The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
Don’t think just now of the trudging forward of thought,but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation. It’s summer, you never saw such a blue sky,and here they are, those white birds with quick wings, sweeping over the waves,chattering and plunging,…
In the north country now it is spring and there is a certain celebration. The thrushhas come home. He is shy and likes the evening best, also the hour just beforemorning; in that blue and gritty light he climbs to…
This is what love is:the dry rose bush the gardener, in his pruning, missedsuddenly bursts into bloom.A madness of delight; an obsession.A holy gift, certainly.But often, alas, improbable.Why couldn’t Romeo have settled for someone else?Why couldn’t Tristan and Isolde have…
You want to cry aloud for yourmistakes. But to tell the truth the worlddoesn’t need any more of that sound. So if you’re going to do it and can’tstop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’thold it in, at least go…
At Blackwaterfirefliesare not even a dime a dozen—they are free, and each floats and turnsamong the branches of the oaksand the swamp azaleaslooking for another as, who doesn’t?Oh, blessingson the intimacyinside fruition, be it foxesor the firefliesor the dampness inside…
In the deep fall don’t you imagine the leaves think howcomfortable it will be to touch the earth instead of thenothingness of air and the endless freshets of wind? And don’t you thinkthe trees themselves, especially those with mossy, warm…
Who can tell how lovely in June is the honey locust tree, or whya tree should be so sweet and live in this world? Each white blossomon a dangle of white flowers holds one green seed– a new life. Also…
I wonder what it is that I will accomplish todayif anything can be called that marvelous word. It won’t bemy kind of work, which is only putting words on a page, the pencilhaltingly calling up the light of the world,…
Everything needs it: bone, muscles, and even,while it calls the earth its home, the soul.So the merciful, noisy machine stands in our house working away in itslung-like voice. I hear it as I kneelbefore the fire, stirring with a stick…
Here is a storyto break your heart.Are you willing?This winterthe loons came to our harborand died, one by one,of nothing we could see.A friend told meof one on the shorethat lifted its head and openedthe elegant beak and cried outin…