Thursday, November 17, 2011
As I push and pull at the grinder’s smooth wooden handle, listening to the rhythm of the burs turning and feeling the effort in my arms and legs, I think about how much I take for granted. While we almost never buy bread, I often make it from store bought flour. I scoop out cups of the perfectly white, scentless powder and dump it in the bowl without thought. Such bread only smells of the yeast used to make it light. How different from the flour I’ve ground myself. Each fragrant cup, speckled tan with wheat bran, seems precious. The dough smells of the earth, rich and yeasty. Of course whatever I use home-ground in tastes better, but I’m not sure if it’s the fresh flour or the appreciation I have for it.
Friday, November 11, 2011
The time changed this week. Milking time is now long after sunset, so I must milk in the dark. There are many phases of dark at Thistleglade, ranging from the inky blackness of a moonless night to the shadowy silvers of the full Moon. Each darkness brings its own essence and magic to Thistleglade and I go out with no light of my own to fully appreciate the beauty of the night.
I have enjoyed milking under the full Moon this week. Under her light, the bare trees are once again shrouded in mystery and the shadows shift over secrets waiting to be discovered. Dry leaves rustle in the slightest breeze and sparkle in the silvery light. A small puddle becomes an enchanted mirror one merely has to touch to be transported to another world.