the deep, cold deep depths to which we travel in search of ourselves.

I too have had more than one day where I stood outside on a pale crescent of beaten earth and breathed deeply of the cold.  I am here, my wings long ago hung up, tools in hand because someone has died and with great violence.  On those days I felt every ache in my muscles, I felt my skin, hot under the sun, the savage, fecund smell of loss in the air, laying heavy in the loud silence. Somewhere in the distance would come a soft clap of thunder, overhead clouds strayed deliberately across the earth, disconnected from mechanical time. I'd rather be elsewhere; the smell simply that of kitchen and comfort, the sounds; only that of laughter. But I knew how lucky I was to simply be, in that moment and alive.  I also knew, how blessed I was that after such days, I came home to my furry, four-legged best friend Barkley, who was my Black Knight in somewhat shedding armor, the soft-coated Kleenex when I needed to cry.

You can't control fate, but you can make choices. You can continue your day and do nothing, standing in brooding and irretrievable calculation as if casting in a game already lost. Or you can seize the moment, the days, wringing every last drop from them. Tell the ones you love that you love them. Hug your family, forgive an enemy (but remember the bastards name), salute your flag, and always, give the dog an extra biscuit. Then step outside into the sharp and unbending import of Spring, a dying Winter flaring up like fading flame, one last taste, one last memory, never knowing how long it will remain.

I said goodbye to my brother that last time, neither of us were certain as to what the future would hold. Had I known that just weeks later, my beloved Barkley would be gone to an aggressive bone cancer, followed just weeks later by my only brother, I might have held him longer, but I wouldn't have played the days out any differently.   For one thing we both agreed on, today is that memory, go out and make everything you can of it.

The Book of Barkley is that memory--for Barkley, for my brother, for all the laughter we wrapped around each other in the end days, to be carried on forward like held breath, in the airless days ahead.

-Brigid

Time for a Toast

Book #5 goes to publication tomorrow.  I started it in August and spent the last 3 weeks honing it and editing it with my beta readers and two friends who are in the university academic world, now or recently retired, who are my official editors.

I am going to take the rest of the week off to chill and will be back with more blog posts.

On Editing

Got 20 more chapters edited today.   Hope to have the new book to the publisher by next Monday.  Thanks for your patience - Brigid

Another Day of Novel Editing

And a huge shout out to my beta readers!!!  (by the way, that's a Chip McCormick Power Mag for a Springfield 1911 with extended tips, 8 round).  The "THIS is a knife" is in case of feral squirrel attack.

Sunday Eats - Swedish Waffles

Einkorn flour is an ancient grain and the only flour in the US that is not genetically modified. Most people with gluten sensitivity (like me, not Celiac, just don't digest flour well) can eat it.

This is a great waffle recipe. In a bowl mix

1 cup Young Living Einkorn Flour (there are other brands available online but this one is moderately priced)
1 tsp. sodium free Hain Baking Powder
1/2 teaspoon, low sodium salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon Cardamon
1 Tablespoon sugar

In another bowl mix
1 cup of buttermilk (or make your own by replacing a tablespoon of regular milk with lemon juice and letting it sit a few minutes
a dash of vanilla
2 and 1/2 Tablespoons melted butter
1 egg whisked.

Mix wet and dry ingredients and drop 1/3 cup into a Swedish Waffle iron. Serve with Young Living Ningxia Berry Syrup (a blend of blueberry, plum, sweet cherry, pomegranate and wolf (goji) berry with lemon and orange essential oil (SOOOO tasty and also a great pork glaze with a pat of melted butter, a clove of garlic, and some rosemary) and whipped cream. To order YL retail visit: https://www.youngliving.com/vo/…

Calling All Authors

Calling all authors. I'm 95% done with the manuscript for my 5th book but I need some beta readers to alert me to any major plot holes or obvious typos (before it goes to my editor - the awesome Stephanie Martin). The book is about the philosophy and life lessons from being a pilot (Mr. B. that is a Clue by Four). If you are a long time reader or commenter and have time to do this before next weekend (when my rough draft is due to the publisher) please send your email via "do not post" comment or my google email if you have it. It's 71,000 words so not a super long read. If you do this I will make sure you get a free autographed copy when it is published in May and a link and shout out on the blog.

Sorry, but if you have never commented and ask for a copy and I don't know who you are I am not going to send, I've had people publish my previous books online in violation of copyright - trying to get others to subscribe to a service that provides illegal copies of hijacked works with no pay to the author.

Kung Fu Valentine

I was a little sad for Valentine's Day with the closing of the sale of my childhood home last week (a blessing with Dad's assisted living expenses that we've had -  but still hard to see) and watching so many things of my Mom, Dad, and brother's go to auction or charity  We just don't have room for it here, and shipping items more than a few items back to Chicago via UPS was out of the question financially.  I do have some great small glassware pieces of Moms and a few things of my brother's including his favorite shirt which still smells like him (at least in my memory).

I did get my husband a couple of things to celebrate the day though.  His French Press for coffee at work had broken so there was a replacement.  It was just a Tardis one.

With some SERIOUS coffee for those Monday mornings. 

And my husband did his best to cheer me up.  I had told him NOT to get me a fancy Valentine's gift, as we're putting a new roof on as soon as the weather warms up and that's $$$.  I said, "just take me out for Thai Saturday and I'll cook us Valentine's dinner after work" (including the Oreo/White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake above).

But he surprised me with something he put together for me with an online find and some hobby paint.

My very own redheaded Kung Fu Bobblehead with a homemade card. 

He got the belt color right (Shao Lin Twin Broad Swords - Get Off my Lawn!)

Dinner was wild caught salmon from https://wildalaskancompany.com/ (seriously worth the price - as good as what Dad and my brother used to catch and cook the same day) poached in white wine with herbs, garlic cheese bread, and peas (sorry Old NFO) with the cheesecake for dessert. (Sorry for the low light, not the best photo but I did put the cheesecake recipe in the comments).

I was smiling all evening.

Whether you had a Valentine with you or not we hope your day brought a smile.

Endings, and Beginnings

Dad's house is sold after TOO many months. And 70 years of cherished accumulation that have been sold, auctioned, donated to charity or sent to the trash.

I don't want to tell you how much work that was. And how hard it was to see it totally empty of memory as it was signed over to the new owner.  But it gives us at least 3 years of Assisted Living expenses that won't be out of our pocket. After that, he can get Medicaid.

I am taking 3 weeks off to recoup and write the remainder of book #5.  I may have a recipe or two up and maybe a shooty post or two but for the most part, I will be off the blog.  I hope you stick around for the final product.

Hair Raising Evenings

I head (no pun intended) to the hair stylist about every four-five weeks as my hair grows beyond fast (photo from warmer times).   Usually, though, the visit is after my work day, the salon being open until 9 PM. I give my regular stylist a lot of credit.  My hair is baby fine, curly (I refer to it as "free range") and well, red. I won't mention the few strands of grey and trying to match that.  It's the hair stylist equivalent of juggling knives.

I went in this week for a hair cut and some "natural highlights" which involve a  transfer of cash similar to ransom, and an hour and a half with enough foil on my head to attract a number of conspiracy theory admirers.

I also went in without lunch or dinner due to the day I had at work.  I figured that I could grab some takeout on the way home as my husband was out of town and I hadn't planned on cooking, Abby Lab was being walked a couple of times and fed by my dogwalker due to the long day (legal hearing) so she was taken care of.

As my stylist did the trim, I had a ladies magazine on my lap, with my reading glasses off,  as the beautiful genius that does my hair finished up the cut and blow dry.

Did I mention that when I hit 50  I had to get "reading glasses" and anything just a  foot away is a bit blurry? First, it was the pages at Bible study, then mailboxes, and soon I was looking through the rack for "readers" with all the other grandmothers.

The magazine I was reading at the salon had a colorful picture of a bowl of soup in it.  I started to get really hungry  It looked SO good and that bagel and apple and coffee at 6 a.m.were distant history. I think I drooled on the page. The lady in the next chair over mentioned that, looking quite perplexed when I said: "I SO want a bowl of that."   I couldn't wait until I was free of sculpting gel and a dryer to stop at the gourmet grocers for some of that, the broth, the succulent chicken, perhaps some shrimp, while I curled up with a glass of expensive white wine and Bach.

Then I put my glasses on.

I'd been drooling over cat food. Friskies Fancy Feast no less.

After that,  I stopped  McDonald's for a Filet O Fish and the liquor store for a bottle of white wine, just grabbing one from their "pick of the week" display as I was tired.   When I got home and tried to open it with the wine opener and I couldn't puncture the top I realized it was a twist off cap.

Filet O'Fish and McWine.

Maybe I should have just gone for the cat food.

Because Blog Reader and Friend Rich in NC asked for it - Illinois Ice Storm Cake

Illinois Ice Storm Lemon Buttermilk Pound Cake

•           3 cups all-purpose flour

•           1/2 teaspoon baking soda

•           1/2 teaspoon salt

•           2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened

•           2-1/4 cups granulated sugar

•           3 large eggs

•           1 cup buttermilk (to make your own replace 2 and 1/2 teaspoons of milk in your cup of milk with lemon juice or apple cider vinegar and let sit out at room temp for 5 minutes).

•           2 Tablespoons grated lemon zest, packed (4-5 lemons)

•           2 Tablespoons fresh lemon juice

FOR THE SYRUP

•           1/3 cup water

•           1/3 cup granulated sugar

•           2 Tablespoons fresh lemon juice (yes, this is in addition to the 2 tablespoons in the batter)

INSTRUCTIONS

1.         Preheat the oven to 325°F and set an oven rack in the middle position. Spray a 10-inch bundt pan with non-stick cooking spray and dust with additional flour.

2.         In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside.

3.         In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment (or beaters), cream the butter and sugar on medium speed until light and fluffy, 3-4 minutes. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, then beat in the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Scrape down the sides of the bowl again.

4.         In another bowl, combine the buttermilk, lemon zest and lemon juice.

5.         With the mixer on low speed, beat in one-quarter of the flour mixture, then one-third of the buttermilk mixture. Beat in another quarter of the flour, then another third of the milk mixture. Repeat with another quarter of the flour and the remaining milk mixture. Finally, beat in the remaining flour mixture. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, and give a quick mix to make sure all of the ingredients are well incorporated.

6.        Spoon the thick batter into the prepared bundt pan and smooth with a rubber spatula. Bake for 1 hour and 5 minutes, or until a knife comes out clean.

7.         Cool the cake in the pan for ten minutes on a rack.

8.         Meanwhile, make the syrup. Combine the water and sugar in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice.

9.         Invert the warm cake onto a rack. Slip a large piece of parchment paper or aluminum foil under the rack to catch all the drips from the syrup and glaze. Gradually brush the hot syrup over the cake, letting it soak in (a little syrup will drip off, but try not to rush so that most of it is absorbed). Allow the cake to cool completely, about one hour.

•           When the cake is cool, slip two large metal spatulas under the cake and carefully transfer to a serving platter.  When cool sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve.

Sunday Eats - Cinnamon Swirl French Toast

Homemade Cinnamon Swirl Bread French Toast.

INGREDIENTS
• 2 tablespoons sugar
• 1 cup warm water
• 2 1/2 teaspoons yeast
• 2 1/2 cups King Arthur Bread Flour (it’s higher gluten than regular flour so you don’t get so many gaps in your cinnamon bread)
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 2 tablespoons cinnamon
• 1/2 cup white sugar

INSTRUCTIONS
1. Mix the 2 tablespoons sugar with the warm water in a very large bowl. Add the yeast and do not stir. Let it sit for five minutes. Add the oil, salt, and flour. Mix by hand, adding more flour as necessary until the dough forms a large, soft, ball. Flour a table or work surface and knead the bread for 5-10 minutes.
2. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and brush the top with a little extra olive oil. Cover the bowl with a damp towel and let the dough rise in a warm place for 1 hour. It should be very puffy. Divide the dough in half and punch it down.
3. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Roll each half into a large rectangle. For more tight rolls in the bread, roll the dough thinner. For thicker softer rolls in the bread, roll thicker. Mix the cinnamon and sugar in a small bowl and sprinkle over each loaf. Roll up the loaves tightly and let rest for a few minutes before putting in the oven.
4. Bake on a cookie sheet or baking stone for 30 minutes, or until it sounds hollow. When in doubt, overbake this one. It might look brown on the outside, but that’s okay because the inside really needs to bake all the way to get the layers filled out. Cool before slicing.

French Toast – in 8 x 8 pan mix 2 large eggs, a generous splash of milk (about 3 Tablespoons), 1 Tablespoon of sugar and ¼ tsp Vanilla. Whisk. Dip six pieces of bread in batter on both sides and cook on an oiled griddle until browned. The cinnamon sugar will make it "stick" more than regular FrenchToast with white bread so work the spatula under it a couple of times as it cooks.

Snow Days

Those of you who have read The Book of Barkley will recall this chapter but I found the photos I took of Barkley back then, and thought I'd share them on this day that Abby Lab was able to go roll in the snow safely after the minus 50 windchills of the last few days. - Brigid


From The Book of Barkley - Outskirts Press, all rights reserved.

Outside the snow starts, the door painting a path out into the white, only one lone dog brave enough to take it tonight.  His paw prints leave a trail like bread crumbs, delicate and soft, disappearing even as I look for them as the snow falls down.

The cold and white is going to skirt the edge of my world tonight. I am glad to be in safe and warm, for I remember too many nights out working in the elements as winter shook its fist at the forecast.  Tonight, the roads will be mostly empty,  nothing else braving the space around us but some poor, cold creatures trying to seek shelter as best they could, a couple of forlorn horses of a distant neighbor, waiting to be brought back into the glow of light in the stable. If I looked out onto the snow, beyond the bounds of grass and the water and horizon, it appears to come down ever so frantic and furious. A life,  these years, can seem to hurry past that way if you let the vision of it trick you, a glimpse of white, of black, then gone, when you may least expect it.

This is probably our last winter in this old ranch style house.  I'd bought it with the intent of my Father living with me on the impending death of my stepmom, when he changed his mind, unable to leave the home in which he built his memories of her.   It's a decent older home, better than the McMansion I'd given up a couple years prior in another city, especially with a  huge fenced yard which Barkley loved.  But  I wanted to downsize more, not really needing the "mother in law" set up.  The extra space, even if the house was modest in construction and price, with the piece of land it sat on, was still a lot to maintain as a single woman, one who really didn't have time for a  young dog, let alone a house.

I did enjoy being able to watch him play though, even as today I am more happy to stay in the warmth of the house, my reflection in the mirror, flakes of snow in my hair from opening the door.  How did winter get here so quickly, I think as I look in an old mirror, imagining the generations that have looked into that gleaming surface, asking themselves at least once, how did it all fly by so quickly, asking those questions across those years, time they hopefully learned didn't matter, as they savored every last remnant, there in the depths of something they had questioned too long.

Barkley loves the snow.   He runs and jumps, snooting the snow up in the air as I try and take pictures of him from the covered porch  The camera never does him justice though, failing  to capture that movement as he appears to fly, the steam of his breath, the thudding spray of snow as he lands, laid out in pixeled particles of white. But I suddenly want to capture that moment, between stillness and unbridled motion, where even mass seems to be physically altered, changing from solid muscle to wind the color of night

I look at him, them look at the sky.  Both he and I for this moment, becoming "pups" again.

As children, growing up where we did, "snow days" were infrequent. The world didn't stop for snow where snow was not uncommon. When we got one, we'd be outside the door before the breakfast dishes were even put away. Snow was not cold; it was not work or worry. It was a divine benediction which spread itself out onto the world where we waited with glee. Grabbing an inner tube to ride down the cleared foothills, shoving a couple Archway cookies in our pockets and heading out into the dazzling white, we'd heed the siren call. There I would simply wait my turn on the hill called "widowmaker", content to just sit and look up into the wonder as we waited our turn.

That tube was not my transport to the stars, it was a defiant gesture against the mortality that grew closer to the edge of our vision every year.  It wasn't a simple inner tube.  It was a defiant shout.  It was my shield.

Then, I'd launch myself with abandon out into it, flinging my form down onto an inner tube that was traveling downhill much faster than my Dad ever would have approved. There was nothing but movement and emotion, snow in the amber fire of my hair, my cheeks flushed, body arching up into the air, trying to maintain the moment that I knew would come crashing down much too quickly. At the bottom of the hill, chest heaving, I'd simply look up into the sky and say thank you, for that moment, as time gathered itself back up and started ticking again.

Then, face flushed with anticipation, I'd pat my pocket to make sure my cookie was secure and I'd trudge back up the slope again. As I peered down into the void I'd say, "I probably shouldn't do this ", as I launched myself off yet again into space, remorseless and laughing, flying down the slope, potent, strong, as free as an eagle, not knowing yet as a child, that even for the eagle, all space can still be a cage.
That's the snow I wish to remember. Looking up into the heavens trying to see where it originates, then the slow fall of it, parachutes of white dropping down, slower and slower. They fall, weightless, ethereal creations of magic and intermolecular forces, some felled by warmth, some turning to water against one's tongue, some slain by a sled.  Yet tomorrow, next year, there would be another flake and yet another and another soul to hold it in the palm of their hand, if they are only there to reach out for it.

Barkley continues his play, forever a puppy, with no concept of another winter, only this one, everything just captured here now, running as hard as he can.  Looking at a pile of work on the table to be completed tomorrow, I wish I could do that, could play in that slow, suspension of time and moisture, one where what you feel and seek and love builds upon itself in endless form,  honed by the cold depths of the sky.  You can't catch the snow,  you can only watch it fall to you, grasping it briefly, stretching out your hands to clasp a wisp of air and hold it for a moment.

But I can't, I have obligations and chores and things to do that don't involve a dog.  He barks with a "come follow me" note, but getting chilled just opening the door to check on him, I simply fling his favorite toy as hard and far out into space as I can before I shut the door and impatiently fetch a treat to get him back inside in a few minutes.

"The Toy".  It's this bone length thing covered with yellow tennis ball material to which a thick plastic cord is attached so you can really wind it up and throw it. It's THE toy. He has a half dozen different balls and toys, but once this one showed up they were ignored. He knows the word "toy"  as opposed to "Ball" or "Mr. Squeeky" or "The Ropers" and will fetch it from anywhere, digging through the snow if necessary to find it.

I went into the kitchen, leaving the family room glass outer door closed, but the curtains open. Dogs can get frostbite on their paws, ears, and tail if left out in freezing temperatures for lengths of time so I would keep an eye on him.

I saw this movement in my peripheral vision, a black form jumping up into the air like a kangaroo. What the. . . . .?

The toy is stuck high up in the branches of a tree, just inside his fenced area, I threw it too far out, and too high.

He jumped and he jumped as if he could somehow magically get that high and grab it.  Come on, this next time, surely I'll get it!  But he is totally silent, not a bark, so intent on the capture, he is bound and gagged by his obligation.

With a heavy sigh as I'd just gotten warm again,  I get bundled up in coat and boots and go out. The snow shower had passed, and I could see him out at the edge of the yard,  inside the fence that blocks him from the pond. When he saw me he ceased jumping but continued to stare up.  It's just a toy, I think, but he looks at it as if stuck on the edge of a vast ambiguity, a lonely figure waiting by a hopeless ocean for time and tide to change course.

 I've seen a lot of expressions on this dogs face, but this was the first time I could actually detect "worry".  I didn't think dogs worried.  They don't have taxes, cellulite, ex's or bills and facial hair as they get older is, well, normal. But they do know hurt, they just quietly just take it in, recording it complacently in their suffering, not wishing their person to worry about them.

But today,  he looked with a stillness that dropped like stone to the depths of my being, a  look on his face that would have stopped even the most involved soul. Dogs can do that, those looks, that put out of mind all of the follies of dog farts, the hair that covers every surface of the house, spent dollars and the chewed shoes.  It's a look that made me want to comfort him, even as he does for me with no memory of my failures or the hints of my doubts.

Mom,. Mom, my toy, she's stuck, help!

If I fall out here, and break something I'm going to freeze to death.  I've got stuff to do, this can wait til it's warmer.  The ladder is in the garage and the sky is getting dark.  All of those thoughts run though my head as he stares up, my form the only thing between him and that gaping ocean.  It's my responsibility.  He's my responsibility.  But there's no way I'm going to try and drag the ladder out of the garage, around the house and through the little gate.  I climbed trees as a kid, I only need to get up a few feet where I can grab it or swat the toy to the ground.

Those childhood trees were stouter trees, however, and I was smaller then, and soon I am half tangled in the young tree, it's trunk bending painfully in ways I haven't seen since my first Yoga class.  I thought of a trebuchet, the laws of physics and how a flung redhead taking out the kitchen window might not be something the insurance agent wanted to hear.

I went and got the ladder. The conquest of worlds, the emancipation of those sold into bondage, the pride and power of freedom's forces, those are fit materials for a courageous tale. The rescue of a fuzzy toy would hardly be accountable but for the look of this dog, for whom the act was as all important, all-consuming, as well, bacon will be tomorrow morning.  This dog had his needs, and I knew that whether I was simply "what's her name with a ladder" or his instrument of documented destiny, I had a role to play here.

Barkley 1.  Tree 0.

And the world began revolving again and I could go back where it is warm, even if I am met with yet another pleading look.  Play with me!

Sorry buddy, Mom's busy, I say, as I head back to the garage,  leaving that pleading look behind.   Overhead, a flock of geese, winging through an aberration of white, a mournful honk, black and white, braving the cold, pursuing the echo of sanctuary.  I hear their cry as  "come follow me" But I can't. Not quite yet.  The snow blooms with the insistence of Spring, and I am earthbound with things to do.  I turn away from him, flakes gathered at my feet, tumbled in the wind like rose petals blown aside in a lovers haste departure.

I still have an evening ahead of me among reports, artifacts of life on my desk, shattered shells and bone, and intertwined with the broken pieces a black feather from a bird, a pine cone, a small piece of swirled gemstone that looks at me like an eye, daring me to look deeper, to find some closure for those that need it, even if that is me.  It's easy to get caught up in that, it's my work, it's how I think, finding logic to behavior in science that doesn't seem to exist in the human world.

Then there is this goofy dog outside with a fuzzy yellow toy in his mouth, covered in snow like it's some sort of Popsicle.  He's simply enjoying the day for what it is.  I can't help but break out in a big grin when I think of that.  Perhaps, I'm not as grown up as I think I am.

Ladder put away, I turn around and go back towards where I think he wandered.  His paw prints that followed me to the gate have already been covered with new snow, his presence but a dream. I close my eyes for a moment and the paw prints are as if they were never there, a dream that one wakes up smiling from, but can never get back, even if they return to slumber. But he is here. Somewhere.  There, a sudden revelation of black fur in the fleeting gleams of snow, with a bark "you came!" that was like the glow of sparks from a struck stone, the wag of a tale which for him is absolute truth.  How I will always remember the sound of his barking as I approached, muffled in the snow, hearing it as a child, through ear muffs.

I go to him with a pat and a treat, to get him back to the house, to play with me inside in the warmth, while my work waits for another time. Our feet barely touch the ground as we run towards the house, towards the gilded blaze, our future, he and I, somewhere ahead in that diffused glow. Like those horses out in the neighbor's field, we move towards the light of the door,  bright as tossed coins in a collection plate, a saving, golden Grace.  Home.  It is benediction and absolution, even if covered in dog hair.

There is a door, and we fall in, into the embrace of warmth, flakes of cold in dark hair.