To be precise, summer only began yesterday, so I shouldn't be complaining about the lack of hours sitting on a patio with tea, or in the shade reading a book. I will likely yet have time before we get to the fall equinox for solitary early-morning weeding sessions in the garden while towhees splash in the birdbath nearby. But lately I've been doing so many fun and good things, I've been getting a bit depleted.
A week ago today, I was baking pies. It was a satisfyingly creative job, even if I did have a huge mess afterward.
Initially I wanted to bake an apple for the father of my children, for Father's Day. And at church the ladies were bringing in pies for the agape meal, also in honor of the day. I made three for that contribution, using up some flaked coconut and other goodies in my pantry.
This one above left was named Million Dollar Pie where I found the recipe online, but as I improved it by cutting the sugar in half, I'll make that Two Million Dollars. It must have tasted like a candy bar, what with the coconut, chocolate chips and walnuts it featured, but none was left over for me to try.
The recipe I found for Coconut Pineapple Pie made two pies from a 14-oz. bag of flaked coconut and a large can of crushed pineapple, with some eggs and butter, etc. in the mix. I did get a taste of that concoction, and I wonder if it might have had more zing if I'd used a name brand of pineapple. Even with its sugar cut in half it was a little too blandly sweet for me, but people liked it.
My newest favorite kitchen gadget got used that day: silicone pie crust shields. In the past I used aluminum foil to keep my crusts from getting too brown, but foil is not nearly as handy.
The day after Father's Day grandson "Pat" flew to California all by his lonesome from D.C.'s Ronald Reagan Airport, mostly to spend a while with Pippin's family, but we grandparents had the happy task of meeting him at the Oakland airport. Oakland is next door to Berkeley, where year by year I as a child visited my own grandparents, so we stopped in that old neighborhood of Indian Rock and Indian Rock Park in the Berkeley Hills.
My sisters and I used to play here, just down the block from my grandma's house, and even my father had his picture taken on the Rock when he was a small boy. It's such a lovely thing that the houses were built all around this cluster of craggy boulders that seem more likely to be found in the Sierra Nevada. Pat climbed "cross country" on them, while we older people used the flights of steps long ago cut in the rock.
|My father in 1927|
From the top you can see far and wide, both the Bay Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge, and at the bottom, where the hill slopes into the town of Albany, it's possible to walk down to Solano Avenue by way of stairs passing between houses. It takes only a few minutes to go this way, descending to shops and in my grandma's time, her beauty parlor and the ice cream parlor that she let us visit by ourselves. Those were the days when children were safe.
I had a few sweet hours with Scout and Ivy before I wore myself out driving back the very next day. I needed to come home and get ready for multiple house guests, and for events such as the much anticipated Feast of Pentecost.
Friday morning when I was back watering the garden I discovered that more of my unusually colored California poppies had bloomed, like this one.
A brief look-around at my flowers didn't seem to be enough R&R, though, so I asked Mr. Glad to take me to the coast where I could "just sit and stare at the ocean." He was happy to comply.
The weather wasn't as summery and calm as the predictors had led us to expect, but the fog hung around only thinly so that we mostly noticed the sunshine. I tied a bandana around my head so that the wind wouldn't make a total tangle of my hair, and we sat in the lee of a sand dune where I could rake my fingers through the warm sand for an hour.
I don't know how long I may have to wait to experience even a short string of rejuvenating days, but for now I think my half of a lazy afternoon will do nicely.