Waxing Nostalgic – Woodsmoke and Cardamom

Phlox and Asters

It’s November now. The phlox and asters have long since ended their blooming season, and the time is fast approaching when the house will once again be filled with the heady scent of cardamom as Christmas bread rises and bakes. How the seasons swirl by, with one set of pleasure-to-the-senses melding into the next! One of my nieces asked me recently if I would be baking Christmas bread this year. “IF”?!?! It could hardly be Christmas if not!!! So, yes – of course!! And I can hardly wait to get started!

If you are among the fortunate souls who take great pleasure in the baking of homemade bread, you need no explanation for the joy it brings. If not, I will try to describe it as best I can.

It often begins with merely the delightful anticipation of the process itself! The gathering of the tools and ingredients, greasing of pans, seasoned to black from many years of use. Though my lovely black bread-tins are used only for our toast and sandwich bread, they are a precious treasure to me, handed down with love from my mama after her many years of baking for our family.

My bread-board, too, is a treasure I have used for many years, built by my dad, well-used by my mom.

My “canister” for flour is immense: 11″ tall, 9+” in diameter, holds the 10lbs of flour I buy at a time throughout the year. 25lbs at Christmas time won’t fit all at once, but it doesn’t take long to get through it!! And my lovely bread bowl that only comes out for Christmas bread (I use my bread-mixer the rest of the year)

flour “canister,” bread bowl and wooden spoon

I have always loved the scent of yeast, that conjures memories of my childhood home and Mama, baking bread in our cozy kitchen. From the moment the yeast hits the lukewarm water, I am transported to that kitchen and all the wonderful memories of the best childhood, filled with love and laughter.

Here is a link to the recipe for Christmas Bread, aka Swedish Coffee Bread:

https://wp.me/p2i29U-1D

And to circle back to the title of this post: another simple joy of my childhood, and the beginning of my lifelong love of these wildflowers, was the tiny not-quite-meadow of tall grasses, phlox and asters that grew between our yard and the next-door neighbor’s.

Christmas Memories

by Lucy M. Young

I would give everything I have or ever hope to have
If I could but return to yesteryear
And Christmas as it used to be when I was young
By ordinary standards we were poor.
But we didn't know it
Money was a very scarce commodity.
Not knowing what it was, we didn't miss it;
For we were truly rich beyond compare in all the things that matter
We had love and understanding,
Security from cold and hunger.
We were content with what we had.
Our world was beautiful, our happiness complete.
Our home was filled with so much love and Christmas spirit
That I can almost taste it even now.

We never made a Christmas list
Nor asked for any special thing.
But waited with such glad anticipation for Christmas morning
To find our home-made gifts beneath the tree,
And see the joy on the faces of our loved ones
When they received the things we'd made for them.

Memories come crowding back
Of snow and sparkling, starry nights;
The one large Christmas star which shone above the mountains
in the East
Bringing in the tree and trimming it;
The cold clean smell of balsam
Spicy smells of Christmas goodies baking in the kitchen,
Smiling faces, happy hearts, excited chatter;
Oyster stew on Christmas Eve;
Oranges and nuts and shiny red-cheeked apples;
Candy bags upon the branches of the tree;
Mother at the organ playing Christmas Carols
While we gathered 'round her singing joyously.

Santa Claus was just a pleasant character like Mother Goose
or Cinderella's fairy godmother.
We knew what Christmas really meant -
The birthday of our Lord.
We knew our gifts came from each other
In memory of His birth.

Dear Lord, I'd give all I possess
If I could just have one more Christmas as it used to be
With all the warmth and love and joy and peace
But I do thank you most sincerely for these precious memories
Of Christmas day at home so long ago.

The Hill

by Lucy M. Young

Up in the Northland far away
There's a long smooth hill at the foot of a mountain
Broad and steep, free of bushes and trees,
A perfect place to ski 

The mountain above it is beautifully clad
In fragrant balsam, fir, and pine,
Rough logging roads winding throughout

I skied for hours along those roads
Then at sunset, like a low-flying bird
I swooped down the hill toward home nestled snugly below
Aglow with lamplight welcoming me
To the love and security waiting therein.

The warmth of that memory stays with me
Brightening many a weary day
I pray that someone is skiing those trails
Feeling the joy and peace that I knew
In those long ago days of my youth.

March Snowstorm

by Lucy M. Young

All winter long we wished for snow,
  We children of the North;
Hopefully we scanned the skies,
  Perused the weather report.
The weather men predicted snow,
  But rain was what we got -
Dismal, dreary, icy rain,
  Our wishes were for naught.

Now it is March, the winter's gone,
  Spring flowers bloom everywhere;
And what is this I see without?
  Gay snowflakes fill the air!
The brown, bare ground has disappeared
  Beneath a soft, white spread;
The trees are dressed in fluffy lace,
  White icing decks my homestead.

I thank the Lord with all my heart
  For sending this late snowstorm
To hide the bleak, bare countryside,
  The brown earth to transform.
'Twill not last long, the sun will shine,
  The flowers will reappear;
The robins' songs will fill the air
  To tell us Spring is here.

Age Is Relative

by Lucy M. Young

They say that age is relative
  And I wonder what that means
As the days and years go flying by
  In an ever-changing scene.

My sight grows dim, my hearing dulls,
  My legs refuse to run;
I can no longer dance and ski,
  Or gambol in the sun.

Those days are gone forever;
  But deep inside of me
The happy memories linger on,
  My soul is young and free.

In fantasy I roam the woods,
  I dance the night away
With joyous abandon
  To the songs of a bygone day.

Yes, I guess that age is relative
  And I think I know now what it means:
'Though I may be approaching the century mark
  My heart is still in its teens.

photo by Joel Valve

Memories of Christmas

by Lucy M. Young

There was snow, always snow -
Crisp and creaky underfoot,
Gleaming silver in the moonlight,
Sparkling like crystals in the sun.

I recall the utter stillness of the night,
The vast star-studded sky,
And every year the Christmas star
Aglow above the eastern mountain
Just as it shone o'er Bethlehem so long ago.

I see my mother busy in the kitchen,
Christmas baking perfuming the air;
My father reading in the mellow lamplight
Beside a crackling fire;
My sisters whispering Christmas secrets,
So eagerly anticipating Christmas day.

Most of all I feel the steadfast love
That bound us all together;
The warm security of loving parents,
The peace and harmony and deep contentment
That filled our hearts with everlasting joy.



photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Going Home for Christmas

by Lucy M. Young

We're going home for Christmas
And I can hardly wait
For Mother will be waiting,
No matter if we're late.
For a lamp will burn in the window -
A beacon shining bright -
Mother always put it there
To guide us home at night.

Father will be standing
Beside the open door,
A happy smile upon his face
To welcome us once more.
Our little sister will be there -
The angels will let her leave
To be with us just one more time
This lovely Christmas Eve.

The laden tree will sparkle
In the firelight's cheerful glow,
And Mother will be playing 
Organ music soft and low.
We'll gather 'round her singing
The carols we all love;
Rejoicing that the Precious Babe
Was sent to us from above.

There will never be a Christmas
Like those our memories know
When we were all together
So many years ago;
But we're going home, down memory lane,
How wonderful it seems
To be going home for Christmas,
If only in my dreams.

Heart, Food, Comfort: A Family Tradition

https://wp.me/p2i29U-1D

Why “woodsmoke and cardamom?”

I read that “scent memory” is one of the strongest senses we have – even considered the “5th sense.” (Google scent memory for an interesting read) According to my own experience, yeah! And the scents of woodsmoke and cardamom have been, for me, particularly evocative of feelings of peace, contentment, security, and so much of the joy of my childhood – the time in my life when I was a true child, though I have never really grown up.

We had a fireplace in the livingroom of my childhood home – the home and fireplace lovingly built by my dad. Besides the obvious benefit of heat, a wood fire provides the very loveliest of fragrances that invariably seep into cushions, curtains and clothing – bonus!!! Tell me you don’t know someone who has a wood-burning stove or fireplace; the scent of smoke they carry with them is, to me, an additional element of their ID, their personality, persona. And that’s a good thing, IMHO (which opinion is, of course, part of this page)

My maternal grandmother and grandfather had a woodstove in their kitchen, both for cooking and for heat. (They also had a smaller oil stove in the kitchen for cooking in the warmer seasons). One of my dearest memories is the way Grandma would hang my wet mittens on the doors of the warming oven on top of her woodstove.

Cardamom is the spice used in the Swedish Coffee Bread (pictured above) my mom made for us every year for Christmas breakfast. As I recall, she made it only at Christmastime, so it has always been referred to in my family as “Christmas Bread” (yes, I’ll post the recipe soon!) For many years, since Mama passed away, I have continued the tradition of baking Christmas Bread for family and friends, and Oh! how wonderful the house smells during the baking days! I can’t imagine Christmas without it.

It is my intention to share poems, thoughts and observations that I hope will conjure in you, my Readers, similar feelings and happy memories. Your comments are welcome!