The Chase

                              You perch on the porch

                              edge, you precocious, brazen

                              bronze-brown nut-gatherer—

                              raising your inquisitive nose,

                              whiskers atremble with a smell

                             Whiskers quiver, the head turns

                             great green eyes of

                             interest upon you—fluffy nutkin—

                             padded feet and a twitching

                             tail tell of an energy reserve

                            Ready to spring as you back

                            away from the boards—

                            no longer bored, vigilant,

                            the queen of grey tigers

                            shifts stealthily, all attentive

                            At one swift tail-flick and 

                            a bound you are roof-bound,

                            her Grace rolls over in 

                            the golden afternoon sunlight

                            to dream of the chase

Well Donne

Once, I was in a sea of persons at the airport and I heard chime over the loudspeaker, "Paging John Donne. Please come to ___ airlines service desk." I laughed. Probably it was John Dunn, a common enough name. But sometimes I have wondered if that announcer was more interested in literature than in paging people. Perhaps he was playing a hilarious joke that only he, and a very few other literary travellers, could smile about to themselves.

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

~ John Donne

The Wonder of Wednesdays

Chirp, chirp! My alarm roused me at 6.00 am. I wanted to roll over and pull the covers closer. I could not, however. On a whim, before bed last night, I asked my friend to call me when she rose this morning at 6.15. I sat up and attempted to rid myself of the gravel lodged in my throat. After a brief call with Lyndi, I pushed myself out of bed. I was at the office to clean and mail things by 7.00 am. I was done by 8.30 am... This meant I had a whole Wednesday to invest as I pleased.

So, I worked on a letter, walked around town in jeans and a tank top (yes, it was in the 60s here today), talked with my parents, did some reading, and then spent the evening endeavouring to be industrious. Which is code for, 'making jam.' I made strawberry jam, and orange marmalade -- whilst watching three episodes of Larkrise to Candleford.

Unless you have extreme amounts of patience (or something that slices orange peels very fine in less time), marmalade should not be undertaken glibly. However, in the event that you have copious amounts of oranges -- and as much patience and determination -- you can find a great recipe here: Orange Marmalade. I converted everything to 'Merican' measurements, then decreased the water a bit and the sugar by a decent bit (it still sets, it's a bit more like jam than a hard marmalade).

And now I have a sink half full of dishes to wash before I can bury myself under my cosy covers...  Again. Wednesdays are rather wonderful, I do declare. :)

 

* I made 2-1/2 jars of marmalade with about 5 or 6 oranges... I used two giant oranges the last time, which made one pint. It reduces a good bit and takes a lot of work, but it is delicious! *

~ J