“No one ever told me that grief feels so like fear.”
– C.S. Lewis
This was a tough week. One that came on the heels of many tough weeks before it. I could write about tragedies the world over and crazy politicians in our backyard, but I won’t. If you really want my political and pop culture thoughts, you can always find them on the PMF Show and Twitter. I dipped my toe back into the news and social media pool this week, but just my toe and didn’t have much of a desire to go any further than that. I realized somewhere along the way that the most valuable thing my farm has to offer me is refuge and I’ve just been sinking into it and letting it do its job.
The sun is back out today after a dreary, drizzly end-of-winter storm mid-week. It’s a welcome sight. Aside from the sun, here are a few things bringing me joy this week. Hope they brighten your day too:
Watch: Last week Wednesday the first of two eggs belonging to a pair of D.C. resident Bald Eagles appropriately named “Mr. President” and “The First Lady” pipped on the DC Eagle Cam. By midday Friday one fluffy little eaglet had emerged. Friday afternoon the new family enjoyed a dinner of fresh fish, nest side, and we loved watching Mom and Pop trade off eaglet duties and hunting and scavenging time. Over the weekend the second eaglet hatched and it has since become part of our morning routine to check the cam.
Read: I was tricked into picking up “At The Edge of the Orchard” by Tracy Chevalier last week at the book store. It was on a mixed shelf of both fiction and non-fiction books and I didn’t notice the “A Novel” part at first. I can count the number of fiction works I have read (without them being assigned) since Middle School on one hand. It’s not that I don’t like fiction, it’s just that when there is so much to read about the real world I feel like novels are a waste of time. That said, I was only a few pages into this one when I realized I’d be making an exception to my own rule to read it. I’m about halfway through now and don’t regret my decision. The early to mid-1800’s Goodenough family may even be softening me to fiction in general. We’ll see.
Eat: Recently I was reading a blog wherein the author wrote that for dinner they were having, “Soupe au Pistou with Herbed Yogurt Butter and Homemade Rustic Rolls.” And at this I thought two things: 1) Yum! And 2) Soupe au Pistou is such a fancy-sounding name for what amounts to a simple vegetable soup. It’s not the French’s fault. Translated, the name couldn’t be more succinct — Pistou Soup or Soup with Pistou or even simpler yet, Soup with Pesto; Pistou being the usually-pine-nut-free French version of the Italian classic — but that’s the thing, isn’t it? That we Americans would prefer not to translate the names of our dishes; would rather not admit that we are not above peasant food, and that, indeed, peasant food is damn good? But sometimes I wonder if this is one of the reasons so few among us cook anymore. Are we running our brethren and sisthren out of the kitchen with fanciful — and thereby intimidating — names? I hope not, but have my suspicions.
we’re all bruised and beaten
lost on account of many reasons
but only love would make you understand