It is 8.20am and the manboy sleeps high in the skybed while I sit in front of the fire, my fluffy robe and new slipper socks keeping me snug. I hope he wakes up soon so we can go to North Berwick and have adventures.
I had almost forgotten that I had signed on to take part in Ruth's "How I named my blog" day. If you visit her you will find a list of all the participating bloggers and Ruth's own story behind synch-ro-ni-zing.
The url for this blog is underthetonguerecipes because I love the sentiment of sensual mystery that it implies. Perhaps someday I will pen a cookbook with the same name.
The title of this blog, "Where there are no Chickadees," started with my first post back in February of 2006. I think I was homesick at the time, thinking about all the birds that migrate here from thousands of miles around, but how among all of those species, there would never be a chickadee. My life here is rich and wonderful, but I will always feel a sense of being "other." There will always be a gap where the chickadee would go.
Here is part of that first post. Be sure to pop over to Ruth's for more blog name stories, or consider writing your own.
I don't know the birds here. Small, brown bundles - not swallows, not sparrows. Their calls are all bubbles and springtime. Soon it will be morning in Canada. A girl, seven years old, will lie in her single wooden-framed bed and she'll hear the chickadees calling silk sounds into the cold snap air. Everything in the world will be tight with the freeze except for that sound, which is full and rich and sorrowful. She thinks she could hold that song in her cupped hands, let it swirl inside the flesh walls like a warm storm.
Through The Trees
1 hour ago