by Sara Barry | Oct 16, 2014 | abundance, parenting, writing
I notice K, toes tangled in the mosquito netting, her face veiled and obscured by its wrinkles. I’m watching her kick, as she usually does, trying to get the netting off. She hasn’t yet reached out and grabbed it and pulled, no, not yet, but she will. I only put it over her because she was asleep and wouldn’t know, wouldn’t fuss with it. That and I had been bit by three mosquitoes already and had swatted away others.
Ah, now, she has pulled it away. Her face clear, her toes still entangled. She smiles back at me, her two teeth showing and then hiding again. She looks up at the filtered sunlight through the pear tree at the leaves that shimmer in a whisper of a breeze. Nine months.
Nine months in just eight days. So adept with her hands, so adapt at sitting and moving. I see what her brother never did, probably couldn’t have done had he reached nine months. I flit between this, this seeing my girl, really seeing my girl just for what she is, who she is, and seeing in my girl what her brother was, what he was not, what he will never be. I see gratitude and longing. Delight and regret.
I see health in chunky cheeks and legs, strong limbs, fat little paws. I watch her wonder. She’s watching her foot, feeling the texture of the netting, wiggling the toes. She is serious and then that smiles lights up her face again, her dimples pop.
I will stop writing, put this down, away for now. I’ll pull the netting off her foot before she gets frustrated. I’ll pick her up and get another smile. I’ll bring her inside and make some lunch, because she is on the verge of hunger though she doesn’t know it yet, but it will come upon her suddenly and it doesn’t do to make her wait for lunch.
I wrote this several years ago as an exercise when my big girl was a baby. I had forgotten about this day, this quiet moment with her, but it came back to me clearly when I stumbled up on the file.
What did you slow down and notice today?
by Sara Barry | Oct 15, 2014 | abundance, writing
“This is going to be the most beautiful basket ever!”
She pauses, watches me after saying this, and I agree that it will be a beautiful basket while wondering how long we will keep it, imagining it dropping seeds and dried flowers in whatever corner it inhabits.
She’s wearing a hooded, terry cloth giraffe dress that may actually be a nightgown or bathrobe. She pulled on the spotted leg warmers I gave her to stave off a meltdown over a lack of brown tights, telling me earnestly and without the “you’re so stupid tone” that I expect will come in a few years, “These are cows, Mom.”
Her face peeks out from the hood, like an elf, wisps of blond hair tangle around her cheeks.
I keep watching her, focusing in, trying to capture her face, long stripped of it’s baby fat, her cheeks smooth and clear, her chin pointed. Her eyes are bright with enthusiasm and mouth curved into a smile.
I trace that curve with my eyes, wonder if I could conjure that exact curve if she were swept away or if I would have to rely on pictures.
One night after Henry died. I stumbled downstairs in the dark, flipped through picture after picture. I had woken with an image of him white and swollen as the Michelin man, and I couldn’t pull up a picture of what he really looked like, so I turned to pictures until I could see him again in my head.
I can’t tell you if I am being present as I focus on K’s face, try to imprint it, or if I am being morbid.
I’m thinking about how quickly life can change (be swept away, lost) because I’m reading Rare Bird. Such a loss isn’t theoretical to me, and yet it is the book that has me thinking about what I could lose.
Henry almost died seven years ago this month, but when he pulled through, I assumed he would live. I assume now that my girls will too, even though I know that change from ordinary life to inconceivable can happen so quickly.
Instead of, if she died would I remember, I could ask, in twenty years when she’s grown will I be able to conjure up her face, the soft smooth skin, the narrow chin, the sweet curve of her mouth, not turned up quite enough to activate he dimples.
For either question, the answer is the same.
No.
I won’t get all the details. Even now, one day later, they are slipping from me. I see her mouth but not her long lashes, the color of her lips but not the exact shade of her cheeks.
I won’t remember her face perfectly. I may not remember this day at all. Or maybe someday, I’ll see a basket decorated with dried flower and natural debris, or she’ll say, “Remember that giraffe dress?” And I’ll see us. Even if I don’t remember the exact curve of her mouth, I’ll feel the enthusiasm from her smile. I’ll feel the smile curve up on my own face and the warm gold bathing us on a late fall day
Write
The first Write with Me Wednesday focused on a string of memories. Today, we focus on something we might forget, a little moment.
Take one moment from today.
What do you think you’ll remember? What details that you might forget can you capture now?
by Sara Barry | Oct 10, 2014 | abundance, baking, what I love
I was overwhelmed by the many decisions I had to make for my wedding, but I knew I wanted a chocolate cake. And I got it—not just chocolate, but triple chocolate ganache.
It was good—and gorgeous, dark chocolate brown with orange and yellow nasturtiums spilling over it.
For our first anniversary, I made a triple chocolate cake and decorated it with nasturtiums from the garden. The filling in this cake is lighter and more buttery than my wedding cake, but it’s still delightfully decadent.
The cake with no filling or glaze makes a rich dessert. Serve it with raspberries and a little vanilla ice cream or barely sweetened whipped cream. I often serve it this way.
Triple Chocolate Cake
The recipe looks long, but all three parts are really easy to make.
Cake
Amounts are per cake. Double for two layers. I usually mix them up separately because one fits nicely in my double boiler.
4 oz bittersweet chocolate, chopped fine
1 stick butter
3/4 cup sugar
3 large eggs
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
- Preheat oven to 375 F and grease an 8- or 9-inch round cake pan or springform pan. Line bottom with a round of parchment paper. (The cake has a tendency to stick, so don’t skip the parchment paper.)
- In a double boiler, melt chocolate with butter over barely boiling water, stirring until smooth.
- Remove top of double boiler from heat and whisk sugar into the chocolate mixture.
- Add eggs and whisk well.
- Sift 1/2 cup cocoa powder over chocolate mixture and whisk until just combined.
- Pour batter into pan and bake in middle of oven for 25 minutes, or until top has formed a thin crust.
- Cool cake in pan on a rack for 5 minutes and invert onto a serving plate.
Filling
Allow time to chill. You can make this a day ahead and store in the fridge—or cook chocolate mixture and let chill overnight.
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
4 Tbsp. cocoa powder
1 1/4 cup milk
1 cup butter softened
1/4 cup powdered sugar
- In a medium sauce pan, combine sugar, cornstarch, and cocoa powder. Blend well. Gradually stir in milk.
- Cook over medium heat until mixture thickens and boils, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for about an hour or until cool.
- In a large bowl, beat butter and powdered sugar until well blended. Gradually add cooled chocolate mixture. Beat until light and fluffy.
Glaze
3/4 c. whipping cream
8 oz bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
- Place the chopped chocolate in a large mixing bowl and set aside.
- Pour cream into a small, heavy saucepan. set over medium heat and stir until it comes to a boil.
- Remove the pan from the heat and pour the hot cream over the chopped chocolate. Stir until the chocolate is melted.
- Let stand at room temperature for 10 minutes before pouring over cake.
Assembly
- Place one cake on a serving plate. Spread a thick layer of filling on top of layer.
- Cover with raspberries (optional, but the raspberries help offset all the chocolate).
- Layer the second cake over the first.
- Pour glaze over cake and smooth with a flat spatula. Use extra frosting to decorate top and sides of cake if you like. Garnish with edible flowers like nasturtiums (optional)
by Sara Barry | Oct 8, 2014 | milestones, what I love, writing
Supposedly rain on your wedding day is good luck.
We laughed and shrugged and gave up the idea of pictures in our garden. The jewel yellow and orange nasturtiums that spilled over the cake shone bright on that dim day. We weren’t worried about luck. We had love.
I questioned the idea of luck on our second anniversary when we sat in a crowded Thai restaurant within walking distance from the hospital where our son had been in the ICU for three weeks.
I questioned it on our third anniversary when grief continued to swirl between the two of us, locking our tongues, tripping up our words. As I sipped my water, I understood we were lucky to have gotten pregnant again, quickly and easily, but I had no confidence or trust.
Today as I contemplate the rain falling and remember how hard it came down nine years ago, how people were late because there was so much water on the roads and visibility was so limited, I don’t believe in luck.
But I hold the fullness that we have packed into these nine years
Three children born, one buried.
Months of hospital life and living hours apart.
Family illness, more funerals.
Buying a canoe; struggling to learn to paddle together.
Long afternoons of shushing and swaddling.
Years of not sleeping.
Stories read, made up, remembered, retold.
Chilis bubbling on the stove, chicken pot pies browning up in the oven. Finding our rhythm again in the kitchen.
First tastes of ice cream and family outings in that green canoe.
Dancing—crazy made up swing at our wedding and dancing later with our girls on dark winter evenings in the living room.
Today the storm has passed; the sun is shining, the sky a deep blue. We’ve walked nine years together, sunshine and storm. Nine years, and despite all the statistics thrown at us in the hospital, we’re still dancing, still cooking, still writing our story together. Nine full years, not luck, but life.
Write and Share
Share your own story of good times and bad. Does one overpower? Or do both parts hold their own?
by Sara Barry | Oct 4, 2014 | fall, finding time, Uncategorized, writing
Get up early. Notice the way the red leaves glow in the gray morning. Drink good coffee. Write.
Read with your kids. Let them loll on on your lap. Make raisin toast with cinnamon (or sour dough with peanut butter if one of them is picky.)
Run in the rain. Say “good morning” to the other crazy hardy soul you pass. Realize it’s a friend you never see. Say “Oh, hi it’s you!” Go home. Clear your glasses. Take a long, hot shower.
Find a package in your mailbox. Dream of garlic scape pesto next spring. Wonder when to plant your garlic. Remember you still need to dig potatoes and pull carrots. Look out at the rain. Wait.
Go to brunch at a friend’s house. Eat, drink more coffee, have a conversation while your kids are running around the house.
Stop at the library. Pick up the next book in the Fairy Realm series for bedtime. Check out a garden book for inspiration.
Back home, smile at the flowers all over the house, the ones that this and coming rain inspired you to cut yesterday—cosmos and zinnias and mums and sedum.
Eat bacon. On a burger. With home brewed beer.
Add a side of spicy oven fries cooked in some of the bacon fat. Notice that nobody complains about dinner tonight.
Wait til the kids are in bed. Eat apple crisp for a late dessert. Wonder if your pears are ripe enough to make this. Wonder if you have time to make it for breakfast in the morning.
Put on PJs snuggle under covers. Love that it is cool enough to snuggle under covers. Sleep. Get ready to get up early, notice the light, drink coffee, and write.
How are you creating energy, connecting with family and friends, finding beauty, or nourishing yourself this weekend?
