So. Time to deliver on the promised
First: Bob’s Red Mill whole grain buckwheat mix. Second: My kind and obliging husband a-Sunday-mornin’-kitchening. Third: Boysenberry syrup and just the lightest film of butter. Fourth (end result): Pure and simple gastronomic contentment.
So the batter and the flapjacks were . . . well . . . a little gray in hue. And they were, shall we say, a bit stout in form and substance. But they made it happen. Four of them, a mug of coffee, and hours later I remain sated. The perfect weekend winter breakfast every so often. (Too frequently and they lose their charm . . . and tend to tighten the trousers in the middle region.)
. . . or a wee bit of it. Yesterday we hopped into the car and travelled mountain-ward and upward to Yosemite National Park, where the snow on the ground was scant, the temperatures were autumnal, and the giant cliffs of granite held their timeless poses.
There’s nothing quite like depositing your ant-like self into the midst of a glacier-carved valley, surrounded by massive stone edifices and flavored with an astounding and stunning array of flora and fauna, to recalibrate your place in the natural world and the overall scheme of existence.
Rocks and dirt and sky and snow. Amen.
It’s raining today, supposed to rain all week. Another good day for wool socks, hot chocolate, and carefully selected background music.
I’m currently stuck in a seemingly endless Mark Knopfler loop (specifically, Kill to Get Crimson, and Get Lucky), and no complaints here. In our house, he is, possibly–one of, if not THE–greatest contemporary singer/songwriters alive. It all started in 1977 when I bought Dire Straits’ Sultans of Swing album. I remember having listened to it several times, then one evening playing it on the stereo in the living room while being occupied in another part of the house, but hearing it from a distance. It seeped into my consciousness on a different and deeper level, until at some point I walked back into the living room and stood listening, and it struck me: “Damn, this is a great album,” and seconds later, “Who is this Mark Knopfler guy, anyhow?”
The band went on to huge success, and Knopfler also took on “side jobs,” as it were, writing scores for movies, and collaborating/playing with other musical legends. Eventually, Dire Straits disbanded (unintentional pun), and Knopfler went on to a solo career marked by brilliant, well-crafted songwriting that has become the musical backdrop for my adult life. A lofty and opinionated assessment? Absolutely. If you’ve never heard the guy before, will you go ga-ga over him as I have? Probably not. But if you’re game, give him a listen. He grows on you. (See blogroll for links.)
(And he helps me paint, which I did, and will do more of, today.)
Speaking of painting, it has been a struggle for me lately. Today I surrendered to my brushes and paint, started out with yet another of my hallmark weird and wavy oceans, and later discovered that my spiny, scaly, powerful, other-worldly (and today, aqueous) bitch-goddess needed to emerge from the depths. Mind you, she’s also a goofball, which endears her to me. I expect even the manifestations of my darker self to have a sense of humor and/or klutziness. Of course, the bitch-goddess is unpredictable, and has been known to slap me around a little when she thinks I’m not giving her proper obeisance . . .