Lousy Day Comfort Bread

I had a rough day. I took a bubble bath and to warm the house I’m baking easy Irish Raisin Bread. The recipe came from a Raley’s Simple Magazine several years ago. It’s great toasted with apricot jam and good coffee.

Irish Raisin Bread (2 loaves)

5 Cups flour

1 cup sugar

1 tbsp. baking powder

1 1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 cup butter

2 1/2 cups raisins

2 1/2 cups buttermilk

1 egg

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour two loaf pans or two 9-inch cast iron skillets. Sift together flower, sugar, baking powder, salt and baking soda.

Cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs; stir in raisins.  Add buttermilk and egg to mixture, mixing only until flour is moistened. Pour into prepared pans and bake for 1 hour 15 minutes.

Yum.

Dead Wood

I borrowed the neighbor’s tree trimmer today & went a little nuts cutting back dead branches. But the light opened up in the backyard & it feels wonderful for autumn.

Zephyr was a enormous help.

He wrestled those branches to the ground, then chewed them up all over the lawn. We’ll call it mulch.

While I was teetering atop the ladder, extending the trimmer to its full length–a circus act, surely–the large dead limb came crashing down a little too close to for my liking. I said a Hail Mary and dubbed the trees: trimmed.

Neighbors on both sides came out to help finish up what I obviously couldn’t reach. It always feels nice when we come to together, leaving our fences behind, even briefly.

You trim back the dead wood and the sky opens up to you. Just like that.

d.

Pink in the Emerald City

Pink Emerald City

I’ve been having the best time making treasuries lately. Since I finally discovered the secret, that isn’t so secret. Last week I even made the front page of Etsy, though I missed it completely.

This is my favorite so far, d.

ReadyMade: Small Spaces

I wandered past a magazine shop today and remembered ReadyMade Magazine had used a quote I gave them about living in small spaces. Low and behold, Oct. was out and here it is.

Written under my aka even, Dahlila Found, it reads:

” At age 36 I took my dog on an extended road trip though the Southwest, living in my jeep for eight months. I had a small tent and, for three months, I pitched it behind an outdoor shop in a small mountain town on the remains of a sand volleyball court. I bartended, worked in the gear shop, and showered at a local campground every three days–$3 for 8 heavenly minutes. I was clean, well fed and content with very little.”

That was actually an amazing time. I traveled alone with Shadow, my Australian Heeler all around the Southwest on mostly back roads, some even dirt. I rarely really knew where I was and I tried to always eat where the locals ate. No fast food, no interstates. Blue roads the whole way.

I landed in southern Utah just because I met some nice people and why not. I lived in my car, threw down my tent nearly anywhere–down a dirt road, up on a mountain. One morning I woke up in Arizona to discover I was about 40 feet from a grave marker on the side of a hill.

Love the picture! My tent was actually about that size.

The best part was I was rarely afraid. I had Shadow, who gave a good growl. And the people I met were always kind, generous and helpful, whether I was lost in Navajo territory–which I sometimes was–or my car broke down in mormon country, which it did. Strangers always helped.

It scares me to think about it, but I know if I lost everything I could survive out there. Maybe, not here in the city, but out there–way out there, I could.

Thank you ReadyMade!

 d.

You Can’t Take the Sky From Me

I wanted to share something colorful: my latest treasury. Autumn is coming.

Personal Space

I hate the conversations that begin with “Does your dog bite?”

Especially when he/she is holding a squirmy, sticky toddler. There is no good out that I have yet figured. If I say no, she will ask “Can Bitsy pet it?”–it’s always “it” like I’m walking a table.

If I say yes, they draw back in horror, though I am 10 feet away and Zephyr, turned askew, is busy grazing the lawn like a cow. Today I said “No, he doesn’t” and the above question ensued. Except, I smiled and said “No, not right now.” She was upset and pulled back her child. I can’t win.

Here’s the thing: I am not your petting zoo. And I am not going to let your sticky little kid grab at Zephyr’s ears, nose, whatever. It’s invasive. I don’t ask to run my fingers thru juniors hair. Sigh.

But, here’s thing,  I DO like the quiet, singular shy kid who is drawn to Zephyr from afar. They creep closer and closer, with very small steps, wanting SO badly to pet him, like they are witnessing this grand being, a mythical lion.

They never, ever ask to pet him. And with their parents permission I almost always let them. i encourage them too. They reach out their hands with such trepidation. Zephyr will reach out his nose and they jump, goosebumps  from head to toe, beaming. Often I have to show them how to pet a dog, like they have never done this before. They are always so gentle.

Beyond Zephyr, it is my own personality that likes a wide arc of comfort space. Come near me slowly, talk softly and don’t be too pushy or demanding about it. Don’t drown me in personal questions. Don’t lecture me or take up debate. Keep it simple, let me reveal myself to you in my own time.

Zephyr is the same way. I guess we are a true pair.

Cafe Roses

Today, I finally went to Talini’s Nursery in Sacramento to find two fabulous center pieces for the enormous cafe garden pots. It seems simple enough but I have been to two other nurserys with very little help and haven’t found just the right plants to take over the beautiful Chinese Lanterns that died in the watering system fail.

Today, was a success. This sweet nursery worker (below) showed me lots of plants, told me all about them, then stood around patiently helping me decide right down to the color. She gets big Helpful Points–where as Capitol Nursery does not, but onward…

Helping me wheel the vibrant blood orange roses out to my jeep. Tight squeeze–and with a seat belt!

One rose in the ground. Florishes need fixing, especially on the left. I ran out of gazanias, plus the sprinkler is set for a half cirlce at 8 feet! Tomorrow’s project. Still, the color is beautiful.

Planter #2: The origin of the sprinkler depacle. I shoveled sludge from this planter that truely smelled like the zoo. Lovely for the dining table beside it, don’ t you think?  Now it has beautiful roses. WHAT a project.

 

I had another $100 to burn, so I bought a few fillers for the large triangle garden at the far end of the sidewalk. Gazanias and this firey shrub, whose name–as always–I never looked at. (Bad gardener).

I love this one. I may need another. So vibrant &, because of thorns, child proof. I didn’t pick roses just because they are lovely. A cafe garden has a lot to contend with–dogs, children, pickers, parking bicylces, cigarette butts and the waitresses keep throwing water glasses into the pots–with lemon wedges! Michael, waiter, said “but don’t they evaporate. . . ” Send this boy back to horticulture 101 .

My garden. A labor of love or foolishness. I’m not certain. But neighbors have expressed their appreciation and that works for me. ♥

Garden-palooza

The backyard is bustling like any metropolis. The bees are working in the lavender. The hummingbird hangs out in the tall sage and the squirrels are having their own raging bacchanalia in the walnut tree. Every morning the yard is strewn with shells and branches, like a post frat party yard, beer bottles and plastic cups everywhere. I half expect to see the little marmots prostrate on a branch, beer gut, belching. I have yet to get a walnut of my own from this tree. Oh well.

Meanwhile, the tomatoes are finally blushing.  

And this surprise: an unknown Japanese cucumber had been growing all this time and I never saw it hiding in behind the corn.

Here’s one of the hairy little pests caught red handed. I can’t even sit in the shade anymore. I got pelted but good last week.

While I was shooting this photo, the other little pest took a whiz from atop the tree and sprayed me. I got peed on by a squirrel. I hope that isn’t a sign of the day to come. Let’s call it good luck, shall we.

Pin Cushions

Just go a late Friday call from the vet. All the blood drained from my head before she said her first words. Zephyr’s on the fence. She wants to run MORE tests. Be certain about Cushings Disease. Back to the vet on Monday. Blood draw, something injected, wait eight hours, draw blood again. . . just to find out, maybe, where he is.

I suddenly feel like  Zephyr is mirroring my own ailings. The “what the hell is wrong with you?’ ailment. Experimental pin cushions, he and I. We’ll isn’t this just lovely.

Here’s the important thing to know. I will find the money to make certain Zephyr has ALL the vet attention he needs. Where as I . . . can float for a while. As I believe my neorologist will be calling the voodoo witch doctor to perform an exorcism next.

Meanwhile, when in doubt, do nothing. . . or do a  little,  but stay close to home. Whatever the small tasks of my everyday life can bring us is just fine, a bit of peace, joy, maybe both. As I really believe in the understated life. I’m big on simple.  So, as soon as it cools down, Zephyr and I are going to the park, even if all we get to do is take a small slow walk and lie in the grass. <3

Migraines (Let Go)

I am tired.

I am tired of being a human guinea pig for a doctor whose name I can not pronounce, who would not know me if he saw me at a coctail party with a name tag on. 

This doctor throws medication at me like a dart board, “let’s just see what works,” he says. “Why can’t we find out what’s wrong first,” I ask. He looks at me, annoyed. I ask questions. He doesn’t like questions. I give explanations. He looks at his watch. He likes writing prescriptions, one after the other, after the other. He likes the sound of his voice. He looks puzzled when I don’t jump with enthusiasm at the drugs: Imitrex, Amitriptyline, Verapamil, Celexa, Nadol, Cymbalta, Feverfew, Riboflavin, Excedrin, CoQ10, Vitamin D, Cyclobenzaprine. They sound frightening, toxic, a recipe for disaster and they have not worked.

He scrambles the perscription like he’s making an omelet. “Well, just stop the Cymbalta, go back to the Celexa. Keep taking the Nadolol for another week, maybe two…did you try Imitrex?” My chart is in his hand; how does he not know?

Drink coffee, he tells me; don’t drink coffee, says my mother. Don’t eat tomatoes, cheese, yogurt, fresh bread, spices, sauces, peanut butter, lemons. . . eat meat, don’t eat meat. Eat vegetables, but not pea pods or onions.

The Neurologist prescribes herbs, more drugs and vitamins. I was fuzzy, jumpy, twitchy, stoned, nauseous, dizzy with nose bleeds.

I reread this. I sound like a junkie. What is next? Detox.

Meanwhile, the lights get brighter, the pain pulsates in my neck, behind my eye, my head. ”Just letting you know I am here,” it tells me, laughing at these lists, the doctor, the advice, all of it.  

“I will go away,” I imagine it telling me, “when you let me go . . . when you stop, pack up, leave town and don’t look back. Go to the desert–you already know this–walk barefoot through the sand, the sage, wade deep into a calm river, fall willingly into an ocean. Float. Only these will save you, but you must let go. Let it all go.”

But then what?  I want another list, I think. A road map of what comes next. I am too afraid to just let go, even if that’s what might save me.