{By Heather Baird from Sprinkle Bakes}

Oh, January. You are a chilly month.

Yesterday we had the kind of snow that makes mighty tree limbs bow in submission. On days like this I’m perfectly content to spend long hours in an oven-warmed kitchen, and that’s just what I did. Many treats were made; some for the book and some for the blog. I’m still determining where some should reside. After much hemming and hawing about what to make for this entry, I decided to revisit an old recipe.

{by Rhonda Stansberry}

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Rhonda Stansberry is a photographer with a passion for history and architecture.
See more of her photography on her website, Stansberry Photography, and on Flickr.

:::

Featured by Editorial Director, Jennifer Doyle | @playgroupie

{by Sarah Bloom}

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

{by Beck from Frog and Toad are Still Friends}

(photo credit)

Once there had been a mother.

He remembered her, a bit – her breath that smelled like communion grape juice and cigarettes, her harsh laugh and her sudden rages, the way he was frightened and small and hiding underneath his bed, in his tent, under the slide at the playground, hiding from her giant hitting hands and her loud voice.

Ruby made her go away.

He didn’t remember much of that night – nothing much more than Ruby giving him warm funny tasting milk at bedtime and then his sleepy awareness of raised yelling female voices and a sudden loud noise and then silence. Then he woke up the next morning to Ruby bright and extra cheerful and the kitchen extra clean and a new vegetable garden in the backyard.

He likes working in the garden. He likes putting his hands in the dirt, likes watering the fat jolly vegetables. Ruby smiles and brings him lemonade and they have picnics for lunch and sometimes he sits on the swing even though the swing is getting smaller and smaller all the time.

He keeps forgetting to ask Ruby about the shrinking swing. He forgets sometimes that Grandma went away a long time ago and finds himself standing in front of her house where strangers live now. He forgets that Mom went away, too, and hides under the piano bench, hides under the front steps, until Ruby lures him out with gummy worms and trips to the ice cream store.

“Ruby,” says their neighbour Mrs. Huffington over the fence. “You’re doing a wonderful job looking after him, but your whole life is passing you by.”

He remembers that sometimes, the way he remembers the surprising bits of red in the kitchen, the loud sound, his mother’s sharp breath and giant hurting hands. But then it’s time for a picnic and the sun is bright and it’s time to work in the garden again, their special garden where the vegetables come up so big and ripe.

::

Beck has even more spooky Halloween stories with some of your favorite characters, like the one featured here. She also writes with wit and compassion about her life and family. She just started a new blog, check it out.
Subscribe to her blog.

{by Jenica McKenzie}

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

{by Valeria from The Red Balloon Photography}

A SOMETHING in a summer’s day,
As slow her flambeaux burn away,
Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer’s noon,
An azure depth, a wordless tune,
Transcending ecstacy.
~Emily Dickinson

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

{by Rachel Matthews}

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
~Langston Hughes

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Rachel is a Texas based foodie, photographer, wife, and mama.
See more of her photographs on her blog, A Southern Fairytale.
Subscribe and follow @sthrnfairytale

{By Alexia from Say Another Lexi}

(photo credit)

If he sees me when I am with people, he will think my cheeks must hurt from smiling so much. He will wonder if my fingertips are worn down from touching people all the time. He will see how my eyes are really magnets, gravitating towards anything that glitters. He will know that ever time I throw my head back to laugh, I am really swallowing a falling star. He will see all the different shapes my mouth makes, because it moves even when I am listening. He will see the way I hold my hands on my lips when I think before I speak, as if words will escape without permission. He will see my thoughts splash across my face, emotions striking my face like lightning, one after another. He will see that I can never hide behind my expressions, and he will understand that my readability is a sign of sincerity. He will know that those thoughts are just drops, and that inside me there’s an ocean. He will want to swim in that ocean.

If he sees me when I am alone, drawing hearts falling from trees like leaves, he will think of me as a girl from a sad song. He will wonder why the frown in the middle of my forehead is so deep. He will wonder who hurt me and gave me such hollow autumn eyes. He will think someone broke my heart and he will be jealous of that boy for getting so close. He will wonder what I look like when I smile. He will think of my notebooks as keys, and know that they are filled with words falling from a fountain that goes on forever. He will wish his heart was a musical box that played my favourite song. He will follow my gaze and wonder if I’m really looking at the horizon or something else that he himself cannot see. He will be discreet but he will want me to see him seeing me. He will smile when I scowl and go back to scribbling. He will know that, one day, we will laugh about this. He will want to see my hair spread across his pillow like an auburn pien-mien, lying with his head between my breasts, sharing secrets we swear we’ve never told anybody else. He will want to be the one to light up my eyes, and the one to catch the glint of tears before they fall. He will see the effort it takes sometimes just to stand up straight and he will know what that feels like, but he will stand up straight, even straighter, sometimes, just to teach me how.

{by She Was}

Cylence Gray was 12 years old when she stopped believing in god and started believing in love. Standing alone, and to the side, slender pale arms wrapped around her black waist, Cylence watched the magpie, head cocked, watching her. Cylence liked that her face was turned to the sky. It meant that she didn’t have to look at the spring wet hole they were slowly lowering him into.

Cylence had been cracked open by grief and from that opening faith flew. Many years later she remembered. The tugging was the worst part. Being forced to look, to acknowledge, to know. As if somehow she could unknow. The tubes and the rattle rattle death breath, the corridors, closing in on her, as she waited, as they all waited. The mashed potato and gravy portrait her mother painted on the white wall. Her mother’s anger, at her, at her, for being there, for having held his hand and for having heard his heart beat when it stopped. She would never not know. Never unknow.

{by Lotus Carroll}

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Lotus Carroll (aka as Sarcastic Mom) writes with her heart on her website, i am lotus.
Give her any camera and she can make magic, another version of this photo can be seen on Flickr.
More of her photography can be found on her portfolio.