Standing in front of Mildrith in the early hours has given me a few spine-tingling moments. The night is at its darkest. I’m alone; I’m the only one awake in the world, well, at least the only one on my small road on South Pender Island.
Any noise I hear is magnified, exaggerated by the darkness, and made more dramatic, haunting.… Continue reading
It’s apple season on the Island of Apples. Branches are bending with the weight of the glorious fruit, the air of the orchards sweetened with apple scent. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, and all that. We are deep into autumn now.
Our lone apple tree produced no fruit this year. No tubs are waiting to be filled, and I’m on the hunt for apples to knead into my bread dough.… Continue reading
Most days, making bread happens by rote, with a tight schedule of measuring, mixing, shaping, and baking. My mind can be tranquil while my hands are a blur, punching and kneading the dough. Or slicing off chunks with the bench knife, balancing them on the weigh scale, and turning them into sensuous rounds.
Not much distracts me from this sort of reverie.… Continue reading
What will you have for breakfast this Thursday, June 16? Anything special?
I’ll probably have a slice of toasted Seed Feast loaf from last week’s bake with a smear of peanut butter and pour-over coffee. I’ll raise my first steaming cup to Jennifer and wish her a happy Bloomsday.… Continue reading
by Cheryl Pearson
Up before the hens, my daughter. Just her and the cows in the blue hour. Them tugged of milkweight and loosed to steam like warm loaves in the cold air. Her in an apron, hair pulled into a bun. I know how she works: the way she takes the dough’s wet slack, punches it down into flour.… Continue reading