circa 1932 . . .

What is Life?

It is the flash of a firefly in the night . . .
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime . . .
It is in the little shadows that run across the grass and loses itself in the sunset. . . 
  
Crowfoot, Blackfoot Warrior 1830-1890

As I began this day . . .

As I began this day, with the morning just breaking, the dark and muggy night was lifting, the call came and I began again . . . 

I began recalling our last day together in her garden, the asparagus beans, blackberries and the grapes on the umbrella forms.  The giggles over her lemon grass and the promise I would send her some back . . . We talked about the arbor and the plans for the plantings, we laughed about the people who think we are crazy for salvaging bath tubs for the yard, bromeliads, and all those peppers.

I sat peacefully in my own garden this morning quietly engulfed in my happy place.  Debbie's lemon grass highlighted in the morning sun, now just barely over the palms, Colonel Beaureguard still crowing under the Oaks, the simple things in life, made her smile.  

St. Francis smiles over this corner of the garden, Debbie would have enjoyed this moment too, for it's the common thread that bound our friendship.  We both loved the simple life our gardens implied, just the thought of a quiet moment of awe that comes when you pop that first blackberry in your mouth, or spot the first bloom on the peppers, the love of worms in the compost, and the prayer for absence in the tomato's.

She loved the simple life that my chickens invoked, I can no longer remember how many times over the years I encouraged her to get her own, of course without the Colonel, she would just laugh, neither one of us ever thought Parsnip would approve . . . 

I am at peace knowing you now walk the gardens of heaven, rest peacefully my friend and know you are loved. . . .

A Fire Burns . . .

The neighbors have started to return as the North turns cooler, the leaves change, and the season approaches.  The Cleveland Avenue Bungalow has started to transform in preparation for the upcoming 2012 Idea House, projects dwindle, plans consolidate and the menu unfolds.  The fall colors are already giving way to the shimmering gold and silvers of the Christmas season, and the new lighting and greenery plans are taking shape.

Our gardens past what most would consider prime, with the heavy rains of the summer behind them, quietly blossom into a new brilliance, the Cypress hang heavy with ornament like balls and trails of cascading seed pods.  The strong structure of the oaks silhouetted with the setting of a crimson sky and the bromeliad's torch fade with each dropping Oak leaf.  The ever changing landscape of old Florida never ceases to amaze me, who ever said Florida has no season must have had a very short visit. 

The cool of the nights, now dipping below 60 warrant a right of passage, a right so vivid in my memory, whether the stone fireplace on Lake Washington Road with a mantle stretching wall to wall, or the formality of The Old Starkey House surrounded by a grand staircase, this right of passage now belongs to a little bungalow in Punta Gorda, and on this night in a quiet little corner a fire burns . . .

A rainy August afternoon . . .

Spon.ta.ne.ous:  Done. Produced. Occurring naturally or without planning.

A very rainy August afternoon in Punta Gorda, as I was trying to catch up on reading the never ending list of magazines, books, blogs, and bits and pieces of Shirley's finds, I came across rather spontaneously the definition of spontaneous. If you are familiar with my blog, you already know it does not occur naturally without planning, so I am shooting for the done or produced on this rainy afternoon.

In Brevard, North Carolina on Main Street lies the secret to a beautiful rainy August afternoon in Punta Gorda, it is The Brown Bean Coffee Roasters, http://www.thebrownbean.com/ and this afternoon a cup of "yellow dog" occurred naturally without planning. . .

Peek into the creation after the inspiration . . .

http://www.inthestiks.etsy.com/

"Rooted in Florida Soil" by Mama Kuku

and excerpt from page -6-.

The sign on the door of Pop's "Emporium",

AM IN THE REAR CLEANING FISH. COME AROUND

AM IN THE RIVER FISHING. BLOW YOUR HORN.

AM PICKING FRUIT IN THE GROVE. DRIVE OVER

AM ON THE OCEAN, BEACH COMBING. COME SEE

GONE ACROSS THE RIVER. BE BACK SOON.

AM AT HOME. COME IN. WELCOME.

If we all could be so lucky these days. . .

Earth Day 2012

We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children. . .
Native American Proverb

"Leaving Eden"

"the skinnin barn"

by the Carolina Chocolate Drops , An original song by North Carolina songwriter Laurelyn Dossett about what happens to a mill town when it's people are driven away by globalization, have a little listen. . .

The End.
It's not actually the end, and more than likely a great new beginning . . .
My mother is now settled in a 1927 Punta Gorda cottage, tucked neatly among the Palms and Oaks along the banks of the Peace River and expecting her first house guest this weekend.  Although it seems she has always been right around the corner, it has only been a month.  She is making new friends, playing cards with the neighborhood kids, and beginning to find her way around town.  It is a wonderful thing to walk over for a Sunday morning breakfast after church, see her great grandson bounding with a smile up to her new little house, throw in a goat milking, cheese making session or two and The End is looking good. 

The Beginning of The End.

I headed out on a Sunday afternoon for a road trip, Yemassee the destination, not with my usual calculated, organized craziness, but with a quiet and peaceful solitude, for this trip I would make alone.  I pulled out of Punta Gorda, "Still Friends" playing comfortably in the background, a beautiful afternoon ahead of me.  I was crossing through what I call "Old Florida", the part of Florida where there are more cattle than people, being behind a truck full of oranges is a fact of life, and wide open space as far as you can see, well that is until I hit rodeo's is Arcadia and Okeechobee, all reinforcing the "Old Florida" of my youth.  Out of Okeechobee I headed north up 441, a light rain was starting to fall, a gray mist formed over the pastures until the green fields faded away and cows grazed in the magical mist.  There were the familiar landmarks, the Dessert Inn at Yeehaw Junction and Ten Mile marked today by a flock of turkey's, I wondered if they knew Spring gobbler was starting shortly?  The soulful sounds of the Carolina Chocolate Drops "Leaving Eden", played as I rounded the corner at Holopaw and headed into Eau Gallie, as the rains lifted, my mind wandered and the music played, for Mom was leaving her Eden, in the spring when the Turkey Roost would be at it's glory.
An overnight in Eau Gallie, and back on the road, the Florida sun shining up the coast, past Palm Coast, a giggle when I realized it is also Bike Week, past St. Augustine and into Jacksonville, my memories and the music of "Still Friends" solidifying my "Old Florida" and I drive on.

Old Sheldon Church Ruins, Yemmassee, S.C.

Across the river, signs for Woodbine, and I have reached the salt marshes of Georgia, how beautiful they gleam, wheat fields of the south . . . on into the low country of South Carolina, could this be this adoptive daughter's final visit to the Turkey Roost?  I was not here to tour the gardens of Savannah or Charleston, I was not here to wander the ruins of Old Sheldon Church, turning the corner at Harold's Country Club, down Pocotaligo, across gut creek, I was here to pack the remains of Turkey Roost. 
As I reached the pine covered driveway, the Dogwood and Azalea's greeted me like old friends and a quick beep brought my mother down the old brick sidewalk with open arms, reminiscent of Granny in Bell.
After a quick assessment of what had been done, what still needed to be done, and a little lunch we began to pack.  In no time at all my secret weapon and surprise had arrived . . . it was my dumpster diving, adventure junkin friend from Alpharetta.  Lifelong, really good friends are always hard to find, if you find one that will not only volunteer to help, drive five hours (two of which had no cell service) to help you pack the 20 years of dumpster diving, tag sale, road kill collecting parents of a childhood friend, be good to them, quite frankly, they are really hard to come by.  After a brief meeting to determine the pecking order, even though I was clearly holding a coffee mug stating "the boss", it was determined Shirley (mom) was in charge.
The food pageant quickly ensued, you know the "parade", where all of us southern participants pull from their coolers a territorial, albeit colorful southern mix ranging from organic veggies to Carmel and sea salt cupcakes.  Two days and twenty people could not have eaten this much chicken?  There was a twenty garlic chicken and two of The Best X@!@XX Chicken Salads, veggie lasagna, and a week's bounty from Worden Farms, let's get to packin.
We laughed over the old stories of Eau Gallie, packed and looked for rusty treasures like crows for tinsel, the memories and stories of each object was told, and the thrill of the hunt still lingered.  We laughed and talked into the night, the mornings greeted us with more packing, fresh ground and pressed coffee and a few more lessons to learn.  I learned at a very early age not to open lidded containers on my mothers counters, my cohort recently learned that the hard way, dog food?  She taught me to always keep your tetanus shot current, who knows where your next pick will be, besides you could be wearing crocs and a skirt . . .
really good lessons from a really good couch.
The skinnin barn and apartment were empty, the little house filled with items going to further destinations, and the house was packed minus the absolute essentials, however the garage (oh boy!) was the next order of business and our cut off time was approaching quickly.  We filled our trucks, dug up day lilies, and enjoyed a quick tour of the old house at Richfield and the little church, it was time to say good bye, not only to my friend but to Turkey Roost.  The remainder of the good stuff would have to wait for the next shift. . . for in the morning we were headed to St. Augustine to look for Mom's next abode. 
We drove quietly past the azaleas, the dogwood, blueberries and figs, down the driveway lined with Pine and past the Turkey Roost sign one last time. . .
The twenty years I spent visiting here are years filled with great memories, crazy stories and the legacy of my parents and their time at Turkey Roost, Yemassee, South Carolina.

Mt. Magazine Springtime Song

by Donna Stjerna and Kelly Mulhollan

Recently, as the sun set on the banks of the Peace River and "Still on the Hill" played a melodic composition, I fell in love with the "Ode to Mr. Boze" played on one of his fantastic fiddles, Devil Snake
and Seven Pies . . . but the words to "Mt. Magazine Springtime Song" just seem to resonate today,

"Spring"

When the naked trees loosen up their hides

and begin to grow new clothes . . .

when the March wind blows the cold away,

and dries my dripping nose,

I'll hike to the wild onion patch . .

eat and belch and sing,

blow my breath into winter's face . . .

and turn him into spring.

So three cheers for the "hermit-poet"

living on Mt. Magazine,

the second verse well it goes like this,

to the poem that he once called "Spring"!

When the hairy bumblebee crawls forth

and spreads his stubby wing . . .

he takes off running for the air,

I hear his motor sing.

Then he makes a nose dive for my britches,

stabs me with his sting.

I can feel a rise in the temperature

and a swift return of SPRING.

As part of the Stevefest Concert series, "Still on the Hill" was also able to perform at Deep Creek Elementary, with a fabulous children's program.  The final chapter of  this season for Stevefest is April 20th in Punta Gorda, as always a real treat for those who can make it,  "Still Friends" will open for Copper Box, and it promises to be another high stepping good time in Punta Gorda . . .

Sour Orange Curd . . .oh so yummy

My neighbor has supplied us with the most gorgeous Sour Oranges, and there was something mumbled about only good for flinging . . .oh but I have a better idea.

Sour Orange Curd

 In a double boiler, whisk 3 large eggs (or 6 is you are using eggs from my coop), 3/4 cup white sugar ( the sugar also helps to really break up the egg for a smooth curd), whisk until smooth then add 1/3 cup sour orange juice (or any unsweetened citrus juice), 4 tablespoon unsalted butter, and 1 teaspoon zest from the fruit you are using.  Whisk on and off until thickened and very smooth about 10-15 minutes.  Makes 1 pint, it will continue to set in refrigerator, and may be kept kept for 2 weeks.  It is so yummy, it will never make it that long . . .

Mama KuKu

Occupying my bedside table these days, is a blast from my past, the 1971 recollections from Mama KuKu as the school children from Brevard County Florida knew her, she was Julia Lake Kellersberger and "Rooted in Florida Soil"  is a personal narrative of two decades of her life.  As a child seated on the floor of the cafeteria at Sabal Elementary I could have listened for hours as the stories of her life unfolded.

Page twenty three:

"Fish are gastronomical snobs.  One moment they will leap at a lure of red, and a few hours later they scorn crimson and want gold.  One day they are hungry for pig-fish, and the next day they are starved for shrimp.  They won't bite when it is too cold, or when it is too hot, or when the water is too rough, or when it is too smooth.  Pop seems to be the only one who knows when they will bite.  He says,

"When the wind is in the north

careful fishermen fare not forth.

When the wind is in the east

'Tis good for neither man nor beast.

When the wind is in the south

It blows the bait in the fishes' mouth.

When the wind is in the west

Fishing then is at its best."

More to come . . . 



Gracious Guest

When making a donation of "dinner for eight" to benefit Rick's Shindig, I was not sure what to expect, however, what we received was a wonderful surprise, a gracious group of friends and co-workers, a complete pleasure to serve . . .

All enjoyed a seasonal menu including many local items, dinner included:

Sparkling Pear and Ginger Cocktails

Baked Brie with Walnuts & Honey

Warm figs with Chevre

Low Country Boil

Crusty French Bread with Roasted Garlic

Cinnamon Egg Nog

Pound Cake with a Key Lime drizzle

Avocado Timbales

Ho. Ho. Ho. & Yum. Yum. Yum.



  

Tis the season to celebrate His birth . . .

Colors of Fall

I love this time of year and the colors of a Florida fall, after all they are some of my favorites.  The sights and smells fill my head and have inspired both the interior and exterior of our little bungalow.  Roasted Root Salad with warm garlic dressing, rich carmel onions, roasted pumpkin seeds, butternut squash, chocolates in creamy variations of mocha and coffee play their part.  The colors of the bungalow we first purchased have given way to the colors of fall, cool blue and yellow are slowly yielding to slate and mossy oak, cypress and cinnamon now coat the walls of the library and the living room.  Roasted butternut warms the walls of the bathroom and highlights the fireplace.
I am sure all of life's perplexing questions can be solved with a brush and the colors of fall . . .

Roasted Root Veggie Salad

Sweet Potato, sweet onion, butternut squash, delicata squash, carrots, parsnips, acorn squash all make great choices for this salad, slice all veggies in uniform thickness, rub with olive oil, sprinkle with sea salt and place in a single layer on cookie sheet, cut the tops off of 4 heads of garlic, rub cut edge with olive oil and place on cookier sheet.  Roast for 30 minutes @ 350* then flip veggies and roast another 25 minutes.  In the meantime whisk two tablespoons of olive oil, 1/2 c Rice vinegar, salt and pepper to taste in a heavy saucepan and bring to a quick simmer, then remove from heat, squeeze all 4 heads of roasted garlic into dressing and whisk.  To serve add roasted veggies to a bed of baby organic spinach, and pour warm garlic dressing over veggies, serve immediately.

All is right with the World

3:19 a.m.
The roosters have begun to crow this morning, the hens are brooding and beginning to lay eggs.  So much to be thankful for, all seems right with the world . . .
As this Thanksgiving rolled in, despite the retailers best efforts to shorten this holiday, I need much more time to recognize all that I am thankful for this year.
Most recent being, Ella Lily now 7 days old  arrived healthy and happy at 20 inches and 7 pounds, with the blue eyes of her father, her mothers angelic face, and the love of her big brother so excited she has finally arrived (the spider man back pack certainly helped).
As with the seasons and holidays, the ebb and flow of life continue on and I am grateful for not only the good times, but the rough ones too, for without them I could not recognize how good life is this Thanksgiving morning.

Baby Cakes & Barbecue

In August when the ideas started to flow for a Baby Cakes & Barbecue to celebrate the impending arrival of Sweet Baby Ella, so did the house projects we would need to finish before having to introduce not only Baby Ella but this little gem of a bungalow to a Punta Gorda that had long since forgotten she was here . . .

The property was in all it's glory, the summer rains, although heavy at times, had created a lush tropical border filled with Bromeliad bloom, with hundreds of torch like flames, spreading like wild fire through this paradise.  The new mulch driveway framed the greens in perfect combination, the palms swayed in the gentle breeze that flows from the Peace, and the zinnias and ferns stretched toward the sun.

We had painted the front porch, stripped most of the bathroom wallpaper, and picked up a crazy mix of architectural salvage and antiques from my mothers in South Carolina, including the old doors that would become the tables and the vintage bird cages filled with candles that would light the setting for this magical night. 

The studio's new lighting was installed, all twenty feet of the old work bench had been skirted in off-white canvas, and the clutter of our projects were neatly tucked away. The 1887 Chickering piano, which now performs as our work station was converted to the buffet, it's Rococo legs long ago painted the perfect vintage pink, begging to set center stage for the Hootenanny to come.  The candelabra above made from piano parts and garage sale finds, highlighted not only the Brazilian Rosewood below, but the art of the rafters above. 

The table cloths of burlap with pink brocade runners had been sewn, the white linen napkins tie-dyed pink by our friends were complete, the mason jar filled with cut fern would adorn the tables. 

The very southern Pear and Ginger cocktail was inspired by Garden & Gun, the Bourbon Maker's Mark, the pears plucked from my mother's yard on our latest trip.  The menu was selected to surround Papa Z's lip smakin Grilled Chicken,  Fig infused barbecue sauce, Roasted garlic cheese grits, Baked beans with pig parts, Spinach salad and Sarah's Cornbread Pudding embraced like old childhood friends.  I know, mouth watering goodness, only to be topped off  by Carmel and Sea Salt cupcakes, Ginger snaps with Sweet Potatoe Butter (Low Country Produce), and Peanut Butter Pie cups.  One of our guest confessed he ate ten or so? 

The night finally arrived, the little bungalow lit with enthusiasm and anticipation, the high class bluegrass of the Steep Canyon Rangers and the soulful blues of the local Still Friends flowed from it's crevasse's in beautiful harmony.  The memories of our guest this night will forever be of a sweet baby girl still to come and a little bungalow with a great history.  

Mango Madness

Our first crop of Mango was ready, and with Cooper here to harvest, I could not wait any longer. Absolutley nothing taste better than fruit rippened in the yard, my first mango was going into our morning shake, yum.

In blender combine:
1 fresh mango
2 cups organic spinach
2 cups Chobani yogurt
1 frozen banana
1-2 cups orange juice

Blend until smooth. Makes 2 servings to be enjoyed walking the yard (pull a weed or two).

In Memory of a "Gator" Homecoming

Roy LaMance Turknett
March 14th 1933 - September 17, 2011

The Peace

Laishley Park, early morning, September 1st, 2011.

Children already at play in the fountain and the smell of a Florida Fall already in the air. The Peace River flowing towards the harbor with an absolute resolve. The palm trees continue to sway in the warm breeze, stretching towards the misty morning sky. A pair of Ibis hunt for breakfast near a small pond.

A peaceful solitude in the midst of a morning routine.