…Mother, mother
There’s too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There’s far too many of you dying
You know we’ve got to find a way
To bring some lovin’ here today
Marvin Gaye, “What’s Going On”
hanging laundry
Last summer, I loaded a heap of wet laundry into the dryer, shut the door, set the time and hit On. Nothing. Again. Nope. I checked the cords, electric cord, the propane level in the tank outside. …
coming unstuck
“Coming Unstuck” was the title of a Daily Om in my inbox back in early July. About how when we seem unable to make progress toward goals, a change of perspective to adapt to changing conditions can be key. Or, if this proves fruitless, you might “contemplate whether your lack of progress might be a sign from your mind or body that you are in dire need of rest and relaxation.” Yes, the latter. This was in the middle of a working holiday weekend. Independence Day….
redemption
I found myself watching the Masters this past Sunday. My mother loved to watch it. Though she had played golf only briefly when younger she loved to watch, and weekend afternoons some tournament often was on the television. The Masters was above all others though, maybe for a Canadian who grew up mesmerized by Gone with the Wind, maybe because of my father being from Georgia, and the azalea, and tall tall Southern trees, and the perfect greens, it was captivating to her as to so many even at a distance….
We’ll take a Manhattan, thanks
finding water
My maternal grandparents’ house in Halifax was full of secret nooks and magical spots. To a child seeking escape, they offered sweet refuge. Set on a hill overlooking the Northwest Arm, an inlet that bends off of Halifax Harbour, the house was, and still is, known as Winwick, a name etched in the glass of the red front door.…
sweet Nocci
The animals who share our lives offer us a world of clear emotion, of understanding beyond language, of being purely in the moment. Without artifice, without agendas, without asking anything of us, they weave through our hearts completely until we cannot imagine how our lives were before them. …
return of the peepers
The peepers returned, the week before Easter. Trouble sleeping led me to crash on the couch in the living room late one night, near the warmth of the wood stove, and maybe because of being ground level on the west side of the house, close to the pond where they live, it was then I heard them. Through closed windows: still the end of March after all.
As usual, I couldn’t believe they were already back, with piles of snow remaining. The pond where they live is not 100 yards from the house. With the foliage still off I see it glinting golden in the late afternoon sun– probably the growing warmth of the spring sun that brings them back.
Are they brought back? Do they return from Florida? Are they mud hibernators? All’s I know, they are out there long after I think it must be way too cold in that pond, and return before the snow is gone, either on the ground or falling from the sky.
Inspiring and hopeful they are, little peepers. In a world of discouragements, of not much to count on but the unexpected, their drive to be and procreate feels so familiar, so comforting. Something to count on.
One unusually warm early spring day a few years ago, running the old logging trails up in back, I was maybe a half mile from a very small seasonal pond, one that pretty much disappears once summer really gets going. It is not very large and you might not notice it, though sometimes the transiting duck or two would draw your attention hanging out there.
There was this unbelievably loud sound, increasing in intensity the closer I came to the water– so loud I thought it was an engine, for some reason thinking, plane: a small hovercraft improbably had crash landed through the thick woods onto the water, landing surface all of about 500 square feet. Or someone had hauled equipment up for tree clearing. Or– peepers?!! I have never heard them so loud, and with such a tone, their whatevers must have been frotting back and forth with insane vigor.
Which brings me to the next question: how do they in fact make their call? So disproportionate to their tininess. Are there special peeper gills or vocal chords? WIkipedia has a decent recording of their call, link here, but I didn’t find anything about their voices.
Such a happy sound, for me, going back to my early years in Virginia fishing with my sister for tadpoles, creatures who both creeped me out and enthralled me, shape-shifting waterbound swimmers that would transform as amphibians.
Virginia or upstate NY, even in late March peepers=summer, and after a long cold bone-chilling winter, that is just one sweet, sweet sound. Having no illusions about Nature being a romantic Disney-sprinkled world of happy critters, nonetheless I draw a lot of strength, inspiration, courage, and sense of grace there, from the tiniest up; from the hidden, as well as from the seen.
in like a lion
After a few deceptive spring-like days March is blowing in with some impressive heavy snow and wind. Spring, we are ready for you. There are two full moons this month, the Worm and the Sap; one hopeful note, by the time of the Sap it will in fact be spring. The Sap also is a blue moon, second time this year after January. Could just see the Worm behind the incoming storm clouds last night: it will still be bright and pretty on the snow once those clouds disperse.
But where have the past few months flown chez les collines?? Well…holidays and post- saw us collapsing. Lots of eggnog. Some cocooning, some satisfying streaming by the fire (among others Big Little Lies, so, so good). Then back to work!!!
The saga of the Sevilles: this included weeks of delays followed by their delivery truck getting storrowed (no one hurt, including Sevilles) followed by a night of USDA impoundment…the beauties (and as Mike at Guido’s told me, never seen such pretty Sevilles) finally made it to the Berkshires, and our 2018 Scots Bitter is ready and dare we say better than ever.
We’ve been continuing to develop our Ginger Preserve, which is just about perfected and is a pot-licking keeper. A very limited edition Elderberry Jelly is up next. Promises to be tasty, but may not be revisited: I now have grasped that the Monty Python and the Holy Grail timeless insult “and your father smelt of elderberries” is not as meaninglessly absurd as is commonly believed…just another way working with so many fruit has expanded the subtleties of my knowledge base.
After giving up hope due to the lingering blight, we did procure some really beautiful quince from our friends at Fishkill Farms. The Quince Preserve is lovely and also limited.
The Berkshire Grown Winter Markets were in January and February, sorry already past…but we’ll continue to appear at other indoor markets and events: this weekend at Cold Spring Saturday for their market and Adams Newburgh Sunday for the food fair that culminates their garden show. Follow our social media for dates and updates.
In other news, the wonderfully revived Copake General Store hosted us for a great tasting with local cheeses a few weeks ago, complete with wine pairing suggestions from our friends at Copake Wine Works. Our Lavender Jelly did triple duty, appearing in a glaze for Sam’s Valentine’s cookies and out-of-this-world cream puffs.
So excited to be joining other fine local products on the shelves of White Hart Provisions in Salisbury, CT and at Ella’s Bellas in Beacon, NY. And to be sending our Strawberry Preserve with Lapsang Souchong to the women of The Wing Soho– including a special large format for Chef Dani Dillon at their new Dumbo location. Continuing the amazing women theme, we’re honored to have les collines featured with amazing female artisans Daughters Design House, Nell Goods, and Alexandra Stafford, in perfectly curated Upstate Crate Co. (also woman-owned!) gorgeous gift groupings.
We love hearing from our customers about how they use les collines: our most recent favorite is from Joyce in Brooklyn, a fan of the SLSP– that would be the Strawberry, yasss– from the beginning. She told us it is great on banana pancakes. We tried it for ourselves one chilly Sunday, and it sure is. Have also been eating a lot of the Scots Bitter, with peanut butter and sometimes banana, and Cabot White Oak Cheddar. The Scots and the Ginger are also both incredibly good on simple, classic, comforting buttered toast.
Hope you are staying warm and well this winter, wherever you are. Don’t forget your daily spoon (or two) of les collines to keep any chilly blues at bay, and before you know it March, and winter, will be trotting away like a lamb xo
phoning it in
Midwinter now, the snow has fallen, been washed away and fallen again multiple times.
The light, clarity, shadows, and stillness of winter create a space of reflection unlike any other. It is a time, a season I cherish and have written about here before, the slow turning from dark to light in the midst of what are still very long nights.
Halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. I began writing this post the week after Epiphany, about a month ago, inspired by a quote a friend had sent. But I needed more time, and space. For so many years, the fact that my son was born on New Years Day felt an extension of the intrinsic sacredness I’ve always felt around that time of year. Now, I question so much, even that. He turned 30 this year.
The quote my friend sent is from a Moth story, it came through like a laser beam of love and light shining through fog. Anna formerly of Mass now of Minn, my right hand at les collines for the on-fire summer of 16, who brought us adorable globe jars as rosé glasses and rekindled my love of hummus– mille mercis, tu me manques.
Like Brigitte’s query a few months ago about where had the grace gone, it reminded me of some truths that were getting lost in the sauce.
The story is A Phone Call, it’s about 10 minutes long. A story of privilege tossed away; of bad choices that could have been tragic, or fatal; of redemption. I won’t give anything way in case you listen (you probably should). There is one line, though, that rang somewhat hollow to me, given my own situation, and led me to think, sadly, unfortunately, well, that is great but it just is not over until the fat lady sings. But…otherwise, this is a genuine telling of a moment of grace complete with unexpected plot twist. As ever: grace comes in the most unexpected, surprising forms when we most need but probably don’t deserve it.
The author refers to experiencing a peace that passes all understanding, and the existence of random love in the universe, some of it unconditional, some of it for each of us. Undeserved yes, and often we are too dumb, ruined, and/or hopeless to think, much less ask for it. It is nothing to achieve, not by all the self-help ebooks on Amazon, no ten-step program or weekly therapy session will lead us there.
This is what I know: In the deepest, blackest night of despair and anxiety, it only takes a pinhole of light, and all of grace can come in.
It is a beautiful image, resonating all the more as the heart of the story takes place over a phone line. Slender cables (this is the early 90’s) carrying sound and in this case, grace.
Some, maybe too many significant moments of my life have transpired by phone. Sometimes by necessity, other times circumstance, other times cowardice on the part of one or both parties. The hours with friends in high school; over greater distances in college– those north of 40, remember hall phones? The years of AT&T bills averaging $500 with transatlantic calls. The very long oft-tangled coiled cord that for me symbolizes the birth of multitasking– as a young mother, I never would have had time for phone calls without it. The advent of mobile phones and the wonder and horror of all that. The first moment I saw my son texting in the seat next to me as I drove and was, I thought, having a conversation with him.
The endless possibility and problem of connection whatever the mode.
There is a great scene at the beginning of Krzysztof Kieślowski‘s Rouge (this is one of my all-time favorite films, along with the first film of the trilogy, Bleu) where the camera races from one person holding a receiver, all along the wires and cables– in this case under the English Channel– to the other. The urgency, the distance and the illusion of no distance when you are speaking to someone by phone. The benefits and the shortcomings of that form of communication.
When I was teaching French, I would ask students who were having trouble pronouncing something to close their eyes. Closing their book or notebook sometimes was enough– not looking at the words helped reduce the clattering of different languages– but often it required more complete reduction of sensory input. It did not always work, but mostly did: I would repeat the word or phrase, the student would listen, eyes closed, and repeat, and there was marked improvement.
Such can be the phone when we are talking, and listening. It can strip away distraction and reduce things to their essence. The flip side may be, depending on the nature of the connection to begin with, a danger of dehumanization. And personally the phone can compound my tendency to be a disconnected talking head, which is a coping mechanism from early childhood.
This Moth story is lovely to me in part because it happens by phone, with a veritable stranger. There is no prior connection between these two people, but the desperate need of one establishes a link, a lifeline, and more than one life will change as a result. A pinhole of light, yes. Unconditional love in the universe, it is there. Redemption, if we can survive long enough.
Our ties to those we love may be steadied or undercut by the phone. Sometimes, as in Rouge, the illusory link serves to reinforce a growing disconnect. Or it may be there was none to begin with. In that stripped away phone space there may be no hiding from the truth.
Cables or wifi, corded slimline or smartphone, stranger or lover, the connection is ours to make. It just never ceases to amaze me the myriad ways we have to show up with grace, or to phone it in, whatever the context, the hour, the mode at hand.
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