In like a lamb and out like a rather indifferent lion: the beach in winter

After a completely relaxing and restorative weekend with one last day stretching out before us to savor, Rodney and I packed up the backpack and two of the dogs for a walk on the beach. It was a perfect day for late winter. The wind was out of the southwest, the temperatures in the mid-60s and an afternoon low tide. This is what it looked like when we got there. For those of us who love walking in our beloved Guana it was a perfect prescription for late winter/early spring: not too cold, bright blue skies and just the right music of the spheres resulting a lower-than-average low tide.

The sun was warm on our faces, so warm I'll probably go to work tomorrow with a tell-tale pink look, despite the sunscreen. And it was a lovely walk, the dogs setting their own pace part of the time; me, looking for shark teeth and other bits of fossils, setting the pace at other times. Rodney sets his own pace, walking with his metal detector. The dogs are generally pretty indulgent about the pace, slowing down to human speed when they'd rather be allowed to race after pelicans or accelerate toward lunch when we get close enough. But they do know when it's time for lunch and they're pretty definite about their preference to have it. (This spot is at the beach monument of which I've written before.)I don't know what sensory everyday canine miracle enables dogs to know things like "we are now within 15 feet of that place we eat lunch when we come to this part of the beach" (is it smell? is it memory? is it one of them saying to the other, "Dude, this is place we ate lunch last time...remember how we made those sad faces and got them to feed us half the sandwich?") but certainly there is such a miracle. I have thoughts about this, but they are a tale for another day, my dears, so let me shut up and wander on.

The monument's flag indicated a brisk and steady wind from the south-southwest. Or at least it did at lunchtime. The face of the beach changes with every tide, and if you go often to the same spot you see this with every visit. Those who are lucky enough to live at the beach and wise enough to pay attention are able to seee the changes in real time. Most of the time, for us, the observation of the changes - the shifting sand that reveals fossilized riches in one fall and obscures them again with 18 inches of sugary power with the rising of another - usually happens from one weekend to the next. The high-tide line changes, the bluffs shift, sometimes by 3 or 4 feet, the color of the water is never the same. Today, though, the change was visible within a few short hours as the wind changed and the clouds began to build.

Within a couple of hours, the changes ceased to be subtle. The warmth of that southerly touch to the wind disappeared when the wind shifted to come straight from the west. The clouds thickened and began to darken in color and the temperature dropped enough to make me glad I'd worn a sweater. The water began to reflect the shadows of the clouds, and I started to think about the hat and scarf I'd tucked into the backpack. And Meg, whose fur is fine and smooth, without much of the undercoat some dogs have, began to cry every now and then: I want to go home. And this is what the beach looked like when we left. As we drove home, Rodney checked the weather. The forecast is for bright, shiny beautiful blue days, those days I often tell you about, those days which in northeastern Florida seem to occur between October and April. They are days of almost indescribable clarity and sharpness in the very air. Such days can come with a price exacted by the thermometer. They are often no warmer than the 40s or 50s under the brilliant blue sky but freezing nights that can cost some of us plants and fruit trees, and others their crops for the season. But for this evening, we're counting our blessings, happy that a perfect weekend finished with a perfect day, and that we're able to share it with you.
Coming this week: a soup recipe of some kind. I started with a potato and leek soup I learned from Julia Child and have taken it to all kinds of interesting places. It's so much easier than I thought it would be. You probably already have the most divine cold weather soup recipe in the world and if you want to share it, I'd love to put it here and of course give credit where credit is due.

Tonight's captions and credits follow.
Second photo, left to right: Rodney, Tyson (digging up something almost-certainly smelly), and Meg
Copy editing: Dylan
A generous willingness not to be annoyed that he had to stay home: Calvin

Yes, yes, it's still cold.
No, I didn't take this picture today, although I wish I had. But it does have the delicate pink frosting provided by the sunset, and I couldn't resist sharing it, especially when it was far, far too almight cold to go to the beach today. And if you couldn't make yourself get out of bed and go to work (I did, I promise) you could have stayed at home by the fire and watched William Powell movies. Even now, and it's after work-time, there are William Powell and Luise Rainier and even - yes!- Myrna Loy. If you can't go to the beach, and your husband has just baked an apple cake with a sinful glaze made of butter and brown sugar, you can just stay in and watch. And it's fine, indeed.

If you're a dog person, there's that other fine thing about staying in by the fire: it makes your dogs positively blissful. First they tell you how happy they are by greeting you with appropriate enthusiasm. And then they indicate bliss in that time-honored dog way: they immediately go to sleep. If they are Meg, they may sit in chairs in distinctly unladylike positions between moods.


But then she goes to sleep. In the interest of full disclosure, I should probably warn Ye Who Read This Blog that we help when we can with Boxer Rescue, and there are three Boxers who moderate their lives, roughly, between our bed and our couch. See? The person sitting on the floor is a well, person. The people, er, dogs on the sofa to the left are...umm...dogs.
And there are many dog stories to tell, though for now I can say we have Meg (she of the appalling pose), Ty For Short, who came to us as Tyson (I know - people think it's hilarious to name the dogs after that other kind of boxer) and Calvin. He also came to us with that name, and I never say it without thinking of the scene in The Bells of St. Mary's where Ingrid Bergman introduces a kid named Luther to the new priest, Bing Crosby, who says quietly, "How'd he get in here?" So it is with Calvin. But so it is with rescue and especially fostering. We never meet the same dog twice. So there's more to tell you, my dears, but since people keep telling me they've actually make some of the recipes I've shared, I can't resist them temptation. I warn you: you'll freak out. It's not vegetarian-friendly. It's not remotely healthy. But it IS the foundation of Eat Here, as it was the first meal I cooked that made my family say, You should open a restaurant, and it should be called Eat Here, and the rest, as they say, is history.

So here is my mother's meat loaf recipe. You can use ground turkey or chicken, but I confess to using good quality ground beef and pork in roughly equal proportions. Put this into a bowl and add some very finely chopped onion, green pepper and garlic, pretty much as you like - you can leave out any of them if you don't like them. Add an egg (I like a nice big one; If Ms. Moon was your friend you might be able to get a beautiful blue or green one) and some fresh bread crumbs. If you have an old hot dog bun or just any old bread, crumble it up yourself, right into the bowl. Dash in some Wocestershire sauce, a tablespoon of kosher salt, some pepper, and seasonings you like; I put in fresh rosemary and parsley (though I'll tell you later, my loves, how I cannot grow fresh rosemary) and marjoram. A dash or two of Texas Pete can't hurt, and you squirt in some ketchup, maybe 1/4 or 1/2 cup. Mix it up and shape it into a loaf, and bake it in your cast iron skillet at 350 (a 1-1/2 lb. meatloaf takes about an hour and a quarter to cook). About half an hour before it's done, mix about 1/2 cup of ketchup, 3 or 4 tablespoons of mustard, a palmful of brown sugar and just a touch of ground cloves. Stir this together and pour it over your meatloaf.

And here's the Eat Here part: put a couple of slices of leftover meatloaf on good hearty bread, like oatmeal or 7-grain bread. Add a slice of good cheese (if you're going to do it, just do it, for heaven's sake) and if you still have it, a bit of the leftover meatloaf sauce. No one will ever forget it. And I do promise to get Lauren's excellent hummus recipe and Lis's sweet potato soup and make it up to those of you who'd rather die than eat any of this. More to come, my darlings. Thank you for reading.

A winter walk, a glimpse of gold, and something to cook

So this is what it looked like, when I was warmed enough by layers of clothes and the briskness of our pace to be able to focus the camera. The wind was not quite howling, but was blowing hard and steadliy, as though it had promised its mother to do so and was afraid one of its aunts might drop in unexpectedly to check. This meant it was damned COLD at the beach, but considering the sudden, brilliant appearance of the sun and the astonishing blue of the sky, Rodney and I found we couldn't stay away. If you look closely at the sea shells you'll see a fine lace overlay in rainbow colors, the residue of the sea foam cascading all over the beach like wet tumbleweeds. We walked half a mile or so to the south, just a few hundred feet to the north, gathered a small collection of fossils, and began to think about a nice fire, a cocktail and the golden hour.

Clean up awaits, at home. Thanks to the continuing cold, the detritus accumulates and changes; the fallen branches need to be cut and stacked, the sad, melted cannas and elephant ears trimmed away, and so much more. But it's too sad, and anyway, it's too soon; there may be still be protection afforded by fallen plants to those growing in their shadows. So we wait. And today, waiting, we walked down the narrow path that connects our front yard with the delicate finger of the Tolomato River that folds back in upon itself and winds its way to us as Stokes Creek. The light changed quickly, as it does this time of year, and Rodney took photos.


I thought about what to cook, and though in the end we ate leftovers, I was prevailed upon by Dylan to share this favorite of his. When you have boneless, skinless chicken breasts, part of a bag of potato chips and some butter, this is the easiest way in the world to please the still-maturing palates of the young. Cut the breast meat into fillets and dip in melted, cooled butter, then dip in crushed potato chips. When I say crushed, I mean you should have your youngest family member take the bag of chips and do with it what they've always wanted to do: roll it around, crush and smash (taking care not to tear open the bag). When the chips are very fine indeed, dip the chicken in, and place it into a lightly greased baking dish. Bake at 350 or so for about 40 minutes or until lightly browned. Why do they love this dish? I have no idea, and I suspect my own mother may have learned it from Woman's Day or Ladies' Home Journal or some such magazine in the 60s. But though I can't explain it, no matter how many times I ask my sons how they'd like chicken breasts cooked - and I am telling you I have some perfectly marvelous ways to cook them - this is invariably their request. Kids. Palates. What a mystery. Never fear, my loves: I shall soon tell you the story of Julia Child, Le Pavillon, Jacques Cousteau, exotic birds, a Boxer dog and the Lamented Claude Sinatsch. Soon, soon.

For this evening, move a bit closer to your warm fireplace, wrap that soft, warm blanket a bit closer around your shoulder and if you have the luxury of a love to hold you close, do. Here is one last look at the fading view of the golden hour at our house tonight, and a look at another kind of cold-evening blanket, this one called Meg. But this, my darlings, is a tale for another evening.