"We had the sky, up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made, or only just happened."
~Mark Twain's, Huckleberry Finn
I wouldn't make a very convincing cookie monster. (Though I do like his style!)
And you pro-bab-ly won't see me high-tailin' it to catch up with the ice cream man on a hot day.
But wrap some homemade fudge up in a little blanket,
tie a love note to it,
and
address it to me...
and I will follow you around like a fat, sick puppy
because that is what I will be once I'm finished gorging on compliments and candy!
Collect.
Compose.
Seal and Deliver.
"I LOVE...
That you can turn an off handed comment about broccoli
into a three hour discussion about politics in organized sports."
A dear friend gave *i love you* jars as gifts to all us girls a few years ago for Christmas.
I fell in love with her idea and did the same for my Kentucky family.
After collecting mason jars of all sizes, shapes, and colors,
scouting out the best (and idiot proof) homemade fudge recipes I could find,
and hunkering down with pen and paper,
I continued the gift that kept on giving...
I spread around the LOVE!
*I wonder if she knows just what she's started.*
"I LOVE...
That you get so excited about everything you do.
Nothing half ass for Scarlett."
~ A few of my favorites ~
S'more Fudge
2 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup butter
2/3 cup evaporated milk
1 (7 oz. jar) marshmallow creme
2 cups chocolate chips
1 tsp. vanilla
Butter a small square pan.
In a large pot, combine sugar, butter and evaporated milk.
Bring to a boil over medium heat;
stirring constantly.
Boil 5 minutes and remove from heat.
Add marshmallow creme and chocolate chips.
Blend till smooth.
Stir in vanilla.
Pour into pan and cool to room temperature.
Score the fudge into small square pieces.
Refrigerate till firm.
Remove fudge from pan and cut rest of way through.
Refrigerate.
"A piece for You. A piece for Me."
Chocolate Mint Fudge
1 (12 oz.) pkg. semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 (14 oz.) can sweetened condensed milk
6 oz. white chocolate
2 tsp. vanilla
1 Tbsp. peppermint extract
Add 1 cup milk to chocolate chips. Melt.
Add vanilla.
Pour half of the mixture into an 8x8 in. wax paper-lined pan.
Let cool for 10 minutes.
Melt white chocolate with remaining milk.
Add peppermint and green food coloring.
(Mixture will be very thick.)
Spread on first layer.
Cool another 10 minutes.
Top with other half of chocolate mixture.
Cool.
Remove from pan, remove paper. Cut into squares.
Refrigerate.
"A piece for You. A piece for Me."
Maple Nut Fudge
1 cup maple syrup
1 cup white sugar
1/2 cup cream
1/4 cup butter
1/2 cup walnuts
1/2 tsp. vanilla
Boil sugar, cream, and butter until soft ball stage is reached.
Add nuts and vanilla.
Beat until ready to pour into wax paper-lined pan.
Cool.
Refrigerate.
"A piece for You. A piece for Me."
*** You want reviews? How 'bout, "I Love... This!" ヅ How 'bout You? Have a recipe you want to share on *I Cook Barefooted!*? Show some Barefoot Love and...
Send it here: scarlettcolleen@yahoo.com Want to include a photo? Fun! What's on your table?
“Do not be too timid
and squeamish about your actions.
All life is an
experiment.”
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson *Barefoot Love* Airbrush By, Colleen 2012
Let's see if I have this right. The prince wanders too far from the castle one night seeking good deeds to be done and a good time, inadvertently crossing paths with a witch of a woman (it's always a woman) that's just stumbled out of crazytown looking for a wayward prince she can undo (in the philosophical sense). Calling on her extensive knowledge of the black arts and the widely accepted truth that amphibians are a buzz kill in the bedroom, she promptly turns the young, impulsive, wet behind the ears prince into a toad. When asked why all the hostility, she grumbles, "...because, Dearie, I can."
Cue the dewey-eyed, virginal prin-cess: merciful, sincere and a free spirit. This trusting, but clever young thing too big for her britches, strays too far from the watchful eye of those who practice common sense (her royally wary parents) searching for true love in the form of anything-not-resembling-a-toad... and a good education.
The prin-cess falls head-over-heels for the toad.
The prince/de-cursed and reformed toad is humbled by his good luck.
They are wedded, bedded (in that order) and wake to a Whole New World where they all too soon stand facing the true meaning of marriage, parenthood... and, as is the way of the world and gravity, inevitably a mid-life crisis in the halls of an empty castle, no longer ripe with their own youthful, wide-eyed optimism and the sweet anarchy which their children so generously delivered. But, glory be, if their luck has held out, they still have each other and all is well enough.
The witch still creeps about wreaking havoc on unsuspecting travelers, and kids with candy . The murky depths of the swamp still shelters a toad or two. And dewey-eyed prin-cesses continue the search for themselves in fairy tales. Life goes on. The world still holds its place, inexplicably, in the universe. A moral can still be found in a good story.
"And they live happily ever after!"
Here's what boggles my mind, and disrupts my calm. The closer I inch toward the end of my life... Married: check. Babies: check. Empty castle: looming... the less infinite it becomes. (Why yes, I am married in my mid-forties with babies who are all grown up with one foot out the door. Why do you ask? )
People, please... for argument's sake: If any point in an infinite universe, whether real or imagined, is in fact the center of that universe, does the fact that I recognize my own mortality, in my shriveling womb, somehow explain why I no longer feel like the center of my own universe? And if so, why'd I have to go and have a mess of kids that are, ultimately, just going to fly the coop ( the castle, in which, I live ) with their little royal tail feathers dancing in the winds of their own storybook universes, following dreams of their own making in search of their own happy endings? Is this circle of life thing meant to leave us doomed-to-be-empty-mortgage holders floating aimlessly in one gigantic, but limited, universe wishing for our carefree toad and prin-cess days again... and not merely as the victims of the stereotypical characterization and plot?
Searching for the answers to nonsensical questions
like these keep this forty-something year old prin-cess up at night. I find the most reasonable path to sanity is to simply take
a deep breath, place my head on my pillow, and try to think happy thoughts.
Like this one.
When my
little prin-cess was still a little girl, I tucked
her into bed listening as she, in her still infinite universe, stalled her
bedtime with her own questions.
"Mom," she asked,
"what would you do if you were adopted by aliens?"
"I
guess I'd ask 'em for a new spaceship," I answered. Why not, I thought.
Isn't that what any prin-cess might ask for when presented with their new
storybook alien parents?
She looked
relieved. "So, you could come back to Earth then... anytime you
wanted," she asked. I realized
then, of course, what she'd meant was "abducted". What would you do
if you were abducted by aliens... not adopted. Not taken in by those who
would give you your very own spaceship, dote on your every prin-cess need or
whimsy, but rather those who might tear you from this world of castles and toads and fairy tale endings, thereby
introducing you to real terror.
And... there it is. The answer to my question. The very meaning of life all wrapped
up in a little girl/prin-cess poised, ever so delicately, in the center of her infinite universe on the very edge of reason.
Frightened by what tomorrow might bring, it is in our very nature to
try to predict what may happen next week or next year or when we're old as dirt... as our light in this Great Big Universe passes on. Will evil ("the nasty old witch") reign? Will someone ("the strong and handsome prince") come to our rescue? Could I ("the equally strong and lovely prin-cess") summon the strength to rescue him right back? As children we are in constant motion,
exercising our bodies and our senses, observing our world around us, asking
questions... writing our own stories and our own endings.
How often I do find myself lost in a fairy tale of my own making, and asking this question... Is my life a comedy or a tragedy? Well, I guess I'd better get busy writing!
We, the
storytellers, delight in bringing illumination to the greatest of lies, and when we’re feeling particularly disagreeable with the way of things, as we are sometimes
wont to feel, we especially find our peace in the unraveling of those festering
subtleties of truth. And though we accomplish this by introducing our own
truth, our own voice to the page, our actions offer the same to those who do
not have a voice or are, not-so-simply, afraid to use it.
I think often about
the subject of my writing, whether it serves as entertainment (I can dream)
or even for the purpose of raising awareness, but never do I wonder about the
reasons why I write. There is only
one answer to that question, and it sure doesn’t feel as though it’s of my own
making. Though, I often wish my inner voice was more prolific
on the page, I realize, it just is what it is. Or is it? The thing is – I don’t
know the answer to that question.
Today, I find
myself wondering who does. Writing certainly does take a heaping heart full of
stamina. Well, and the capacity for boldness, restraint when it’s called for, and
a whole lot of mettle. As writers, we
know this. But what they don’t tell ya when you first pick up a pen to write your story, is that you’ll
more than likely experience more than your share of heartache, leaving you with
– and to steal a most famous line – the audacity of hope.
This past Saturday,
April 28th, was a birthday of note. Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Harper Lee, turned 86. Her novel, “To Kill A Mockingbird” is not only my all-time
favorite but it remains for me after all these years, a beacon of hope…yes,
but more so, of faith; the belief in myself that I can achieve in my writing,
what I long for in my dreams – To make a difference and to be heard.
Nelle Harper Lee is, no doubt, a tough act to follow. What set her "coming-of-age" story apart from the rest was that it didn't end with her characters, Scout or Jem, Atticus or Boo Radley. She had something spectacular to say, and boy did she say it; dropping out of law school, devoting eight years of her life to finishing the story inside of her.
I guess in the end, that is the answer to my question. Do I have what it takes to drag my story out of me, kicking and screaming like the child that it is? It's soul-stirring questions like these that my great grandfather's words come back to me, gently nudging me forward, with a boot in my rear!
"Whatever it takes, I happen to have it!"
~ Grandpa Willie Ball
Now, that's some mettle I'd like to wrap my brain around!
We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from
delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
If we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.
Love costs all we are and will ever be.
Yet it is only love which sets us free.
A Brave and Startling Truth.
It is possible and imperative that we discover
A brave and startling truth.
When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
And without crippling fear
When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonders of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.
~ Dr. Maya Angelou ~
Dr. Maya Angelou will celebrate her 84th birthday
on April 4th, 2012.
A woman of great wisdom, beauty and courage,
she is a most beloved poet and spiritual teacher of
love, family, humanity, hope, peace, and joy;
she who believes...
"One isn't necessarily born with courage, but one is born with potential.
Without courage, we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency.
We can't be kind, true, merciful, generous, or honest."
Her triumphs make me proud,
her beginnings bring tears to my eyes,
but it is the resounding spiritual vibration of her voice
carried through to the center of my being
which stirs my soul.
True poetry in motion.
"We have to cease the polarization and include ourselves.
I'm not sure when, exactly, it happened. Somewhere along the way reality and practicality replaced my childhood dreams and fantasies. When I was young dreaming came easy. Mine was a long list, waxing and waning with my every childish whim. There was always time for dreams. There were no preconceptions of who would hand over the rent, feed the kids, or take care of me when I grew old. Growing *that* old was never part of the dream. It was a simpler time then. I would be indefinitely frozen, most likely in a twenty-something year old's body, and never wanting for anything.
I liked wrapping my stuffed animal's heads and legs and tails in gauze, pretending they were sick. I wanted a horse of my own to know freedom. I hurt when we had to give away our farm dog because we lived in an apartment, and when our cat grew sick with cancer. I wanted to save all animals who were sick, or lonely like me. I would be a vet.
I was entranced by what lurked beneath the waves of the ocean and what peace lay hidden in its darkest depths. I longed for adventure on the Serengeti plains. I could wear khakis, and spend my days in the dirt with a toothbrush unearthing dinosaur bones and Egyptian tombs in the desert. I wanted to save something; even if it was just our history. I would be an oceanographer or a game warden or an archeologist.
I wished I could ease the pain of others. Those wounds that often go unnoticed on children's faces, in their eyes, on their hearts. The heartbreaking, soul-jarring pain that we all carry through life, but sometimes... just sometimes we can't seem to let go of. I wanted to save those who were having trouble saving themselves. I would be a counselor.
I wanted to share all of my dreams, my fears, and my realities through stories. Because everyone can relate to a good story, and EVERYONE knows what it means to long for adventure. Words helped to raise my voice. They became my friends. I wanted to teach others that we are limited in our dreams, only by our imagination, so... I would be a writer.
I found my way, eventually. Though my dreams took me to places, honestly, where I never thought they would. I never did make it to vet school, or to the bottom of the ocean, or to the Serengeti. And I can't say that I've ever set up my own psychiatry booth on the side of the road. But somehow, and I can't say when, I found Happiness anyway.
Charles M. Schulz
Today, I'm thinking less about my dreams and more about our kids' dreams. So much for never growing *that* old. What do *they* want to be when they grow up? And when, if it hasn't already happened, will they begin to trade in their dreams and fantasies for reality and practicalities? Our oldest child graduates from high school this spring. He's off to save the world... or conquer it. And all I can think is... I hope he knows Happiness wherever he goes. Whether he falls into it or hunts it down with every breath in his body and soul, I hope he is Happy.
It all started somewhere and we want you to tell us your own, unique, beginnings.*
Life is in the journey!
To LIVE with eyes wide open,
inspiring ourselves and others,
finding the courage to do so,
as we strive toward a greater purpose...
This is my journey!
The first time I heard the question, “So I hear you’re writing a novel,” I wanted to crawl into a hole where I would, first, be free to contemplate the imminent tongue-lashing (followed by much kissing, of course) of he who must be named – my cheer-leading husband – for ever having mentioned IT to anyone *not on the list*... and second, a place of solitude where I could count the multitude of foolish, foolish dreams which had led me, oh so willingly, into this predicament.
For the record, those few brave souls *on the list* were to be read the following disclaimer upon their induction into this writer's (yes, that just happened) circle of trust: “I, (that's me) being of questionable mind and weakened spirit, do hereby admit to writing something, resembling but not limited to anything, of which will be referred to from here out simply as, a book, and of which, I do not expect (lie) to actually be considered (lie, lie) by any reputable agent (liar, liar pants on fire), because I know in my heart that, even though I am a wonderfully nice person (three weeks out of every lunar cycle), everyone knows (I want names) that publishing is likened to winning the lottery (I want names and I want my happy place back)!”
My love for writing began the moment I broke in the binding of my first paperback romance, at the tender age of thirteen. A whole new world opened up to me, teeming with Love, Loss and Lust. I remember the look on my mother’s face as she passed by my bedroom where I sat, huddled, with my head buried between the pages. It was that same look I gave my daughter when she first discovered Stephanie Meyer’s, “Twilight”. I was instantly hooked on the language of storytelling. Words were my new love, and to quote Edward Cullen, “… like my own personal brand of heroin.”
Raging hormones aside, publication or even the light of day eluded my characters once real life happened. Stacks of writing journals, ripe withcliche characters and weak plot outlines, sat idle and stuffed into bottom drawers throughout my roaring twenties (which were rather dull actually, unless wandering from state to state in search of myself is considered roar-worthy). My characters, my make-believe, turned out young women, lost like me, but who had found the courage to fight for their truth and their voice. Women stronger than me. Women defined more by the fight within than their insecurities.
By the time I hit my thirties, I had fallen willingly into the life of a devoted, though painfully lost, mother to three little monsters and, as such, had neither the time nor the energy to pursue what was still my dream ~ to write stories.
My writing journey, my origins, are what’s given me my education. For that, I am grateful. And though I dreamt (yep, still do) of being whisked away to the land of publishing by a fairy godmother (a reputable agent) ~ because I'm just that good ~ it is simply telling a good story that drives me to spending hours, days... nay, a LIFETIME of pulling at my hair and holding my breath, as I hover over my keyboard in light and in darkness. Stepping outside of myself to captivate an audience, attempting to master the English language (Ha!) in the details... There is the true magic. And if it just so happens to irrevocably change the course of another human being's existence, then win-win.
As much as I have struggled over the years with the fear that I am not good enough to call myself ~ A Writer ~ I think I have finally accepted the truth of my calling. It matters little, really, that I keep up with the big boys and girls. Winning the trophy is oh, so nice, I won't lie, but the path, in which I continue to discover more about myself in search of that road less traveled, is truly the reward in itself. It's in the journey that we discover who we are and who we want to be. Not the destination.
Happiness, contentment, and fulfillment
are found in the enthusiasm we carry for Life. Here and Now.
To write, is to dream.
To dream, is to let in hope...
opening up your world and the world of others to infinite possibility.
It is in our lifelong search to achieve,
Life’s Inspirational Valiant Endeavors, that we are most alive.
And there is nothing greater in this world than finding You Are Not Alone, within the pages of a good story.
The food that my mother cooks best is... green beans.
If I had lots of money, I would buy my mother... a book.
My mother looks pretty when... she's at a circus.
My mother doesn't like to... have a lot of noise.
My mother loves me because... I hug her a lot.
My mother makes me feel... happy.
I love my mother because... she loves me.
(Freddy, 6 years)
Freddy's Mother's Day Claymation
Write it down!
When I first learned I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to write it down. Eighteen years and three children later, I am still keeping journals for my kids. I began each pregnancy with lists. First, there were lists of every morsel, every crumb of food that I put into my mouth. (Didn't last long) Then there were my long, rambling attempts at keeping a poetic history of their childhood. (Lasted even less time than it took me to cuss, in disgust, that I could no longer tie my own shoes with this belly!) Eventually I found my groove, by simply promising myself and my children that I would be as honest as I possibly could with them, while being nice.
"In the fierceness of my own battles, I chose to tell you only what would inspire you and keep you safe."
My cedar chest, that place which holds all things special, keeps many of these journals today. Someday, I will give them to my children. They are theirs, after all. Their artwork, Their words, Their memories... with all my love. As a child, I remember sitting with my mother, as she read her own small hand-written notes. So many, in fact, that I knew then she must really love me. I had heard many stories, but here was proof, in writing, that I was loved and adored. I think it was my mother's listing habits, which inspired me to keep my own children's stories... to remember that I may not have been perfect, but I did love them.
This year for Mother's Day, my youngest son gave me something precious. Our story... through his eyes. (Stop-Action Video, "A Mothers Day To Remember", by Freddy, 12 years). And, as is now tradition, it will be added to his journal. It's the one busting at the seams with drawings of his family, his pets, his musings, his dreams! Rifling through its pages today, I found this entry...
May 2, 2006
"I was quietly doing laundry in my most favorite room of the house the other day. We know this by how much time I choose to spend there. I heard the laundry chute open up and slowly cast my eyes in the direction of the pile gathering just below it, to see a soft baby blue blanket with a hole in the corner and two stuffed bears plop on top and roll down the mountain of laundry below.
Two seconds later, I heard your sweet little seven year old voice quietly call down, "Are you okay down there, Butter Bear? How 'bout you, Oats?".
When the hole in the ceiling snapped closed again, It came to me. I am already in Heaven, and I just don't know it yet. Then I wondered... So, what's Hell going to be like? 'Cause that's where I'm goin' for all of those bad thoughts I was thinking just before those bears plopped onto that mountain and into my heart.
You are still my littlest one, Freddy!, and I'm going to miss you when you're all "growed up".
I already do."
Tell your children you love them more than life itself. Then show them. Their history resides in our memories. If nothing else, it will give them a head start in the lesson of forgiveness.
Love!
