On resolving Angst
Aug 13th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas

So since the LightBrother/Uncle waved the white flag and cried “Uncle” (if you’ll pardon the pun). And since I cannot let my children or my nieces down … or let a family gathering go by without the requisite pancake breakfast, we breakfasted this morning on blueberry pancakes … made with … (dare I admit this publicly) Aunt Jemima’s mix that had been doctored. Yep … I caved … I did not have it in me to gather together all of the ingredients, when the box just called my name.

The pancakes were declared delicious (my nieces and children were horrified that the LightUncle could even consider it a family gathering without pancakes … but they are still willing to consider him a part of the family nonetheless) and there aren’t any left!!

Blueberry Pie – parte deux
Aug 12th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas

So here are some things about making a blueberry pie. First, you should not get greedy and want too many blueberries in it. I always do this. I follow the recipe on the back of the “Minute Tapioca” box which calls for 4 cups of blueberries … this never seems like quite enough. So I used about 5 and a half cups or so … maybe 6. However many were in 2 pints of blueberries.

If you are going to be greedy and use too many blueberries because 4 cups doesn’t seem like quite enough … DO NOT tip the pie plate when you’re pulling the aluminum foil off the bottom. At least don’t tip the plate for very long. Because here is what will happen: the fruit will spill OUT. Into a puddle. In the pan which you have carefully lined with said aluminum foil so that you won’t have to clean it (only now the aluminum foil is wadded up in your hand and the pan is full of a puddle of blueberry pie filling).

If you have done all of the above already … be sure that 18 years before this, you married someone calm and steady like LightHusband who very calmly and steadily says to you, “No problem, I’ll hold up one edge of the crust with a spatula and you can spoon the puddle back in. I know just the spatula … it’s that baby one hanging right there by your right hand.”

So I remembered to breath … and be kind to myself … and followed his instructions. And one side of the pie looks a little funny, but it will still taste good.

Blueberry Pie
Aug 12th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas

So I decided to make a blueberry pie this morning. My youngest brother and his family are coming tonight. He swears they’ll be here by dinner. I doubt it. But maybe. My mom and dad will be back here too. My dad loves blueberry pie. Okay … my dad loves pie … of any sort. Okay … my dad loves food … of any sort. Especially if I make it. I was in my early thirties before I realized that as the only daughter, I was the princess in our house … my dad hid it really, really well. And I’m pretty oblivious. Of course, I was married by then and couldn’t take advantage of the situation except in retrospect. Which was probably a good thing, because I tend to the devious. So, now when I’m with my dad I bake pies or cakes or something. He likes it and I enjoy his reaction.

I watch LightGirl and her father’s relationship and enjoy it. It’s been fun to watch it develop. It’s hard tho to keep myself out of it. I don’t do such a good job of that. One of the hardest things as a parent is to understand that your children are not you. Especially the children who are the same gender as you. That their relationships with their parents are different from yours with your parents … because your children have different parents (you). In fact, everything is different. Which seems like it should be so obvious and it is … and … yet … it isn’t. And then you have to start to watch them make the same mistakes you did and cringe knowing how hard it will be to learn those lessons. Wishing you could just pass that knowledge to them, like a piece of blueberry pie.

Pancake Angst
Aug 11th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas

So … I first wrote the post below a little over a month ago. I never posted it because I was too proud and didn’t want to admit how vain I am in this public forum. But I’ve lost some of my patina now. AND … my brother has caved. He’s wimped out. And not even to my face. He called my mother and whined that it’s just too hard to make pancakes for 14 people anymore, so he’ll take care of breakfast on Sunday. Loser!

So … read on and you’ll understand …

For the second time my pancake formula has failed! This is the second time in a row. I know that might not mean much to you … and at any other time of the year I might just shrug it off. But at this time of the year … with the impending annual pancake cookoff with my brother at our camp in Vermont … the timing is … well … rather critical. It’s causing knots in my stomach. I might just lose this year. That’s never happened before. Mostly because even tho my brother uses buttermilk, he also cheats and uses Aunt Jemima mix … pooh. Who needs a mix?! Not I … said the purist. Especially the purist who would rather use her limited brain cells for memorizing pancake recipes than for (ohhh … say) the preamble to the Declaration of Independence. After all what’s more important??

Here’s a deeply held secret that most of my friends don’t know. My family knows this, but most of my friends do not. I’m ferociously competitive. It’s why I don’t play games (like Monopoly or Scrabble) … because I’m not a good loser or a good winner either. I’m mean. I play to win and only to win or … I get bored and start distracting everyone with silly stories. But in either case it’s no fun for anyone if I’m at the table during a game. In fact, our little family almost didn’t happen because of a vicious fight during a game of Trivial Pursuit way back in the beginning of time. But LightHusband is gracious and forgiving.

All of that is to say that I take this annual pancake cookoff fairly seriously. My brother does not. He knows how to play for fun. He does things like put peaches in his pancakes. Who would do something that risky during a cook off?? The LightBrother/Uncle looks around the kitchen and goes with his bliss … not me. I go for straight up pancakes … or at best … Blueberry pancakes.

I don’t mess around. And … the completely unbiased judges have thus far awarded first place to me each and every year. The judges just happen to be LightGirl and LightBoy … but don’t tell anyone. The Camp Queen (mother to my brother and I) likes my pancakes better too, but she’s not allowed to say so because she took that vow of maternal impartiality back before the beginning of time. My father just likes pancakes … he doesn’t discriminate. He can’t be relied upon for accurate information. He eats too many, too fast, and uses too much syrup – but you didn’t hear that from me. Our other brother likewise does not discriminate but it’s different with him. I’m not sure how. He likes both of us … he’s the youngest and he wants to be in both of our good graces or something like that. The Outlaws (the spouses of all of us) wisely do not participate in the judging and my brother’s children are too young to judge yet. My guess is that when they become old enough, we will griddle to a draw. Maybe by then I’ll be old enough to find the fun in all of it, let go of the competitive edge and put peaches in my pancakes for a change. Or how about strawberries?

Picture of the Day
Aug 11th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas

Runner Up Pictures
Aug 11th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas

This is a series …

Wind
Aug 11th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas

The boats are all askance this morning. There is no wind. You can tell which direction the wind is blowing because the boats in the cove line up behind it like soldiers. Except when there is no wind. Then they fall out and hang around talking with each other.

Poetry Thursday – Laux
Aug 11th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas

Break
Dorianne Laux

We put the puzzle together piece
by piece, loving how one curved
notch fits so sweetly with another.
A yellow smudge becomes
the brush of a broom, and two blue arms
fill in the last of the sky.
We patch together porch swings and autumn
trees, matching gold to gold. We hold
the eyes of deer in our palms, a pair
of brown shoes. We do this as the child
circles her room, impatient
with her blossoming, tired
of the neat house, the made bed,
the good food. We let her brood
as we shuffle through the pieces,
setting each one into place with a satisfied
tap, our backs turned for a few hours
to a world that is crumbling, a sky
that is falling, the pieces
we are required to return to.

Heaven
Aug 10th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas


So we’re having a good vacation … fishing for those who like to fish, swimming for those who like to swim, porch sitting for me. My parents were here yesterday evening and most of today. They’ll be back for the weekend and my brothers and their families will be joining us. But here’s the real fly in the ointment … my friends back in Virginia aren’t here. That’s the real problem. I’m only with them during the humdrum of daily life. I don’t get to share the fun of vacation with them. And I’m missing them all pretty badly. I said as much to LightHusband. He says that’s what heaven is. It’s not about pearly gates, gold streets, and crowns with jewels … it’s when we get to spend eternity with God and all our friends.

Aviation Engineering
Aug 10th, 2005 by aBhantiarna Solas

So I wonder … do aviation engineers study pictures like this when they’re designing helicopters and things?

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