Crumbs in the icing

I've been making a lot of cake lately for get togethers. My go-to is a chocolate cake with fluffy almond icing that I once blogged about here. For this particular version, I baked two 9 x 9 pans but then decided to take the biscuit cutters to them. I made little layered tea cakes topped with candied rose petals, which may sound fussy but it wasn't. I think that's because I've come to terms with the fact that there will always be things like crumbs in the icing. And what, really, is so bad about that?

Ancient moment

My mom took these photos a few years ago and I've always loved them. I think these photos may have even been what finally inspired me to buy my own camera. Because I wanted to be ready should an ancient mossy turtle decide to climb on top of a hay bale and sit there for a spell. Because there aren't any words for what that looks like -- it's something you have to see.

Photos by Sharon Simpson

Wander where you will

Carpet of trilliums.

Killdeer egg hiding in plain sight.

Fancywork anemones.

It's been a late spring, but once the flowers start blooming it's easy to forget they weren't always there.

Cedar shakes, tin roofs and a secret sale

I was in my element last Friday afternoon, exploring the grounds of a 19th century farm getting ready to hold a sale the following day. Wagons were piled high with old textiles and furniture, antique tools and kitchenware, and truly unique pieces that I will likely never see again. (Of course, I forgot to take a picture of the wagons)!

Everything was so well cared for -- oil-polished tools that were no doubt used unfailingly; cut dress patterns folded back inside of envelopes as though they'd never been opened. Some of the items were initialed, inscribed. Mary’s winter boots written neatly on the shoebox of a vintage pair of Clarks. (Yes, they fit me perfectly). 

There was a real sense of purpose and pride of place no matter where you turned. You could see it in the eaves of the settling but sturdy barn, the broom-swept concrete floors of the original farmhouse, the fence posts that had never been left to rot. 

In a large way, I was sorry to see a family's belongings taken out of rooms and buildings because I know that it requires a special kind of person to love each item again as much as they were loved before. I hope that I can be such a person. I hope that I can take as good of care of Mary's winter boots as she did. 

Barefoot beauty

You are your mother's daughter, my dad likes to tell me. Growing up, I used to roll my eyes when he'd say it. I could even anticipate when he was about to say it, and cast him a threatening glare. Now, I'm the one who says it. I beam when people make remarks about how similar we are, even though I know that I will never bake as good of pies, sew as seamless of dresses, or care for others with as boundlessness of heart. 

Last Sunday afternoon my mom and I wandered through the yard in our bare feet, which is still a novelty at this time of year (for this part of Canada, anyhow)! We ended up in the clover field across from the house, and along the way I took a thousand pictures of my beautiful mother. Each of them is true to who she is and yet not one of them will be enough to show you.