Poetry, Cake, Cranberries, Books, and a Cute Cooper Video
Monthly Vibes, November 2024
Hello and welcome to Monthly Vibes, a loosely curated list of eating, reading, and seeing inspiration. This post arrives in your inbox every third Sunday of the month, most of the time. I always skip August, my birthday month, and sometimes life happens. This month, I’m bringing you a poem (which I recorded in a somewhat sleepy, scratchy voice), a book recommendation and a recommended reading list, a righteous Blueberry Almond Ricotta cake that never fails to please (gluten-free), and my famous Cranberry Bourbon Relish.
I hope you and your people are well wherever you are. Enjoy Thanksgiving, and stay clear of that person who says all the wrong things after too many eggnogs!
Maureen xo
The Wednesday After: A Poem TETHERED by a connection made possible by a satellite that beams invisible signals to cell phone towers, after commiserating and then disconnecting with my sister, to center my core and regain my faith in humanity, I walk into the woods. TEN minutes in, surrounded by poplars, oaks, beech, and cedars, I gulp moist, chilly air — the deepest breath of the week and scream — silencing the woods, but only for a few seconds. THE woods don’t care If you’re Upset Angry Hurt Afraid. BREATHE One Two Three Four HOLD Five Six Seven Eight EXHALE One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight THIS land and space that I interrupt, where thick emerald green moss clings to tree trunks and limbs like a weighed blanket, where ferns thrive on the bank of a shallow creek roots secured in the heavy red clay soil, a creek designed from a previous season but on this day is empty. TWO young bucks are thirty paces to the East, grazing on the sparse forest floor. I roll my shoulders back and down, my breathe adjusting, my heart flutters, thrilled, as they take turns watching. ME, the interloper. Me, curious, Careful, not to startle them. THEY, curious for preservation. In the African wild, lionesses take turns digging in a den in the ground, lured by the scent of prey. One digs. One watches. Somehow, wildlife knows to watch each other’s backs. Humans, are learning and willing to turn their backs on each other at the slightest provocation. I suppose when threatened, wildlife too. How both things can be true at the same time is one of the mysteries and paradoxes of the universe. AT this point, I crane my neck like the white and red-bellied nuthatch. A flat white sky peeks through the tree canopy—sunset is hours off. I tag along with the bucks, As they meander, like lazy drunks, down the path. THE PATH the herd cleared decades prior, the path wild turkeys peck and scratch through the thicket of fallen leaves for acorns grey and red fox squirrels buried, the squirrels who bop across gnarled oak roots and beech trunks. THE PATH where I uncover the remains of a wild turkey—feathers stacked neatly in a pile, bones scattered, devoured by a bobcat or an owl, or a red-tailed hawk, or coyotes who trot along the path alone as a diversionary tactic, while the pack hangs back as a strategy, bones picked clean by vultures. AS I wander, I’m lured by the path, the sameness, the history, the unknown. I follow the natural curves and slopes of our land, sucked into a vortex of a primal world where loom and moss and fungus and decaying leaves and a network of roots under foot pulse and reassure. The bucks, My personal guides. LOST in the stillness, instinctually, I know it’s time to stop this tete a tete, to allow the bucks to carry-on without the pressure of me on their behinds. ONCE I stop, the bucks linger, checking back before moving on as if to say, this is it. This is all you need. Be still. Stop looking. You have everything Right here.
Reading through These Times
I’m reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead, and a third of the way through, I’m crying through many passages. If you like fiction, stories, resiliency, and survival, and you’re interested in Appalachia, this is your book. I encourage you to listen to Barbara Kingsolver talk with 2024 Kentucky Poets Laureate Silas House on his podcast Writing Lessons. Note that his entire short (ongoing) series is packed with interviews. And as a Kentuckian myself, I’m proud that Kentucky selected Silas for this coveted distinction. Over one hundred Kentucky Poets Laureate, including my friend Lee Pennington, Ada Limon, George Ella Lyon, and many others. Here’s a complete list from the University of Kentucky. What are you reading?
I don’t usually discuss politics on pARTake. Still, considering the state of the world, and specifically the US, I’m sharing a recommended reading list that keeps me grounded and helps me stay informed:
American Historian Heather Cox Richardson writes Letters from an American.
Advocate and Speaker Shannon Watts writes Playing with Fire.
Political pundit Isaac Saul at independent non-partisan Tangle News
Feel free to share newsworthy resources that keep you sane.
On to the sweeter side of things!
This lovely, moist, sweet, dense, but light cake is divine! I substituted blueberries for the sliced almonds (because I didn’t have any), but I’ve baked both, and neither disappoints. Let me know if you bake! I call it Happy Cake. Cooking with Manuela shares her recipe.
Yep, it’s that time of year when I share how my Cranberry Bourbon Relish came to be.
Whether you call it relish or sauce, you like cranberry relish or don’t. And when you do, you either eat gelatinous preformed cranberries out of a can or make fresh, tangy, zesty cranberry relish. Or you opt out.
Growing up, Mom made a homemade chunky cranberry relish every Thanksgiving and served cranberries out of the can. We were an equal-opportunity cranberry family. 😉
Mom’s recipe included fresh cranberries, lemon, and orange zest, and I don’t know what else. I remember that she served the relish in a small cut-glass bowl. The canned stuff was always on a silver tray, not real silver, but I didn’t know any different as a kid. She’d place her cranberry relish on the table with a flourish. That simple little gesture made me know her relish was something special.
As much as I loved all the attention she gave her relish, and as much as I liked the splash of color on the otherwise neutral-colored foods on the Thanksgiving table, every year growing up, I’d wrinkle my nose to her “just try a little bit,” words of encouragement. I couldn’t understand why anybody would eat an orange or lemon rind, let alone the bright maroon lip-puckering concoction. Instead, I’d plop a slab of canned cranberries on my plate and watch with interest to see who ate from the glass bowl.
It would be decades before my youth’s chunky, tart cranberry relish would grace my Thanksgiving table. And even though this isn’t Mom’s exact recipe, and my husband wrinkles his nose at my Cranberry-Bourbon Relish, I make it every year as an homage to Mom and to now to Kentucky, the place I call home. I even serve my Cranberry-Bourbon Relish in a cut glass bowl.
Cranberry Bourbon Relish. It’s not just for Thanksgiving anymore. Thanks, Mom.
Are you Team Cranberry Sauce or Cranberry Relish?
Cooper with his new orange tennis ball that I found in the garage during my garage sale!
As always, thanks for being here. Drop a comment, tap the heart, or hit reply to respond privately. I love to hear from you!
Maureen xo
Stay curious. Stay safe. Make an impact.
I felt your poem in my bones so of course I loved it. I have had a very similar experience with cranberries! My Mom made a raw cranberry relish which had a whole orange ground up with the cranberries along with celery and pecans. I preferred the canned stuff for a while too. As an adult, I make one similar to yours by cooking the berries in apple juice with allspice and cinnamon, then adding in orange zest and brandy or bourbon for the last few minutes of cooking. And it absolutely has to be served in that special cut glass dish which I inherited from my Mom!
Thank you for all your wonderful words and artistry. You are a treasure! 🥰
A lovely read, Maureen.