Coincidentally, this is also the day that Julia Archibold Holmes became the first woman to reach the top of Pikes Peak, in 1858. But Pike Street in Seattle is named for ditch-digger Harvey Pike, not explorer Zebulon. For a sketch and a story, please see Mountain Woman.
Today is the birthday of Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1883), and in his honor I post this poem, along with a painting of two apples… my modest selection from the options of bread, kingdom, stars, and sky.
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleachèd garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ellen
Jeannie
Rosemary
Here is a birthday card created for friend Tom, honoring two of his numerous areas of expertise: wine and ice cream.
Tom
The Stanford in Washington Art Gallery has just opened Artists of Woodley Park, and what a pleasure it is to see so many people, working in such a variety of media, in our small neighborhood. The exhibit runs until July 15th and includes painting, sculpture, prints, photography, ceramics, glasswork, woodwork, jewelry and film. Please check the website for gallery location and hours.
Below is one of a series of four of my still-life paintings in the exhibit.
Celeste
Uncle Mike
Maurice Sendak
Each day of this increasingly warm weather brings something else into bloom and new subjects to paint. Hard to believe that it’s officially still winter for nearly another week.
To accompany this painting, a poem by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894).
And today is the birthday of literary patron and Shakespeare and Company founder Sylvia Beach. For a sketch and a mini-bio, please see Paris Memory.
Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;
Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.
Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:
Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
“We spread no snare;
“Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.
“Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be.”
—Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Kara
To kick off Lent, a walk down memory lane.
Here is a portrait painted many birthdays ago. But my son still requests the same birthday breakfast—pancakes (for which he stopped by this morning)—and he still shows up in an old Superman T-shirt once in a while. (“Dreams are the touchstones of our character.” Thoreau.) Well, he’s faster in thought than a speeding bullet, more powerful in his will to travel than a locomotive, and, metaphorically at least, can occasionally leap tall buildings with a single bound. Happy Birthday, Super-son!
Devin
In honor of much-beloved poet and storyteller Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965), whose birthday it is today, I post her poem “Vegetables” and a new painting.
For a brief bio and other Farjeon poetry, with accompanying paintings, please see Morning Has Broken and Cats.
The country vegetables scorn
To lie about in shops,
They stand upright as they were born
In neatly-patterned crops;
And when you want your dinner you
Don’t buy it from a shelf,
You find a lettuce fresh with dew
And pull it for yourself;
You pick an apronful of peas
And shell them on the spot.
You cut a cabbage, if you please,
To pop into the pot.
The folk who their potatoes buy
From sacks before they sup,
Miss half of the potato’s joy,
And that’s to dig it up.
—Eleanor Farjeon
Sara
Today is the birthday of my friend Susan, who is, an addition to her many other admirable qualities, a terrific cook. In her honor I post this painting and a recipe from her boundless repertoire. Susan makes it with acorn squash, but any of your favorite winter squashes would work just fine. On a cold autumn or winter evening it makes a lovely golden appearance on the table, with or without birthday candles. Happy birthday, Susan!
Susan’s Squash Pudding
Bake 1 whole acorn squash at 400º until soft when pricked, about 1 hour. Scoop flesh into mixing bowl. Add 2 T butter and salt to taste and beat for a few minutes. Add 1 box of corn muffin mix [alternatively, I use the blend from Moosewood Cookbook: 1 cup yellow corn meal, 1 cup unbleached white flour, 2 tsp. baking powder, ½ tsp baking soda, ½ tsp salt, to which I add 1/4 cup brown sugar]. Add 1 egg and 1 cup milk and mix until blended. Pour into a pretty 1-1/2 quart casserole dish, dot with 3 T butter, and bake at 375º for 30-40 minutes or until tester comes out clean. Serve immediately.
Susan
Although branches are bare, and strawberries and peaches are a distant warm-weather memory, we are fortunate to be able to enjoy in the midst of winter the beautiful, varied, and ubiquitous apple: crisp and juicy when fresh, yet even after months of humble cellar-storage a shining star of the pie and the still-life. And, in my experience, pies from cellar-stored apples are superior to those made with fresh. But either is suitable for painting.
Today is the birthday of Peter Mark Roget (1779-1869), creator of the Thesaurus. For a sketch and a mini-bio, please see Man of Many Words.
Matilda
Susan
