Spice and daydreams
The fragrance of sweet spices fills my apartment. This morning I ground some cloves to make three loaves of Aunt Kay's pumpkin bread. One loaf I will slice for the reception after tonight's choir concert. The other two I will keep and offer parsimoniously to deserving friends. It's almost too good to give away.
I love grinding my own spices.
Since my teens I have had a book published by National Geographic Society in 1977, Nature's Healing Arts: From Folk Medicine to Modern Drugs. The front of the paper jacket shows an Appalachian woman grinding herbs in a mortar and pestle. In the background, jars of whole spices line the shelves of her shop. Her light brown skin looks so healthy, her face so peaceful. The photo has always enchanted me.
The book introduced me to a lifelong fascination with herbs. I doubt they offer all the healing powers attributed to them. But many drugs come from plants. Aspirin for example was originally derived from willow bark. The pharmaceutical potential of the world's rainforests probably exceeds what anyone can imagine.
I like to grow herbs. They make beautiful garden plants, modest and elegant, most of them requiring minimal care. I love to rub the leaves of bergamot or pineapple sage between my fingers and smell the armoa. When I had an herb garden I liked to pick a few leaves from different plants and make a unique tea every morning. In the forest I take special delight in native herbs like wild ginger and wintergreen.
By my doorstep I have a clump of lavender, a straggly mound of woolly thyme, and some chives growing in the shade of a rose bush. Other than that I haven't had room for an herb garden since I lived in the country eight summers ago.
Grinding spices fills me with nostalgia and fantasy. I imagine I'm a hillbilly herbalist or a medicine man.
I use an antique coffee mill for the purpose. Once a year I make my own curry powder, a blend of 11 different spices. I roast it lightly. The rich aroma makes me think of all the exotic places I would like to visit.
Now the sweet smell of pumpkin has begun to surround me, along with the tang of cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg. In a little while I will cut a slice from one of my loaves, spread it with margarine or cream cheese, and enjoy it with a cup of coffee. I can think of lots of places I would like to travel or live in, other people I wouldn't mind pretending to be for a day. But still Auntie Em, there's no place like home.
I love grinding my own spices.
Since my teens I have had a book published by National Geographic Society in 1977, Nature's Healing Arts: From Folk Medicine to Modern Drugs. The front of the paper jacket shows an Appalachian woman grinding herbs in a mortar and pestle. In the background, jars of whole spices line the shelves of her shop. Her light brown skin looks so healthy, her face so peaceful. The photo has always enchanted me.
The book introduced me to a lifelong fascination with herbs. I doubt they offer all the healing powers attributed to them. But many drugs come from plants. Aspirin for example was originally derived from willow bark. The pharmaceutical potential of the world's rainforests probably exceeds what anyone can imagine.
I like to grow herbs. They make beautiful garden plants, modest and elegant, most of them requiring minimal care. I love to rub the leaves of bergamot or pineapple sage between my fingers and smell the armoa. When I had an herb garden I liked to pick a few leaves from different plants and make a unique tea every morning. In the forest I take special delight in native herbs like wild ginger and wintergreen.
By my doorstep I have a clump of lavender, a straggly mound of woolly thyme, and some chives growing in the shade of a rose bush. Other than that I haven't had room for an herb garden since I lived in the country eight summers ago.
Grinding spices fills me with nostalgia and fantasy. I imagine I'm a hillbilly herbalist or a medicine man.
I use an antique coffee mill for the purpose. Once a year I make my own curry powder, a blend of 11 different spices. I roast it lightly. The rich aroma makes me think of all the exotic places I would like to visit.
Now the sweet smell of pumpkin has begun to surround me, along with the tang of cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg. In a little while I will cut a slice from one of my loaves, spread it with margarine or cream cheese, and enjoy it with a cup of coffee. I can think of lots of places I would like to travel or live in, other people I wouldn't mind pretending to be for a day. But still Auntie Em, there's no place like home.