The official blog of Denise M. Baran-Unland, author. Discover her books for all ages at bryonyseries.com.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Ed Calkins' Objections to the Twisted Kilt
Dear MOMI (Mistress of My Immortality)
Recent laspes in my many vices of time consumption have caused me to consider possible posts. The first of these (which you'll probably clean up a bit) concerns a resturant chain RIPPING YOU OFF.
Attention all large restaurant chains who are obviously trying to imitate me: there is a differance between being ruthless and heartless! I refer to the "Twisted Kilt", a chain trying to piggyback off of my future undying fame.
For those not aware of this place, I should explain that it is a upscale bar and grill trying to lure that likes of Ed Calkins himself into it walls with good food and a large varity of hearty beers (Can you believe it!). They ashalessly (Editor's note: sorry, Ed, can't fix this word; I haven't a clue what it is) advertise the chain's name hoping that I, (who tends to have my kilt twisted a little when I'm wearing it), will see the sign and enter without being singled out. As low as that may seem, consider how they cut costs by exploiting the wait stalf.
It's quite clear when you first walk through the door, that the poor waitresses, (who make little more then the tips they recieve) are issused kilts far too small for them. I realize that a proper kilt is quite costly, but did you have to buy them all in the "small child" section? The white shirts are no better, being to small too even button properly.
Then too, the music is without bagpipes, fiddle, or flute! In fact, there is no live music at all. What sane self-repecting lassie would work in such a hole? One who has been deceived for the sake of profit!
You see, they hire only the young beautiful leggy ladies with clear skin and big...er dreams; each despairing the large crowds of young watchful men, if a vain hope that a certain pot-bellied, middle age bespectacled man will pop through the door and propose to make her one of his many wives, while the other young lasses do their best to console them with small talk and very large tips.
Where else could they have gotton that, but the book!
Now I fully realize that almost every young girl dream of a fat old man with an inflated sense of self importance will one day offer a marrige without the fuse (Editor's note: fuse???) of a ceremony or the tiresome spectacle of romance, but what are the chances that it would be the "real" Ed Calkins?
Nothing is as sad to me as a young waitress sorting through a large stalk of bills with phone numbers written on them, trying to find that single bill, left by Ed Calkins who slipped in unnoticed (like that will EVER happen) that has "Will you marry me?" written on it. It takes some of these girls hours to go though all the greenbacks only to find no offer of marriage, so another working day tomorrow.
Young waitresses, take note: being a wife of Ed Calkins is NOT as easy as it might have appeard in Bryony. In a latter post, I will explain some of the misconceptions these poor young ladies embrace in their vain hope to be known thoughout history as an Ed Calkins wife.
Ruthlessly yours,
Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara
Friday, April 27, 2012
"Arnold von Winkelried," by James Montgomery
Arnold von Winkelried
By James Montgomery (1771-1854)
A courageous Swiss soldier creates an opening through impenetrable Austrian lines, which leads to his country's victory.
Thus Death made way for Liberty!
By James Montgomery (1771-1854)
A courageous Swiss soldier creates an opening through impenetrable Austrian lines, which leads to his country's victory.
"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Make way for liberty, and died.
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood,--
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown.
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frames should wear;
So still, so dense the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood.
Make way for liberty, and died.
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood,--
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown.
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frames should wear;
So still, so dense the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood.
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears.
Whose polished points before them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendours run
Along the billows to the sun.
All horrent with projected spears.
Whose polished points before them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendours run
Along the billows to the sun.
Opposed to these a hovering band
Contended for their fatherland;
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
And beat their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords;
And what insurgent rage had gained,
In many a mortal fray maintained;
Marshalled, once more, at Freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Was deemed a dead or living Tell,
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod,
Which his awakening footstep trod.
Contended for their fatherland;
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
And beat their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords;
And what insurgent rage had gained,
In many a mortal fray maintained;
Marshalled, once more, at Freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Was deemed a dead or living Tell,
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod,
Which his awakening footstep trod.
And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burned within,
The battle trembled to begin;
Yet, while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 'twere suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrant's feet;
How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes, the homes of slaves!
Would not they feel their children tread,
With clanging chains, above their head?
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burned within,
The battle trembled to begin;
Yet, while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 'twere suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrant's feet;
How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes, the homes of slaves!
Would not they feel their children tread,
With clanging chains, above their head?
It must not be; this day, this hour,
Annihilates the invader's power;
All Switzerland is in the field;
She will not fly,--she cannot yield,--
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast,
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as 'twere a secret known
That one should turn the scale alone,
While each unto himself was he
On whose sole arm hung victory.
Annihilates the invader's power;
All Switzerland is in the field;
She will not fly,--she cannot yield,--
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast,
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as 'twere a secret known
That one should turn the scale alone,
While each unto himself was he
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed;
Behold him,--Arnold Winkelried;
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And, by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the bursting storm,
And, by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
Behold him,--Arnold Winkelried;
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And, by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the bursting storm,
And, by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 'twas no sooner thought than done!
The field was in a moment won;
"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for liberty!" he cried.
Their keen points crossed from side to side;
He bowed amidst them like a tree,
And thus made way for liberty.
The field was in a moment won;
"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for liberty!" he cried.
Their keen points crossed from side to side;
He bowed amidst them like a tree,
And thus made way for liberty.
Swift to the breach his comrades fly,
"Make way for liberty!" they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart.
While instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, seized them all;
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free;"Make way for liberty!" they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart.
While instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, seized them all;
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Death made way for Liberty!
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
The Ed Calkins "Bryony" Discussion Group
By Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara
The discussion kept drifting onto what it means to be the parent of a teenager. Strange, since everyone in the group were once teenagers, but not all were parents.
The discussion kept drifting onto what it means to be the parent of a teenager. Strange, since everyone in the group were once teenagers, but not all were parents.
The conversation started with Melissa and how isolated she seems from her peers and being far closer to her mother and brother. She is definitively not the kind of girl/woman to get in trouble.
Yet, trouble seems a pit that all of us (in the discussion group) fell into as teens whether or not we were like Melissa . What we feared, as parents, was that some secret boy/man/woman/girl would approach our teen and blindside her in some clandestine pact that would lead to danger. John seems a perfect metaphor for this. (Did we stumble on something your former editor feared? (Fear or not, Masters is a pillar of the novel and its truthful metaphors), so says Ed Calkins anyway, and you've got to be a little impressed with my own personal grammar and spelling).
We talked about the guilt of a parent. Each parent had an insight on some problem that our teens or tweens was experiencing. It seems fitting that Darlene, who is quite close to Melissa, might later reflect that she took her eye off the ball and got distracted by her own love interest when a vampire was feeding on her willing daughter in her own bedroom.
Did we get something right or are Irish parents just guilt ridden and weird?
I hardly summarized the whole discussion but I though I'd share that much with you. I should also tell you that eight of the twelve people did not finish the book as assigned, but we had the discussion anyway, since everyone had read to the part of Ed Calkins. I took no one to task, since I was just sitting down to dinner, but I did warm them Bryony had some turns ahead.
Friday, April 20, 2012
The Paschal Sermon of St. John Chrysostom
John Chrysostom (347-407), and incidentally, "Chrysostom" means "golden mouth," because he was such an effective speaker, was an archbishop of Constantinople, who was exiled three times by the Empress Eudoxia for his frank and powerful sermons.
Others might say "tactless" sermons, but either, way, John was not one to tread lightly on the popular opinions of the day. His Paschal sermon is read every Easter at the Resurrection Matins service in all Eastern Orthodox churches. It's rather brief by comparision to his other homilies, which often took several hours to deliver.
Others might say "tactless" sermons, but either, way, John was not one to tread lightly on the popular opinions of the day. His Paschal sermon is read every Easter at the Resurrection Matins service in all Eastern Orthodox churches. It's rather brief by comparision to his other homilies, which often took several hours to deliver.
Are there any who are devout lovers of God?
Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival!
Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival!
Are there any who are grateful servants?
Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!
Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!
Are there any weary from fasting?
Let them now receive their due!
Let them now receive their due!
If any have toiled from the first hour,
let them receive their reward.
let them receive their reward.
If any have come after the third hour,
let them with gratitude join in the feast!
let them with gratitude join in the feast!
Those who arrived after the sixth hour,
let them not doubt; for they shall not be short-changed.
let them not doubt; for they shall not be short-changed.
Those who have tarried until the ninth hour,
let them not hesitate; but let them come too.
let them not hesitate; but let them come too.
And those who arrived only at the eleventh hour,
let them not be afraid by reason of their delay.
let them not be afraid by reason of their delay.
For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first.
The Lord gives rest to those who come at the eleventh hour,
even as to those who toiled from the beginning.
The Lord gives rest to those who come at the eleventh hour,
even as to those who toiled from the beginning.
To one and all the Lord gives generously.
The Lord accepts the offering of every work.
The Lord honours every deed and commends their intention.
The Lord accepts the offering of every work.
The Lord honours every deed and commends their intention.
Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord!
First and last alike, receive your reward.
Rich and poor, rejoice together!
Rich and poor, rejoice together!
Conscientious and lazy, celebrate the day!
You who have kept the fast, and you who have not,
rejoice, this day, for the table is bountifully spread!
You who have kept the fast, and you who have not,
rejoice, this day, for the table is bountifully spread!
Feast royally, for the calf is fatted.
Let no one go away hungry.
Partake, all, of the banquet of faith.
Enjoy the bounty of the Lord's goodness!
Let no one go away hungry.
Partake, all, of the banquet of faith.
Enjoy the bounty of the Lord's goodness!
Let no one grieve being poor,
for the universal reign has been revealed.
for the universal reign has been revealed.
Let no one lament persistent failings,
for forgiveness has risen from the grave.
for forgiveness has risen from the grave.
Let no one fear death,
for the death of our Saviour has set us free.
for the death of our Saviour has set us free.
The Lord has destroyed death by enduring it.
The Lord vanquished hell when he descended into it.
The Lord put hell in turmoil even as it tasted of his flesh.
The Lord vanquished hell when he descended into it.
The Lord put hell in turmoil even as it tasted of his flesh.
Isaiah foretold this when he said,
"You, O Hell, were placed in turmoil when he encountering you below."
"You, O Hell, were placed in turmoil when he encountering you below."
Hell was in turmoil having been eclipsed.
Hell was in turmoil having been mocked.
Hell was in turmoil having been destroyed.
Hell was in turmoil having been abolished.
Hell was in turmoil having been made captive.
Hell was in turmoil having been mocked.
Hell was in turmoil having been destroyed.
Hell was in turmoil having been abolished.
Hell was in turmoil having been made captive.
Hell grasped a corpse, and met God.
Hell seized earth, and encountered heaven.
Hell took what it saw, and was overcome by what it could not see.
Hell seized earth, and encountered heaven.
Hell took what it saw, and was overcome by what it could not see.
O death, where is your sting?
O hell, where is your victory?
O hell, where is your victory?
Christ is risen, and you are cast down!
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life is set free!
Christ is risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead.
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life is set free!
Christ is risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead.
For Christ, having risen from the dead,
is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.
is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.
To Christ be glory and power forever and ever. Amen!
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Well, It Was Bound to Happen
On Tuesday, I wrote my intention to restock the microwave popcorn and water bottle supplies at DARA (Digital Audio Recording Arts at University of St. Francis, Joliet), where Alby Odum and Heather King of Daniel’s Window (www.danielswindow.com) are recording the audio version of Bryony.
You know when you’re standing in line at check-out, watching your purchases roll down the belt, and saying, “I just know I’ve forgotten something?’”
You know when you’re standing in line at check-out, watching your purchases roll down the belt, and saying, “I just know I’ve forgotten something?’”
Well, I remembered later, while trying sitting at the computer trying to finish a piece before I switched into household chores, packed a laptop, etc, so I could leave for USF. I briefly considered the embarrassment of not showing up with said items, since I had publically promised it, but dismissed it. What were the odds either one would read that post?
Yep. You guessed it. Heather mentioned it while editing Chapter 14. I promptly ate a piece of humble pie (since there was no popcorn, and Alby was reduced to snacking on granola bars). I promptly emailed a reminder to me (along with a second one to send the Bryony music tracks he’d been requesting every week, oops!), one of the benefits of having a new smart phone (now that Rebekah had shown me how to send an email).
Recording progress to date: Sixteen completed chapters, so we are, numerically-speaking anyway, halfway through the book. Every now and then I hear a pesky copy error that makes me cringe. We do, however, have some inside jokes, such as Heather’s tendency to say “Main Streep,” instead of “Main Street,” which always makes us laugh.
Unless, of course, it’s another typo and Heather, who is also a copy editor, is just too kind to say so.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Catching Up, Munsonville Musings, and "Bryony" Moment of the Day
I have a stack of phone calls to make, emails to return, first drafts to write, second drafts to write, and nearly final copy to edit, WHEW! I'd give details about the projects sitting here, but I'm not completely organized yet from this weekend.
Soon, very, very soon, I'm abandoning all for a WALK!
I also got a little behind on Visage, with Holy Week and Pascha festivities and all, but we are still targeting a November 1st release date (We are an ambitious lot). We are also now very, very, very close to releasing the Bryony cookbook: Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles from "Bryony," which, you might recall, is a fundraiser for Big Brothers Big Sisters of Will and Grundy Counties (www.bbbswillgrundy.org). Formatting looks terrific, much more professinally laid out than we could ever have hoped. THANK YOU, SERENA DIOSA!!!
It's back to the University of St. Francis tonight for another three (or more) chapters of Bryony, the audio book. Carry along essentials: backpack with Visage notes, coffee, nights meds and plenty of water to counteract their drying effects, and microwave popcorn for recording engineer Alby Odum (if I get to the store in time).
Side story: The popcorn is Alby's standard snack. He always offers some; I've always refused. Last week we recorded Halloween, with its bit on making popcorn. NOW, I had a taste for popcorn, and so did Alby, of course, but he had eaten it all. Sooooo, I'm hoping to be a nice person and buy some. Time management skills, don't fail me today!
Bryony signing at Frugal Muse Books in Darien this Saturday. Have you see the Triblocal link?
http://triblocal.com/darien/community/stories/2012/04/local-author-to-sign-copies-of-vampire-novel/
Finally, had a lovely Bryony moment of the day yesterday, which actually began Sunday. My mother had forgotten to give my sister the two dozen roses she had bought for her birthday, so she sent a dozen home with me. I was a little disgruntled receiving my first roses in that manner, but, oh well, right?
Well, the next day, Rose (of all names) at the Herald News messaged me that a gentleman had brought me "a very lovely rose in thanks for a story I had written," so could I please come pick it up? Tight deadlines prohibited it, so I messaged a friend who lives in the area. He not only rescued the rose from a waterless death, he delivered it to my house.
Rose was right. The rose is gorgeous; I added it to the dozen from Sunday and propped the card by the vase. One act, triple blessings (the bestower, the messenger, the deliverer). Very, very cool.
Soon, very, very soon, I'm abandoning all for a WALK!
I also got a little behind on Visage, with Holy Week and Pascha festivities and all, but we are still targeting a November 1st release date (We are an ambitious lot). We are also now very, very, very close to releasing the Bryony cookbook: Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles from "Bryony," which, you might recall, is a fundraiser for Big Brothers Big Sisters of Will and Grundy Counties (www.bbbswillgrundy.org). Formatting looks terrific, much more professinally laid out than we could ever have hoped. THANK YOU, SERENA DIOSA!!!
It's back to the University of St. Francis tonight for another three (or more) chapters of Bryony, the audio book. Carry along essentials: backpack with Visage notes, coffee, nights meds and plenty of water to counteract their drying effects, and microwave popcorn for recording engineer Alby Odum (if I get to the store in time).
Side story: The popcorn is Alby's standard snack. He always offers some; I've always refused. Last week we recorded Halloween, with its bit on making popcorn. NOW, I had a taste for popcorn, and so did Alby, of course, but he had eaten it all. Sooooo, I'm hoping to be a nice person and buy some. Time management skills, don't fail me today!
Bryony signing at Frugal Muse Books in Darien this Saturday. Have you see the Triblocal link?
http://triblocal.com/darien/community/stories/2012/04/local-author-to-sign-copies-of-vampire-novel/
Finally, had a lovely Bryony moment of the day yesterday, which actually began Sunday. My mother had forgotten to give my sister the two dozen roses she had bought for her birthday, so she sent a dozen home with me. I was a little disgruntled receiving my first roses in that manner, but, oh well, right?
Well, the next day, Rose (of all names) at the Herald News messaged me that a gentleman had brought me "a very lovely rose in thanks for a story I had written," so could I please come pick it up? Tight deadlines prohibited it, so I messaged a friend who lives in the area. He not only rescued the rose from a waterless death, he delivered it to my house.
Rose was right. The rose is gorgeous; I added it to the dozen from Sunday and propped the card by the vase. One act, triple blessings (the bestower, the messenger, the deliverer). Very, very cool.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
A Step Back to the Past; a Reach into Eternity
I'm slicing a pound of butter into six cups of milk. Suddenly, it's 1985, and I'm sitting in the living room of my Crest Hill duplex.
My mother-in-law is cradling my three month old son; Christoper and Sarah are toddling around; and my father-in-law is explaining how, step by step, his mother had made Pascha (Ukranian Easter bread), even though it's nearly Christmas and not Easter.
He wasn't telling me anything I didn't know, for I had been married into this family four years now, and had experienced several Byzantine Catholic Easters--and Christmas Eve's too--celebrations that centered around certain food stuffs--eaten only at that time of year--and good fellowship with family and friends.
I had not grown up with that link to the past. My parents were each "one of two" children, as was I, and both parents seemed disconnected from their extended families. I, however, desired, from my earliest years, a large family--at least ten children (I have six)--and that I wanted to create, from their earliest years, a heritage that would outlast us all.
In short, I didn't just want to raise a family. I wanted to build a legacy.
Well, my first husband enjoyed prancing around some dangerous pastures, so the family broke down, and we're experiencing another breaking as I write this. I honor and respect the past, but I'm not one to dwell in it for that sake, when it's necessary and prudent to move on.
Yet, even as we press forward, as we all must, toward that incorruptible prize awaiting us, we find comfort and strength in the ribbon of tradition that is unchanging, a cord that defines us and connects us to each other, even as it binds us to those no longer with us, and forms new ties with the coming generations.
When my children were small and napping before the midnight Resurrection services, and my husband was busy with other food preparations, I had the task of dozing over the double boiler and, while clutching a wooden spoon, stirring the liquid hrudka, lest it scorch the bottom of the pan. When it formed curds, I folded the cheesecloth and held it over the sink, while my husband poured the mixture, then molded and tied it up to drip dry.
Now, Christopher who years ago, was the peon keeping the ever-growing stack of dishes washed, cooks most of the meats and all of the hrudkas. This time, he also had the help of a buddy, who came to join the fun. My youngest son Daniel performed dish duty.
When Sarah was old enough to assume the braiding of the bread, I thankfully relinquished the task, since it was time-consuming, and my task list, especially with babies and toddlers underfoot, was long and ever-changing and never-ending. (Her braids were better than mine, anyway). This year, I mixed the dough, and child number four, Timothy, a chef in training, kneaded all eight loaves and washed dishes.
Did I mention Rebekah kept moving laundry and cleaning up after the rest of us and helped Christopher with the grunt year?
I can no longer make Pascha without recalling the first year we prepared a little basket of Easter food for my husband's grandmother, who longer cooked them for herself. She called to thank us, but especially to marvel at my bread.
Being ignornant of the entire process, I had borrowed the recipe from an older gentleman at our church, a good friend no longer with us (and the recipe had been his mother's). Anyway, it was the first time in many decades Grandma Horkey had tasted bread the way her mother baked it. Yes, I use this very recipe every year.
Tonight, we will pack those foods into an oversized picnic basket, top with a specially embroidered cloth (THAT'S a separate blog post), and leave that basket on a long table, next to everyone else's baskets, all waiting to be blessed after services, to process, candles in hand, in the dark parking, around the dark church, waiting for Fr. Boris to bang on the door with a cross and begin singing, "Christ is risen!"
Excuse me, but I have to run downstairs to punch down the bread.
My mother-in-law is cradling my three month old son; Christoper and Sarah are toddling around; and my father-in-law is explaining how, step by step, his mother had made Pascha (Ukranian Easter bread), even though it's nearly Christmas and not Easter.
He wasn't telling me anything I didn't know, for I had been married into this family four years now, and had experienced several Byzantine Catholic Easters--and Christmas Eve's too--celebrations that centered around certain food stuffs--eaten only at that time of year--and good fellowship with family and friends.
I had not grown up with that link to the past. My parents were each "one of two" children, as was I, and both parents seemed disconnected from their extended families. I, however, desired, from my earliest years, a large family--at least ten children (I have six)--and that I wanted to create, from their earliest years, a heritage that would outlast us all.
In short, I didn't just want to raise a family. I wanted to build a legacy.
Well, my first husband enjoyed prancing around some dangerous pastures, so the family broke down, and we're experiencing another breaking as I write this. I honor and respect the past, but I'm not one to dwell in it for that sake, when it's necessary and prudent to move on.
Yet, even as we press forward, as we all must, toward that incorruptible prize awaiting us, we find comfort and strength in the ribbon of tradition that is unchanging, a cord that defines us and connects us to each other, even as it binds us to those no longer with us, and forms new ties with the coming generations.
When my children were small and napping before the midnight Resurrection services, and my husband was busy with other food preparations, I had the task of dozing over the double boiler and, while clutching a wooden spoon, stirring the liquid hrudka, lest it scorch the bottom of the pan. When it formed curds, I folded the cheesecloth and held it over the sink, while my husband poured the mixture, then molded and tied it up to drip dry.
Now, Christopher who years ago, was the peon keeping the ever-growing stack of dishes washed, cooks most of the meats and all of the hrudkas. This time, he also had the help of a buddy, who came to join the fun. My youngest son Daniel performed dish duty.
When Sarah was old enough to assume the braiding of the bread, I thankfully relinquished the task, since it was time-consuming, and my task list, especially with babies and toddlers underfoot, was long and ever-changing and never-ending. (Her braids were better than mine, anyway). This year, I mixed the dough, and child number four, Timothy, a chef in training, kneaded all eight loaves and washed dishes.
Did I mention Rebekah kept moving laundry and cleaning up after the rest of us and helped Christopher with the grunt year?
I can no longer make Pascha without recalling the first year we prepared a little basket of Easter food for my husband's grandmother, who longer cooked them for herself. She called to thank us, but especially to marvel at my bread.
Being ignornant of the entire process, I had borrowed the recipe from an older gentleman at our church, a good friend no longer with us (and the recipe had been his mother's). Anyway, it was the first time in many decades Grandma Horkey had tasted bread the way her mother baked it. Yes, I use this very recipe every year.
Tonight, we will pack those foods into an oversized picnic basket, top with a specially embroidered cloth (THAT'S a separate blog post), and leave that basket on a long table, next to everyone else's baskets, all waiting to be blessed after services, to process, candles in hand, in the dark parking, around the dark church, waiting for Fr. Boris to bang on the door with a cross and begin singing, "Christ is risen!"
Excuse me, but I have to run downstairs to punch down the bread.
Friday, April 13, 2012
A Real Good Friday Walk
Last night, a Facebook friend challenged a sign I posted, "Today, I choose joy," and we spent a few minutes privately swapping stories about the really tough events occurring in our lives. 2012 is not the first year I've been privileged to walk closely with Christ on Good Friday, but this time, I can definitely see the Resurrection up ahead.
And that is no slight thing.
Although we're battling some ugly and challenging issues, we are blessed--and again, I say, "blessed,"-- that while some very dear situations are passing away, as a group, my family and I are thankful we stored up treasure in heaven, where moth and rust doth not corrupt, what thieves cannot steal, that what is most important: God and each other.
Certainly, in past years, we have kept this most passionate of weeks with all the liturgical gold our denomination offers, and we have most definitely enthusiastically celebrated at home with traditions built from the ground up thirty years ago with the birth of my first child.
So while every brick didn't fall in place for us this year, it's because the entire spirit of what it means to cling to Christ on a very scary walk is very real for us this week. We, individually, and as a group, are looking ahead with great longing and hope to the promises the end of this week brings.
When we sing "Christ is Risen" in about thirty-six hours, it will be with a heartfelt exuberance unlike any other year. Then we will most definitely sit down, together, and partake of the fatted calf, the preparations of which are already begun.
For numbering amongst our traditions as a church is an Easter basket full of particular delectable foods, prepared only once each year, that we will bring to the church for the priest to bless. Through careful planning and the generosity of my mother (since our preparations will be the cornerstone of Easter dinner of Sunday), every items will be present in that baskeet when it takes it place on the long tables in our church hall, beside everyone else's.
Note: If the contents seem like a cocktail for cardiac arrest, it's because an authentic Eastern Orthodox Lenten fast prohibits the consumption of meat, eggs, and dairy for the better part of two months (this includes parts of the Triodian period, as well as Lent and Holy Week). So, Easter food is heavy in these items
So what goes inside?
Pascha #1: a very rich, yes homemade, bread, tall and round loaf, full of eggs, whole milk, and butter. Crowning the top are braids, crosses, and the letters IC XC (Jesus Christ conquers!).
Pascha #2: A very soft cheese made from ricotta cheese, milk, butter, eggs, and vanilla. I prefer this to the hurdka, since I dislike eggs and can safey skip them in this recipe. I mold mine in a bowl and decorate it with a clove cross and surround the edges with sliced strawberries. Pure ambrosia, I'm telling ya!
Butter: In the shape of a lamb
Pysanky: Easter eggs dyed following traditional methods. We have made them in the past, but they are tricky and time-consuming. Like many moderners, we "cheat" and use shrink wraps.
Hrudka: Easter "cheese" made from whole milk, eggs, and salt (for those who don't like it sweet) and the same with the addition of vanilla and sugar (We make both kinds). Hrudka is time-consuming and must be prepared in a double-boiler until curds form. These are strained into cheesecloth, then tied up and allowed to hang and drip dry.
Lamb: We usually would have ours at our Holy Thursday dinner, but my mother won't make it, and my father loves it, so we deferred this year, so we could add it to our Easter basket and bring some for him.
Ham: Traditional Slavic celebration meat (My children are half Ukranian; I am half Bohemian).
Thickly-cut bacon (same logic as for the ham)
Long links of kielbasa (see above).
Fruit: We like apples, oranges, grapes, and strawberries
Colored hardboiled eggs: Which Timothy will transform into the deviled variety on Easter Sunday.
Horseradish: white and beet.
Salt and pepper in new, glass containers
Candy: Which we bought on sale extremely cheaply the day after Western Easter, one of the "perks" of being Easter Orthodox.
We will be eating off this food for the first couple of days following Easter Sunday (The Orthodox call it "Pascha," because it is our Passover, the passing from death to life). All of that first week is called "bright week," and fasting of any kind is strictly prohibited.
All these foodstuffs will go into an enormous basket we bought just for this purpose (the rest of the year it holds silk flowers). A brightly-colored embroidery cover, used only once a year, tops the feast.
Now that cover has a couple of stories attached to it. I will share those tomorrow.
And that is no slight thing.
Although we're battling some ugly and challenging issues, we are blessed--and again, I say, "blessed,"-- that while some very dear situations are passing away, as a group, my family and I are thankful we stored up treasure in heaven, where moth and rust doth not corrupt, what thieves cannot steal, that what is most important: God and each other.
Certainly, in past years, we have kept this most passionate of weeks with all the liturgical gold our denomination offers, and we have most definitely enthusiastically celebrated at home with traditions built from the ground up thirty years ago with the birth of my first child.
So while every brick didn't fall in place for us this year, it's because the entire spirit of what it means to cling to Christ on a very scary walk is very real for us this week. We, individually, and as a group, are looking ahead with great longing and hope to the promises the end of this week brings.
When we sing "Christ is Risen" in about thirty-six hours, it will be with a heartfelt exuberance unlike any other year. Then we will most definitely sit down, together, and partake of the fatted calf, the preparations of which are already begun.
For numbering amongst our traditions as a church is an Easter basket full of particular delectable foods, prepared only once each year, that we will bring to the church for the priest to bless. Through careful planning and the generosity of my mother (since our preparations will be the cornerstone of Easter dinner of Sunday), every items will be present in that baskeet when it takes it place on the long tables in our church hall, beside everyone else's.
Note: If the contents seem like a cocktail for cardiac arrest, it's because an authentic Eastern Orthodox Lenten fast prohibits the consumption of meat, eggs, and dairy for the better part of two months (this includes parts of the Triodian period, as well as Lent and Holy Week). So, Easter food is heavy in these items
So what goes inside?
Pascha #1: a very rich, yes homemade, bread, tall and round loaf, full of eggs, whole milk, and butter. Crowning the top are braids, crosses, and the letters IC XC (Jesus Christ conquers!).
Pascha #2: A very soft cheese made from ricotta cheese, milk, butter, eggs, and vanilla. I prefer this to the hurdka, since I dislike eggs and can safey skip them in this recipe. I mold mine in a bowl and decorate it with a clove cross and surround the edges with sliced strawberries. Pure ambrosia, I'm telling ya!
Butter: In the shape of a lamb
Pysanky: Easter eggs dyed following traditional methods. We have made them in the past, but they are tricky and time-consuming. Like many moderners, we "cheat" and use shrink wraps.
Hrudka: Easter "cheese" made from whole milk, eggs, and salt (for those who don't like it sweet) and the same with the addition of vanilla and sugar (We make both kinds). Hrudka is time-consuming and must be prepared in a double-boiler until curds form. These are strained into cheesecloth, then tied up and allowed to hang and drip dry.
Lamb: We usually would have ours at our Holy Thursday dinner, but my mother won't make it, and my father loves it, so we deferred this year, so we could add it to our Easter basket and bring some for him.
Ham: Traditional Slavic celebration meat (My children are half Ukranian; I am half Bohemian).
Thickly-cut bacon (same logic as for the ham)
Long links of kielbasa (see above).
Fruit: We like apples, oranges, grapes, and strawberries
Colored hardboiled eggs: Which Timothy will transform into the deviled variety on Easter Sunday.
Horseradish: white and beet.
Salt and pepper in new, glass containers
Candy: Which we bought on sale extremely cheaply the day after Western Easter, one of the "perks" of being Easter Orthodox.
We will be eating off this food for the first couple of days following Easter Sunday (The Orthodox call it "Pascha," because it is our Passover, the passing from death to life). All of that first week is called "bright week," and fasting of any kind is strictly prohibited.
All these foodstuffs will go into an enormous basket we bought just for this purpose (the rest of the year it holds silk flowers). A brightly-colored embroidery cover, used only once a year, tops the feast.
Now that cover has a couple of stories attached to it. I will share those tomorrow.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Midnight Oil
I'll be literally burning it again today since this fourth Tuesday in a row we're recording the audio version of Bryony. Last week, we stayed at USF until one in the morning, so by the time I returned home, showered, and had a snack, well, I used to rise earlier than that.
For Eastern Orthodox Christians, today's theme is the parable of the bridesmaids, those who waited and watched for the bridgegroom's return with lit lamps full of oil, and those who slept, let the lamps go out, and missed the bridegroom's return.
As a writer and former paper carrier, I'm accustomed to odd hours, mindful of deadlines, and vigilant of full gas tanks, sufficient plastic bags, safe tires and brakes, customer starts/stops, and all the details of note-taking and copy-editing, etc.
The beauty of the Great Fast and Holy Week is that, although I generally tend to keep careful watch of myself, I'm given an opportunity to explore even more deeply, to once again renew my pursuit of all that is honest and true, to set my hand to the plow, and in live in such a way that I can live with myself.
"See to it, then, that the light within you is not darkness.” Luke 11:35
For Eastern Orthodox Christians, today's theme is the parable of the bridesmaids, those who waited and watched for the bridgegroom's return with lit lamps full of oil, and those who slept, let the lamps go out, and missed the bridegroom's return.
As a writer and former paper carrier, I'm accustomed to odd hours, mindful of deadlines, and vigilant of full gas tanks, sufficient plastic bags, safe tires and brakes, customer starts/stops, and all the details of note-taking and copy-editing, etc.
The beauty of the Great Fast and Holy Week is that, although I generally tend to keep careful watch of myself, I'm given an opportunity to explore even more deeply, to once again renew my pursuit of all that is honest and true, to set my hand to the plow, and in live in such a way that I can live with myself.
"See to it, then, that the light within you is not darkness.” Luke 11:35
Monday, April 9, 2012
The Journey to Pascha
Although a good portion of the Christian world celebrated Easter yesterday, my family and I belong to a denomination, Eastern Orthodox, that is just entering Holy Week.
This means, for me, a week that is both solemn and busy, as I scrunch deadlines to allow time for the extra services this week (nearly one a day), special foods to be cooked and brought to the church at midnight to be blessed, examinations of conscience to be made, and a single motel room to be reserved (camp-out!), for we live an hour away from our church, and none of us will feel like driving home at dawn.
No, this doesn't have anything to do with Bryony, per se (except that Melissa's grandmother was Eastern Orthodox, and Melissa seeks some rather unproductive advice from the church's pastor), but my spiritual walk has and does forms me as a person, which then flows into my approach to writing.
So this week, less of an insight into the book series and more of a glimpse into the life of the author (No, don't yawn, lol). I promise to keep such posts brief and non-preachy, although they might get a little personal, because there is nothing about Orthodoxy that is not personal, passionate, and present to the moment (Today, I am crucified with Christ, etc).
And today's theme is Jesus cursing the fig tree for its non-productivity, a reminder that we should hasten to do good, while there is still time. With productivity in mind, I hurry off to a meeting.
Have a blessed rest of the day!
This means, for me, a week that is both solemn and busy, as I scrunch deadlines to allow time for the extra services this week (nearly one a day), special foods to be cooked and brought to the church at midnight to be blessed, examinations of conscience to be made, and a single motel room to be reserved (camp-out!), for we live an hour away from our church, and none of us will feel like driving home at dawn.
No, this doesn't have anything to do with Bryony, per se (except that Melissa's grandmother was Eastern Orthodox, and Melissa seeks some rather unproductive advice from the church's pastor), but my spiritual walk has and does forms me as a person, which then flows into my approach to writing.
So this week, less of an insight into the book series and more of a glimpse into the life of the author (No, don't yawn, lol). I promise to keep such posts brief and non-preachy, although they might get a little personal, because there is nothing about Orthodoxy that is not personal, passionate, and present to the moment (Today, I am crucified with Christ, etc).
And today's theme is Jesus cursing the fig tree for its non-productivity, a reminder that we should hasten to do good, while there is still time. With productivity in mind, I hurry off to a meeting.
Have a blessed rest of the day!
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Ed Calkins' Plans to Rewrite the Epilogue to "Bryony"
From Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara
Dear MOMI: (Mistress of My Immortality)
I regreat to inform you that I am going to write a screenplay on how Byrony's epilogue would have played out had Ed Calkins become Melissa's second husband.
Yes, I know you don't like this. No author does.
I also know you are thinking there are copyright laws and lawyers to protect you from this revisionism, but I fear your thinking is short-sighted. If you doubt this, consider the differing Bibles. (Even God has that problem)
As I've reminded you many times, I am an Irishman, and, therefore, it's my job to make myth, even if I have to steal it from fiction. Moreover, I must explain the benefits/responsiblities of becoming a wife of Ed Calkins in advance of your soon-to-be-written (I know you're planning it, so don't deny it) book, Great Women:The Wives of Ed Calkins.
I'm fearful that, a thousand years from now, without my screenplay, women will try to marry me posthumously (which might make your Great Women book seem fraudulent.). So, I'm stealing from you for your own benefit.
Image the joy of that future achiligist (too lazy to get the spelling right) to find that, not only was he a real person, but that he told the story differently. I'm afraid that after this happens the debate will switch to "Was Denise Baran-Unland a real person, and, if so, why did she lie so much?"
Dear MOMI: (Mistress of My Immortality)
I regreat to inform you that I am going to write a screenplay on how Byrony's epilogue would have played out had Ed Calkins become Melissa's second husband.
Yes, I know you don't like this. No author does.
I also know you are thinking there are copyright laws and lawyers to protect you from this revisionism, but I fear your thinking is short-sighted. If you doubt this, consider the differing Bibles. (Even God has that problem)
As I've reminded you many times, I am an Irishman, and, therefore, it's my job to make myth, even if I have to steal it from fiction. Moreover, I must explain the benefits/responsiblities of becoming a wife of Ed Calkins in advance of your soon-to-be-written (I know you're planning it, so don't deny it) book, Great Women:The Wives of Ed Calkins.
I'm fearful that, a thousand years from now, without my screenplay, women will try to marry me posthumously (which might make your Great Women book seem fraudulent.). So, I'm stealing from you for your own benefit.
I shall write this screenplay and have it buried in my coffin when I die. One thousand years after my death, when the Byrony series is part of the lore of ancient America, my grave shall be discovered and exhumed in hopes of answering one of the most debaded subjects of future ancient history, one that's already begining to get asked today: Is/Was Ed Calkins a real person?
Image the joy of that future achiligist (too lazy to get the spelling right) to find that, not only was he a real person, but that he told the story differently. I'm afraid that after this happens the debate will switch to "Was Denise Baran-Unland a real person, and, if so, why did she lie so much?"
I do regret the damage this will do to your reputation. Still, the future is not engraved in stone. Perhaps I can help by composing a limerick claiming that you are a beloved myth. I will also give you a preview of this play a thousand years in advance of its release, which should give you time to prepare a response.
Also, I'm informing you before I write it, so that you can beg me not to do it.
Really sorry, but this is for the benefit of mankind.
Ed Calkins
Friday, April 6, 2012
“Good Friday” by Christina Georgina Rossetti
“Good Friday” by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1896)
Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon--
I, only I.
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon--
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Whoa! What a Busy Day!
I have totally scrapped the awesome post I was planning to write about editing Visage since one task after another has totally gobbled up the time.
And I STILL have a bunch of stuff to do, even before I can tackle the household chores I had abandoned until "later."
There are early deadlines this week (because it's Holy Week for most of the Christian world) and early deadlines NEXT week (because it's Holy Week for us Eastern Orthodox Christians), along with having (and wanting) to cook whole bunch of scrumptious food, attend a slew of services that literally walk us through the last days of Christ, and adhere to traditions I began in my children's childhood that they still expect, like out annual toga party (It's not what you think).
So, what DID I do today?
I ran a final copyedit on four press releases, whittled my inbox to twenty-four new messages, sent and received e and voice mail, checked my Facebook News Feed (which I'd neglected for nearly a week), edited and sent two more stories, wrote captions for about a dozen photographs to accompany stories then sent them off, and worked on a really neat side editing project that is taking longer to complete than I initially anticipated (Isn't it always that way?). I comforted an overtired, fussy grandbaby, fed the cats twice, and even got my walk in.
And what's left?
* a stack of phone calls
* daily household chores
* dinner
* the bank
* a trip to the grocery store
* a vet bill to pay
* laundry
* straighten up my office (This one should probably go at the top of the list, eek!)
* file paperwork
Yesterday, I was hoping to read through Chapter 11 of Visage, then figured I'd get to it today, and now wondering if I should do that tonight in between the editing of Bryony, the audio book, but now I'm remembering I still haven't finished scanning the Bryony cookbook for errors (Ooops! Haven't peeked at it since LAST Tuesday) and mentally debating which I should do.
Decisions, decisions.
AND, since it's going to be a VERY late night tonight, further musing on the merits of another cup of coffee versus a nap.
I know what you're thinking. I should have a Guiness instead. Alas, my daily whopping dose of antihistamines to treat chronic hives will prevent that now and forever.
Sigh.
I think the cup of coffee is gonna win.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
And I STILL have a bunch of stuff to do, even before I can tackle the household chores I had abandoned until "later."
There are early deadlines this week (because it's Holy Week for most of the Christian world) and early deadlines NEXT week (because it's Holy Week for us Eastern Orthodox Christians), along with having (and wanting) to cook whole bunch of scrumptious food, attend a slew of services that literally walk us through the last days of Christ, and adhere to traditions I began in my children's childhood that they still expect, like out annual toga party (It's not what you think).
So, what DID I do today?
I ran a final copyedit on four press releases, whittled my inbox to twenty-four new messages, sent and received e and voice mail, checked my Facebook News Feed (which I'd neglected for nearly a week), edited and sent two more stories, wrote captions for about a dozen photographs to accompany stories then sent them off, and worked on a really neat side editing project that is taking longer to complete than I initially anticipated (Isn't it always that way?). I comforted an overtired, fussy grandbaby, fed the cats twice, and even got my walk in.
And what's left?
* a stack of phone calls
* daily household chores
* dinner
* the bank
* a trip to the grocery store
* a vet bill to pay
* laundry
* straighten up my office (This one should probably go at the top of the list, eek!)
* file paperwork
Yesterday, I was hoping to read through Chapter 11 of Visage, then figured I'd get to it today, and now wondering if I should do that tonight in between the editing of Bryony, the audio book, but now I'm remembering I still haven't finished scanning the Bryony cookbook for errors (Ooops! Haven't peeked at it since LAST Tuesday) and mentally debating which I should do.
Decisions, decisions.
AND, since it's going to be a VERY late night tonight, further musing on the merits of another cup of coffee versus a nap.
I know what you're thinking. I should have a Guiness instead. Alas, my daily whopping dose of antihistamines to treat chronic hives will prevent that now and forever.
Sigh.
I think the cup of coffee is gonna win.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Monday, April 2, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
A Special April Fool's Day Message from Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara
A special holiday message from Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara.
Today is April Fools day!
This is a really exciting time of year if you happen to be (or think you are) Ed Calkins. For some reason unknown to me, a lot of people think of me on this day. But mostly I enjoy the day as a time not to be so serious about life. Its a time to drop my burden of being ruthless and literal, always seeing things for what they are, and becoming more whimsical and wacky.
Let someone who isn't Ed Calkins be the Ruthless Dictator, Steward of Tara, and spokesvamp for the IVA (Irish Vampires Association) on this day. Let some delusional fool take my role that I might blend into the unknown; the unseen. Go ahead, claim the greatness of Ed Calkins for yourself on April first.
Because on the second, I'll be back on the job...sick of being unknown and unseen.
Today is April Fools day!
This is a really exciting time of year if you happen to be (or think you are) Ed Calkins. For some reason unknown to me, a lot of people think of me on this day. But mostly I enjoy the day as a time not to be so serious about life. Its a time to drop my burden of being ruthless and literal, always seeing things for what they are, and becoming more whimsical and wacky.
Let someone who isn't Ed Calkins be the Ruthless Dictator, Steward of Tara, and spokesvamp for the IVA (Irish Vampires Association) on this day. Let some delusional fool take my role that I might blend into the unknown; the unseen. Go ahead, claim the greatness of Ed Calkins for yourself on April first.
Because on the second, I'll be back on the job...sick of being unknown and unseen.
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