breakfast

A few details worthy of mention:

1. It has become a habit. A delicious habit. Oatmeal with almond milk, a drizzle of fresh local honey, strawberries and toasted walnuts. I ask you, is there anything more scrumptious and rich than a toasted walnut? The flavor truly transforms a dish. Try it. If you are loathe to fire up your oven for a few nuts, you probably need to get a toaster oven which is as magical and practical as a baby angora unicorn. Maybe even more practical!

2. USPS now has sheets of songbird stamps available for purchase. They are the loveliest little stamps I have seen in a while. If you are a letter writer residing in the USA you’ll need to purchase some, as soon as possible, and then use them up quick so you can buy more.

3. That fantastic green glass goblet is one of six Robert brought home from Georgia recently. He was home for a week between deployments and brought me my first two fire presents of the year! Fire seasons gifts are a holy and wonderful tradition he has kept for the past seven years of our life together, something I always look forward to and frankly, occasionally badger him about. He is good natured about my badgering and knows it’s not the actual gifts he finds for me that are important to me, but the fact that he thinks of me and misses me when we are apart. Presents are a manifestation of my constant presence in his heart, even when a fire season keeps us apart.

He always finds at least one present to bring me while he is off in the boonies battling flame, every single year. In years past, gifts have been wonderful and creative ranging from caribou antlers and fox skulls to surrealist art prints from an artist in Bend, Oregon to a warthog skull from Arkansas. I have never received a shirt or a piece of jewelry. Though I might, someday. Robert is a wonderful giver of gifts. A girl never can tell what she might receive — except for that caribou antler, I guessed that present correctly over the phone, across the thin air between Fairbanks, Alaska and Winthrop, Washington. Anyway, I love those pea green vintage goblets. Rob transported six of them, most miraculously, and they are a delight to sip from. He also brought home a heavenly host of crystals he found on the ground while hiking around and working in Hot Spring, Arkansas! Tremendous! Extraordinary!

4. I was in Oregon last week — more on that soon, I’m working up an essay on the topic — and found the most exquisite batch of stationary in Sisters. Travel here to see Angie Lewin’s work.

5. I am currently working in the studio like a true she-beast trying to build up some beautiful inventory for an art walk I am appearing at on May 2nd. It’s been so fun! The new work is so springy and fresh and I feel free and lighthearted out there as I tap away with my hammers. A light heart is a blessing. We all know this.

6. Fresh eggs! Finally! You know, I’m down to one hen here. I’m pretty sure she thinks she’s a dog. I’ve been faffing around with the idea of getting her a pal this spring but for two years now, I’ve wanted to switch over to a pair of laying ducks which are reportedly less destructive on garden spaces than hens. Do any of you keep laying ducks? If they are free range, how do they do with your garden spaces?

I’m off to perform my daily hour of morning yard work which involves, on some days, the delicious extraction of dandelions from my flower garden, herb garden and succulent garden. This time of year, it feels fierce and maybe even cathartic to yank up a dandy by its taproot. So satisfying. Dandies, be warned, in a couple of seconds I am coming for you and there will be no escape.

Be well, dear folks.

The meadowlarks are home again. Home to me and my wild spaces.

Most mornings, I wake up to a blend of meadowlark and robin song drifting in the open bedroom window.

It’s tremendously beautiful and I feel I’ve been literally bouncing out of bed with a merry heart for so many days in a row.

Up the mountain, when I am running and the sound of mountain water is flowing all around,

I see the birds building their homes in the slender twigs of the caraganas and I wonder

if they would be angry with me for stealing one of their perfect eggs. But how could a robin be truly angry?

We only ever seem to hear of the buffalo hunts, the easy tracking of mule deer through sagebrush, the arrows piercing elk hearts and silencing the bugle of a bulls forever,

but did the native people of North America collect eggs from the spring birds — claiming just one or two from a nearly full clutch

nestled so sweetly in a shallow home made of down, grass and horse mane?

Did they take those eggs home to their little deer skin tents and scramble them up for breakfast to eat with their bannock, hot from the fire?

I often wonder.

What about the pioneers, crossing the mountains and valleys of this continent, with their babies barefoot and wild, wrapped up in sun bleached gingham and freckles.

Did those westward leaning children seek out the robins nest in spring and appropriate an egg or two? Did they give them to their mother because they matched her eyes, and gentled her calloused hands for a moment?

Did their mother smile at the sight of that gracious, perfect sky blue and forget all fears and hardships?

And for that matter, what is more golden and delicious than a freshly laid egg from a happy hen? The smooth shell wrapping endlessly, as they tend to do. The softly pebbled surface,

as though ready for a mighty bonspiel. That easy motion of a wrist and carefully gripping finger tips tapping wall against Pyrex on the kitchen counter. The surprise as the shell gives, unhinges and splats its treasure. The whisk. The whisk!

The mopping and sopping of French bread and the sizzle of egg whites on a cast iron frying pan.

Oh egg.

You glorious little miracle, you.

Morning Mention-ings

Oh Egg