The Heavens by Sandra Newman

It's probably not for everyone but I was enthralled by the pinball-like plot of this book. If you liked The Time-Traveler's Wife (which I did), this might be for you.

Kate has dreams--vivid dreams of a life in 16th century England --and as her consciousness shuttles between modern day Manhattan and the world of Will Shakespeare (in which she is the 'dark lady' of the sonnets), she finds on each return to 'real' life, things have changed-- sometimes small things, sometimes past events that she remembers turn out not to have happened.

For me, this was compulsive, highly enjoyable reading. If I've piqued your curiosity, there's an excellent review that will tell you more HERE. 

 

Esmeralda and the Brown Brachet

 As I worked on this, I realized there must be a story to go with it. Here's a beginning--both story and picture need some work--but I have more pictures and more story in mind. (A brachet is a small, noisy hunting dog.)

ESMERALDA AND THE BROWN BRACHET

 

Clearly, the brachet had been a mistake. But when, on the third lonely day of her quest, the little hound had popped out from behind the Standing Stones of Glarn, Esmeralda had greeted it with joy.

“Hail, O brachet! Art sent to accompany me, mayhap as guide and guard?”

The skinny brachet had fixed her with a penetrating gaze which dropped at once to the leathern pouch at her side.

“Art hungered, little one?” Esmeralda knelt down before the brachet and reached into the pouch. “Gladly will I share of my simple provisions.”

Two wheaten rolls and a twist of dried venison disappeared, and the brachet moved closer to nose at the pouch. Esmeralda reached out a hand to stroke the dog—no, this was a bitch, to be sure. “What a pretty maid thou art, with thy white stockings and elegant long ears.

The brachet had accepted the caress with a philosophical sigh. There will be more food, she reasoned; in time the fragrant bulging pouch will be at my mercy. The woman is desperate for companionship. Look at her crouched there, cloak spread on the ground, face imploring. If she had a tail, she'd be wagging it.

The brachet had allowed herself a tiny whine and, swallowing her pride with the last morsel of bread, had licked the young woman’s hand. There, done and done.

~~~

“Come out of it, you wretched brachet! Leave it, I say.”

Esmeralda’s feet hurt. Five days of walking, three of them through this strange wood, five days of listening to the brachet howl, five days of watching the sinuous brown body dart off into inaccessible places. Five days of watching the crystal at the top of her staff fail to respond to the rising moon as it should have done.

“When the crystal is set alight by Luna’s beams, then must thou follow the path she shows,” the aged Sooth-Seer had whispered. “Follow it even as an arrow from a bow if thou wouldst find the dungeon where the true prince lies.”

Esmeralda drew in a deep breath and limped ahead. Just a few more paces and she would be clear of these dark trees. She could just glimpse a clearing ahead and sense, rather than see, a burgeoning glow.

The brachet continued her frenzied excavation at the base of a grandfather tree as Esmeralda stepped into the moonlit glade and held aloft her crystal-topped staff.

 

 

Snow and Shadow

The shadows are so bold on the snow that they have me thinking that perhaps they could be manifestations of a parallel hidden world.

The more I focus on the shadows, the more likely this seems.

What is it like in Shadowland? Quiet and mysterious . . . 

If I look hard enough, perhaps I'll spy some subtle differences between the objects in our world and those in Shadowland.

Perhaps . . .

If I Were Going . . .

I might pedal in stately style, sitting high and oh-so-correctly attired. . . pausing at tea time for a cup of Darjeeling and, perhaps, a scone.

Or . . . perhaps I'd throw a saddle on old Paint. With saddlebags full of provisions and a blanket roll behind, I could set off for the far mountains, sleeping beneath the dazzling stars and waking to frost on my blanket.. . .

Or . . . one could motor in elegance, a liveried chauffer at the wheel, purring along the boulevards and waving languidly at pedestrian acquaintances . . . 

Or . . . I'd opt for the camel, padding across the Outback. The train and its passengers whisk past us and behind its windows, someone heaves a heartfelt sigh of envy.

Or . . . seeking the exhilaration of speed, I'd don helmet and goggles, lean into the curves, and ride the wind.

But perhaps a punt would be pleasant. White flannels, quiet water, and a picnic basket. And though it's Cambridge, not Oxford, I'll lie back, enjoy the view, and pretend I'm Harriet Vane, on the river with Lord Peter.  

Dream Houses

I could live in a cottage by a brook

With a tiny bridge and a winding path,

Green door and shutters beneath a curving tile roof,

And wake to the beat of swans' wings

And the honey  fragrance of blooming flowers.

I could live in a house behind a wall

Where peacocks pace amid strange blooms

And tall trees like lilac clouds soar above the chimneys.

From the three little attic windows, I can see everything
And hear the peacocks' cries.

 

I could live in a happy yellow house

With gables and dormers and a vine growing up the side.

When snow lies on the roof, I will imagine

The purple of the wisteria against the yellow wall in Spring.

I could live in a house with many-paned windows,

Chimneys and odd finials and a balustered wall.

When the moon sinks low and the snow grows deep,

I will wrap a red muffler round the poor statue,

Shivering in its icy niche.

I could live in a witchy house, tall and brooding,

With a shop on the bottom floor. 

 Here will I sell herbs and simples,

Potions and lotions for the villagers

Who visit me only by night.

I came across this site HERE that features vintage shelter magazine covers and fell in love with these illustrations.  I don't know who the artist is (or if there are several artists) but my imagination took wing. You should really zoom in on each one to see all the charming details.

Consider the Bean . . .

I had plenty of time to consider the bean as I sat on the porch, snapping off the little winged stem ends . . .

These purple beans are green inside -- and will turn green as they cook.

We had some for dinner -- sauteed in olive oil with red peppers, purple onion, garlic, and thyme (and what a difference thyme makes to a humble bean!) -- but the rest were destined for the freezer.

It's been a routine for the past thirty eight years -- blanch for 3 minutes . . .

Plunge into cold water to cool before bagging . . .

But there's a new element to the routine! I've always stuck the beans into plastic freezer bags -- sealed with a twist tie or a zipper lock. But John sent off for this device that . . .

 (drum roll)  . . .

Vacuum  seals!!!

I am the world's most skeptical about new kitchen devices  -- partly because of the lack of counter space in our kitchen and partly because of . . . I don't know, maybe just natural orneriness. But I have to admit that this gizmo works like a charm.

By excluding all the air, supposedly the freezer life of various foods is doubled or tripled. The picture below shows the ice that has formed on pepper rings put up last year. That shouldn't happen with the vacuum seal.

The literature that accompanied the device shows special jars and boxes and an attachment to vacuum seal them. One can, it says, seal all sorts of non-food stuff to protect it from oxidation, corrosion, and moisture -- silverware, matches, clothing, batteries . . .

And my imagination takes off -- picturing a thrifty homemaker, vacuum sealing her way through the house till everything is securely encased in airtight plastic, to preserve it . . .

She looks around . . . and notices that her beloved husband is really showing signs of aging . . .

I wonder, she muses, and reaches for the roll of plastic.