Hyacinth Update: Not Quite So "Splendid"

Hyacinth Splendid Cornelia

Not quite as splendid as their namesake might suggest

Photo: Chronica Domus

Well, it has been just shy of a month since I discovered my long-overdue-for-forcing hyacinth bulbs which, if you recall, had escaped my notice tucked away within brown paper bags in my basement for the better part of winter. Quickly hatching a plan to force them in water, contained in antique copper food molds, I thought I might have saved the day.  With as much cosseting and coddling as a mother can provide her offspring, I was hopeful for a good show.

Alas, this year's selection of hyacinth bulbs did not quite live up to their namesake, Splendid Cornelia.  It is, I believe, all my fault as I have obviously denied them adequate growing conditions to thrive. After all, as with past efforts, seen here and here, I've always started the forcing of my hyacinths closer to the calendar New Year than the Lunar New Year.

I'll admit, the photograph I've included in this post does look somewhat pretty at first glance, and I am grateful that at least a few of the bulbs have bloomed for my enjoyment, releasing their heavenly fragrance to sweeten the air in the kitchen. Clearly, they have not thrived and have obviously had a falling out and some cross words with each other, much like a couple of petulant children.  Why else would they not be blooming in unison?  In fact, I'm not quite certain what to make of it all. Firstly, the most successful of the bulbs was actually growing very well on its own in the smaller of the two food molds. As soon as I came to realize that one of the bulbs in the larger mold was not to be coaxed into action, looking a little desiccated as it was, I ditched that under-achiever into the compost receptacle and replaced it with the one from the small mold.  The little mold soon got a replacement bulb; a yellow variety named City of Haarlem.  Now, I wait with eager anticipation as to its fate.

As can be seen, I've had varied success with three of the four bulbs in the larger mold. Although the middle bulb towards the back does contain a flower, it has not advanced past the sword-shaped leaves.  The one in the front has seemingly birthed a young 'un, which has thrust forth its own little leaflet, probably robbing the main bulb of the vital energy required to actually do its job and produce a beautiful bloom.  Oh dear, what a mixed bag this has turned out to be!

There is nothing quite like a humble little garden bulb to remind one that Mother Nature makes the rules around here.  No matter how much we wish to fiddle with her, in this case forcing in water, she always has the last word.

Ah well, there is always next year's foray into bulb forcing to look forward to.  Now, please excuse me while I pencil in a few useful notes on my calendar - 1. Buy bulbs in the autumn, 2. Force in early January.

A Visit To The Bank

The Seed Bank in Petaluma is one of the largest repositories of heirloom seeds in the world

Photo: Chronica Domus

Can you think back to the last time you had occasion to visit a bank, and why?  Some of us (or would that be most of us nowadays?) have succumbed to conducting our everyday banking electronically, either on-line or at cash machines.  A few weekends ago, I needed to visit a bank of a very different sort, a bank unlike one I've encountered anywhere else on my travels.  You see, I needed to purchase some seeds for my garden so, naturally, I headed to The Seed Bank in the quaint northern California town of Petaluma, located about forty miles north of San Francisco.

The journey by car involved traversing the Golden Gate Bridge on a positively clear and balmy spring-like day, a pleasure of which one never tires, especially due to the spectacular views afforded by the sparkling bay waters and the crystalline skies of blue.

Goodbye San Francisco

Photo: Chronica Domus

Once over the iconic bridge, the remainder of the trek to Petaluma is a pleasant pastoral pastiche of green hills dotted with cows happily grazing in the sunshine. One is clearly in dairy country here.

Ironically, not a single cow appears in this pastoral view, snapped hastily from the moving car

Photo: Chronica Domus

Housed in the historic Sonoma County Bank building (naturally), The Seed Bank holds the largest selection of nineteenth century seeds to be found anywhere in the country; 1,500 varieties from seventy-five countries. The seeds are not genetically modified, hybridized, or treated in any way. This is truly a remarkable repository and an exciting place for horticulturalists and interested individuals keen to try their hand at homesteading and growing their own food and flowers.

 

Heirloom seeds are what make this bank rather special

Photo: Chronica Domus

All the seeds contained within the bank are open-pollinated, natural, and non-genetically modified

Photo: Chronica Domus

The huge arched windows of The Seed Bank are charmingly illustrated with hand-painted fruits and vegetables

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This likable fellow greets you upon entering the building

Photo: Chronica Domus

Visitors to The Seed Bank will discover a well-organized space much like a library. Seeds are filed alphabetically so locating just the right wild flower or vegetable is a breeze.  All of the seed packets are beautifully designed with clear instructions on planting and growth care so even the most inexperienced weekend gardener will stand the best chance of success with their horticultural forays.

A view of the main floor with its soaring thirty foot high hammered tin ceiling

Photo: Chronica Domus

Enticing names such as Purple of Romagna, Violet de Provence, and Violetta Precoce beckon those who wish to plant bulbous artichokes for their enjoyment later in the summer.  Perhaps it is cucumbers that you seek to harvest, in which case Beit Alpha, Boothby's Blonde, or the ancient French variety of Germanic origin, Jaune Dickfleischige, is right up your horticultural alley.  Even if you have no intention of gardening, The Seed Bank is a fascinating place to indulge one's curiosity and discover a world of vegetables, fruits, and flowers that are far removed from those available for sale in today's food markets and garden nurseries.

Hmmm... artichokes, but which variety so select?

Photo: Chronica Domus

Tomatoes and watermelons in shapes, colors, and sizes infrequently seen outside of The Seed Bank

Photo: Chronica Domus

Of course, every good gardener requires the basic equipage to cultivate one's soil, and here at The Seed Bank there is a multitude of fine gardening tools from which to select. As Beverly Nichols once said "To dig in one's own earth, with one's own spade, does life hold anything better?"

Fine British gardening tools available for sale

Photo: Chronica Domus

There are even some oldies, but goodies, on display but these are purely for one's viewing pleasure and add to the attractiveness of the interior decoration of The Seed Bank.

An artful display of retired wooden farming and gardening tools

Photo: Chronica Domus

My mission here today was to select some unusual varieties of Sweet Peas to grow in my garden. Alas, those in which I was most interested had already sold out for the season. Not to worry, however, as the beauty of The Seed Bank is that one's dreams of growing bunches of beguiling fragrant Sweet Peas are not dashed for long.  One soon discovers the piles of other strains that can easily be substituted.  The trouble with all of these choices is knowing when to stop, especially once the visions of picking my favorite summer flowers begin to dance about in my head.

The corner of the building that houses a myriad of wildflower seeds

Photo: Chronica Domus

There are more than enough Sweet Pea seeds here to drive one to distraction

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Potatoes anyone?

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Venture downstairs and discover yet more delights to appeal to the gardener.  Summer flowering bulbs and tubers, even more unusual varieties of vegetable seeds, a room dedicated to the culture of air plants, and a slew of homesteading products can all be found here.  There's even a room for screening horticulturally related films.

Seeds and bulbs entice those of us attempting to be green-fingered

Photo: Chronica Domus

A wooden crate of Colocasia tubers nestled on a bed of excelsior shipped from Holland

Photo: Chronica Domus

Any homesteader would be thrilled with the cache of goodies on offer in this basement room of The Seed Bank

Photo: Chronica Domus

If you find yourself in northern California, do please make the pilgrimage to this wonderful and unique repository of historic seeds and garden related goodies. Besides, the town of Petaluma is a charming place to spend a day, grabbing a bite to eat for lunch and then perusing the many antique shops and small businesses that line the well-preserved streets of the historic town center.

Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.

Relics Reimagined: A Sewing Kit

My sewing paraphernalia held in Granny's tole box

Photo: Chronica Domus

Oh dear, it finally happened last week.  While busily tapping away at my keyboard, I felt my trouser button abruptly give way, proof (as if any was needed) that all of the over-eating and idle inactivity of cooler winter days had finally caught up to my waistline. There was only one thing for it.  I needed to embark on a rigorous slenderization diet in order to shed the few creeping pounds that had settled rather uncomfortably around my middle.  Actually, there was one other thing I could do about this sorry tale, and that was to sew that button right back where it belongs.  This entire episode left me wondering, do people still keep a sewing kit at their disposal to cope with such pesky little clothing emergencies? Here is the story of how I came about securing mine while simultaneously creating yet another in the series on "Relics Reimagined".

When I was in my early twenties and still living in London, I would regularly visit my Granny Elizabeth. We'd sit and chat over cups of tea, or take gentle walks in her walled garden, and if I were visiting during the evening hours, I would be treated to one of her delicious dinners. Granny lived alone (by choice), so having company at dinner time was always a great treat for her.

On one of my visits, she gave me an empty metal tole box which she had owned for much of her life. I found the box attractive because of its deep blue color and sturdy hinged lid, and also because of the motif depicted on top, which rather reminded me of a spool of thread.  I could never quite identify what the central decoration depicted and had not a clue as to the origins of its contents.  I imagined it contained toffees or perhaps boiled sweets of some ilk and rather regretted not having asked her about it at the time. Alas, Granny is no longer with us, but the little box helps keep my memories of her alive.

Granny's little tole box, but what could it have held?

Photo: Chronica Domus

Recently, I found the empty box in the back of a drawer and was surprised I had not put it to good use. Granny loved to sew and was an expert seamstress.  She could knit and crochet too, which helped fill the many hours she spent at home while listening to the wireless.  Anything she made was accomplished with the highest degree of skill and always looked perfectly perfect upon completion. Her dexterity and sharpness of mind remained with her until her final days. Her attempts at teaching me to sew and knit as a young child, skills that, unfortunately, I've not used in decades, outside of rudimentary tasks such as sewing a button, were always prefaced with her mantra. I can still hear her steady voice at the commencement of each instruction uttering, "If you are going to all the bother of making something, make sure and do it right the first time".

In honor of Granny, I decided the best use for the little tole box would be to turn it into a small sewing kit, housing the paraphernalia that would allow me to mend a torn seam or sew a button onto a shirt with minimal fuss.  I wondered why I had not thought of this simple and practical idea before, shaking my head and rolling my eyes at my "eureka!" moment.  Up until then, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit, a shabby little resealable plastic bag had clumsily sufficed.  It was not a particularly practical solution I might add. After all, the bag was supposed to accommodate little sharp scissor blades and pointy needles. Ouch!  Dear Granny would have visibly blanched at the thought.

Granny would most certainly approve of my (new) vintage wooden needle case that safely corrals my sewing needles

Photo: Chronica Domus

A few reels of thread in the basic color palette of one's wardrobe, a selection of needles of various lengths and thicknesses, a thimble, a cloth tape measure, and a small scissor is all that one requires to put together a useful and indispensable sewing kit.

A few basic sewing implements ...

Photo: Chronica domus

...  now housed in Granny's tole tin

Photo: Chronica Domus

Not only is it a most satisfactory feeling to finally have a well-organized and safe place to store my sewing essentials, but I am now reminded of Granny Elizabeth each time I reach for my box, making it more of a pleasure than a chore whenever the need arises for a speedy clothing repair.  Besides, this is another wonderful demonstration of how a relic can be reimagined and made useful once more.

Last week, as I reached for my sewing kit to sew my trouser button back in place, I showed the box to my husband explaining that I had finally put Granny's box to good use.  He examined the lid's design and casually mentioned that it looked like a ship's capstan.  I quickly admitted my ignorance of such a contraption, which led him to explain that a capstan was a revolving spindle onto which rope was wound. While searching for an image of a ship's capstan on the internet to bolster his point, he made a surprising discovery.  It appeared that the capstan symbol was used by W.D. & H.O. Willis, a British tobacco importer who manufactured Capstan Navy Cut Cigarettes. The mystery of what Granny Elizabeth's tole box had long ago held was finally solved.

An early Capstan Navy Cut Cigarettes tin displaying the same motif as Granny's tole box

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Granny was a smoker in her formative years, which I believe at the time was considered quite a fashionable and glamorous pursuit in some sectors of society.  I remember my mother telling me that when she was a young girl and Granny lit up socially, it caused her great embarrassment. Apparently, not everyone considered smoking de rigueur, but rather a masculine and immoral practice.  The fact that Granny held on to her tole cigarette tin for so long might have been an indication of how much she enjoyed the experience of smoking.  Perhaps she was fond of offering her house guests a cigarette from such a discreet presentation box (notice the lack of wording on Granny's box which might have otherwise betrayed the contents within).

A stylish Katherine Hepburn showing women how it was done in the 1930's

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Do you have the benefit of a basic sewing kit at your disposal when little sewing emergencies present themselves?  If not I urge you the gather together a few sewing essentials so that you too will be kitted out to sew whenever the opportunity next presents itself.

The Bulbs That (almost) Got Away

Hyacinth bulbs begging to be forced in water

Photo: Chronica Domus

Last weekend while tidying up the basement, a place that can all too frequently become a groaning repository for the flotsam and jetsam of the household, I came across two forgotten brown paper bags.  I was agasp to discover that the bags were filled with the hyacinth bulbs I had purchased last November. My intention was to force them in water at the beginning of the new year, much as I've done each January for as long as I can remember. Obviously, something had gone awry in my plan, as here we are in mid-February without a hyacinth in bloom.

Dashing back upstairs, paper bags in hand, I was determined to mend the error of my careless ways and quickly set forth in search of suitable containers to house the bulbs. As the hyacinths would ultimately be displayed in my kitchen, where they would be enjoyed daily once in bloom, I dug out two copper food molds from the kitchen cupboards, an unusual choice I'll admit, but appropriate for the setting.

Two antique copper food molds are pressed into service as impromptu hyacinth forcing containers

Photo: Chronica Domus

I've long had a weakness for such interesting geometric molds and could not resist buying the large nineteenth century example, shown in the preceding photograph, from a little antiques group shop in Hertfordshire, England many years ago.  I made a promise back then that I would not succumb to the pitfalls of yet another collection. This would be a "one off" I told myself.  I've mostly stuck to my guns, I am pleased to report, and only added the small mold when I saw it for a snip in a thrift store recently (how could I have possibly left it?) .

The prepared containers ready to receive their bulbs

Photo: Chronica Domus

I lined the molds in plastic, and added the stones that I save from year to year that help secure the bulbs in place and anchor the roots when they begin to sprout.  I tucked four purple hued Splendid Cornelia hyacinths into the large mold, and a single plump one in the smaller example, topping both off with enough water until the base of each bulb barely touched the water line.

Now I wait, patiently, in anticipation of  the promise of pretty blooms and the intoxicating sweet smell of these late winter gifts from nature.

Fingers crossed that these hyacinths will eventually bloom

Photo: Chronica Domus

Did you remember to buy and plant or force your hyacinth bulbs this winter?

Rising To The Occasion: Adventures in Soufflé

Homemade cheese soufflé rising to the occasion

Photo: Chronica Domus

I've been on a bit of a soufflé kick as of late.  It all started one evening in New York, during our recent holiday.  Sitting down to dinner at Swifty's, I was enticed by the cheese soufflé on the menu.  Not only did it sound delicious and appealing, but I realized it had been an age since I had the privilege of ordering one in a restaurant. As anticipated, the soufflé was glorious, making for a tasty and filling dinner alongside the green salad and mustard sauce which accompanied it so perfectly.  I managed to down the lofty dome in very short order indeed.

A perfect cheese souffle as served at Swifty's Restaurant in New York

Photo: Chronica Domus

Several evenings later, while ordering dinner at The Carlyle Restaurant, our affable captain inquired as to whether we'd like to sample the soufflé for dessert, so that he could notify the chef with ample time to prepare, if we so desired.  "Why, of course", we bleated.  Actually, by some misguided choice on my part, I foolishly opted to skip dessert so only two orders of soufflé would be sent up to the chef.

While sipping my after dinner coffee, basking in the enjoyment of dining on a most toothsome meal in such agreeable and elegant surroundings, the two soufflés arrived at our table.

Dessert anyone?

Photo: Chronica Domus

Despite my pretense of resisting the lure of dessert, the inevitable ensued and I quickly succumbed to the tantalizing vision before my eyes (thank you, dear family, for sharing).  I really should stop kidding myself that I have even a tendril of willpower within me to resist such culinary (and calorific) treats. I blushed, slightly, when our wise (and experienced) captain discretely slid an extra spoon beside my coffee cup.

Oh, what joy it was to dive into the Grand Marnier soufflé.  My husband and I declared it the booziest either of us have sampled, not that that was a bad thing mind you. It was nothing short of ambrosial, especially when drenched in the accompanying orange crème anglaise.  My daughter was in raptures over her voluptuous raspberry puff, from which I stole more than a few bites.

I've not stopped thinking of soufflé since returning to California so one night last week I finally indulged my cravings and actually whipped one up for dinner.  I believe my last attempt at what most of us would consider an exercise in temperamental culinary gymnastics was about five years past, and I don't exactly know why I've not made another since.  It really isn't all that difficult if one is organized and possesses at least a minimum of skill around the kitchen, a soufflé dish, and a pinch of patience. Although I do enjoy the romanticized notion of whipping one's egg whites with a huge balloon whisk and a beautiful copper bowl, an electric mixer is a marvelous modern convenience.

A successful soufflé requires the freshest of eggs

Photo: Chronica Domus

I followed the recipe, found here, and substituted mature Irish cheddar cheese for the suggested Gruyere, which I find imparts a more robust cheese flavor to the soufflé.  

The egg whites were whipped up in no time thanks to my trusty electric mixer

Photo: Chronica Domus

A combination of the freshest eggs available and the wonders of a modern oven that heats evenly is imperative to a successful outcome.  Oh, and please, no peeking into the oven allowed, at least for the first twenty minutes.  We wouldn't want to possibly deflate all of our hard work now would we?

Ready for the hot oven

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Voila! A towering billowy vision of deliciousness

Photo: Chronica Domus

Dinner, I am overjoyed to report, was a resounding success, accompanied by a mixed baby greens salad and a bottle of wine shared, of course, with my husband.  The cheese soufflé turned out exactly as I had anticipated, light and airy and not a spoonful remained by the end of our meal.  We feasted like kings at our very own kitchen table. 

Light and fluffy and ready for the table

Photo: Chronica Domus

A few days later, I was itching to try my hand at making a soufflé fit for dessert, something I had not previously attempted having only dabbled in the savory sort.  As practically everyone I know enjoys the taste of chocolate, I quickly settled on that and got to work concocting a delicious sauce to accompany my soufflé.  Orange, followed closely by raspberry, are my two favorite flavors to pair with chocolate, and as my husband had just completed his annual marmalade tour de force, and a little extra blood orange marmalade was available, I used that as the base for the sauce.  Two teaspoons of the marmalade, along with a splash of Grand Marnier liqueur, and lashings of double cream, combined and gently heated until warmed, produced the most sinful of sauces to pour over the decadent chocolate soufflé.  What an exquisite combination this was!  Instantly, I began to worry for my hip to waist ratio as I sensed this could very easily become my kind of comfort food.

It may not look pretty but believe me, this was manna from heaven

Photo: Chronica Domus

I think I've finally thankfully exhausted satisfied my soufflé cooking and eating adventures for the present, but fear not as I'm sure the beast within will rise again, just like a successful soufflé, to tempt me down the slippery road to calorific ruin.

Has a particularly satisfying restaurant meal ever inspired you to embark upon such a kitchen escapade, and if so which memorable food led you there?  

Relics Reimagined: An Inky Arrangement

An inky arrangement of sweet violets and violas contained within a black basalt inkwell

Photo: Chronica Domus

I am a firm believer in using items in ways other than for their intended purpose, items that would otherwise be relegated to obscurity.  I always enjoy these relics reimagined and have several such re-purposed objects around my home. Take, for example, my black basalt inkwell. 

An early 19th century black basalt inkwell relegated to obscurity by modern writers

Photo: Chronica Domus

Try as I might, I cannot recall a single occasion as an adult in which I have picked up a fountain pen to write a note.  A good quality ballpoint pen, yes, but a fountain pen, I'm afraid not.  I did use one during my childhood as a student in England, where we were instructed in penmanship, a skill that seems to have fallen by the wayside sadly.  It was also a requirement that all school work be completed in ink. We were taught to replenish our pen's cartridge with the aid of a small pot of blue or black India ink, carefully squeezing the soft bladder of the cartridge, and sucking up the contents until filled.  To my annoyance, there were many disastrous attempts at refilling my fountain pen.  Perhaps those memories, and the ones of leaking pens and ink stained fingers and clothes, are what keep me returning to my modern yet reliable ballpoint pen today.

My trusty ballpoint pen, a far less messy option for scribbling notes I find

Photo: Chronica Domus 

I purchased my basalt inkwell in adulthood, not because I intended to use it as a receptacle for ink, but because I was attracted to its shape, and was eager to add it to my ever expanding collection of black basalt, a collection that is mainly decorative in nature.  I did not want my inkwell to sit around idly on a surface looking pretty, mind you.  I wanted to again make it a relevant and useful item.

The well stands one and a half inches tall and almost twice as wide, having an engine-turned design of vertical ribs around its side.  It has four holes in its top to aid the writer in retrieving ink and storing his quills.  I adore black basalt pottery, which was first introduced to the masses by Josiah Wedgwood in the mid-1700's in England, and was soon plagiarized by his contemporaries, but we'll leave that subject for a future post.

Earlier last year, while crouching down to plant violas and violets in a flower bed, I noticed their sublime beauty and pleasant aroma could easily be lost once I stood up and viewed them from my higher vantage point.  That was when I got an idea.  I gathered a few of the inky black blooms of Viola Cornuta "Black Magic", and a few of the Viola Odorata "White Czar", brought them into the house, and looked for my inkwell.  I filled the well with water and arranged the blooms within the four holes.  I carried my Lilliputian arrangement to the dining room and placed it on one of the side tables, but it just wasn't the right place for it. I then walked into the drawing room and placed it on the mantel.  Although it did look rather fetching, it also appeared a little lost on the wide expanse of surface.  I then walked over to the secretary-bookcase and placed it atop the breakfront surface.  Eureka!  There it was, the perfect spot, an inkwell on a secretary, complete with an inky arrangement of blooms.  Could there be any more suitable place than this?  I was tickled pink with my little arrangement and it cheered me up no end.

A perfect resting place for an inky arrangement atop the secretary

Photo: Chronica Domus

I urge you to look around your home and reimagine a relic of your own, something that is doing nothing but gathering dust on a shelf, or is tucked within a crowded drawer or groaning cupboard. Do tell me what you find. There are endless possibilities if you take the time to view your belongings with fresh perspective.

I am so happy I did as the little inkwell is being enjoyed once again by its present owner, over two centuries since its manufacture, and to very different ends.

Blogoversary, A First

Just like Fred and Rita, I'm floating on a cloud

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I never thought I'd actually reach my first anniversary of blogging, a blogoversary if you like, but I have, and I'm overjoyed.  In fact, I am floating on a cloud and happy to celebrate this joyous milestone with you today.  For it is all of you who have provided the encouragement and given me the opportunity to persevere with my scrawlings on life at home and away, writing on subjects as catholic as a humble flower pot, or the recreation of a Jeffersonian pea contest, or even replacing an ugly garage door or a night at the opera.

I feel humbled and grateful each and every time you take a moment from your busy day to generously bestow Chronica Domus with a comment, or share an interesting anecdote or a useful tidbit of information.  It really does enrich the entire blogging experience for myself and our little tribe of merry readers from around the globe. I've learned so much from you this past year, thank you. And, for those of you whom I've yet to meet due to your bashful disposition, I do encourage you to enter the fold and introduce yourself by leaving a comment, here today.  It would be so very nice to make your acquaintance, wherever you may lurk.

I recall the excitement and nervousness I felt upon casting my line blindly into the waters of the blogosphere, waiting patiently to see if or when I'd catch a bite.  Until then, I had only participated in blogs as a commenter.  Would anyone even be interested in reading my awkward scribblings, I wondered?  A few days after I published my inaugural post, I was over the moon at receiving my very first comment from none other than Reggie Darling, whom many of you know as one of the blogosphere's preeminent guiding lights, and the final word on elegant living and social comportment. I know Reggie has been sorely missed by many of late, and I do hope he will consider returning his hat to the ring, for it would be lovely to welcome him back. Perhaps I could lure him in with the promise of a couple more jars of homemade marmalade?

Hot on the heels of my first comment, I received my second, a warm welcome from Meg of Pigtown Design, a long-time luminary in the world of blogging.  Well, as you might imagine, I was chuffed to pieces.  The rest, as they say, is history.  I had no idea that Chronica Domus would see me connect with so many like-minded people, from all walks of life, scattered across so many countries.

As I enter my second year of blogging, I hope that natural curiosity in my surroundings, the people I share my life with, my travels both near and far, and my interactions with you, shall provide ample fodder toward another year of informative and engaging blog posts for your enjoyment and edification.

Won't you please continue along with me on my journey?  One never quite knows of what may be written next.