The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
Sixty-seven years, oh Lord, to look at the clouds,the trees in deep, moist summer, daisies and morning gloriesopening every morning their small, ecstatic faces—Or maybe I should just say how I wish I had a voicelike the meadowlark’s, sweet, clear,…
All day the flickerhas anticipatedthe lust of the season, byshouting. He scouts uptree after tree and ata certain place beginsto cry out. My, in hisblack-freckled vest, bay body withred trim and sudden chromeunderwings, he isdapper. Of course somebodylistening nearbyhears him;…
Once I sawin a quick-falling, white-veined stream,among the leafed islands of the wet rocks,a small bird, and knew it from the pages of a book; it wasthe dipper, and dipping he was,as well as, sometimes, on a rock-peak, starting upthe…
In the cellarwas the smallest snakeI have ever seen.It coiled itselfin a cornerand watched mewith eyeslike two little starsset into coal,and a tailthat quivered.One stepof my footand it fledlike a running shoelace,but a scoop of the wristand I had itin…
Softest of mornings, hello.And what will you do today, I wonder, to my heart?And how much honey can the heart stand, I wonder, before it must break?This is trivial, or nothing: a snail climbing a trellis of leaves and the…
For example, what the trees donot only in lightning stormsor the watery dark of a summer nightor under the white nets of winterbut now, and now, and now—wheneverwe’re not looking. Surely you can’t imaginethey just stand there looking the way…
I went out of the schoolhouse fastand through the gardens and to the woods,and spent all summer forgetting what I’d been taught—two times two, and diligence, and so forth,how to be modest and useful, and how to succeed and so…
There are things you can’t reach. Butyou can reach out to them, and all day long.The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God.And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.The snake slides away; the…
The arrowhead,which I found beside the river,was glittering and pointed.I picked it up, and said,“Now, it’s mine.”I thought of showing it to friends.I thought of putting it—such an imposing trinket—in a little box, on my desk.Halfway home, past the cut…
They’re not like peaches or squash.Plumpness isn’t for them. They like beinglean, as if for the narrow path. The beansthemselves sit quietly inside their greenpods. Instinctively one picks with care,never tearing down the fine vine, never notnoticing their crisp bodies,…