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.

tins and sifter

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
bread-mixer

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

asters

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.

Nostalgia

by Lucy M. Young

photo by Jukka Heinovirta on Unsplash
September with its various activities was my favorite month:
Going back to school with eagerness, anticipation and a little trepidation;
The smell of books and chalks and pencils;
Goldenrod along the roadsides;
Warm delightful days and cool crisp nights;
Stopping on the way from school at the potato field
Where father had been working all day long
Digging the winter store of white potatoes,
While the waiting horses stamped and neighed,
Impatient for their warm dry stalls
And their nightly ration of water, oats and hay;
Riding home on a lumpy wagon load of bagged potatoes;
Listening as they rolled and tumbled, rumbling into the waiting bin
       beneath the cellar window;
Gathering apples red-cheeked, crisp and juicy
To eat with popcorn on long winter evenings while mother read aloud
       our favorite books;
Bringing succulent plums - yellow, red and blue,
To mother to preserve for winter use;

Stepping from the chilly air into the steamy, lamplit kitchen
Redolent with the spicy smell of pickles simmering on the
       old black iron woodstove.
For supper there were baked sweet apples,
Mother's luscious brown bread,
And sweet fresh milk from our own Jersey cows;
Or hot soup from the last tomatoes in the garden,
With crusty home-made bread, hot from the oven,
Drenched with father's golden dairy butter.

And there were those lovely, lazy Saturdays -
Blue haze on the mountains,
A tapestry of red and gold and bronze spread across the countryside;
Clean air fragrant with the scent of frost-touched grass
       and burning leaves.

Those were the days.
Nothing can ever be so perfect as those happy, youthful days
        in retrospect.
There must have been cold, gloomy, rainy days of grumbling discontent,
But they have been forgotten,
Obliterated by the kindly hand of Time.
Recalling those lovely days of yesteryear I shed a tear or two
        of longing
For that long-lost past when I was young and life was good.
I breathe a prayer of thankfulness, however,
For these memories of home and loving parents;
And bless the Lord for giving me the golden opportunity
To live those joyous carefree days of yore.

Christmas Memories

by Lucy M. Young

photo by Anton Scherbakov on Unsplash
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.

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.

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!