I am the Audience

Cake!

January 15, 2022

a day in this life, family, food & drink

We had a party, ages ago, and I wanted to make carrot cake. But, I decided that slices of cake was awkward because it can be hard to slice that very thin. With everything else on the table, I didn’t expect people to want large pieces.

So, I decided on miniature cupcakes. They would be a couple of bites and folks could have as little or as much suited them. In addition, rather than frost all of them, I put the frosting in a bowl so that people could have as little or as much as they preferred. (My child doesn’t care for frosting and would always pick it off. That made me think there might be other people in the world who felt the same way.).

At the end of the night, most of the cupcakes were gone and the bowl of frosting was almost untouched. My family didn’t bother finishing what was left either.

I have quit bothering to make layered cakes. Instead I make cupcakes and freeze most of them. This allows us to have more manageable portion control. A cupcake thaws pretty quickly and we don’t feel that we have to eat a whole cake in a week.

Also, I’ve quit frosting the carrot cupcakes and finally realized that, without the frosting, they are, indeed, muffins.
Saskatchewan screamer

January 14, 2022

a day in this life, Southern culture

People new to the South watch us get ready for a snow storm and laugh at us. That’s because they haven’t lived through it, yet.

The problem isn’t the snow. It’s the ice that happens as the snow thaws during the day and freezes after the sun goes down. Particularly in shady areas. Major roads get salted and plowed. But, the secondary roads don’t. It’s not worth the expense to keep a huge fleet of snow plows ready when we may not even get snow in a given year. Or just get it for a couple of days.

So, we hunker down and, for the most part, enjoy the mini vacations that are snow days.

If ice takes out power lines, people with fireplaces use them. They break out the candles and camping gear. People without fireplaces get out all the blankets and wear coats and gloves inside. And go stay with family and friends who do.

And, for some reason, a lot of people make what my husband calls a French Toast Run. I’m not sure why so many people decide that now is the time to buy extra eggs, milk and bread. But, those things get bought up quicker than anything else at the grocery. The eggs, at least, still need cooking. I don’t ever notice a surfeit of deviled eggs after a snow storm as unneeded boiled eggs get used up.

My employer gets hotel rooms for workers who live an inconvenient distance from our workplace. And, because I work for the major employer in my area, the roads from the interstate to my building with get plowed quickly. They contract with someone to do the parking lots quickly and probably more than once, too.

So, I’m packing for a couple of nights in a hotel after work tomorrow.

I’m expecting it to start snowing tomorrow night and turn into a “heavy wintry mix” that will make driving hazardous. With ice on secondary roads all day Sunday. They’ve already started salting the main roads. Since it’s not precipitating yet, that should be effective. There may only be 2-4 inches of snow. But, the ice part is still the problem.

The last time they put me up, my car got stuck behind a hill of ice that the snowplow left behind. It took me a cold hour to stomp and kick my way out of that. Now, I have a folding snow shovel in my car. And a long handled, heavy duty scraper with a brush to clear everything off the car before I try to drive. It’s rude to let snow blow back on other drivers if you can help it.

There’s a neighbor at the far end of my road who plows for us. But, the 3 miles between me and the interstate are sketchy. Lots of shade and it doesn’t usually get salted. I expect I’ll be able to get home by midday on Monday, being very careful on the last leg.
Haw River hilarity

January 3, 2022

a day in this life, Laughing

It makes me chuckle every time I pass it on my way to work.

It’s kind of blurry because I grabbed the shot with my phone on one of the rare occasions I have actually been stopped by that traffic light.
How Dark the Beginning

December 23, 2021

poetry and songs

BY MAGGIE SMITH (no, not that one)

All we ever talk of is light—
let there be light, there was light then,
good light—but what I consider
dawn is darker than all that.
So many hours between the day
receding and what we recognize
as morning, the sun cresting
like a wave that won’t break
over us—as if light were protective,
as if no hearts were flayed,
no bodies broken on a day
like today. In any film,
the sunrise tells us everything
will be all right. Danger wouldn’t
dare show up now, dragging
its shadow across the screen.
We talk so much of light, please
let me speak on behalf
of the good dark. Let us
talk more of how dark
the beginning of a day is.
Sometimes a Wild God

December 21, 2021

dancing in the field of dreams, poetry and songs

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.
Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.

~ Tom Hirons – writer and storyteller
https://tomhirons.com/

Cake!

Saskatchewan screamer

Haw River hilarity

How Dark the Beginning

Sometimes a Wild God