Miss Peach And Her Peaches

miss peach and her peaches

The peach tree was laden down with the softest, peachiest peaches you can imagine. Although a small tree, she took the burden of the bountiful crop. It was a Sunday, a good day for making pies. Miss Peach, took her wooden bowl and filled it up with the sweet, downy fruit. It was a better idea than reading. After all, she's only six. And reading is far too serious for a summer day with school already just around the corner. Master Peach agreed.

 For one's first pie, success is important. So, grandmother Peach decided to give a go as a crumble. When one doesn't eat certain things, other things will have to do. A crumble of almond meal, butter and cinnamon will give it a Spanish flair!

  

 Master Peach thought it much more interesting to throw rocks in the pond. 

 

Getting ones hands in the crumble and spreading it around is a fine mess. 

 

Ms. Peach's finished product ready for the oven. 

Voila!!

The Country Girls' Approach to Saving Small Lives

Caroline and I are both Colorado country girls.

She lives in the mountains at 8,000 ft with a magnificent view of the Continental Divide and I live in the countryside at 5280 ft next to a creek that spills into two ponds.

She is a vegan Kundalini yogini and I am not. I eat everything that's good, all over the world, and bend my left elbow more than any other body part. Yet,  I am as interested in saving the world as she is and believe that all sentient beings deserve kindness including the most minute. It is said that even fleas and spiders experience fear and have a desire for happiness, just like the rest of us, so why not follow that creed when it comes to the small creatures that scare us?

Women have historically been afraid of mice. They bring a shrill like no other creature, other than perhaps a snake. Mice are harmless and they don't even bite, but they scurry in such a way that unnerves, darting here and there as if they were about to be baked in a pie.

They are curious creatures and like to flatten themselves and squeeze into tight spaces. They can sniff out the slightest crumb that one has left in a bag, or a suitcase, nibbling their way through expensive leather and make beds out of your favorite heirloom garments. They can pop up anywhere, out of an old hat or that worn-out basket left behind. It's safe to say, they are clever, clever creatures. And social.

I can be sitting at the kitchen table at night, and see one out of the corner of my eye have the audacity to come from some crack under the sink straight at me. Now of course, it's not me he/she wants, but the six course crumb meal I have prepared for them unknowingly under my feet. After a while, I think they pick up on the fact that we country girls perhaps are as harmless as they country mice.

What to do? For soft-hearted women, a mouse trap just won't do. It's excruciating to think of the brutal whack and then the mutilated body. One must resort to live traps. A bit of peanut butter goes in the end, the mouse follows, the little trap shuts and the rest is history. But it doesn't come without a story.

Caroline comes by for an impromptu dinner. We have a nice chat down by the creek while there is still light. We talk about the differences in living by mountains as opposed to water. We appreciate the pink clouds and the rushing stream, then head back to the house for a bite to eat. As I am preparing the meal, I keep hearing this clacking noise.

I said, "It's the mouse trap!"
She said, "go get a bucket with a lid!"
I said, "I don't have a bucket with a lid!"
"Well how do you suppose you were to keep it alive?"
I said, " You just take it like this, drive down the road and let it out."
Caroline says, "No you have to have a bucket with a lid that you poke holes into. Then you put a paper towel in there and some sunflower seeds."
"You have to be kidding me, " I said,  "I have no such thing."

I find a bucket but it has no lid. Luckily, I rummage around quickly and find a container—with a lid—and poke some holes into it, but it's small. There is nothing like the anxiety of thinking you are going to release the trap into a small space with a flimsy cover knowing that the mouse is going to bolt most likely down ones dress or around ones feet. The very thought of it sends a shrill and a dance in one spot! The very thought! "Not in the house! Please! Take it outside!" I prepared the container with slivered almonds and a paper towel. 

Valiantly, this lovely sweet lady, fearlessly and calmly releases the mouse into the container. He did not jump down her dress or escape. Even though there was a slight squeal from her lips, the lid went on fast and secure. We left our captive to brood out of doors and settle into his new temporary home. At least it was clear plastic and he could see out.

After some relief and altruistic success, we came in to have our supper. The night came on, we laughed and talked and then the time came to leave.

"Please don't make me take the mouse."
"What?" I said, "You have to take the mouse! He has to be driven 5 miles away and you are driving 5 miles away! Otherwise, you know they find their way back!"
She said. "I know, you're right. I must follow through. Get the flashlight. We have to see if he's still alive. "
"I don't have a flashlight."
"What if you have a burglar?"
"What am I going to say?? Go away! I have a flashlight!!??"

I found one curiously on my phone, and we ventured into the night to find our captive.  I was worried that perhaps I had not put enough holes in the top. Was he breathing? I shined the light. He barely moved. Oh, I thought. Not enough air. Then we picked up the container to put in the car and he looked at us sleepily. He had made a cozy bed in the paper towel just like Caroline had said. His nuts were gone and he looked at us.. shall I say... affectionately?

It was enough to want to keep him as a pet.

Goodnight Caroline! Goodnight mouse! Drive safely up the mountain!

Not only a life saved...but transformed. I hope he likes the mountains as well as the creek. I wouldn't be surprised if he follows Caroline home. She's so brave. It made me think about bravery. Bravery comes when your commitment to do the right thing is stronger than your fear. Sat Nam Karuna.

Living Between Curious Worlds

The creek is high, rushing and coffee colored. Surrounding trees are full and green, happy with a full drink of water from yesterday's rain. The Flatirons sit pretty in the distance looking down on the plains with barely a glow of early morning light coming from a vast, cloudy, yet blue Colorado sky. Birds and hidden animals take delight in the moist air and cool temperatures, and so do I.

Left hand creek after a storm. The Queendom. Longmont, Colorado. 

Rain has washed over recently burnt hills bringing with it a mix of tree ash and eroded earth down valley carrying it to who knows where. This is how the great west was formed. The Grand Canyon, the Great Sand Dunes, magnificent earth sculptures moved around, carved and pushed up against fourteen thousand foot peaks from primordial wind storms, ice, great rushing rivers and forest fires started by lightning strikes. Not far away,  parched areas of land, a veritable tinder box stretching for thousands of acres, has burned out of control for a few weeks covering 136 square miles, stripping everything in its path. Precious Rocky Mountain high air quality; poor.

But this morning, the wisdom of nature has righted itself. I sit appreciating this as I listen to the roar of the creek and all that is beautiful about Colorado and the great western United States.  It makes leaving the bosom of Italy, the quaintness of Europe, a more civilized way of living life, easier.

The center of the Universe. Cibreo Caffe'. Florence, Italy.

Just days after leaving the taste of fresh figs and just-made ricotta, my mind and palate linger in the memory of daily walks to the market. Seasonal fruit bursts with color and true taste. My basket is full of deliciousness; hearty bread, flavorful proscuitto, mozzerella di buffala, sweet pomodorini, pungent green extra-virgin olive oil, mineral rich Sicilian salt and bright yellow zucchini blossoms to stuff. I dream of the swirls of spicy oil that I will anoint a dish of fresh tomatoes and basil and ponder what crisp white wine will be good to serve at sunset. Will I choose Falanghina or Fiano to delight my guests as we hug the Amalfi coast offering up a taste of place as the wind blows?

Fresh figs and ricotta. Casa Parlascio. Florence, Italy.

Sitting just a few short days ago in my fourth floor apartment that looks at the back of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, I marveled at it's perfectly cut stones, large Renaissance windows and tall handsome tower. Swallows dance at dusk and the light pours in softly on my cheerful tablecloth. The Japanese tea pot sits empty, having poured it's last cup of tea into a grey-glazed handmade cup that fits a bit 'wabi sabi' into my hand. These are images that soothe my soul. The paintings on the wall speak. The textiles tell stories of where they came from and I feel shy that I love these inanimate things. I know I will miss them, the stone Buddha, my nest in the sky, how it holds as a place of rest and creativity for me, my friends and family.

Casa Parlascio. Florence, Italy.

Casa Parlascio. Florence, Italy. Photo Graham Markel

This home is a refuge. A place where I live half of my life, a pied a terre, to go from here to there for my culinary programs in that part of the world. I look forward to the wood-fired ovens of Tuscany. To sailing the Med, on her cobalt and aqua marine seas basking in Neapolitan goodness and island splendor. To Sicily, for mandarins, almonds, antiquity and wildness. To Morocco and the Atlas mountains for the Berber way of life and Marrakech for exotic, playful, artistic feasts.

Camel Safari with friends. Sidi Kaouki, Morocco. Photo Ashley Mulligan

And then, within a day, I take a big leap back home to the other half of my life, to purple mountain's majesty and amber waves of grain. I have family, grown children, gorgeous blonde curly headed grandchildren, a nurturing, patient boyfriend, and wonderful friends who speak the same language. I have biography here. Years of living, drama, loss, happiness, life lessons, study, and love. I come back to a country that is built on liberty and justice for all (yet spends billions in an election year rather than on what matters). The good ole U S of A.

Crestone, Colorado

Home on the range close to my house. Boulder, Colorado.

I imagine the tension, anxiousness and possible peacefulness of what it would be like to slow down to the point of staying in one place. I know that a life spent roaming around and around and around is stimulating and meaningful, but it's also addictive. I wonder sometimes how long I will keep it up as if, then what? What does it mean to stop? I can hardly imagine what old age will be like.Will I be a wise old woman who likes to tell stories. Will I take up knitting or writing. Will life become static and boring? Life is not static anyway, anywhere, as long as we are alive and engaging our minds.
 So the question remains open.

Ventotene. Italy.

It's a privilege to travel. It is my work and has become what shapes my life. Back in the Queendom of Colorado, at the home of a good friend, I find the part of me that loves high altitude living. Recently the temperatures were extreme. High and dry, the mountain air sucks every bit of moisture from your face, the ground, the creeks, even snakes climb trees looking for shade. Then it breaks into it's opposite. Flash floods. Cool. Cloudy days that bring relief. My mind turns towards shopping for food at the market and what one eats in this climate and I become nostalgic for Italy, Morocco and India. Cultures who's lives revolve around family and real food put more attention on growing good food. I love the traditional dishes that speak of locality, identity, age old wisdom of how to eat in a certain season, what spices to temper in which oil, what flavors naturally go well together. I ask myself, how will I relate to every day life in the Rockies as opposed to Rajasthan, or Sidi Kaouki, Vallelunga or Ventotene?

Tagine. Jnane Tamsna. Marrakech. Photo Ashley Mulligan

 Luckily, the fresh corn will be plentiful and the apricots and peaches native. I will have to use my senses and experience to eek out the best of what grows naturally here and prepare it in ways that I have learned to make sitting down for meal an exquisite part of the day. I am beyond grateful that I have known and been exposed to some of the more brilliant slices of the world.

There is no doubt that I experience groundlessness, a lack of settling in, moving from place to place. But in each place I find home. Home is within my perception, my experience of taking in whatever the moment is offering. The most important quality for traveling is curiosity. It implies an open mind. Patience is a close second and tolerance makes it the holy trinity.

It takes a few days to transition and in these times of change, I see myself and the world more clearly and appreciate the differences and similarities, the white tailed deer scampering across the field, the broken windshield wipers, the small irritations that have no gender or place, the opportunity to have choice and be free, the smile of an old friend, the heron on the pond, an inexpensive long talk with my sister, a peaceful place to lay my head, a beautiful landscape. It's an opportunity, right? To see through what we usually don't see when our minds are preoccupied and the landscape is only a backdrop. Getting big enough to include it all and be patient with myself in the transition process is key. And it makes life curiouser and curiouser.

photo by Ginny Jordan here at the Queendom

Photos by me, unless otherwise specified.

Cool Cucumber Summer Soup from The House of Dreams

I live in the House of Dreams, "La Maison des Reves", right here in Boulder, Colorado.
It rivals any French garden. Although it has been a temporary home, my desk overlooks a rushing creek that flows into a pond, where geese fly in and out and the occasional wild bobcat or bear tend to visit upon occasion. The land that slopes down to the pond is dotted with black eyed Susan's, lavender, dahlia, wild roses and herbs that make for a pleasant summer mood.

I heard the cicada's sing in the tall cottonwood trees, midday today. For them the conditions were delightful. It was a sign. There are cucumbers in the garden, as well as scallion and dill, perfect for a cool summer evening soup. It would be refreshing and fit the sunset hour. I thought, if it's hot enough for them to sing, it's hot enough for us to eat cool cucumber soup.

Soon the weather will change. Soon I will be heading back to Italy. Soon I will be leaving the House of Dreams.

COOL CUCUMBER SOUP A LA MAISON DES REVES

5 cucumbers
1/2 cup chopped parsley
6 scallions, chopped
2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1 quart coconut milk
1 pint goat yogurt
Salt and freshly ground pepper


 Peel cucumbers and cut them in half, scraping out seeds. Sprinkle the cucumbers with salt and let them stand 30 minutes. Drain excess water.

Chop the cucumbers coarsely and put the pieces in the blender along with scallions, dill, lemon juice, coconut milk, and yogurt. Blend at high speed.

Season with salt and pepper to taste. Chill well before serving.



(Substitute milk or yogurt as you prefer).

Fishing in the Black Canyon, a video by Graham Markel

Be Still My Beeting Heart

In Venice on the vaporetto, I passed this boat with the name of Citta di Chioggia'. Chioggia is a mini-Venice located on a small island at the southern entrance to the lagoon, which I passed coming in from Croatia, amazed how long the lagoon stretched before we actually arrived close to the center. A water world of canals and boats, Chioggia is also known for its unique beet.



Red and round on the outside doesn't mean you can judge a beet by it's color. Upon slicing it, one's eyes marvel at the red and white spirals, not unlike that of a pinwheel that's gotten going. It gives a touch of carnivale to any dish. I like to cut them top to bottom sometimes, so they look like the painting of a flaming heart in the Sacred Heart of Jesus by Jose Maria Ibarraran y Ponce, 1896, that you find in prayer nooks along pathways in Spain, lit with a candle.

I found it puzzling that something as earthy as a beet could have come from a place that seems to be all water and concrete. "There must be earth here somewhere," I thought. If I hadn't been recently invited into a home with a small garden, I would have remained skeptical. Chioggia is also known for radicchio and other sea-faring gastronomic pleasures, like deep-fried baby soft-shell crabs.

Outrageously delicious and entertaining, I quite like to eat these bull's eye beets alone. I'm not one to fuss all of the time, especially when jet-lagged.

Just a day after arriving home, I popped into the Boulder Farmer's Saturday market and bought a few things, including carrots and beets from my friend Pete of Oxford Gardens. When I got home and cut into the marvelously heart-shaped beet, it spoke to me. Talk about alluring. It drew me in like the snake's eyes in the Jungle Book that hypnotizes with the song..."trust in me"...only my beets sang in Italian. Too tired to give it a party, I threw it into the pot with a few of O.G.'s carrots.



I wanted only to drizzle them with olive oil and salt, eat them quietly and go to bed. Which is what I did.

If you would like to cook some beets of your own, go see Pete at Oxford Gardens. If you would like to have them cooked for you, go see Dakota at Café Aion, his new restaurant on the hill . He roasts them and crumbles goat cheese on top with a few pumpkin seeds, if I remember correctly. A drizzle of e.v. olive oil is mandatory.

I think the next time I'm in Venice, I will prepare a bowl of beets to take on a gondola ride. The stripes will match the shirts of the gondolier. I'll appreciate the singing of both.