and speaking of kombucha...

 You might be totally clueless about kombucha, but I would guess you have more than likely at least seen the word around somewhere or heard someone speak of it.

In fact kombucha has been around for a very long time. But now the chances of you being given  a "scoby" by a friend is more likely because it is rather like a kindle that must keep glowing... being regularly tended... sharing the extra... teaching others... and drinking it for your health.

Eating healthy has always been a priority with me. In the days of my sons' childhood they can tell you about the food coops we belonged to and how they considered organic foods to be yucky. But that was probably due to the tremendous amount of snacks I would order and bring home and expect them to eat with gusto. Even I have to admit some of those foods had the taste of cardboard.

Today's choices and options for good healthy eating is easier. Finding the places to buy good wholesome food or even the resources for making your own is not that difficult.

I began brewing my own kombucha about a month ago. I have learned quite a bit about it but I still have quite a bit to learn. I am presently mixing mine with about one-third part organic tart cherry juice before drinking it.

And I have discovered another pleasant trick to the manner in which I drink my daily allotment...

 in a wineglass.

My husband and I will take our glass of kombucha and sip it before supper in the evening. It is that time of easing into the remainder of the day, a transitioning of sorts. A calming time with the added benefit of a healthy brew.

a furler by day

Perhaps you know this unique plant?

Several summers ago I was wandering the gardener's department at *K-Mart* and a particular packet of  seeds caught my eye, the name of which created a memory from my childhood. Four O'clocks. The name alone sounds romantic and reminds me of afternoon tea under a shade tree.

During the day you will find them tightly closed, sleeping. But toward the late afternoon, they begin to unfurl.

Rose and I were admiring the beginnings of their performance one afternoon. My flowers do not actually begin to open until after supper... I would say a bit beyond four 0'clock.

That night I was in bed, reading and I remembered my intentions of seeing the blooms opened. It was  that time of evening that the light is hiding just around the edges, everything softly closing down for the day. I stole outside in my nightgown.

The party was in progress but I did not hang around long enough to witness it in full swing.  I felt as a peeping tom, even though there were no audible complaints. 

gleaning treasures

While Rose is away at camp Charlotte and I must do her daily animal maintenance. Thankfully, Charlotte, takes care of Mr. Putter while I, thank you very much, get the zebra finches. 

Cleaning "the sisters" cage netted a teeny cupful of delicate little eggs. We have raised "the sisters" since birth over three years ago. Every time I see their presentation of eggs I can't help thinking, "A girl's got do what a girl's gotta do!" Of course, they are unfertilized (google facts of life if needed).

These gleanings were put into a handmade clay pot that was being kept in a drawer in the kitchen's cupboard

I flipped it over remembering when it was first gifted into my hands...

...a treasure

grandmother's tribute

Aforetime I have mentioned my habit of setting a pitcher of water on the counter to drink throughout the  day. I prefer room temperature water for the most part and by keeping it there at arm's reach it is easier for me to remember to keep drinking, especially as I go about my quotidian home engagements.

As I was going through some of my mother's things recently, I discovered some of the handiwork sewn by my grandmother.  Grandmother was born in 1914 and she could sew about anything. She was a clever woman very skilled with needle and thread.  She actually made a living sewing draperies and slipcovers for years in the back room of her home, and oh the neat stories she would tell. One that fascinates me even to this day is was how she learned the meticulous job of making fabrics fit through training she had while still a young girl. Her father constructed pine coffins through government contracts he was given and her part was to perfectly fit the inside of the coffins with a lining of white cotton.

Just before she died I visited with her one day. She was lying on the bed with her eyes closed and when asked how she was doing she answered, "Oh, I'm just lying here hemming a handkerchief."   She taught me a wealth of many things, but an important lesson was garnered on that particular day. The power held in both the concentration of the mind and the gratitude of the heart.

One of her white crocheted doilies with a solid linen center has proven

useful to set over my pitcher of water.

Beautiful and charming,

just like my grandmother.

joy seized

"The moments of joy we enjoy take us by surprise.

It is not that we seize them, but they seize us."

-Ashley Montagu

The first official day of summer found me at the seashore, while at home the deer greedily feasted on my beautiful blooming lilies. But the past month has indubitably seized me with an array of things providing moments of sincere joy on these summer days.  I never seem to get all the things done on the list conjured up in my brain back in the merry month of May. The list is purposed, thought out and harnessed while summer is looming as on a vast horizon. Experience continues to teach me the enjoyment of the unexpected moments.

A day in early July Claire and I did something we had been wanting to do for some time; getting together and preparing a batch of fermented vegetables.  French Cafe played on Pandora accompanied by the constant background hammering as the workmen were putting down hardwood floors in my bedroom.

The floors are completed now, beautiful and smooth, and we have just this week moved back into our bedroom. We moved mother  here on a day in late January. Hardly believing that was over five months ago.

therapy

I attended a funeral this morning. This is the second time I have attended the funeral of a friend's mother  since my own mother's funeral on May third. As I sat listening, I was thinking about the family's grief, wanting to be there for them knowing first hand how comforting it is when others are sharing this time with you.  But there were definite, personal things going on within my own heart too, I felt a strong squeezing. The stillness of the moment, the words and the songs provided a stage of familiarity.

As soon as I walked in the back door, I kicked off my black pumps, slipped an apron over my head,  promptly tied it in the back and began to cook. For several uninterrupted hours straight I mixed, chopped, stirred, baked, and sauteed with deftness and abandon.

Then I sat down and sighed. The curative powers of cooking, good therapy.