Spanish Pipe Dreams

Plant a little garden, throw away your papers, blow up your TV, eat a lot of peaches, and try to find Jesus on your own. . .
Whether you are a John Prine fan or not it's really about the peaches and this summer's selection were no exception.

Arriving in Michigan with a case of Georgia peaches starts every one's mouth watering and the request for peach dumplings begin. I am not sure if Ange is the only artist that will commit to what seems like a day long task of peach dumpling making, I do know she is the only one who will readily volunteer. On the other hand finding a crowd to eat them is a piece of cake or peach as the case may be.

On the way back to our southern roots, we stopped once again, this time for several cases of those juicy fruits, we have eaten our weight in peaches, and now it is time for saving some for a rainy fall day or hurricane supply kit. Today I have been up to my elbows in Peach Preserves, a simple recipe and 12 pint jars later my mouth is watering, in Florida bottling sunshine isn't that appealing, but preserving the beautiful flavor of a sunset in a mason jar now that's worth it's weight in gold at the end of any rainbow.

Be a peach dear and pass the Bracken brown . . .

Summer's Coming of Age

Summer ripened quickly this year,the thermometer reads 96 very hot degrees. The rains have been a welcome smell, the sea breeze is slightly cooled, the property watered, and the rain barrels filled to the brim. However the true test comes in a sound with the evening, it's the Whip'O Will, and perched in the shadows right outside the kitchen windows of The Old Starkey House he sat calling all who would listen over and over he calls whipowill, whipowill, whipowill. He is hard to see, and non-descript for those who have had a peek, he is the highlight of a summer's evening, and in perfect harmony to the crickets, Cuban tree frogs, and the song of the cicadas. He is in my early memories of the Florida I knew as a young girl, he has called out in the dark night of a horseback ride, and on the misty marsh morning of Yeehaw Junction. This evening his song is sweet and my memories strengthened once again.

Can you say Mojito?

It is 95 degrees, no breeze and the pool and the mint growing next to the rain barrel are screaming Mojito. . .

The Main Chick's Mojito

Juice of one lime
squirt of Agave nectar
5-6 fresh mint leaves
A shot of Appleton's Rum
plickle, plickle, plickle or muddle, muddle, muddle
pour over glass of ice and finish with splash of ginger ale.

Hit the pool and relax.

Bad Hair Day

Florida's humidity, what if Colonel Beaureguard is looking.

Chester's Epitaph

It's hard to believe that five short years ago we missed Thanksgiving for a 70 pound turkey, and it's even harder to believe he is gone . . .

Chester woke up on March 31st, 2010 not feeling his usual perky self, a very large tumor in his spleen had begun to bleed and by the afternoon he was gone. The tumor obviously had been there for quite some time, and he showed no signs of discomfort up until the end.

We will miss him greatly, as many of you know he was my shadow, and shadowed the many pet sitters. He was talked about at Thanksgiving for many years, and some of his antics will never be forgotten. I believe he could be listed in Guinness for eating the most unusual things including drinking of the beignet grease after Mardi Gras, and eating the feet off his ball, twice, the first time he threw them up six weeks after the first ingestion.

The look on his face summed it up, "Always keep smiling, for you never know when a frown could stick".

I thank all of you who put up with him, baby sat him, or just plain liked him.

With much sadness,

The Main Chick

A Long Hot Dry Spell

I think I am referring to writers block in the title, or maybe the current weather, hard to say . . .
The winter was a cold one, the coldest I can remember, temperatures in January hovered nightly in the 30's for weeks at a time, quite unusual for central coastal Florida. It didn't stop us from hosting Guitars & Cigars, we had the fire pits stoked, the fireplace roaring, and as many layers as we could handle without having our arms at 90 degree angles. The Low Country Boil was hot and so was the cider and guitar, Captain Bob played with his usual finesse, and sounds of warm beaches flowed through the crowd. A good time was passed by all.

A New Olympic Sport or Not . . .

It all started with Murray going thru three nut crackers, yes, actually breaking them in half, trying to open the elusive first fruit. I actually think I know why shelling Black walnuts is not an Olympic sport, but after spending two more hours removing their shoe staining outer fruit, I think it should be considered. Although I have never had such a great color on my crocs, and from experience when training for this event, wear your winter croc, starting with no holes and the darkest color you own. After dumping the lot on the concrete floor of the old bunk house, I began rolling the fruit under foot until the wet, walnut stained inner nut was exposed, with gloved hands you then place them, back into their basket home for drying. When I originally picked up the fruit from under the very large old tree at the top of the meadow in the mountains of North Carolina, on a beautifully cool afternoon in October, I could already taste the persimmon bread with walnuts I was going to bake, day dreaming will get me in trouble every time. I am a step closer, however, don't sniff the screen just yet. My walnuts, still in their inner super nut shell are drying in the hot Florida sun as I write. A very wise old school Aunt asked me just this weekend, with her nose a little wrinkled, did you let them dry? Noooo I didn't, so informed with my new information, there they sit in all their nutty glory. I am thinking persimmon bread would be wonderful on Thanksgiving Morning, with a hot cup of coffee, starring at the murky water of the inter coastal in St. Augustine. I guess their are not too many Olympic sports needing so much time waiting in the sun on vacation.