A successful Saturday

We wanted some tools for bread-baking, and more of a special flour available at the RiverMarket coop in Stillwater, so off we went with the Better Half. While parking in the lot between the RiverMarket and the river, a bald eagle swooped low over our hears. That perked us right up, although eagle sightings aren't as rare as they were several decades ago.

We bulk packaged the flour we went for and a different kind of flour we want to try, left them with the Better Half who was shopping for other things, and headed for the Valley Bookseller. They had one copy of a book we've been looking for so we behaved ourselves and bought just that one. We've never read much of Palmer Parker's writings but others whose opinion we respect have written highly of him so we'll try it.

approaching downtown Stillwater

Photo by J. Harrington

Then off to Cooks of Crocus Hill in Stillwater. We found a glass jar with a glass top that we hope will be just the thing for feeding sourdough starter to make the levain for the next loaf of bread; a new fat strainer, which we use to add water to our starter and dough, and a bowl scraper, finally, so we leave less of the dough behind in the bowl. Success!

three Canada geese

Photo by J. Harrington

On the way home, heading up Hwy 95 North of downtown Stillwater, we noticed a small flock of Canada geese landing in an old corn field. Already on the ground were quite a few other geese and a number of swans. The birds and the walk around the downtown shops is something one just doesn't get when shopping online. Hear us, Amazon? It would, we think, be beneficial if more retailers focused on the experience inside and outside their shops, and, on the way there.

When we got home, the dough we made yesterday went into the oven and is currently making the house smell wonderful. We have to go tend to that now.

The Gift

Chard deNiord, 1952

In memory of Ruth Stone (June 8th, 1915-November 19th, 2011)

“All I did was write them down
wherever I was at the time, hanging
laundry, baking bread, driving to Illinois.
My name was attached to them
on the page but not in my head
because the bird I listened to outside
my window said I couldn’t complain
about the blank in place of my name
if I wished to hold both ends of the wire
like a wire and continue to sing instead
of complain. It was my plight, my thorn,
my gift—the one word in three I was
permitted to call it by the Muse who took
mercy on me as long as I didn’t explain.”

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