Assortment

Tracing the Lines

I held the pencil tightly, pressing the dull lead hard, trying my very best, with all my tensed up muscles and my furrowed brow, to keep the wayward and wiggly pencil steady, trying to carefully follow the dashed-line ‘trails’ that made up these alphabet letters and words that were spaced evenly across the page. I was a little girl and my mama was teaching me. She could write dashed-line letters faster than I could blink. And she could write just what you wanted her to, so then you could write just what you wanted to, too.

I learned by following a trail, by tracing a line drawn by an experienced one. Over time, the motion, the proportion, the form of each letter was etched permanently into my mind, and what was at first a challenging thing, became effortless, without a single thought necessary.

 

Yesterday, I held the pen steadily, trying my very best in a loose, sketchy sort of way, to emulate the curves and lines that made up an architectural rendering drawn by none other than the fabulously talented Bobbie McAlpine of McAlpine Tankersley, one of the leading architects of our time. He can draw precisely what he wants to say through these architectural concept and rendering sketches, and if I follow, then I can, too.  He is a master. And I am a student, tracing the lines.

Like a young musician, with her violin tucked beneath her chin, and her bow poised on the strings, tracing Mozart across the page. It’s not all perfect and it’s not all pretty. Oh, no.

But it will come. In time. If you’ve found a good one to follow.

 

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What We Can

Because one crateful wasn’t nearly enough, we went to pick more. Or rather, pick up  more, as the apples seem to mostly be lying on the ground now. Climbing the tree, shaking it, and raining down even more apples on everyone underneath could be the best entertainment yet, if you were to ask some boys I know. And, in the space of about an hour, including the going and coming, we had two large tubs and a basketful.

Now, that’s more like it.

This. This is just part of the autumn turn of time. This time of gathering and battening; of sealing up and stocking up. Sometimes it’s a solo job, other times it’s a group effort, and at other times yet, it’s a tag-team strategy, getting the outside things done that we can before the winter storm rolls in (snow, they’re saying, for the next three days!). Like yesterday, him, sanding and prepping the outside of the new old door, and me, varnishing and sealing it while he and the oldest boy run out for the afternoon to (hopefully) harvest some natural, wild meat for the larder. Tag-teaming like that. Doing what we can.

 

And speaking of the larder, that little old shed on the property that we have plans for; plans to double-insulate it, and electrify it, and paint the floor of it (does anyone else love the idea of gray porch paint as much as I?), and build shelves and bins, and have it ready to hold our store of food? Yes, that larder (like an above-ground cellar, we’re hoping). It’s also on the list for completion.

 

We realize that the day that it’s finished may be down the road a bit, but, since a start is the first step toward the finish, we plan to do what we can. We can paint the floor (the gallons are sitting right here), and we can build the doors (picture it – double doors + and old shed = love), and we can electrify it, and we can move the deep freeze in.

And when we’ve done all those things? We may just realize that we’re more than halfway there.

 

Good morning, friends! Wishing you the ability to do what you can this week, and nothing more.

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When There Are Apples

They’ve been bubbling in the crock pot all night. Those apples have relaxed themselves into a pudding-like sauce, stirred around with a stout raking of cinnamon and a good crush of clove, round and round with the sweetness of sugar. Slow bubbles simmering hot, steaming lazily to the top and escaping in random little splattery pops. For hours, this cooking down and reducing by half, for hours the moisture being drawn off one puff at a time, taking hours to reach that thicker, darker, richer, apple buttery state.*

 

This is what happens when a crateful of apples is plunked at your door.  When, for a space of days, apples take over your kitchen, your menu, and your life. When you have silly boys and simple machines cranking out edible corkscrews and endless ribbons of speckled red peel.  And the giant pot of water is steaming hot, and quaint canning jars are lined up by columns and rows, and rings are jangling and lids are popping, and the floor’s sticky and you look over and see that the puppy is eating an apple, too.

This is fall. 

 

* Updated to add: My apologies for not including a recipe in this post! I'm pretty sure that what I do is not written-recipe ready, as I seem to make it slightly different every time. But, for those of you who are interested, this link most closely explains the process I follow to arrive at home-canned apple butter!

Wishing you the loveliest of fall weekends, friends. Apple-y, spicy, and sticky, or otherwise!

 

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