A Devil of a Dessert

In the mood for a little riddle?


What does this:

+

This:

 

Equal?

This:

Okay, here's the story.

Today is the feast of St. Michael the Archangel (Michaelmas).

Legend has it that St. Michael is responsible for driving the devil out of Heaven, wherein he landed in . . .

A blackberry bramble!   Ooooch!!

And he was maaad!

So according to an old Irish folk tale, blackberries should be harvested and used up by this date, because the devil returns each year to find, curse, and spit on the fruits of the plant he landed on, rendering them inedible thereafter.  So use them up! 

Sounds like a good of a reason to make a quick blackberry cobbler as any, so here is a good recipe.

Blackberry Cobbler

• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 1 1/2 cups white sugar, divided
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 6 tablespoons cold butter
• 1/4 cup boiling water
• 2 tablespoons cornstarch
• 1/4 cup cold water
• 1 tablespoon lemon juice
• 4 cups fresh blackberries, rinsed and drained

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C). Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil. 
2. In a large bowl, mix the flour, 1/2 cup sugar, baking powder, and salt. Cut in butter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in 1/4 cup boiling water just until mixture is evenly moist.
3. In a separate bowl, dissolve the cornstarch in cold water. Mix in remaining 1 cup sugar, lemon juice, and blackberries. Transfer to a cast iron skillet, and bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Drop dough into the skillet by spoonfuls. Place skillet on the foil lined baking sheet.
4. Bake 25 minutes in the preheated oven, until dough is golden brown.

This recipe is from AllRecipes. com, but I can personally vouch for it, except I usually substitute freshly ground nutmeg for the cinnamon and get a splash of vanilla in somewhere.


So there you have it.  

I think I may make a batch of fresh vanilla ice cream to go on top while I'm at it.


Enjoy!

Have You Met My Grandma?

Have you met my grandma? 

You should. 

Allow me.  

She was a delightful lady who had ways all her own and opinions to match and yet never hurt anyone. 

She was a true lady.  She always wore perfume and dressed in mostly pastels, declaring black "much too sad."  She matched her purse, her shoes, and often even her lipstick to her sweater which matched her slacks and somehow she always looked elegant.  She was not seen without her hair done and her makeup on.  When I spent a weekend with her, she would paint my nails to match hers . . . "our little secret," because I wasn't really allowed.  She always remembered to take it back off before I went back home.  Except that once. 

She matched her bed clothes to her bedroom decor.  This was a revelation to me when I was a child.  My bedroom was pink, but I slept in all colors and patterns, until the day my grandma and I were out shopping.  I picked out a powder blue nightgown.  "But your bedroom is pink, Honey . . . this pink one will look much nicer."  "But Grandma, who sees me when I'm sleeping?"  "You do, Dear."  My first lesson in taking pride in myself for myself's sake. 

My grandma hosted all the major holidays.  She cooked enough for an army, but did it with lavish style and love.  And she often put Santa Claus to shame with her personalized gifts amassed throughout the year. 
She wore red, white, and blue on the Fourth of July and took us to every neighborhood parade in town.  Quite a feat when they all ran at practically the same time. 

She listened to opera music and easy listening and held her head up high when her teenage-grandchildren-detractors teased and jeered.  She eventually won me over to opera music, but never knew.


My grandma loved licorice and Johnny Carson and a good sleepover.  She would enthusiastically participate in my ongoing experiment to try to stay up all night.  She taught me to play double solitaire and would find ways to lose often enough to fund my personal shopping wallet for the next day. 

She loved strawberries and had a big strawberry patch in her backyard.  She ordered only strawberry pie and strawberry ice cream. 

She was the one to tip me off, "Appear aloof to the boys who show interest in you," and to pinch my cheeks before answering the door. 

She also told me I was beautiful, and, God love her, I think she really meant it . . . even though I really wasn't beautiful. 

Have you met my grandma?  No, I know you haven't.  And now you won't.  Because she died.  She died on this day sixteen years ago.  And I miss her freshly every. single. day. 

HELP: Shop the Shoppe!

Remember a few posts ago, in A Chance to be Profound, I told you about a little Christmas shopkeeper who was so kind to me, at a time when my spirit really, really needed it?  I just got word that the shop is struggling this year.  Really struggling.  As the shopkeeper's sister wrote in a comment to that post just today, Demory's is "going through tough times right now."  (gulp)  We all know what that means in these tough times.

The thought of this particular shop closing makes my heart heavy, not because of anything in particular in their store -- though all their merchandise is lovely and fairly priced -- but because of the kindness and ethic that came along with the merchandise.  That is a rare commodity that we have undervalued for far too long, don't you agree? 

How's your Christmas shopping going?

Are you finished?

If you are, how did it go?  Were you treated kindly?  Did you leave the store feeling better than you did when you came in?  Probably not. 

ughhhhh!

In fact, when was the last time you left a store feeling beholden to the shopkeeper for treating you so well?  I'll bet most of you can't remember.  And if you can, it was a little shop like Demory's. 

If you're not finished, why?

Are you out of ideas?  Any chance they would like something from a little Christmas shop in Maryland?

How is your spirit feeling this season?  Christmas and otherwise.  I know mine waxes and wanes . . . and often this time of year, I keep my eyes open for that last little something to do to make the season brighter for someone else, thereby replenishing my Christmas spirit as well.

Well, I found it.

And I pass it along to you as well:  Shop the shoppe!

If you need a gift for someone yet . . . consider a Christmas item from Demory's.  Big or small, I know they'd love your business. 

 

Demory's Christmas Memories

301-739-9627

If nothing else, at least visit their website, for a unique experience . . . the website reflects the person, not only the merchandise . . . very refreshing.

Feel free to grab the button for your own blog and help me spread the word.  (I feel just like Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail . . . "Can we save the Shop Around the Corner???"  If only I had her cute hair . . . but I digress . . . let's get to work!)  

Let the LORD be magnified, 

which hath pleasure in the prosperity of his servant.

From Psalm 35:27

Entry 5: Prayer

 

 

 

I have witnessed prayers answered, 

and I am awed, humbled, inspired, comforted,

long before my gratitude even awakens.

Grace.

 

 

Angels (Drive?) Among Us

Do you believe in guardian angels? 

I do. 

I think. 

Well, I'd like to; let's put it that way.

I've been a little down about a couple of things lately.  Lots of hand wringing and a little sadness and lots of worry. 

So imagine the smile it brought to my face, yesterday, when I pulled up to a stop light and read the bright pink bumper sticker on the gold van in front of me:  I'm glad you were born.  Now, don't you think that's pretty unusual for a bumper sticker?  I do.  Perhaps it's me and my personal sensibilities, but I usually find most bumper stickers to be a poke in the eye, at best.  How nice, how surprising, how uplifting to read such a pleasant message.

Then I noticed the oval vehicle sticker next to it; you know, the ones with abbreviations for people's favorite destinations.  But it read with something I'd never seen nor heard of before:  Angel's Landing.   (I have since found that there is an area of Zion National Park with that name, but we are nowhere near Utah . . . so I'm choosing to believe it was something more unearthly than that.)

As the light changed and we proceeded down the road, I had to marvel at the positive impact those two small little signs made upon me.  And just when I really needed it. 

Then I got this silly idea that perhaps it really was an angel in that van . . . appearing before me, fitting herself into my routine, and shining a small ray of sunshine into my life for that moment.  What a lovely thought.  Funny that she should be so adept at driving a mini-van, but, hey, angels are amazing, aren't they?  Yes, they are.  I decided to stop dismantling the idea:  Take the moment as it was offered and don't over-analyze it away.

When we stopped at the next light, I just had to pull up next to the van and get a look at the driver.  Would I see a glowing halo?  Fluttering wings?  Rays of light?  I mean, that would really make her an angel, right?

Well, I didn't see any halo.  No wings.  No glowing light. 

Nope. 

But what I did see made me sure she was, indeed, my guardian angel. 


A yawn.  She was yawning.  A great, big, deep, long yawn . . . the signal of exhaustion.

Yep, that would be her.