I'm roaming, folks. It's the nature of my job and sometimes what I do. Let's talk about it today, because from the sound of it some of us are getting frustrated and downright mean.
This job found me. Really. I never thought I'd be doing this sort of work. I'd wanted to be the next old-school reporter/anchor... you know, the Walter or Peter or Dan who braved the front lines and retired, all crusty and bitter, to a news desk somewhere. My plans changed for me one Tuesday in 2004; I was packed up and moved to a little town in east Texas, where my mother's sister lived, by Friday. I didn't work... at all... for a few months. Then I got a call explaining this oil and gas job and asking, would I be interested? I was, and I'm glad.
This business is tricky at times and competitive at all times. The days are long and demanding and I do a lot of driving and stressing. My cell phone roams constantly and doesn't work a lot out here -perhaps you can see why- and I go without internet for days at a time sometimes. It's not that I'm avoiding calls or skipping out on my blogging friends. It's just that on the road I'm more likely to miss messages, not get voice mails, or not have an internet network. And as my dear, sweet friend Sondra says, the church won't take up love offerings to pay a single woman's way. So here I am.
These jobs last anywhere from a few weeks to a few years, depending on how much oil and gas they happen upon. I was told yesterday that this will, in fact, be a quick project. I suspected as much going in, and was glad to hear it. But I like to work these projects and I like the distance and privacy these jobs afford to write, when I can, and work on the book. And sight see. Although that doesn't take long up here.
Short of going into a full on, Alica Paulson-esque Why I Blog, I wanted to say that I adore blogging for many reasons, and delight in the opportunity we all have to meet here and say what we like, when we like. I get to my blog when I can with what I can, but certainly assume no further obligation or indebtedness to this forum than that. Blogs are meant to be enjoyable. To tickle us and educate us and inspire us. Blogs are not supposed to morph... nor must they be allowed to... into another job. Lord knows we have enough of that already. Well, here... Alicia said it best: All of us want, I think, to be able to respond to everyone's comments and questions, to check-in on our friends, to give help and advice when its needed. But the reality is that there is only so much time in a day — especially at this time of year — and only so many . . . relationships . . . one can do well. The nagging feeling that certain things, people, and opportunities have fallen through the cracks can be frustrating but . . . inevitable? I made a promise to myself early on in blogging that I would give what I could, when I could, because the important thing was to find a way to keep doing it — happily, without it feeling like a burden or another bundle of expectations to be dealt with.
I know you understand. I know you do. And I know that you know that I know that magical ties do pin our hearts to home, and although we may roam, our footsteps will land us home again soon enough. After the oil dries up and the words stop flowing. After the adventure is over....
Thanks for hanging in.
As the sun yawns and begins droop, Sugar Plum and I will climb the wooden stairs to the church-turned-cottage's Tower of Christmas. There, amidst boxes and bows, we'll find twinkle lights and lolly pops and shiny, ribboned balls. Together we'll trudge down the stairs, climb high atop our candy cane ladder, and trim our lonely tree. And as darkness falls over the silver-blue quilted hills and gingerbread-smelling dales, the twinkling tree and shiny, ribboned ornaments will sweetly bear the sign: Christmas is coming! Christmas is coming!
Please pardon the unexcused absence. I've been out of sorts and sort of out the past few days following a grotesque accident with this. I'll spare you the details, seeing as how you've probably eaten recently or plan to soon. Let's just say that I'm missing some finger on my left hand and I'll never cut up carrots again. Ever.
I'm working on a quilt for someone very special. A Christmas gift, of sorts, made with more love and hope and excitement than I would have believed possible. 
Kind of like that perfume ad with Gweneth Paltrow and the puppy. I want the quilt to conjure up that. 
... it's time for mistletoe and holly, y'all!
Or... if you're a visitor at Freeman House... it's time for sugared cranberries dunked in fizzy, sparkly drinks or straddled atop steaming, frothy mugs. And how happy are we? How happy are we to swirl our sugared cranberry sticks and watch candles burn and snuggle close as the stars come out?
I should tell you: I'm a big proponent of sticking ordinary things on a stick, dusting them with sugar, and passing it off as tremendous creative kitchen effort. Like the weekends I make golden cubes of french toast, thread them on wooden skewers with whole strawberries and slices of banana, and dust it all with powdered sugar and serve over a pool of Blackburn's Syrup. Pretty things just taste better, don't they? Especially when they have their sugar coats on.
Anyway. After putting another 1300 miles on my Jeep, I'm back in snowman's land. And you should hear (and feel) the wind. I keep telling myself, as I button up my cranberry red coat and head outdoors, that I'm walking into a world of blowing, wet sugar flakes and will be as wonderful as a sugared cranberry stick in a world of champagne. But the truth is, I already miss Freeman House and her pretty delights and sweet moments.
But o by gosh, by golly: it's Christmas time no matter where we are! It's time for mistletoe and holly! And as the wind wails and whistles outside this cold, cold window, you can hear me, right? You can hear me as I whisper "Merry Christmas"... to you...?
Christmas is not a time nor a season,
but a state of mind.
-Calvin Coolidge
I love it when summer bounty becomes a holiday table rock star! My version of Nigella Lawson's Peaches goes beautifully over or alongside Christmas ham, and takes 10 minutes from start to supper:
Christmas Spiced Peaches
(These peaches are also great as leftovers with cold ham. Or, ladle remaining beauties - with the syrup - into pretty jars and tie with ribbon. They make great foodie hand-out gifts and will keep in the refrigerator for a few days.)
Hmm. Okay. Not a peach fan? Chew on this: an updated sweet potato recipe. I got my hands on a Weight Watchers stab at Sweet Potato Fries and made it faster and more holiday appropriate. Try my:
Thyme-Roasted Sweet Potatoes with Blue Cheese
6 sweet potatoes, scrubbed and cut into 1” cubes
4 T. olive oil
1 T. dried thyme
½ t. salt
½ t. black pepper
½ c. blue cheese, crumbled
Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Place sweet potatoes on lined baking sheet or rimmed stoneware. Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with spices. Toss lightly to coat. Roast in oven for 40-50 minutes, stirring halfway through, until soft, tender, and beginning to brown. Transfer to bowl and crumble blue cheese atop the potato pile. Serve warm.
These are a winner, but if you don't do blue cheese, try them anytime alongside Chipotle Ketchup. Simply add 1 t. ground chipotle to 3/4 c. good quality ketchup. Stir and refrigerate for 30 minutes to combine flavors. (This is my favorite low-fat snack. My favorite ever.)
Darn. I have my Apple and Sage Stuffing recipe sitting here, too, but must be off. We'll get to that later this week. In the meantime, check out Nigella's recipe for ham (glazed with Coca-Cola). There's a reason I read her cookbooks in bed, I'm telling you...
Happy cooking! (Or drooling. Or wrinkling your nose in disgust. Whatever it is you're doing!) -B
The table is set for tonight's dinner. I just pulled a Pumpkin Praline Pie from the oven, made just now from Jolene's recipe. Potatoes are bubbling and dressing is browning and biscuits are resting and cheese and fruit and wine are coming to temperature. It's cozy and, despite the renovation mess and third-finished dining room, it's quietly beautiful in here. Gosh. How did I get to be so blessed? At what point did God, in His everlovingkindness, decide to make such a happy creature and drop her, feet first, into this wonderful old place?
This is my first Thanksgiving with this table and these chairs. I found them at a roadside junk store in Lone Star, Texas, for less than $200. They seat eight comfortably, and I can't wait until they hold all the precious, hilarious people coming tonight. Friends are coming from 7 hours away and 7 houses down. I'm so ready to sit and eat and talk and laugh. Y'all hurry!
Home! Home after a wonderful Thanksgiving with family. How about yours? I hope it was wonderful and cozy and happy and all the things holidays should be.
Hot Drinks for Cold Nights? Sound perfect, thanks. Especially since, this very hour, it's *snowing*. Really. I'm about to settle down in the gathering room's chaise lounge for an evening of B&B talking and snow watching. Heap on more wood -The wind is chill; but let it whistle as it will, we'll keep our [holidays] merry still! 
Of course, for every face I see and neck I hug, there will be several I'll be missing. Like Sara's, my dearest childhood friend who just shipped me this book from far-flung Asia. She thought it would be a great addition to my ever-expanding, delightful cookbook collection. And Sara, you were right. Really right. (More right than that time we played When the Midnight Choo-Choo Leaves From Alabam'. More right than that time you told Misha Duke to fire me from the daycare because I was immature. :p) This book is cozy and creative between covers, is what it is. There's a recipe in Some Like It Hot for Gingerbread Men. And Hot Buttered Rum. And Mistletoe Mist (with sugared cranberries). And Sugarplum Punch. And Pumpkin Potion. And S'more Meltaways. (All hot, beautiful drinks, every one.) I adore this book, and it will be my winter drink concoction go-to until it's time to put away the sweaters and the electric blankets once again. Thank you, dear friend!
Wow! Can you believe the holidays are here? I leave you, reluctantly, with a shot of Some Like It Hot's Cookies 'n' Cream, the drink we've made to sip alongside the fire tonight. Well, that, and wishes for a warm and wonderful Thanksgiving, wherever it may find you and yours tonight.
Ah, the week of Thanksgiving. Time for giving thanks. Time for bowing our heads and rushing through prayers so we get to the gravy before it gets cold and the game before it goes off. Ah, Thanksgiving...
I've been thinking about it these past several days. Thanksgiving, that is. I've been thinking about the importance of giving thanks. The importance of giving, period.
The importance of giving...
Here's what I've re-decided: Christians should be the most generous people on earth. Really. We should. Christians... those who've accepted the grace of God through Jesus Christ, our Lord... should be the most hospitable, compassionate, and generous people in the world. We should be the biggest givers. The best tippers. We should be falling all over each other to be the first in line to donate. The first in line to volunteer. And we're... not. We're not.
It's tragic, I think. It's an indictment on our faith. It's a slap in God's face, I think, whenever waiters dread seeing the church crowd come in to eat. ( Why? Because we can be some of the most demanding eaters and worst tippers out there. Shame on us. Christians should be the friendliest and most generous.) And the Salvation Army bell ringers? They should be able to pick us out of the crowd. And the coat drive and Toys for Tots workers? They should be hopping up and down when our Jesus-fished cars pull alongside their trailers.
Why don't we give more? Have you ever thought about it? Here we are, you and me, the unworthy recipients of a heaven's load of grace, love, and sacrifice. The undeserving takers of security, provisions, and peace - not just for this life, but also for the next. Here we stand, under a gushing shower of blessings, yet we can't seem to pass it on. Not even a small part. We can't seem to cast our bread upon the waters. Heck, half the time we forget to give thanks for our bread.
Hey, I'm raising my hand here. I'll admit: I do a shoddy job of giving. I try, sometimes, to remember to give: to give thanks, to give time, to give money, to give prayers, to give love, to give a hand. And sometimes I do give. (But freely? No. Probably not.) And I try to remember those less fortunate than me. I remember them, and then order vanilla in my Diet Coke and an upgrade on my Netflix account.
We've forgotten, haven't we? In our busy, materialistic, instant-gratification society, we've allowed ourselves to be swept away by the ungrateful, I-deserve-everything-I've-worked-for, I really don't have that much anyway, current. And wow. If you slept underneath a roof last night, you're better off than 80% - 8 out of 10 - people in this world. Shame on us. We've forgotten how much we've received. We've forgotten to give.
I don't know about you, but this week I'm trying to put the "giving" back in Thanksgiving. Sure, giving thanks is vital, but giving itself... well, giving goes to the very heart of Christianity. Giving should be who we are, not what we do.
It's just a thought. Just a thought as the convictions tumble and rumble from my head to my heart, much like my clean, pretty clothes are tumbling and rumbling around in my fancy electric dryer in the next room....
Freely we have received. How much more freely, then, should we be giving during this time of Thanksgiving!
There's *snow* in the forecast for the next several days. Snow! Texas gals don't see much of the wet stuff, so a weather report containing any mention of the word snow is cause for considerable excitement. Of course, since I'm planning to abandon ship and return home to Freeman House for Thanksgiving... and a subsequent hot chocolate bar with tree trimming!... I'm snow nervous.
I'm planning the menu today for the Freeman House Thanksgiving Bash a week from Saturday. I sent several invitations, knowing that folks and friends are usually occupied with traveling and family and would not likely make it. Boy, was I wrong! I broke down and called the local meat man yesterday and ordered a bone-in ham that will feed 28 people. Something like that. I have another turkey breast on back, smoke-order, too. What fun! Freeman House alive once again with music and candles and food and friends. It warms my heart and makes me giddy. Can't wait.
Until then, I'm staying warm and cozy with heaping helpings of Chicken Tikka Masala, a recipe I got back when Alicia was jonesin' for Indian food. Wow. Good and good for you. (Recipe note: I make it with lime juice, having a strong aversion to anything lemon. But that's me. I'm sure it's cozy and delicious either way.)
Hmm. Love this time of year!
Wishing you all a tidy weekend of comfort and warm things. -Brin
Well, I did. And unfortunately for you all, I now carry my camera.
This life. I'm telling you. It's more fantastic than any dream....
I've kept a diary since I was 12, which was about the same time my Great Grandmother, Mary Tankursley, advised me to always use moisturizer and keep a diary. These two things, she said, you'll never regret.
So I did this: I bought a small but thick - blank and fresh - leather bound book. I bought a brown pen. And I made a point, several times a week, to open it and write... or even sketch... not what frustrated me, but what delighted me. Not what tore my soul apart, but what made my soul sing. Instead of detailing a bad day, I went back, back, back in my memories and thought of a good one. When I had a particularly horrible day, I made a list of the most wonderful days of my life. (I refer to that list still, whenever I have a bad day.) Poems, scriptures, quotes, jokes, fortune cookie predictions, paper clippings... they've all been pasted and penned inside. And slowly, over the last two years, this tiny book has filled with the sweetest moments, the loveliest memories, and the happiest thoughts and dreams and wishes a life can hold.I call it my Book of Days, and it's one of my favorite things.
Thanksgiving is a week away. A week away! As we count it down, I hope you're finding plenty of thoughts and thanks to fill a book, too. But life is funny in this way: it's all in how you see it. Guess the art of thanksgiving and a key to a lovely life is that way too: it's all in what you remember and where you set your thoughts. It's all in how we record our book of days...
It's cotton pickin' time in north Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas. The time of year - beginning in late October - when the harvesters descend upon the prairies and dusty cotton fields like grasshoppers did Egypt... scurrying and hopping everywhere... gobbling up everything in sight, leaving only tall sticks and spindly stumps behind.
It's another world up here. Up here in high cotton. Tufts of the bloomed, land-grown marvel blow across streets and make pillowy piles at curbs and gutters. A good strong wind is likely to hurry both tumbleweeds and wisps of cotton at you. They sail through the air here instead of leaves, striking you with the feeling that you're glassed inside dusty, cotton-balled snow globe. Strange feeling. Makes you want to wear calico skirts and dark, pointy-toed boots and be Mary Poppins, carrying a parasol to shield you from the wind, tumbleweeds, and cotton. Or at least float you above them.
Cotton really is magical. It's the strangest thing you've ever seen hanging from a plant. Or picked from a plant. I'm wondering if I can snag a cotton-producing wonder or two to take back with me to Freeman House. Don't know why, except I think it would be wonderful to look out my tall, tall windows and see both roses and cotton blowing in the wind.
Ah, okay. Maybe not. But it would still be interesting to grow cotton one year. If only to pretend you're a millennium Mary Poppins, bringing home-grown stuffed stuffies and spoonfuls of sugar to lonely, bored children.
I've been a terrible tour guide of late. Sorry. But I did want to take you out to show you the cotton. The high cotton.
It's a marvelous, strange place, that gives a strange, marvelous feeling. You'd know what I mean. If you were standing here alongside me this morning, watching it all sail by, you'd know what I mean.
Pink, pink, pink. Everything's coming up pink today: pink cheeks, pink nose, pink fingers, pink toes. Yipes! The overnight temperature keeps flirting with freezing, so I've taken unusual pleasure in peppermint hot chocolates, warm-from-the-dryer quilts, and the clackclackclack of knitting needles.
I'm making some progress on my Christmas gift To Make list. 'Course, it would go a lot faster if I wasn't trying to simultaneously knit gifts and write a few beginner knit patterns at the same time. I was reminded, back during Freeman House's Summer Knitting Classes, that there aren't many knit patterns out there for brand-spanking-new knitters. I mean, "how many needles is knitting, again?" knitters. And wow. There needs to be. There needs to be more I've-never-held-needles-before... spell. this. out. for. me beginning knitter projects that don't involve endless scarfs, you know? So I'm trying to .pdf a few projects for us... projects that are all done with two needles (not circular or double-pointed), that are all knitted flat (not in the round) and can all be completed using two stitches and two skeins of yarn. Like the pillowy-pink baby bonnet. Love it.
... Oh. Hang on...
...
... Okay, back. Heard my name called from the deep recesses of the B&B kitchen. Apparently tonight is the Dixie Dog followed by a late-night screening of the Bourne Identity. Pink toes and baby bonnets welcome.
clackclackclack
In the past ten months, my marriage ended, I got laid off, and my cat died. I've lost a love, a livelihood, and a friend. The future I thought I saw that moment, as my Mom adjusted my wedding veil and my face smushed up to cry, went crumbling through my fingers and I've stood as piece after piece of my heart has broken and blown away.
Still here, trying to spin straw into gold. We'll see.
I'm one of those people who has a hard time being in the moment. I struggle with seeing what's in front of me. I fail to be where I am. I miss summer wishing for fall. I blow a lovely night worrying about the next morning. I rush through lunch thinking about what's for supper. I spend this vacation dreaming about the next one. I mail November's electric payment already dreading December's.
How is this a devotional? Well, missing today for tomorrow happens in our spiritual walks, too. Every day. How many times have we missed small blessings looking for big ones? How often do we pass by people who need our help, all the while praying for purpose? How many times a day... a week... do we ignore the opportunities to serve that God's set before us, while self-righteously proclaiming that we're waiting on "God's will"?
Don't you just love, love, love Thanksgiving? Truly. And to help get us there, the Martha Stewart Living this month is excellent. Look at these candles! Don't they make you think of a beautiful lady in a long, calico-and-eyelet skirt, dipping candles and singing Sarah Brightman songs to her dog?
The rest of the year, it's pile and poke and pies. As in, pile in the filling, poke holes in the crust, and bake until done or until someone snatches it out of the oven and dives in. Just a few weeks ago I made the mother of all Texas Thanksgiving pies: sweet potato and pecan in one. Hoo boy. There were no words. None. Not one.
This picture was before I poured the frothy sugar pecan pie part on top and then added a braided crust and baked it. I would have an after picture, only a friend and her friend came by as the beauty was cooling and I didn't have time to grab the camera. Darn. Guess I'll have to make it again, huh?
But not today. Today I'm sitting in my still-appropriately-fall-decorated Kansas hotel room and planning an afternoon excursion to Dorothy's house - both the real Dorothy's house and the one they used to film the Wizard of Oz. I'll be fun and silly and see as much as I can while I'm here because Thanksgiving is just days away....
And I don't want to lose a moment. I want to find as much to be thankful for - magazines and Martha and pies aside - as this American girl possibly can...
