where there are no chickadees

And it's goodbye from me

2011-06-20T10:45:00.000+01:00

Hello you.
Alas my blogging days are at an end for now. With my mind and creative energy on other things, I'm closing up shop on both of my blogs.

Thankfully I have google reader to dive into your bloggy lives whenever I want, and I have no doubt I will eventually reemerge in blogland under another guise.

I have started a wee email list if you would like to be notified when I have shed my virtual skin and stand again on a new patch of internet real estate. Just email me at scotland4thesenses@gmail.com and include "Sophia's email list" in the subject line. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

You are made of awesome.

Peace, love and haggis,

Sophia

Cake. More Cake. Even more cake.

2011-05-20T21:26:00.001+01:00

A cake club is a brilliant idea. A big group of strangers bake cakes and bring them to a predetermined location. They stand around in a jittery mob as the cakes are lined up on a long counter.

They face the land of cakes, waiting and waiting for the moment of permission, that glorious moment when they are told the slicing and devouring can begin.

One baker has made a cake she has dubbed "the tower of sin." The crowd is noticeably thicker on the side of the room that is closest to this sweet monster.

Even when the first slices are piled onto small plates and the forks are made busy with stabbing and scooping, everyone still stands close to the cakes, ready to refill as soon as possible when plates are empty.

Time passes, more slices are eaten. People slow down, find a seat, aren't so quick to rush to cut another piece. The sugar buzz takes over their minds. They look at each other with dopey half grins, these strangers drunk on cake.

Good times, this whole cake business. Good times.

35 Things

2011-05-02T19:38:00.002+01:00

Every year on our birthdays, my curvaceous Canadian friend and I compile a list. Between one birthday and the next we must do as many new things as years that we have been alive. The idea is that this will help us to challenge ourselves,to keep our minds open to new horizons and experiences.

Yesterday I turned 36 and I emailed my list of 35 things to my friend. Looking at it I am quite pleased. It gives me a wonderful sense of abundance, looking at all of these adventures in one place.

Here is my list. Now to get started with 36 things.

1. Visited largest Buddhist temple in Western Europe
2. Moved in with my Scotsman
3. Went to Tentsmuir Point Nature Reserve, where we saw no seals.
4. Visited Alloway and saw the bridge from Robert Burns’ Tam O’ Shanter
5. Went to The Royal Highland Show
6. Visited Abbotsford, home of Sir Walter Scott
7. Stranded in Seattle overnight after missing our flight back to Canada
8. Visited Melrose Abbey
9. Visited ruins of Dunure Castle
10.Visited Paisley Abbey
11. Took an open-top bus tour of London
12. Got half way through P90x. Injured myself, quit.
13. Went to the huge beach at Lunan Bay
14. Cooked Rhumblethumps
15. Went to my first private dining club - Charlie and Evelyn’s Table
16. Saw the last surviving oak tree in Birnam Wood
17. Visited The Hermitage in Perthshire
18. Made haggis wontons with whisky mayonnaise
19. Saw inside of Edinburgh University’s anatomy theatre
20. Attended Edinburgh Secret Society events
21. Saw the play The Hard Man at the Kings Theatre
22. Rode London Tube in party frock and huge hat
23. Attended Princess Anne’s birthday garden party at Buckingham Palace
24. Had a drink in the officers' mess at Edinburgh Castle
25. Attempted sticky gingerbread cake
26. Attended several “It’s Good to Give” fundraising afternoon teas
27. Had a drink in what is thought to be Scotland’s oldest pub, The Sheep Heid Inn
28. Walked part of the Fife Coastal Trail
29. Walked in Roslin Glen
30. Saw Darren Brown at The Playhouse Theatre
31. Saw the play The Haunted at the King’s
32. Weekend in Cambridge
33. Visited Isle of May
34. Saw my first puffin
35. Got engaged to my Scotsman!

Sorry? Are you mocking me, Scotland?

2011-04-18T11:25:00.000+01:00

After nearly six years, it is rare that I have to ask a Scottish person to repeat himself when speaking. But I’ve just returned from my local butcher, where I had to resort to my confused “sorry?” response on three separate occasions during the short time it took me to by beef strips and chicken fillets.

When I’m out and about (or oot and aboot, as it were), I can feather my Canadian accent with a bit of a lilt, thereby allowing me to blend in enough so I don’t get asked where I’m from. I like this - blending in.

But when I am making a right idiot of myself, either not understanding something or when I need directions, I switch to naïve Canadian mode, wedging my accent so firmly into the “I’m not from here” corner that people will assume I’m either just arrived or a tourist. I don’t know why I do this. I suppose it’s another way of making myself forgettable. Let people draw a quick assumption and have it over. And so my dance of social awkwardness continues.

Every since my beloved and I have been discussing the idea of moving back to Canada, Scotland has been mocking me. The clocks have changed and suddenly the world is filled with light, blossoms and of all things, THE SUN.

The fields are green, the air is sweet, and the warmth pushes through me like it is trying to erase every memory of the horrible winter that just passed, when I was listless and depressed for months.

One of my work colleagues said something that is weighing on me. He said I underestimate my attachment to this place. I wonder if I do. If we leave, it will be very hard for me to come back. Not just the starting from scratch yet again, but all the cost and applications that would be required. I have moved many times in my life and the desire for a porch and a hammock is replacing my once irrepressible nomadic itch.

This two countries thing is difficult. No matter what you choose, there will be a void on the other side which you cannot reach to fill. It will always be there, and all your beautiful memories will both shine and cut like glass.

In the meantime, Scotland mocks me. Sigh. Oh well. When in doubt, cake.

Jams from Florida!

2011-03-27T17:06:00.000+01:00

I love surprises. I love it when things arrive in the post from far away. Wonderful colourful things that make me giddy and squishy all at once.

Friday afternoon at work my colleague brought me a parcel, which I assumed was from a customer returning some DVDs for exchange. But it wasn’t! It was just for me, all the way from Florida.

This past winter was tough for me. It seemed like it would go on forever and I’m still trying to squeeze myself out of my shell. My lovely blogger friend Karen decided to cheer me up by sending me five of the most delightful tropical-inspired jams. Wee pots of mango jam and even a pina colada jam and a chocolate and raspberry.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed that people can be so kind and thoughtful, giving to others without asking for anything in return.

These made my week. I’ve tried both the mango and the pina colada. The mango has a hint of spicy underneath the sweet tang and the soft fragrance of the pina colada would be the perfect sandwiched between two layers of sponge.

I love how an entirely different sensual world can arrive on your doorstep through the post. The scents and flavours from someone else’s country, city, town, house. It’s one of the reasons I’ve always loved hosting giveaways on my other blog - just the idea of having someone unwrapping a little piece of Scotland and all the joy and excitement they experience.

What was the best surprise gift you received in the post?

Why watching property shows with a Scotsman is so entertaining

2011-03-23T19:07:00.000Z

“A recently refurbished semi - that’s like me coming out of the shower.” JP

Comic Relief

2011-03-20T21:10:00.000Z

Thank you Neil for sharing this - it made my Sunday afternoon.

Two countries, countless questions

2011-03-19T11:03:00.001Z

What a strange wee time we’ve had over the last week or two. It’s all a blur. Discussions. So many discussions. About what we’re doing. About where we’re going. About the future.

We live in Scotland. In May I will have lived here for six years. We both work and we rent a one-bedroom flat in Edinburgh. Financially, we get by, but we don’t get ahead. Like many people every time something extra tries to squeeze its way into our limited budget, it stresses us out. Any other projects have to work around, well, work.

My beloved and I are similar in that we always need to feel that we are moving forward, creating, building. And at the moment neither of us feel that way.

We go to work, come home, repeat. In between we struggle to do the things we love, like travel or even go to the theatre. I write my Scotland blog but I don’t earn any money from it and I am nervous about wading into those waters.

My job has a lot of weird, enjoyable elements to it, which is why I’ve been there for so long. But after five years I can realistically say there is no path to job advancement - it’s just not going to happen. JP doesn’t like his job at all.

This winter we both suffered a terrible case of in-a-rut blues. It was my worst winter since living in Scotland. All of my tourism junkie enthusiasm just dried up and I’ve been waiting and waiting for it to come back again. Part of it has, but not in the same way. Something is different.

All of this rambling to say that a big part of our discussions have been about the possibility of moving. Back to Canada.

Before you get excited, this is not a done deal. I have a rather grand trip pencilled in to Africa in the autumn, which is important to me because I feel if I don’t go now I’ll never go. But come the new year, we’ll be examining our options again and asking ourselves what kind of a life we could build in Scotland vs. British Columbia. Weigh out the pros and cons and whatnot.

Right now I feel like I’m in a bit of a cloud. Certainly the idea of change has given us both a boost. For awhile we where also dancing with the idea of moving flats here in Edinburgh, but we have now set that aside due to it being so bloody expensive and the likelihood it would land us in a wad of debt. We’ve got enough debut looming on the horizon with travel plans and whatnot.

In the meantime we will be turning out attention to earning/saving money. If we can turn the drudgery of it into an adventure perhaps it will feel less painful.

Life is weird. Someone share with me: what kind of life have you at one time or another (or now!) dreamt of building for yourself? Did you accomplish what you wanted? Did you feel like you settled for something less that you desired? What makes you feel successful?

Nearly one year on, we begin with cake

2011-03-06T21:20:00.000Z

Hello you,

I shake you by the hand. I give you a little cuddle. I invite you to try one of these little cakes. The little chocolate pot filled with raspberries and cream is particularly nice.

It has been nearly a year since I rambled on this here chickadees blog. I have been trying to decide what it should be.

Should it be a blog about creepy staring goats?

Should it be about how Scottish bird life keeps time?

Perhaps I could focus entirely on tartan footwear suitable for festival season.

Or maybe all my photos will be entitled “the view from here.” In this case, Arthur’s Seat.

No, I don’t think so. What I think is this blog will just go back to where it started, as a little place where my friends and family can check in when they fancy and just see what’s going on.

For example, my manboy and I are living together. He has given up his job of eight years and moved to Edinburgh. It is the most natural thing to live with him. He makes me laugh like no one else, and eats whatever I put in front of him, including tonight’s rather odd dinner of pink fish balls in spicy lentil gravy. Not quite as fantastic as the haggis wontons with whisky mayonnaise, but it hit the spot.

This little introduction is just to say hello again. Regular or irregular updates of our wee life in Edinburgh will follow.

Squeeze.

A view to a "no chickadees" break

2010-05-05T15:28:00.000+01:00

The view from my window in Edinburgh includes these lovely trees in full blossom. What you don’t see are the cars and buses and the people walking below my window, or the garish tangle of playground equipment in the park across the street.

The view from JP’s flat in Greenock is much more grandiose. It extends across the River Clyde to the hills beyond. The sunset turns everything golden, creating a sense of calm and making the gulls look more like graceful gliders than sit-aiming scavengers.

I’m going to pause this blog for some time. I don’t know how long. Since spring officially sprung, my hobby as a tourism geek has been taking up more time, and I realize that all I am doing for the chickadees blog is posting the occasional photo or update. I don’t have any passion for it right now so it is best to leave it until I decide what, if anything, I want to use it for.

I’ve been trying to do too much all at once and have just managed to fall ill for the third time in less than two months. I need to chill out, pluck out things to make my priority. Since I take such pleasure in writing about Scotland, I’m going to stick with that and leave this blog at the back of the cyber closet.

Just wanted you to know that this blog will not be regularly updated for the foreseeable future, so you can adjust your subscriptions as necessary. Perhaps I'll see you in the autumn. Until then, I'm still at Scotland for the Senses. Happy blogging, everyone.

Big, choked-up, flu-ridden love,

Sophia
xx

Ever get the feeling someone is watching you?

2010-04-29T08:39:00.003+01:00

April raw food potluck

2010-04-25T16:50:00.004+01:00

Oh it was good. It was very, very good. There are some new people in our group who are very talented at mixing flavours. One couple brought a walnut based pâté that none of us could get enough of.

The same couple brought this amazing cake with a nut base and raw strawberry jam (strawberries blended with some goji berries) and fresh strawberries on top.

More cake came from another new member. Most newbies bring a salad their first time, but she went all out and created a raw chocolate&blueberry cheezecake using cashews. Rich and delicious.

Other treats included:

- Mixed salads with wonderful dressings

-A "stir raw" made with bean sprouts and a thai-inspired sauce, topped with not-fried mushrooms that had been marinated and dehydrated.

-My favourite savoury (besides the pâté): raw nori rolls made with sprouts and mushrooms.

That's it until next month's potluck, but I have the recipe for the pâté so I shall be making that for myself. I'm still going back and forth between eating a high raw diet and falling off the wagon and into the bread basket. The potlucks help to inspire me to try new things, and it's great to meet with people who are so enthusiastic about food.

Sweet, sweet spring and puppy excellence

2010-04-24T23:04:00.000+01:00

There is something happening to my nose. Either the world is smelling better than ever or the hoover on my face has increased its olfactory powers.

Today I was out and about in Bo’ness, near where I used to live in Linlithgow. Walking around the grounds at Kinneil Estate, I was drunk on the sweetness in the air. The trees were filled with birdsong and the world seemed to pulse with life.

It used to say I was a staunch autumn woman, in love with the slowing pace and syrupy scent of death from the fallen leaves. But every year that passes in Britain (My 5 year anniversary is in one week, on my birthday), I am falling more in love with spring.

Green is once again taking over. The world is becoming soft and lush and it makes me remember not to fault all the rain that falls on Scotland throughout the year, especially the winter. Without the water, the world would not look the way it did today, like Eden.

Another highlight was meeting my bloggy friend Jayne and her gorgeous puppies. I loved Max the Whippet immediately, with his beautiful coat, big dreamy eyes and fondness for cuddling, not to mention the glorious floppy puppy ears that don’t know what they’re doing. Pip the jack russel could stare you down until you relinquished whatever it was you were withholding - a walk, a biscuit, her ball. She is relentless and very bouncy.

It was a good day. Tomorrow I am hosting my first raw food potluck. Up to 15 raw foodists in my little flat, which I have yet to clean. Wish me luck.

That pre-work feeling

2010-04-20T22:46:00.001+01:00

I don't know where the last five days have gone. Friday was pretty much spent in a mire of self-pity. Since Saturday I have been in Greenock with my honey. Back to work tomorrow.

I am glad I was stuck over here and not in Paris with the thousands of other stranded holiday makers trying to make it back over to Britain. I still have two long weekends in May to look forward to, although I won't be making it to Paris because JP and I have already planned some road trips.

To work tomorrow. A busy few days followed by a busy weekend. Oh, and I have been watching far too many property shows. I am desperate to buy a flat, a place JP and I can all our own. But that won't happen for a few years yet.

Retail and dessert therapy, Gorgie style

2010-04-16T16:53:00.001+01:00

Thanks so much for the buckets of sympathy regarding my cancelled holiday. I am nursing my cold and have ventured just far enough from home today to partake in some retail therapy in the area of Edinburgh where I live, Gorgie.

Gorgie is teeming with hair salons, take aways, convenience stores and charity shops. Barnardo's is my favourite charity shop because they have the best selection of used books. I managed to pick up this lovely hardcover book about Glencoe for just £2.

Last December Gorgie finally got a bit of culinary class when a proper patisserie opened up. Today I thought if I can't go to Paris, I may as well visit a baker who is constantly inspired by the pastry chefs in France. I present Patisserie Jacob's chocolate ganache tartlet, and a prune tart with a caramelized top and swirl of meringue.

My beloved has taken an extra day off and I am going to his place tomorrow. Have a great weekend, everyone.

Seeking options after another ruined holiday

2010-04-15T19:15:00.001+01:00

So much for the big plan. My first weekend getaway to the continent. The flight to Paris has been cancelled, and now five days off work stretches before me, with no plans.

I have looked up options like taking the train to cambridge, which is too expensive. The bus takes 12 hours, which would kill me.

I could try to take the train and ferry to Belfast, but then I would be in Belfast by myself, wondering what on earth to do.

If I drove and had a car, I would just go, maybe up north or maybe down to England. Anywhere. I miss that freedom that came with driving. There are folks I know from work but not a close friend I feel I can ring up and say "hey, my week has turned out crap; want to go for tea somewhere?" Everyone already has somebody.

When life disappoints me I fall a long way into a dark hole, and it takes me awhile to dig myself back out. I'm pliable but not springy, like dough. Eventually I'll rise again but it takes time.

Silent Sunday: Single Occupancy

2010-04-11T20:12:00.000+01:00

Skies over Scotland

2010-04-07T21:03:00.000+01:00

Taken from the window of the Costa Coffee on Princes Street last week - the Scottish Saltire above Edinburgh Castle. Not the best photo in the world but I still love it.

In other random news, The Band of the Coldstream Guards are up for a Classical Brit Award for their album, Heroes. They are performing at the Tattoo in Edinburgh this summer and it would be grand if they won. If you fancy voting for one of Britain's oldest regiments to win, you can do so here: http://www.classicalbrits.co.uk/

Only 9 more sleeps until I fly off to Paris for a weekend with my friend Seasonn. Giddy? Just a little.

She's lovin' her green juice, oh yeah

2010-04-02T00:57:00.001+01:00

Boy is it late. Or is it early?

But I’m feeling good. I have recovered from my rant in the last post and am surrounded by the calm influence of green juice in my veins.

All week I have stuck to a high raw food diet and I feel wonderful. My mood has totally lifted and I have discovered that by drinking a freshly made glass of vegetable juice in the morning, my blood sugar stays stable and the only thing I need to eat before lunch is a piece of fruit. Even when I get hungry, it is like my body doesn’t really care. This mellow body feeling has been lasting all day. From one glass of juice! I can eat a light lunch and dinner and my body is totally at ease. No desperate feeling for salt or sugar - nothing.

It’s so strange because even though all that life stress is still there, it has somehow been removed from me and is instead skulking around an invisible barrier that sits about a foot or so away from my skin. What a difference this has made.

Along with the veggie juices (I generally use cucumber as a base, then add whatever else I have on hand, like an apple or two, a couple of carrots, a stick of celery, a handful of spinach, a nub of gingerroot and maybe a few radishes), I have been having a grapefruit everyday, and some avocado as well. I am aiming to get plenty of vitamin C in my diet as apparently this is a mood booster, and I want every kind of mood booster I can get.

Thanks for all your comments, which helped with my dilemma over what to buy/eat. I have downloaded a free seasonal food guide for Scotland and will be using it to try and get the most out of the local fresh veggie scene, but for some foods I will still be putting my nutritional needs first and eating what my body needs, even if it wasn’t grown here.

Hooray! To celebrate, if you would like to see some photos of some baby highland cows, click here.

Happy Easter weekend!

A rant about health care and the question: Local or raw/organic?

2010-03-28T21:12:00.007+01:00

Oh my, is JP ever going to regret giving me Food Inc. to watch. Because since I watched that on Friday night, I’ve bounced over to Raw for 30 Days and other videos like the amazing FoodMatters and another called Healing Cancer from the Inside Out.

Nothing will make you want to become a vegan like sitting down and watching all of these films. And nothing will make you so frustrated when you think about people who you love who have died of cancer and other illnesses while under the “care” of conventional medicine.

Today is Renee’s birthday. Renee was a blogger who recently died of stage 4 inflammatory breast cancer that had spread to her stomach and other parts of her body. During her final weeks and days her daughter used her mom's blog to update people on Renee's condition. Renee was a kind and vibrant woman in the middle of her life and instead of health she died long, painful, suffering-filled death.

I remember a while back a post on her blog, sometime after “the bats” in her stomach (this is how she described the feeling) had kicked into high gear and this was making it difficult for her to keep food down. There was something about how she couldn’t even keep down yogurt. And now I think to myself: what on earth is a woman with cancer doing eating yogurt or milk products of any kind, when cancer loves nothing more than to eat up all those milk sugars and grow and grow and grow.

My grandmother, who suffers from COPD, is now on a host of medications that treat a list of ailments. I know that changing her diet to one high in raw vegetables and green juices, while also eliminating dairy, caffeine and wheat, would greatly improve her quality of life. Yet I also know that it will never happen. Because change is hard, and her habits are utterly ingrained in her mind.

Where the hell is the nutritional counselling in our western medical system? It’s terrible enough that someone you care about should suffer, but it is worse to know how that suffering could have been reduced or even alleviated with a change in diet.

Problem # 2: Local vs. organic or raw.

I am involved with both the local raw food club and the Edinburgh Slow Food group. The raw food movement includes lots of fresh fruits and veggies, nuts, seeds and freshly made green juices. The problem is that most of the foods that I need for this raw food diet are not grown locally, or even in the UK. If they are organic they are often shipped from even further away. The only time that I can get fresh, locally grown greens is in the summer (with the exception of Scottish kale) and fruit is certainly restricted to the high season. In the winter there are root vegetables, but those aren’t as good raw, and too many cooked potatoes make me feel unwell.

My body loves me when I eat a diet that is high in foods like lettuce, tomatoes, and spinach, however I can’t get those locally for most of the year.

What I can get locally all year round is a lot of meat, dairy products and bread, none of which my body likes in any quantity and all of which I know are bad for my hormone health and PCOS symptoms.

So what do I do? Eating lots of fresh, raw veggies and fruit is the way to good health, but if you live in a northern climate, it also means you are contributing to global warming because all your food is being flown in from abroad.

Sorry this is so long. I just needed to ramble and vent. Anyone have any thoughts on any of this?

March raw food potluck

2010-03-21T18:06:00.003Z

Today was one of the best potlucks our group has had, with an amazing selection of goodies from savoury to desserts. I made my tropical fruit tart with mango puree, which I've made before but always goes down a storm. Also, I whipped up some brazil nut and sundried tomato "cheeze" and some pistachio pesto.

There was the most enormous, beautiful salad with fresh dill and veggies of all kinds, including beets and cucumber that had been done on a special mandolin to cut them out and make them extra pretty. There was a raw carrot cake and even raw falafel that had all the flavours of the cooked variety. As well, there was a slightly spicy sweet potato dish, a salad with avocado, tomato and basil, loads of sprouts, the most glorious mango salsa and tasty seed crackers.

It was the first time I got to try buckwheaties, which are sprouted buckwheat that have been dehydrated. They are just like a breakfast cereal and perfect with a bit of nut milk or cream, and some dried fruit on top.

My favourite thing of the day were these gorgeous little tomato and fennel tarts, which had a base that included some seeds and some nuts I think. They were just so flavourful and looked so posh. If I had a bigger kitchen and could fit in a dehydrater, this would be the kind of thing I would try to make, along with my own crackers.

Not to be forgetting the beautiful raw chocolate cake, which had pecans in the base and the best thing of all, a layer of raspberry cream (made with almonds). One of the wee foodies got his fist into the cake - my favourite photo of the day. With all the desserts there were a lot of nuts in the dishes, but none of us eat so many of them on a regular basis so as a special treat it was fine.

Next month I am hosting the potluck for the first time. I'm a bit nervous but it should be okay. I've never done another stint of completely raw since last year when I lasted two weeks. But now that spring is here I feel ready to increase the percentage of raw food I am eating.

For now I shall leave you staring at a few plates of deliciousness. Enjoy!

Chocolate Absinthe Masks

2010-03-20T15:21:00.002Z

Today I took a special journey to The Chocolate Tree, treated myself to a sit-down with a cup of loose-leaf English Breakfast tea and a beautiful piece of chocolate cake that was layered with the most glorious ganache.

So. Very. Good.

And these wee darlings, which are currently my favourite chocolate creation available in Edinburgh. There is something mysterious about them, and while I only buy them occasionally, sometimes they call to me until I make the trip to Bruntsfield to buy some.

I cannot describe them better than their creators:

"A curious blend of high quality french absinthe, fresh cream and dark chocolate result in a lusciously smooth and slightly mind bending flavour."

Raw food club tomorrow. I am making my tropical fruit tart and plan to churn some raw cocoa nibs into the base. For a savoury dish I'm thinking of a sundried tomato brazil nut cheeze on cucumber and tomato stacks.

Untouchable

2010-03-19T22:04:00.003Z

Sometimes I am untouchable, even when your stone face stares up at me and you drop your words like flat rocks on water. You aim at my heart but miss, miss again. Subconsciously you see yourself missing, see me not moving yet dodging every throw. The thing is, I can whisk myself away to a place you cannot visit. I watch you in your square room while I am dancing over here like a round thing, grass under my feet.

The antidote is in these words, and the knowledge that one day the stopper will be pulled on all the things you are trying so hard to hold in. You stack your definitions like a tower of socks before the great eternal funnel, because if you let them go, let them pass, you know you will be washed away with them. Everything - all those lies knitted into in your perfectly framed life- crumpling like trees in a mudslide.

The pain, when it comes, will be immense. There is no reason to pretend it won’t be. This is the plaster you have left to fester on your skin rather than face the task of pulling it off. Death pulls everything off, and I think deep down you know this. This is why you cannot touch me - because I recognize this terrible fear in your eyes - the fear of eventual disuse and annihilation.

Imagine standing and having unseen hands grab hold of your skin and strip you like a willow. It will be like this, when it comes. The best thing any of us can do up to that point is to wiggle around, get to know ourselves so well that we become loose, so the process is less painful or even strangely pleasurable. I think of you on that day, fearful as a child, your skin clinging tight around you like scar tissue over an old wound. Oh it will hurt, so much. I know it will.

It’s strange to watch you, looking at me like I am some kind of dirt you wish you could scrape off your shoe, and know I can do nothing. I can’t even warn you, because it would be like throwing a rubber ball against concrete. So I just stay untouchable, move over here and wiggle myself a little. Get loose, ready for freedom.

A heightened state of deliciousness

2010-03-14T23:22:00.000Z

Today was the day. Today was the day I spent all afternoon in my kitchen, blissfully free in bare feet and with the living room window open, cool air kissing around my legs as my long skirt swished and moved.

Today spring was like a voice in my head, the one that talks with a rhythm spun out on gypsy jazz, all bouncy nonsense and playful lisps.

Spring and autumn are my most sensually extravagant times. In the fall I go mad for plums and the first of the root vegetables. All of my body seems to gravitate to my hips and legs, those pillars that are heavy on the earth, intimate with its lumbering ways. But in the spring I’m all toes and fingers and buzzing brain. When that sun finally finds its way into me I am like a newborn thing, fresh and wide open to every passing scent and sight.

Yesterday I shopped. I bought bright things: a pink shirt, a purple one, one with red roses, a blue bra, a little white sweater. The air was cool but the sun was out and as warm as I have felt it in forever, so I swung my shopping bags and sashayed from store to store. Today I dyed my hair a little blonder, looked in the mirror to see my blue eyes glow just a little brighter.

Tomorrow my beloved visits and I wanted to prepare something that exudes my current heightened state of deliciousness. A collaboration of many, many good things. So I have cooked up a traditional lasagne, made the rich tomato sauce, simmered it long and slow with garlic, onions, carrot, torn pieces of salty prosciutto, a good dash of white wine and a massive handful of fresh, soft, fragrant basil. The ragu alone took three steps and plenty of cooking, and when it was finished I alternated between squeals of excitement and groans of pleasure. Oh, it is good.

The lasagne waits to be baked, gorgeous strips of mozzarella and the rest of the prosciutto tossed around atop the creamy white sauce that covers the pasta. Forty minutes in the oven and if the aroma does not seduce my Scotsman, then my kitchen witch days are numbered.

For dessert I have made mousse chocolat, a Green and Black’s dark chocolate wonder with a slosh of French brandy. For now they also sit in the fridge, bittersweet clouds drawn down from their formations and piled into wine glasses.

Oh my, spring is here. Mmmmm…tangy.

Pulse and shudder (Music therapy: Rodrigo y Gabriela - Ixtapa)

2010-03-10T22:22:00.004Z

Take the first song you hear and make yourself at home, all that languid hope lost on strings and rhythmic vibrations. Pretend you live in a place that is both old and saturated with sunlight. The kind of place where lemon trees grow in the front gardens of old ladies who dress in black and wear head scarves. They bicker like all the other old ladies in the world, except they have lemon trees in their gardens and their feet know the arch and angle of every cobble on their street.

This afternoon as I was walking home my head was caught in a cloud of scent. Lilacs, as if suddenly I was about to crash into a mountain of them, pollen raining down and staining my skin and clothes. But when I looked I saw only a small plant inside a grocery bag which was being carried by the woman in front of me. I thought: I want to be as bold as that plant, issuing such an exuberant pulse into the world that doesn’t expect it.

Think of kissing strangers just as they are on the brink of a decision, then stepping back and watching everything they have ever been slip from their expressions. They can’t remember where they are, who they have been, what they were thinking. They can only feel the breath that has left their lungs and the ghost of your lips on theirs. Leave them before they find their way back to themselves. Store up those strange, blissful manifestations. Know that periodically throughout their lives, they will remember that moment as if it were some porthole to themselves that they haven’t found since.

I can’t remember the last time I was barefoot outside. I think it has been cold forever, even though the sun blazed into my eyes as I walked down Princes Street and resisted crossing and going into the bookstore. Even though there are tiny flowers poking up through the grass in the park and the teenage boys are starting to venture out in t-shirts, their hands dug deep into their pockets as they pull their shoulders forward and attempt to create warmth inside the curves of their chests.

No, I can’t stop thinking about a land of olives and sundried tomatoes and fruit that squishes juice almost as soon as you touch it. Somewhere you can still feel the warmth in the stones of the buildings all the way until the evening, until eventually the night pulls the last of it out like the final little shudder after an orgasm. The one that makes your whole body relax and sends you off to sleep.

People keep telling me spring is coming. But it isn’t enough. I need to be filled with the sun, bathed in it, turned over in it until not one inch of my skin remains cool to the touch. I want to be like the Lilac, like the stones in the evening. A giant pulse, a little shudder. Bliss.

New Universe

2010-03-02T21:57:00.002Z

My life gets weirder

2010-02-28T11:00:00.002Z

Gee, what did you do this weekend, Sophia?

Not much. Farmers' Market, bit of cooking. Oh, and I wandered around the city taking photos of a sock monkey.

And you? What did you get up to?

A collection of random pretty things

2010-02-27T14:32:00.000Z

A poem I don't remember writing

2010-02-26T20:12:00.000Z

*found this today. Written a few years ago to beloved friends of mine.

I miss you so much

I would snuggle down in those words
if it wasn't 30 degrees
So I've put them in the freezer
Every once in awhile
I take them out
and give them a lick
There is a hint of saskatoon
and full moon first frost
stirred with rosehips and honey.
Tasted individually
The I holds the metallic purity of an icicle
snapped
from where it was hanging from the roof
of a lonely (but snug) cabin.
Both M's are all berry bliss
the sun finding a way to drip and swell.
I have to linger over ss
to coax out the cinnamon
the autumn waiting
bees tucking away their stings.
Y is surprisingly cherry flavoured
while
Ou
is milky, a cream stirred so long
and with such love
that it can only be eaten
scooped straight from the bowl
with a hooked finger.
The single small s
is bursting with
sun-warmed wild strawberry
The kind I crouched over and plucked
as a child
Popping their ruby bodies into my mouth
before performing the miracle -
my tongue crushing them against my palate
loving and destroying them
in one sweetsour second.
The o which follows
holds the tang of snow
freshly fallen
and grazed upon from where it is heaped
on the wooden railing.

u

how much can this letter hold?
The tang of it keeps changing
one second it's salty broth
like the perfect veggie stock
sipped from a hot spoon
Then
smoke
the flavour used to purify a space
in the spring
sandlewood
freshly peeled birch bark
pine needles
and the first shoots of dandelion leaves
The spices may alter
but u
always holds the zest
of an offering.
ch
is a fast-melting orange juice popsicle
clear ice crystals becoming exposed
as the juice is frantically sucked
It works if you make the sound
while breathing in
It becomes the noise of a locomotive
chugging backwards
through slush
Overall
Five single syllables
have made me feel so much better
And I am taking a moment
to thank you
before I head once again
to the freezer

Today

2010-02-24T23:25:00.000Z

Today it snowed. Driving, freezing sleet.

I am waiting for the world to change its perfume, waiting to feel the heat from the sun make an exchange with the soil, to walk through the haze of it, feel my body remember.

For Renee:

The collection

2010-02-19T07:48:00.000Z

I love knowing that by late this afternoon I'll be in his flat, already laughing and sharing details of our day. Two trains and a hike uphill - I know the route so well now. And if it's nice tomorrow I'll head out for adventures, seeing what I can see. Last weekend I saw some shells, and since I resisted picking them up, I collected their images instead.

A bell for Barry

2010-02-17T23:20:00.000Z

Tomorrow, Barry, a fellow blogger and cheerful explorer, will finish his last round of chemo. In the hospital where he goes for treatment, there is a ritual for those who are finishing chemo, and that is to ring a bell on the wall as they leave.

Cancer is a frightening thing. Barry is an insightful storyteller who doesn't shy away from the difficult but still retains an incredible joyfullness that is contagious.

So I have hauled out the biggest bell photo I could find, the huge silver number that sits on the deck of the Royal Yacht Britannia in Edinburgh.

Well done, Barry. One more note in the song of triumph.

Textures

2010-02-15T21:19:00.000Z

Germ-infused polka

2010-02-10T11:07:00.002Z

I have THE COLD. I have mucus rivers and imploding skull and a singsong mind with ties to nothing, nothing at all. The sun blares in on me and the glare makes me wince but I won’t get up to close the curtains because I need the light. I think of it reacting with the green juice I drank this morning, a soupy sunshine collision that will sprout a garden in my guts and fill me with renewal. Later I’ll add some beetroot juice to the mix. It promises to turn my pee pink. Like an 80s revival for the bladder.

Craig has gone out to take the wrong bus. He is doing the thing I always tell myself I’m going to do, which is buy a day bus ticket and see where it takes me. Wrong bus adventures. On your left you will see one of the many housing estates featured in Ian Rankin novels. A little further down on your right you will see a chapel dedicated to a pious Greek beauty who tore out her own eyes with a thorn. Our final stop features a mountainous climb and an all-you-can-eat roast beef carvery. Welcome to Edinburgh.

Last night we watched The Fourth Kind and now I am afraid of aliens that can suck me through the ceiling and make me believe and not believe at the same time. I’m afraid it’s not an owl.

I have lost count of how many tissues I have used. I like this show called Dexter. I am convinced that these two people are speaking to each other in code:

More tea is required now. More tea and a short trip to take out the recycling. It is cold but I need to get the sun on me. I am convinced that this is all I need to start getting better. Just the sun. Maybe I’ll find a bench, close my eyes and absorb it all, until my body becomes a vitamin D factory and I feel like dancing. Yes, that’s the way.

Raw food goodies

2010-02-07T21:58:00.000Z

Having a great visit with Craig. Yesterday a visit to the gluttonous land of Bridge of Allan, and today a raw food meetup, with plenty of goodies. Tomorrow night is the monthly Edinburgh Slow Food Dinner, and today I was informed that I have been accepted onto the local Slow Food Taste Panel! Bring on the sessions of sampling local treats!

Some photos of today's bounty (my favourite was the Japanese-style kale):

No one out-stares...angry squirrel!

2010-02-02T08:05:00.000Z

It is snowing again. This year I will honour and appreciate spring like never before. These days even when the sun shines I don't feel any heat. No matter. My friend is hopping over from Norway today for a two-week visit, so my bloggy presence will be sporatic. The question is, how long can you stare into the eyes of angry squirrel? Ready....go!

Even on a Monday...

2010-02-01T07:52:00.000Z

Excited giant creates strange crater...

2010-01-31T22:33:00.000Z

Oh, the laughter. I am losing my mind today.

Squirrel entering a time warp

2010-01-30T22:48:00.000Z

Welcome back. Here I sit in my living room with my brand new cherry red lap top. Thank you, Mr. Visa Card. My very first laptop, which I had lovingly dubbed Stephen Fry, is no more. So it goes. Well, the bulk of him still works but his screen is knackered. So I have retired him to the bedroom cupboard, having been lucky enough to take off all the necessary files and store them on my external hard drive before the screen went permanently black.

And now she is here. Her name is Leigh-Cheri, named for the character in Tom Robbins’ Still Life with Woodpecker. If Fry was my symbol of endless possibilities, then Leigh-Cheri is my symbol for…juice. I think I have reached the beginning of the juicy stage of my life. I think of this stage as being approximately 15 years long and containing a fearlessness of expression, a revisiting of that lawless spirit of youth, without the accompanying hormonal melodrama. At least, this is what I like to tell myself. And hey, I’ve always liked a good story.

Being so cut off from the cyber world is strange. Because I have no telly, suddenly being without my computer was like having a lifeline shredded. But it was okay. I listened to Richard E Grant’s Wah Wah Diaries on audio book, which I highly recommend. Grant himself does the reading and he has such a wonderful voice, I think I could listen to him reciting the alphabet for at least an hour before turning him off. I also listened to Slaughterhouse Five, as read by Ethan Hawke - very well done.

Books. I am rediscovering books. I have started MFK Fisher’s The Gastronomical Me, which I adore beyond measure.

I follow quite a few blogs. Often I feel a frantic need to catch up all the time - all the posts keep piling up and suddenly I am like Lucy in the chocolate factory. I have been trying to read so many that by the time I get finished scrolling through them all, I have no time to create anything myself. I need to change this. I don’t know how other folks manage this but I am thinking of trying to play catch up once a week and not worry about the state of my GoogleReader the rest of the time.

A friend of mine will fly in on Tuesday and will be here for two weeks. Cafes and restaurants will be visited. Cheese shops will be perused. Walks will be taken. Laughter will ring out many times.

Tomorrow I aim to make no fewer than three different soups. Wish me luck. Have a splendid weekend, full of adventure. Time warp squirrel signing out.

Gone offline

2010-01-26T17:43:00.000Z

Bad news spilling over from last week and lasting until further notice. Laptop dead. Must dig around for funds to replace it.

Annoyed. Disappointed. Sad. Stressed.

Offline until further notice.

In which I am sculpted with huge basooms

2010-01-17T20:43:00.002Z

Last week JP texted me to tell me he was spending the evening with his best friend and that they were sculpting with clay. When I asked what they were making, he wouldn't tell me, only that he was making me something.

I arrived at his flat on Friday evening to discover this little figure, which is me. No one can say that my honey does not celebrate my voluptuousness. There are no way my breasts are that large. Either that or I don't think I'll wear that particular top again (or should I wear it more often?).

Looking at this wonderful little thing, which has been painted with love, just makes me howl with laughter. I mean, look at those things. Slightly menacing, albeit in a pillowy sort of way. Beware my melons of doom!

I love him. That is all.

Change of scene

2010-01-14T22:24:00.001Z

Off to Glasgow tomorrow to spend the weekend at JP's and I'm so looking forward to it. Because of the bad weather we weren't able to do much over the holidays and I suddenly feel like I haven't been out of Edinburgh for months. A new view, his comfy bed, and several hours watching Grand Designs: this is what I need.

Thanks for all your feedback on my "women in today's economy" dilemma. Funny, a girl at work announced today that she is expecting. Having just started in a new position last year, she has made the decision that women so often must make - to pause her career to make way for a family. As women, we are still so defined by our biology. Forget positive or negative - it just is. My colleague is nervous but glowing and happy, and this is the most important thing.

It has been a strange week. I feel distracted and very tired, with huge waves of sadness that take over me and make me think of a painter who lunges across the canvass with her brush, leaving a wake of colour. I am an arch of blue, my horseshoe ends weeping down the page.

The photo that tells the story is this one of rafters in B.C.'s Fraser Canyon. Look at the bottom right to see the one who has fallen from the raft and is paddling frantically to safety.

How can a woman win? Really?

2010-01-12T20:21:00.002Z

Hi. I need a hand:

Today at work I was speaking to one of the new girls, asking her about her recently finished university studies. She had received her arts degree in applied psychology and is now, as she described it, “just bumming around.”

She said she doesn’t know what she will do with her degree, and I said I understood this, after getting my degree in English Lit and feeling the same thing. Like her I had chosen my “career path” straight out of high school, in a desperate bid to free myself from the small town where I grew up. I told her my new theory is that life changing decisions made at 18 are all but useless, since we are so loaded up on hormones and selfish idealism. Big decisions should instead be made no earlier than the 30s. But by then, I added, a woman’s biological clock is yelling ….HELLO!

“So, I can’t win,” she said.

“No,” was my reply. “As a woman, you’re pretty much always going to end up settling in one way or another.”

There I was, a woman in her mid-30s, mindlessly hammering up the shutters against this 20-something’s hopes for the future (however vague they may be at the moment). Perhaps it stemmed from a programme I watched last week about Britain in the decade that just was (aka the “naughties”). Statistics show that in the last 10 years more and more women are waiting later and later to have babies, with the result being that many women ended up having fewer children than they had originally wanted because it was too late.

I tried to backtrack and tell my colleague that there are plenty of advantages to being a woman in today‘s economy, but all I could see was this somewhat sad statistic of women having to choose one thing over another. At 35, my “choice” is coming to an end, and despite the fact that much of me still panics at the thought of being a parent, at the moment I can’t remember what else it was I have been making my priority all these years. Perhaps if I had some grand career or had accomplished some enormous feat, but after a whirlwind of jobs, I now work in a shop.

Mind you, it is in a shop in the city of my dreams, where I am now in love with the man of my dreams. This is my foundation for happiness. But already I feel regret at having landed at this sweet place in my life a few years too late.

Having children commits you to a path of parenthood (not having children, this is what I assume). On the other hand, unless you have a single-minded personal or career focus, not having children can leave you always feeling a little aimless. I guess I am being hard on myself because I don’t have the first, nor do I have the other. Does that make me a failure? I often feel it does.

But I need help. What do I tell my friend? After knocking her down a peg about her future prospects, I feel the need to bolster her back up again.

Ladies, what is the advantage to being a woman in today’s economy? Notice I did not say “society.” This isn’t about the right to vote or equal pay. This is about making it financially and personally in the working world.

I don’t want to go back with a speech about how life is about sacrifices. I have already thought too much about this and frankly, I’m depressed. I need all the positives I can get at the moment.

Love among dominos

2010-01-10T18:19:00.000Z

Things are starting to melt. Today when I went out I saw the snake-like piles of dirty ice and snow lining either side of otherwise clear pavements. The weather forecast tells me to expect more sleet and snow flurries, but I don’t think they’ll stick. Something has shifted, at least for now. My Canadian radar tells me so.

My thoughts tug along with the lazy rhythm of Cormac McCarthy’s writing. The audio book of The Road has been playing over the weekend while I have cleaned and cooked, and even when I turn it off I can hear the voice of narrator Tom Stechschulte, his long slow drawl and the words “it’ll be okay. Everything is okay.”

My favourite thing about the book are how the man and his son manage to find things among the desolation. The world around them gives every indication that all that was meant to be found has been found, and yet sometimes they get lucky. Sometimes they find things that had been overlooked by someone else.

I think creativity is kind of like that. It is easy to sink into a sense of despair, thinking about the long line of artists and writers who have come before. You hear the old voice in your head, telling you it’s been done before. It has all been done before. Yet we keep sifting through ideas and memories, pulling out thoughts and images, stringing together words we are convinced have never stood in just that domino line before.

Earlier in the week I watched a BBC programme about the long ago kingdom of Nubia. And I wonder how we can be so very old and yet still so new, blundering around in the haze of our experience until the shock of our individual deaths meets us before we are ready. Maybe we’re the dominos, snatching at the world as we are born and begin immediately to fall, knocking over our beloved neighbour on the way down. Without meaning to. It just happens.

Right now I am surrounded by gentle comforts. A pot of vegetable soup bubbles on the stove. A large tray of still-warm apple and pear crumble sits on the counter. Everywhere in this room are the scents of basil, onion, oregano, garlic, apricot jam, toasted oats and walnuts, cinnamon. The long-dead spice race has been shaken from a small glass container that lives in my cupboard, and brought to life again against the hot flesh of peeled fruit.

It has been a good day.

The random, the ridiculous and the red

2010-01-09T14:52:00.003Z

In so many ways blogging is an extension of that fantastic childhood past-time of “show and tell.” So be warned: this post is sloshing waist deep in the quagmire of self indulgence.

First, the big freeze. I know this photo is making the circuit around the internet, but it’s just too good not to share. Thank you BBC for this satellite image of a very white Britain. Look mom! I live on an albino ink blot!

Next, some photos taken over the holidays. A piper in the snow, St. Mary’s Cathedral in the same storm, and a Mexican snowman.

Next, a couple of treats I received over the holidays from fellow bloggers.Non-working Monkey was asking folks to explain in 140 characters or less why they loved Non-working Monkey. Of course I misread it as 140 words and rambled on forever. Luckily a little gem snuck through and I won the prize with the following quotation, drawn from the murk of my brain and inspired by English Lucy living in French Canada.

“Non working monkey is what happens when je ne sais quoi humps the leg of quiet desperation.”

The prize was to be biscuits, which had me worried given the questionable reliability of the postal service over Christmas. But thanks to Etsy, I received a wee cream tea biscuit after all! I won’t try to eat it but I do plan on using the tea bag.

Then I received a wonderful surprise of handmade jewellery from Marie at Art from my heart. How gorgeous is this:

I also received a host of Christmas cards this year, which I strung above the fire place to add to the festive feeling.

But the holidays are over now, and I am deep into a big clearout of some of the clutter that takes up room in my flat. However while dropping off a load of stuff at the charity shop, I found the most beautiful chair in the universe:

I love this chair. I have yearned for a chair just like this for so long. A chair that says “I am a reading chair. Grab a book and have a sit down.” This chair is so comfortable, looks fantastic in my living room and best of all, it is just so RED.

That’s Shaun the Sheep trying out the new seat. Soon Shaun was joined by Dug the Dog, both of which were gifts from my glorious manboy. Shaun has been around for awhile and he no longer bleats when you press his nose, but you can still pull his tail to make him shudder. Dug talks when you press his paw (“My name is Dug. I have only just met you, and I love you”).

If you have managed to put up with me through the entirety of this post, I congratulate you. I cannot promise that I won’t behave in this manner in the future. Until then, happy times!

Local pâtisserie rescues Christmas spirit

2009-12-24T12:36:00.002Z

Happy White Christmas to all. The view from Princes Street looks like this:

This morning started badly. The post office was late in opening again, and then the parcel I had arranged to be delivered there was not there, even though it was supposed to be there yesterday. I have a troubling feeling that the parcel may be languishing in a back room somewhere, lonely and lost without me.

So I was annoyed. Christmas is here and I shall not have my parcel. Yes, I have other parcels, but now I want THIS one. This is the one I NEED to have. Now I have to wait until Monday.

An hour later I was walking to the pound stretchers to buy a new frying pan when I was met by a miraculous sight. For months there has been a new sign advertising Pâtisserie Jacob, but it seemed it would never open. I had honestly forgotten about it.

And it was open. The window cabinet was full of incredible treats of all shapes and sizes. I launched myself inside, almost tearing up with joy. You see, while there are other pastry makers in the great city of Edinburgh, there has not, until now, been one in my own neighbourhood.

Behold the incredible loot I bought, including two slices of a magic mousse cake of some kind, an apricot tart, a piece banana and toffee cake, slice of mango cheesecake, a slice of black forest, and some little biscuits with a dollop of jam.

I was told by the lovely lady at the counter than in the New Year they will widen their range of breads and begin to make their own croissants. To top it off the prices are amazing. £1.80 for a slice of cake that looks like it has been churned with the honeys of heaven? Swoon!

So there you have it. My Christmas spirit, which Royal Mail had battered so heinously, has been salvaged by Jacob Phillip and his wonderful new pâtisserie. They are at 201 Gorgie Road in Edinburgh. You must go there and behold the glories for yourself.

True, the New Year means being more dedicated to my diet and exercise again, as I fell off the wagon over the past month due to work stress and a thee-week cold. But now my weekend treats will be sorted. I am happy.

I am taking the next several days off from the blogosphere, so I wish everyone a most splendid holiday season and wiggle-inducing New Year.

Christmas countdown. Put on your zen face

2009-12-22T23:11:00.001Z

Long night. View from my window

2009-12-22T00:33:00.000Z

I don't know what the light is doing in the second photo. It looks to me like a lonely, transparent wing suspended next to the lamp. I think of the third photo as the David Lynch view.

Show me a sign

2009-12-16T22:30:00.001Z

Some of the things I did today

2009-12-13T23:48:00.001Z

-made 17 wee pots of sweet chilli jam

-made 11 wee pots of apple & cranberry chutney

-sampled said sweet chilli jam and chutney, along with the plumbrillo I made yesterday, with cream cheese, a nice sharp cheddar, and aged goats cheese

-listened to the same classical Christmas album about 20 times

-listed to Tony Bennett’s A Swingin’ Christmas twice

-hoovered

-finished three loads of laundry

-Googled my name, followed by the word "wants" and laughed at the things that came up: Sophia wants to be a painter / Sophia wants to be Germany's next top model / Sophia wants pacifier / Sophia wants to get high

-watched an old episode of Mock the Week. Cringed at Frankie Boyle's pedofile jokes.

-wrapped some prezzies

-put new flannel sheets on the skybed

-chatted to my ex about how we’re going to sort out our divorce in the New Year

-squirted grapefruit juice in my eye trying to gouge a segment out with a spoon

-emailed my friend in Norway

-blogged

-texted my honey, who told me the outcome of X-factor (for I have no telly)

-read blogs but didn’t comment much (sorry!)

-was awed by these beautiful photos on A Wee Bit of Cooking’s site

-made my first “tweet cloud.” In three months of tweeting, the words I used most often were: Blog-cold-love-feeling-feel-sigh-thanks-post-please-beautiful-time-food-lovely-hope

-failed to proofread the magazine I am editing

And now I’m going to go to bed. Here are some photos of my parents’ dog, Hooch. He is lovely and so sweet. When they got him he already had the name. When I am there I like to pretend he’s a French Canadian dog and call him “Ooch.” He has never noticed the difference.

Three-faced sailor attacked by bird

2009-12-12T23:21:00.002Z

A sculpture John and I saw in North Berwick recently.Unfortuntately it is situated at a junction leading to a residential area, so no matter what angle I shot from, there was always some kind of clutter in the background, whether it was houses, power lines, or the road.

Ideas for insomniac crafters

2009-12-09T20:43:00.000Z

My friend Mikara is crafty and one of the most creative people I know. She also runs a toy shop and it is about two weeks until Christmas, so you can imagine her state of mind. Having already posted the knitted monster, I shall share with you some other images from a recent showing of textile work by Scottish artists, from Nina Simone cushions to teddy bears made out of old wool jumpers. While I am not a crafty person, I do love to give crafty people ideas.

For lovely Moe and any other insomniac crafters, let the inspiration begin:

How this cold is making me feel

2009-12-06T20:21:00.000Z

Broken down music therapy. Help required.

2009-12-05T22:19:00.000Z

Listening to The Raven, by Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan. I have started something but have now been stuck for more than an hour with the song on repeat. I just can't seem to get to the next scene.

Earlier today I read Irish Gumbo's post concerning "the background hiss" of the universe, also known as the "hydrogen line." When the song came on the first image flooded into my mind, along with the central idea of this galactic serpent song.

I am a descriptive writer. Put something in front of me and I can wrap it up with words. But ask me what happens next and more often than not I won't be able to tell you.

The following is what I have so far. I know that it is not finished but I am trapped in this moment and can't get my mind to lean anywhere else. So I am asking, can anyone out there tell me what happens next? If you hop on the music link and take a quick listen to the song, you'll catch the mood and hopefully this will help you to help me move this thing forward.

***************
Inside this song, Quentin Tarantino watches himself climb out of a long black car and stand before the dilapidated remains of an old hotel. The car is impossibly clean, despite the plumes of desert sand that scramble over the paint. Quentin looks down to see the creases in his leather shoes fill with fine beige lines and in his mind the process spreads like a cancer until his legs become ancient Egyptian pillars, frozen in eternal fragility.

His eyes follow the sound of steady hissing that is coming from the hotel. He hears the dust skid across the splintered wooden planks of the porch, a multitude of tiny grains diving like kamikazes between the cracks.

He steps forward, the murmur of the sand like a spent record drawing him in.

How I named my blog day

2009-12-01T08:32:00.000Z

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.

Gone in a puff of cloud

2009-11-28T11:21:00.001Z

I'm away for the weekend to my manboy's near Glasgow. I'm so excited! Adventures and photo taking and lots of other...fun.

And I have Monday and Tuesday off as well. Four day wekeend! Hooray!

Mmmmm...present

2009-11-27T23:31:00.001Z

Tonight I got home after a very long week and what should I see on my floor, but an envelope. And what should be inside the envelope but this most fantastic book, 24 Hours London, which I recently won in a giveaway on Smitten by Britain (thank you!).

Starting at 5 am with fish markets and quirky coffee shops, and trolling through an entire day of vintage markets, architectural genius and memorable pubs, reading this book makes me long to go to London again. The manboy and I must take the train down in the New Year. We must. This book shall be our handy guide.

Smitten by Britain is a fabulous blog. Melissa's recent stint of "back to basics" posts have been both entertaining and enlightening. Pop over and visit her for a nice cuppa and a wee chin wag.

A small celebration of stone and brick

2009-11-23T22:52:00.000Z

Sunday Music Therapy

2009-11-22T20:26:00.004Z

The song is C'est moi by Rupa & the April Fishes.

For my friend Seasonn, who is moving to Paris.

I imagine your first weekend out, closing the door of your flat and stepping into the busy street. Immediately the waft of warm baguette sweeps past you like a wind-up cliché and you laugh, drawing the stare and smile from the moustachioed man who is sweeping a nearby stoop.

When you walk your hips seem to have little springs in them, like at any moment you will start to dance. You move through the city like it was a giant pop-up sketch, the life and sounds around you the manifestations of newly enchanted scribbles that are erased and redrawn with each passing moment.

I wonder if Paris is one of those cities you can just take from or whether it demands something from those who live there, like New York or London. A sacrifice of privilege, the centuries-old friction of all those subversive thoughts and grand ideologies reaching out from the stones and bubbling up from the latte foam.

There will always be an element of circus pageantry to Paris, the ribbon that is forever unfurling, the flash of red that distracts the viewer while the trick is played. It is still the place of sly grins and slight-of-hand, where strangely dressed men with lopsided faces open unnumbered doors to those who hold the right ticket, the cost of entry being the little squeeze of consciousness that will be wrung out of them in the darkness.

After too many sips at the fountain of sweet depravity, early morning in Paris becomes the tonic to the hangover of history. Each and every dawn the city is born anew, the bulging scents of pounded yeast and roasting coffee erupting from the kitchens and cafes and scrubbing us down until we can’t remember anything but the colliding dominos of simple pleasures.

I wish you long evening shadows and perfect yellow mornings. I wish for your mouth to move around the words of your second language like they are canapés. I wish you a pair of delicate, long-stemmed, round-bellied wine glasses that look perfect no matter where you set them down. I wish you feelings gratitude and relief, wrapped around you as thick as a blanket. Because every time you look out your window or step out your door, you will know that you are finally, at long last, in Paris.

Blog adultery and other link loves

2009-11-21T23:59:00.003Z

I’ve been meaning to do this latest bit of link adoration for awhile, but I just never got around to it. Today after reading of how Marcheline at Mental Meatloaf (how's that for a great blog name?) has been struggling to regrow her blog list after so many bloggers seem to have abandoned their cyber-stations, I thought I would share a few of my more recent blog crushes.

First a bit of what feels like blog adultery. Can there be such a thing? Normally I am quite happy to hop from one blog to another, adding links that I take a fancy to. But this one is different, because these bloggers are friends and there is a book and their names aren’t their names and it’s all very confusing. First of all there was Bête de Jour, who wrote a funny and wonderful book about the Intimate Adventures of an Ugly Man. Being a dutiful fan and follower, I bought and read the book (highly recommend!), which features the author’s friend “Keith.” I recently hopped onto NotKeith’s blog and I really love it. He’s an artist who makes me jealous that I can only see in words. He’s also worth following on twitter because not everyone can “put some ram in the ramalamadingdong.” But you see what I mean? I love them both - how can it work?

Oh well, let’s just talk about apples. Abundance Edinburgh consists of a small group of people who are picking the surplus fruit around the city (there are a surprising number of trees that are just left, with perfectly good food going to waste). They then distribute the fruit to local charities. Overall an inspiring idea that has taken off from other such groups already established in England.

In the land of selfishness, I am drooling over a blog called Book Giveaways, especially because blogger Shauna gifts some truly gorgeous children’s books.

Musician, writer and retired teacher (do teachers ever really retire? Something tells me they don’t) Dick Jones has been treating his readers to some beautiful, insightful posts, including this one about his grandparents. I can just picture his grandfather leaning close to the radio, listening to the Home Service News. Then there is Dick’s thoroughly entertaining 25 unrelated irrelevancies about himself.

For a daily dose of wonder and gratitude I am loving farm life in the Yorkshire Dales in the form of The Weaver of Grass.

Back in Scotland I have been following Neil Tasker of Light and Dark as he travels around the country taking some stunning photos, with his recent shots of light breaking through cloud near Bunabhainneadar being among my favourites.

While she hasn’t posted since October, I am hopeful that the wild northern winter will bring forth fruitful images for Natural Scotland. Having just discovered this blog, I am already jealous of her photos at the grey seal beach near John O’ Groats.

But if it’s just too stormy and I’d rather think of inside pursuits, I jump to the stodgy, comforting world of The English Kitchen. Hearty fruit cake, mont blanc, and the world’s best bacon sarnie - what more could you want?

To Sweden! Where photographer Steffe shows dedication and care to his local environment with Photos from Haninge. One of my favourite features on Steffe’s blog is his year-round photographic study of this tree. The way the narrow road curves off into the distance gets me every time. Steffe also takes charming portraits of folks he meets while he is out cycling or walking.

I can’t remember how I found Josh Hanagarne’s blog, The World’s Strongest Librarian, but I’m glad I did. Honest, thoughtful writing and excellent guest posts that match well with the blog’s themes and style.

After some months of silence and some more months of treading carefully through a difficult situation, Rooked is once again showing signs of the eager literary animal that his followers know and love. First there was Halloween, then a dream. You know I love the photos Stuart, but like many, I have missed your writing. I’m always glad when you’ve been at the keyboard - makes me feel that all might be well in the world after all.

Finally, it seems my friend Kryce has retired his blog. This makes me a little sad. Perhaps he’ll start another one in the future. Now all the pressure is on Moe to keep us entertained and informed.

That calls for a photo.

Does anyone have some blog love they wish to share? What am I missing? Tell me or I’ll burn in ignorance forever and you don’t want that, do you?

He called

2009-11-16T20:16:00.000Z

Opa called tonight. He brings Omi a salmon sandwich everyday - she likes them better than hospital food. Keep in mind the drive is 40 minutes each way, winter is here, and he will be 79 next month.

He sounded tired on the phone, but there was also a little bit of relief in his voice. It has been a hard, hard week. I worry about them both.

She is more comfortable and sticking to the regime the doctors have given her. Opa thinks it could be up to a week before they let her go home.

Day by day. Day by day for two people who have known each other since they were children and have been married nearly 60 years.

What lovely people my grandparents are.

Sitting my ice pack, worrying about Omi

2009-11-15T20:53:00.001Z

My grandfather was supposed to call me tonight. I keep looking at the clock, counting forward by four hours and backwards by twelve. My grandmother is in the hospital again. Her latest chest infection, a by-product of her advanced COPD (Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease), has failed to improve.

COPD is a terrible thing. My grandmother can take a breath in but then can’t breathe out. Imagine a mucus-filled sponge that keeps you from being able to exhale. After seeing my grandmother’s condition continuing to worsen over the past few years, all the while knowing she was still smoking, I despise cigarettes with a new fury. What kind of monster keeps someone so tethered to it, even as it kills them?

Since I have been exercising my lung capacity has changed. Now when I take a deep breath, it feels like the breath goes all the way down below my navel, where it bulges pleasantly, kissing the shoreline of my pelvic floor before flowing back up and out again. So easy.

That said, this is the first time I have ever blogged while sitting on an ice pack. My gluteus medius are in spasm. Ie - some of my butt cheek muscles are freaking out. This is what is causing the majority of my lower back and hip pain. I am supposed to roll on a tennis ball to try to get them to ease off, but all I have is a golf ball and it hurts like hell.

I am frustrated because it affects everything I do - walking, bending, standing. It gets worse after I work out, and my hip flexors don’t feel like they have gotten any stronger with all this exercise. I am afraid it won’t get better, that this will continue to hold me up and I won’t be able to move forward. I need to feel like I am getting stronger, better.

John and I have spoken about the kinds of things we want to do in the coming year. I think of the things that I can’t do now that I am desperate to be fit enough to accomplish. I want to bag a Munro. Eventually I would like to climb Ben Nevis. And walk the Great Glen Way. I want to be able to have complete confidence in my body, to hike, flex, climb or hop.

Since our visit to Canada I have been determined to change my relationship with food. After seeing my grandmother’s decline I am equally determined to do my best for my body, to build its strength and stamina. To let my lungs celebrate breathing, because lately that is what it feels like they are doing. My chest feels wide open and clear and even my heart feels lighter.

Now if only my damn ass would cooperate, I could move on.

The clock says 20:53. Plus four hours is 7 minutes to 1 a.m., minus 12 hours is 12:53 p.m. B.C. time. He still hasn’t called.

Still fat, but a little happier

2009-11-12T21:32:00.000Z

Before I begin, note to self: Do not turn the kettle on to boil and then sit down on the couch. Over there, far, far away, the tea bag is in the mug and the water has finished boiling. You will have to get up off the couch to complete the whole tea-making process. This is unpleasant.

Moving on (tea now made - sigh).

How I am feeling today:

I have been working my ass off - literally. Not that I have much of an ass to begin with, since my gene pool has dealt me a wide, flat backside. However, a few weeks back I mentioned I had returned from Canada with a new determination to loose the extra weight I have carried around with me for almost my entire life.

Having launched myself into an intense exercise regime, I promptly hurt myself and ended up at the osteopath.

Since then I have mellowed out the routine and am building up slowly. I have also been to the massage therapist once and have another appointment on Saturday, to try and help sort out my lower back problems. The first session made a great improvement, so I’m hopeful that the next one will help me even further.

The punch line is I have now lost half a stone (aka seven pounds). And even though no one but JP has noticed any changes (if he’s lying, he’s really good at it and I am not about to force the truth from him on this occasion), it’s still a big deal to me because the most I have been able to loose in many, many years (before I got bored or discouraged and just quit) is four pounds. So hooray for me. Now I am almost as great as Jedi dog!

If you would like to help me celebrate, you can pop over to my Scotland for the Senses blog and help me find homes for some little pieces of Scotland DVDs. I am calling it a “pay it forward” giveaway, in which the entrants tell me who should get the gifts. Know any veteran organizations or someone with Scottish ancestry who gets a little homesick sometimes? Please give me a hand - maybe we can make someone smile.

I am off to watch something on my BBC Iplayer and dream of the porridge I’m going to make for my breakfast.

Rambo suffers an identity crisis

2009-11-09T19:41:00.000Z

(Taken in Hope, B.C. during our trip to Canada. I am very silly - I know)

Autumn Colours

2009-11-08T16:50:00.000Z

Natural lust

2009-11-07T09:34:00.001Z

What point is there in resisting?

2009-11-05T21:09:00.000Z

The witch's tower

2009-10-31T20:56:00.000Z

I saw this while I was out walking today and thought it would be the perfect Halloween treat. I especially love the dead vine afro and the cobwebbed keyhole.

For anyone embarking on the Novel Writing Month tomorrow, I wish you much inspiration.

You deserve treats. Yes you do.

2009-10-25T18:39:00.001Z

Hurrah! A few of you have been helping out my friend Ian's band, Danny Echo, in their quest to win the Peak Performance Project. That's super and makes me feel great. They have until near the end of November so fingers crossed and any more clicking would be greatly appreciated.

For being so outstanding I offer treats in the form of photos.

First, here is my new dumbbell set. I can't actually use much of the weight yet, but it is there as I get stronger. The weights are brand new and they smell funny, like machinery:

Here is the lovely wee witch who occupies a special place in my livingroom window:

And here is me holding a bag of roasted monkey nuts. Yummy! (Ace Ventura voice)

I'm ever so thrilled. If you want to vote for Danny Echo you can do so here. Thanks.

In which I attempt to start a little something

2009-10-24T21:11:00.005+01:00

All but one of my kitchen lights has gone off and the damn mouse is back, but that is beside the point.

All around the UK tonight, people are watching X-Factor. Because I don’t have a telly, I will watch the clips on YouTube tomorrow. I am happy enough with that.

I got to thinking about the future for artists, particularly musicians. Not long ago it was necessary for a fan to own the physical album in order to feel part of the crowd. Now communities are built online, with downloads overtaking hard copies. So the artist goes from selling an entire album to one or two songs that people like best.

We live in a world of multiple small, snap purchases, tiny nibbles of sensual experience. We buy high numbers of poor quality items in giant superstores while our neighbourhood shops shut down. We have a different sense of abundance that is closer to an addiction.

In the case of music and film, you don’t even have to go to the shop. You can download, and often for free. As soon as an artist gains some success, the song or movie is on a torrent and voila - goodbye revenue.

Consumers really are powerful. We have the choice whether we want to support the little guy or shop at the megastore. We choose how we want our fix. Companies have to work harder than ever to try to force advertising on us, as they all jump on the social networking bandwagon. All over cyberspace people are trying to get you to join their clubs. But while large companies have the money to spend on growing new limbs of communication infiltration, individual artists, without the aid of some lucky break, are reliant on their own blood, sweat and tears.

All of this because I have a favour to ask. A friend of mine from high school is in a band. The name of this band is Danny Echo, a Vancouver group that has just made it through to the top 20 of a talent competition called The Peak Performance Project.

This is Danny Echo (front cover of the album. I'm sure he doesn't always sing while setting off a fire extinguisher):

And this is my pal Ian:

Can’t you just see the Beatles influence?

Their first album is out (Itunes and CD Baby!), a fantastic rock/pop collection that is starting to get some local radio play. But a win would mean $150,000 towards the band’s career, for recording, touring, and that most important, gluttonous beast: marketing.

Of course, days being what they are, it all comes down to the public vote, which finishes in just over one month. One month for the bands to try to start the virus that will see them through to victory.

This is how it’s done now, isn’t it? This is me, 5,000 miles away from my old friend, using my tiny corner of influence to try to get some kind of chain going. To start the smallest cyber wave and see what happens. We’re talking clicks and hits baby, clicks and hits.

You can vote for the fantastic Danny Echo here: http://www.peakperformanceproject.com/?page_id=1113

And you can only vote once per IP address, making the whole wave thing all the harder. But every click counts! Please click. Anything you can do to help get this little wave going, I would be well chuffed.

One Danny Echo lyric says "You'll never feel alive, until you're barely getting by." Still - a little success wouldn't hurt. Danny Echo is most definitely worth a listen. Their MySpace page is here: http://www.myspace.com/dannyecho

I would be curious to hear from you if you voted. In a world where everyone seems to be vying for attention, what makes you support this artist or that? What gets YOUR attention? Leave me a comment because I am full of wonder about this.

Hi. I like you.

2009-10-23T21:34:00.000+01:00

Breasts: excellent. Hips: Not so good.

2009-10-22T22:54:00.007+01:00

Despite the fact that she has no arms, a time-worn nose and various contusions, including what seem to be simultaneous attempts at garrotting and decapitation, I yearn to look like this woman.

Since my return to Scotland I have begun a journey to getting fit. This was triggered by being back in my parents’ house and my reaction to the overwhelming presence of food. It suddenly all became very clear to me just how my personal eating habits came to be formed.

Treating this realization as the exposed root of a life-long neuroses, and combining this with another family trait of supplying a good idea with as much enthusiasm as possible, I subsequently hurled myself into an intense fitness regime almost as soon as I landed.

I bought new shoes, a heart monitor, and the sports bra of all sports bras. It is red and is marked for “very high intensity.” This bra is so intimidating that I nearly dislocated my shoulder trying it on in the changing room at Marks and Spencer. In this bra my breasts look like huge alien sausages. I showed it to John at the first opportunity.

I wanted to sweat. I wanted to get strong. I wanted to shed all the fear I wear in layers over my skeleton. I wanted results. But Of course, I have hurt myself.

Within a week of jumping, squatting, lunging (**side note. In the editing of this post I realized that I had written “lunching” instead of lunging. Freud, is that you?) and heaving my way through the various motions of a home DVD nightmare called Insanity, the pain in my right hip, which is connected to a half-moon of tension that cups around my tailbone, became unbearable. I ended up at an Osteopath having my back snapped back into place and the knots massaged out of my muscles.

It has been a week off and I’m still in pain and am feeling deeply frustrated. My attempts to massage myself last night (I can’t afford to keep going to the Osteopath) has left me with a lovely low-slung belt of bruises around my tail bone and hips. I should also mention that in the week that I was walking to and from work (40 minutes each way) and working out for an hour in the evenings, I managed to gain a pound and lose not one inch.

So instead of feeling like the graceful (albeit in a crumbly sort of way) creature above, I feel rather like this:

FOD. How I wear this sentiment like a cloak made of meat.

Still, I am attempting to regroup. I am abandoning any hope of continuing with Insanity (really, the hint is in the name, woman!) and will shortly be starting another, more reserved 90-day programme.

I am trying. But it is hard and I feel a bit stupid.

I still love Barkerville

2009-10-17T18:50:00.003+01:00

Just before the plague struck down the bulk of our holiday plans, we managed a very short trip to one of my favourite places, Barkerville.

It was so cold on the day we were there, right at the end of the season. There were few tourists wandering the streets, and most of the actors that help bring the place to life had also left, back to university or winter jobs.

The stagecoach rumbled up and down between the buildings and their raised walkways, and when I raised my camera to photograph it the little boy riding up front gave me such a look of distrust that I could only smile at him.

Cariboo Lakes

2009-10-10T18:16:00.001+01:00

Our trip to Canada was plagued by the plague, or at least what seemed like the plague. First I was ill, then JP, which meant most of the adventures we had planned had to be cancelled. Needless to say there was no shortage of frustration or disappointment in that regard. But I got to spend time with my family. One highlight was peeling apples with my grandmother while my mom cooked them for applesauce. Three generations of kitchen women all together.

I also got to see my glorious and wonderful friend Moe, and wander in awe around their stunning new house.

JP and I spent most of the time at my parents' place by one of the area's many lakes. For your viewing pleasure, I give you three Cariboo Lake photos: Canim Lake, Lac des Roches, and sunset on Timothy Lake.

Back, but in hiding

2009-10-07T20:52:00.001+01:00

Got back from Canada last week, but am feeling distracted and otherwise non-bloggy. Will start puttering again on my Scotland for the Senses blog and will focus on that for the next wee while as I work on some other projects. I'm still reading your blogs but I haven't been commenting much. It's very strange - I feel like I'm spying on you all from behind the curtains (or corn stalks, as the case may be).

Signal the on hold music

2009-09-15T08:43:00.001+01:00

I'll be off now for a couple of weeks. Heading back over to Canada to visit with family and friends and fill up on Kraft Dinner and Timbits. The manboy will be filming and I will be photographing.

Cheerio!

Remix Spider. 4 Craig.

2009-09-13T19:35:00.000+01:00

You see, now she breakdances, just for you.

We are all just dots in space

2009-09-13T10:05:00.000+01:00

Merlin's Beard! It's...over

2009-09-10T22:12:00.000+01:00

This morning on the walk to work, I listened to the last chapter of the last book about “the boy who lived.” I had started the marathon of audio books, as read by the remarkable Stephen Fry, as a way to get myself safely through the festival season. Each year I choose a story to act as a buffer between me and the stresses of everyday life. Last year it was Tom Robbins’ Villa Incognito. This year, it was Potter.

It was a strange thing to absorb this story while in the city where it was written, walking each day on Prince’s Street, looking up at Edinburgh Castle where the Tattoo stands could easily be mistaken for those surrounding a Quidditch pitch.

I know I am years behind the tsunami of adoration for these books, but I will add my little cheer to those of the masses and say what a fine, fine storyteller J.K. Rowling is. True, at times I thought I would scream if I had to endure the same description of someone “turning scarlet,” or Harry’s “stomach lurching,” but overall these bursts of blinding repetition were worth being tugged along into such a glorious adventure.

Now it is over. And…I don’t know. I feel…confunded. I don’t understand why The Leaky Cauldron isn’t a real place, or why I can’t do magic. I’m just wandering around, waiting for the real world to seep back into my heart, but not really wanting it to.

Of course it is ridiculous, a grown woman aching after the idea of riding a broom or drinking pumpkin juice from a goblet. If I can feel this way, as a reader, I can’t imagine the deep connection Rowling must feel towards these characters, who she has raised from children into adulthood while we all watched.

I want to know who you love, the characters who are more real to you than the people you pass in the street. I want to know the invisible souls you have yearned to meet, have defended to others, have missed like old friends. The creature I love most from these books, at least right now, is the dreamy, wise and innocent Luna.

Would it be worth writing something to which you formed such a deep attachment, if you knew the mess it would make in your creative mind, blurring your internal worlds with the day-to-day? Have you ever been so far inside your own head, that stepping into the sun or buying milk is a shock that leaves you gazing around, confused about how to function in even the most benign social situations?

After such a lengthy, immersive journey, JP recommends that I launch myself into reading something utterly un-Potterish. But what? What?

Music Therapy: Oh Mo Dhuthaich (Oh My Country) by Capercaille

2009-09-05T23:20:00.004+01:00

The rim of the moon has been unevenly peeled away like a burl beneath a wood-workers plane. The clouds drift in front of it like something out of a film, dark and slow, with just enough space between them to signify a silent story being told.

A small witch hangs against my window, looking out. She is a kitchen witch but I know she prefers her current place, where she can see the buses and the people below and judge the tides based on the flights of the gulls.

I know that Halloween is coming. I can feel it expand inside me like the scent of bread when it is rising, the warm aroma of long dead grains coming back to life. Today I filled two old whisky bottles with coloured water and placed them in the windowsill. I peeled off the labels but on one I left the face and antlers of a deer. I wanted to see them glow golden when the sun was strongest.

The days are still too long to warrant lighting the candles. I will wait until I know it is time. There will be a smell in the air of dying leaves, or the earth underfoot will take on a softness that precedes winter’s stubborn hold. I will place the candles behind the bottles and lower another behind the beady eyes of the green man. Still more will sit surrounded by coloured glass, two red holders and another multi-coloured. Two hanging lanterns -one small and green and another black and hollow like a bucket, with intricate designs carved through it that cast flickering shadows on the walls.

The blackberries are coming into season, those phantom cousins of the jolly raspberry. All over Britain the apple harvest is being celebrated, and people are looking with greater longing at the heavy cheeses in their pantries.

Summer is a fleeting time, weeks when life juggles madly to do it all, to ram youth and lust in a bag together and let friction do the work. Autumn is the wry, matronly smile, that “I told you so” that judges and forgives in one instant before turning back to the stove.

The clouds have abandoned their webbed drifting before the moon and have collapsed into a single, fat line that crawls low along the horizon like a snake. The moon is an unblinking eye, part of a face so vast I will never see it, its features a collection of moving memories, of all those we have lost.

Roll on Weekend

2009-09-04T07:28:00.000+01:00

Where I would rather be

2009-09-03T08:07:00.001+01:00

The show is over but I am still feeling jostled and rushed and busy. Our trip to Canada is two weeks away, so this is the time I also start worrying about the weight I gained back during the mad weeks of eating too much stodge and not enough veggies.

I don't feel an ounce of creative juice flowing through me. Instead, all I can see are printer problems and a mountain of emails and orders and sales reports that need compiling. All the summer temp staff and the various folks from other companies who are around for the season are all away now, and it makes me a little sad. Yesterday we had a retirement party for one of our colleagues and I just kept looking around feeling this silly, stabbing ache for these people I work with.

Sigh. The photo is Glencoe, one of my favourite places. It just oozes mystery. It's the kind of place where the mist can creep down the mountains and you think if you walked into it you would enter some other world. And right now, that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

A little bit of gratitude, framed

2009-08-26T07:27:00.000+01:00

The rolling green of the Scottish borders, late spring.

What would you take?

2009-08-25T23:49:00.002+01:00

Just before 11 pm I heard a man banging on a door in the hallway. This building is old; all sounds in the hall echo around the stone walls. At first I thought it was just some drunk trying to get his friend to let him in. But behind the banging and the man's shouts came the tinny, repetitive screech of a smoke alarm.

Moving closer to my door, I heard the man talking loudly to another neighbour, using words like "smoke" and "not answering."

Turning around I threw on some clothes (I had been getting ready for bed) and grabbed up my wallet, my passport, my keys and my phone. (My passport was on my couch, having just arrived in the post).

Heading out into the hall, I found that one neighbour had already called the fire department. The man who had been banging on the door of the smoky flat joined us and we tried to establish who the people were who lived in the flat. Another woman came out onto the landing and said it is a couple, and they have a baby.

The first siren indicated that the fire trucks were arriving. Four of them hurtled down our street like land-locked bees, barely coming to a stop before firemen began jumping off, pulling on their oxygen masks and unrolling hoses.

I stood outside the building while the firemen worked. It was soon clear that it had just been some burning food and nothing threatening. I still don't know if the people were home and just not answering the door, or if they had gone out after burning their dinner.

I live in a building that has four floors, and I don't know any of my neighbours. Even tonight, after speaking to four of them in the midst of a stressful situation, afterwards we didn't even introduce ourselves. Tragedy averted, we all turn back to our own doors, our own modern caves.

When I took my wallet and my passport, I gave a fleeting thought to my camera and my laptop, but immediately dismissed them.

A strange evening after a long day. What I have learned:

-I need to make more of an effort to greet my neighbours and learn some names, in order to establish at least a small support network in this building
-The firefighters of the Lothian and Borders Fire and Rescue Service are absolutely remarkable and deserve to be commended. I'm going to write them a thank you card.
-When it comes down to it, stuff really is just stuff. A phone to communicate with friends, ID (important in case one needs to prove one is legally allowed to be in this country), a warm coat, and good shoes. At that moment, those were my essentials.

Questions:
Do you experience urban isolation in which you live squished next to thousands of people, but don't know your neighbours?
When was the last time you said thank you to someone who works in emergency services?
What are your essentials?

What a weird night. I'm going to bed. I can't wait until JP moves to Edinburgh. I need a cuddle.

Weekend windows

2009-08-22T08:02:00.003+01:00

**Edit**
A wee list of where the photos were taken:
1. The toilet cubicle at Anne Hathaway's Cottage in Stratford upon Avon (good light does not discriminate)
2. St. Conan's Kirk
3. Stirling Castle
4. St. Michael's Church in Linlithgow
5. Lauriston Castle
6. A hotel near Skeabost, Isle of Skye
7. an old shop in Edinburgh somewhere (can't remember)
8. Anne Hathaway's cottage (the cottage itself, not the toilet)
9. Crammond Island

Poke. Poke poke.

2009-08-21T07:16:00.001+01:00

Burning out

2009-08-20T22:00:00.004+01:00

A photo from the top of Cockburn street (pronounced Co-burn, because polite people don't say the thing that just went through your mind). The wee alley is the top of Fleshmarket Close, one of my favourites in town.

Another late night. I feel out of touch. Tired all the time. I'm starting to forget things. I made myself go home when I started making a lot of data entry errors tonight. Unable to make it to the post office to mail my grandfather's birthday card, I resorted to just sticking a huge wad of stamps on it and posting it in the hope that it will be enough. I continue to drag myself through Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, my least favourite so far.

Have you ever read through one author's work? The style starts to dig at you after awhile. Authors tend to do the same things over an over, falling into the same rhythms, leaning against the same adjectives and metaphors. All the same, I'm sticking with it. Only 14 more chapters to go.

I just need a bath, a cuddle and a long sleep.

Oh, and I need some feedback. JP says I need a new banner for No Chickadees. Should I go with an Edinburgh photo, or something from nature? Thoughts?

Follow the sound...

2009-08-17T07:26:00.003+01:00

Good morning (for it is morning as I type)

If any one is a fan of bagpipe music, I am having a wee giveaway over here.

It is only right that I inform you now that it may be Monday, but my-oh-my, you look fantastic.

Comic relief and a new blogger portrait

2009-08-16T11:17:00.004+01:00

It's my one and only day off, so I am writing to you. Remember not long ago I took a random photo and dubbed it my tribute to Vodka Mom?

Since then I have been on the lookout for other scenes that remind me of the bloggers whose ramblings I follow. Thanks to the Signspotting Project, which is visiting Edinburgh as part of the annual Fringe Festival, I have a series of photos which are my way of raising a glass to the man they call Brian in Mpls.

Brian tends to take everyday things and dissect and evaluate them. Recently he spent some time remembering the abacus. There was the time he decided to count how often he used spoons, forks or knives in a day. Last but most certainly not least, there were his queries into the evolution of spectator sports.

If something has the potetial to have more than one meaning, Brian will pry open the gap and dig around in it. If someone leaves irony lying around, Brian will roll in it and analyse the stains for you. That is why these signs, for all their two-way, hilarious goodness, made me think of him. Enjoy!

This city that I love

2009-08-12T22:57:00.006+01:00

I completely and utterly adore Edinburgh. All of this magnificence, and yet at 11 pm I can still hear through my open living room window, a man yelling at a woman at the bus stop across the street: "Did ye know yer a shitey smelly bastard? Ye need ta change yer knickers."

Yup, this city is tops for views as well as wildly dramatic uses of the English language. Good night.

You've been very naughty. Now in you go.

2009-08-12T07:57:00.000+01:00

Sunset, Walter Scott Monument

2009-08-09T21:26:00.003+01:00

Taken on Saturday night from the office window, a couple of hours before I went loopy and started photographing broken toys.

Half Hour Left! FAB

2009-08-09T00:16:00.004+01:00

We seem to be developing a hat theme. After 13 hours, this silliness had me delirious with laughter. The wee broken soldier is standing in a pencil sharpener. (I wonder if that is the first time that particular sentence has ever been written?)

Everything is going to be fine

2009-08-07T07:27:00.001+01:00

As long as I don't lose my head...

At the sound of the tuba, begin

2009-08-05T21:49:00.004+01:00

Today I spent most of the day moving heavy boxes, walking up long hills over cobbled streets, and counting things into boxes before carrying them again.

I am tired and my hips hurt. I am worried that I will burn out and won't make it through to the end of the month. I had forgotten how physically hard it is, and I doubt my abilities.

And yet tonight I saw a cavalcade of buses roll up Castlehill and onto the Castle esplanade, and it felt like magic all over again. As many times as I ask myself why on earth I do this to myself each summer, I see the scene before me, look around at my colleagues, and am amazed by how truly blessed I am. I work in one of the world's finest cities, and each year am plunged into the heart of one of the best festivals on the planet.

So I may not be around much from now on, other than to post the odd photo (you know I love odd photos). Any festival news and touristy shots will likely be over on my other blog. This blog will remain for incoherent rambling as well as images of my melting brain:
Forgive me if I am absent in comment-land. It is unlikely I will be doing much blog reading over the next month or so. Please stop by once in awhile anyways, as I will likely need all the cyber-hugs I can get.

still life with lantern and styrofoam head

2009-08-03T07:09:00.003+01:00

Eating my winnings

2009-08-02T16:00:00.003+01:00

An avid blog-reader, I had never entered a blog sponsored contest until I saw that A-K of Swell Vegan was giving away a couple of her Swell recipe zines. I jumped in and and wouldn't you know it - I won! My zine has arrived in the post and, not being one to sit around wondering about food, I decided to try one of the recipes straight away.

Behold - Coconut Red Bean Quinoa!
I didn't have any kidney beans so I used aduki, and it was just as lovely. Wonderful warmth from the ginger and the comforting creamy goodness of coconut milk. I am already eyeing the recipe for sweet potato black bean burgers with millet and leeks, but that will have to wait for another day.

A-K takes fantastic food photos and her enthusiasm is catching, so if you ever feel the need for a sensual boost to your day, try her blog. Thanks, A-K!

Music Therapy: Nantes by Beirut

2009-08-01T21:24:00.011+01:00

A note before we begin. Every month that passes, I find myself falling ever deeper in love with this band. This music is my muse for every season, mixing in as the light grows and fades. This young man (Zach Condon) is but 23 years old and has blended the rhythms and brass expletives of Balkan folk music with poetic lyrics and the sweet approachability of Western pop. If you have never heard Beirut's music and know yourself to be at least a little bit of a gypsy, then you must listen. It will be like going home.

**********

This is the busy way that insects scuttle over the ground, antennae conducting the rhythmic clacking of mandibles, the sheen of a hundred black husks like volcanic stones come to life. This is ghosts waltzing over their own graves, the mist mingling where longing once churned in their guts. Their feet dancing through the flowers that lay wilting beneath their names, they sway in the gentle forgetting of death.

This is the clatter of cutlery on the breakfast table, the half-glass of orange juice forever turning its cheek to the onslaught of fork tongs and the serrated tongues of butter knives. The spoon has miscarried. The jam jar is empty. The breeze catches the edge of the faded tablecloth, revealing an under-skin as bright as the sun, a reminder that things change, things remain the same.

The day you round the corner and see your old friend, the one you thought you had lost forever, do not stand too long in a trance before reaching out and touching his face. In this way, remind yourself what is real before taking off again into the trees, where the leaves go on birthing and dying with the seasons, despite all your silent wishes to hold them still.

Remember that even if you could fold up all the buildings in the world like a child closing a pop-up book, the horizon would still find its way of escaping you. So while you clamour over the landscape, past the gardens and the forgotten fences, let the clutter in your mind rebuild the scene. This exquisite, dishevelled ensemble. This small fire in the night.

Can't write. No time. Harry Potter.

2009-07-30T21:32:00.002+01:00

I had meant to write. I had meant do some music therapy or something dreamy, but I can't. I can't because my Ipod is stuffed in its player, with Stephen Fry's voice hopping forth with the story of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

So I can't write. Things are happening. Professor Crouch has gone quite mad. Eeek!

Here is a photo from Fort William. This train is travelling on the same line as the Hogwarts Express. Sigh....

How I will look when I am old

2009-07-26T07:04:00.003+01:00

Mind you, I will no doubt be a much plumper version of this lovely lady. But those eyes, the bright colours she wears, those deep laugh lines and the wisps of white hair around her face - isn't she just so beautiful?

I took this photo yesterday at The Gathering. I had such a perfect time and I'm still feeling a bit dreamy. After a long, difficult week, it was just what I needed to set my spirits alight again. The majority of the photos from the day are posted over on the Scotland for the Senses blog (yes ladies, there are men in kilts).