Perfect Scones

On Thursday, we chatted about my favorite tea time ritual. There’s nothing I love quite as much as a good cup of Earl Grey. That is, unless it’s accompanied by a good scone. Read more

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Tea Time

It doesn’t take a long-winded post to communicate the pleasure I find in simple things, so I’ll keep it short. Tea is amazing. It’s perfect for any mood, time of day or occasion. It’s somehow energizing and calming, all in one sip. And this is the routine I enjoy, when I have the time: Read more

“If you look a word up in the dictionary and twenty minutes later you’re still wandering around in the dictionary, you probably have the most basic equipment you need to be a poet. It’s just liking the texture of language. I think there’s another thing, a kind of attitude—an attitude of not ever getting used to being alive, of not ever taking your life for granted.”
-Billy Collins

via Paris Review – The Art of Poetry No. 83, Billy Collins.

Everything we’ve ever imagined

We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep—it’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.Michael Cunningham, The Hours

It’s 9 pm on Thursday evening, and I’ve just done something I haven’t done for a very long time. I read an entire book today. I woke up, having finished reading Call the Midwife last night, and sat down at the foot of my bed to pick another book. I reached for The Hours, opened it, and looked up 30 pages later like I had just awoken from a dream. My own surroundings seemed strange, because I had been so completely invested in what this book laid out before me that the story seemed, momentarily, more real than my own existence.

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