Perfect Breakfast
I think I have discovered the perfect breakfast -- five homemade raisin oatmeal cookies and a dish of lightly sugared fresh black raspberries. I have had this for the last three days, and I am no where near getting tired of it. Alas, today will be the last day for this fare, as I head off to a church conference in Peoria.
The cookies I baked on Monday, but the berries began ripening a week ago on the canes in my woods. We bought the land eight years ago, ignorant of the existence of the berries but I have enjoyed them every year since. As usual, I'll be away for part of their season, so I have invited a friend to pick what remains, but I have had a good run this year -- plenty to eat, enough to make a batch of jelly, and a couple quarts to give away.
For some reason, I enjoy picking the berries almost as much as I enjoy eating them. I guess there is a nostalgia factor -- my brothers and I picked a lot of berries as kids, and made a little money that way. I don't mind the scratches and the occasional hard stick with a thorn. I keep an eye out for poison ivy and groundhog holes and quietly go about my business. Generally, I pick alone and take pleasure in the solitude.
On Tuesday evening, after driving back from Baltimore in a terrific storm (including hail), I went out to pick about 8 o'clock. I wanted to get into the woods before dark, but everything was still wet, so I got soaked. Still, I gathered almost two quarts of large berries. I put them in the fridge and grabbed a quick shower and went outside again just as it was getting dark.
I stood on the deck and looked out at my backyard, surrounded with mature trees. The tree line in silouette loomed over the yard, and up from the tall wet grass the fireflies began to rise. They rose and rose until some reached the tops of the trees, perhaps 50 feet or more in the air. They stayed close to the trees because there was a light breeze that made it more difficult for them to navigate out in the open.
The result was spectacular. Every tree was lit with blinking lights, like a Christmas tree. There was the sound of the wind in the leaves and the running water in the stream and some high-pitched insect hum. I invited my wife out to share the moment, and I stood with her in my arms for perhaps half an hour. Some moments in life are sheer grace.
The cookies I baked on Monday, but the berries began ripening a week ago on the canes in my woods. We bought the land eight years ago, ignorant of the existence of the berries but I have enjoyed them every year since. As usual, I'll be away for part of their season, so I have invited a friend to pick what remains, but I have had a good run this year -- plenty to eat, enough to make a batch of jelly, and a couple quarts to give away.
For some reason, I enjoy picking the berries almost as much as I enjoy eating them. I guess there is a nostalgia factor -- my brothers and I picked a lot of berries as kids, and made a little money that way. I don't mind the scratches and the occasional hard stick with a thorn. I keep an eye out for poison ivy and groundhog holes and quietly go about my business. Generally, I pick alone and take pleasure in the solitude.
On Tuesday evening, after driving back from Baltimore in a terrific storm (including hail), I went out to pick about 8 o'clock. I wanted to get into the woods before dark, but everything was still wet, so I got soaked. Still, I gathered almost two quarts of large berries. I put them in the fridge and grabbed a quick shower and went outside again just as it was getting dark.
I stood on the deck and looked out at my backyard, surrounded with mature trees. The tree line in silouette loomed over the yard, and up from the tall wet grass the fireflies began to rise. They rose and rose until some reached the tops of the trees, perhaps 50 feet or more in the air. They stayed close to the trees because there was a light breeze that made it more difficult for them to navigate out in the open.
The result was spectacular. Every tree was lit with blinking lights, like a Christmas tree. There was the sound of the wind in the leaves and the running water in the stream and some high-pitched insect hum. I invited my wife out to share the moment, and I stood with her in my arms for perhaps half an hour. Some moments in life are sheer grace.
posted by Jimbo | 11:35 AM
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