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The walk also end up

"I knew I had seen, I saw this girl who finally
my nights hold"
William Butler Yeats

I was young, I was stupid. No, I was just naive, I was deluded. And I sat alone at a table in the sandwich "taste right" to eat a horrible loaf stuffed with ham, herbs and cucumbers in Denmark. It did not fit well with either Coca-Cola. It would have been better if I had taken a beer. I watched the evening slide into the square, beyond the hedge of pittosporum miserable: a fountain pouring down under the lights that color the water yellow, scorched by the swimmers sun of the day strolling along the shops, crowded with tables of ice cream parlors, small families huddled before the game across the street.

I made an appointment with a girl I liked and she had not come. Instead of going the same way I sat, I was consulted on the paper and I chose that sandwich, "Tivoli" was called, probably due to an association with Denmark of gherkins. It tasted awful. It was a horrible night. And the youth I was in weight, was an inextinguishable fire that caused me a thirst inside, a sadness that perhaps it was only disappointed because she had not arrived. I left half the sandwich and went to chase fermenting the moon in the waves. I reached the wharf, where a salty wind pushed to the side and blew the curtains of the kiosk. Boys drinking their colorful cocktails at tables, some wandered aimlessly on the catwalk with a beer bottle in hand, others chatted at the bar with the barman.

The water was black, I could see myself mirrored, I read my blue and white striped shirt, my face cracked boy was left alone once again. The foam of the waves pounding on the pylons, saliva to lick the boards worn by millions of footsteps. Every drop was tinged silver moon. It hurt so much beauty, especially when compared with the desolation that I felt in the heart. The waves erased my reflection, then recreated the rhythm of the tide. I closed my eyes for a moment to savor the sound of the waves, the voice of the sea. When I opened them, I saw another figure next to my mirrored in the dark. I almost turned around to snap a girl I had seen some time for the city. "Serataccia?" he asked. It took me forever to answer - or at least I thought, surely it was only a matter of seconds. I had actually considered whether it was appropriate to say that I had been deceived, disappointed, cans, and I decided that was not the case look even more clumsy than it was. "Solitude" and I said I understood that he drew the wild card when she told me she was there with a group of friends but you were bored to death. This time I dared, I threw myself without thinking of the consequences: "Want to take a walk on the beach?" Probably not expecting much, indeed certainly was so because he had the bag with him. He smiled - a smile that I went in, I opened the windows of the soul, there is scattered with the force of a spring wind and perfumes all - then by air to the conspirators whispered "Yes, but let's not see: turn around kiosk and go down the other side. "

Alessandra - his name was the first thing I discovered during that long night of words and sand - was not surprised when I told her I liked the evening walk along the sea, which I did often and sometimes I was there even in winter: "The darkness, the silence broken only by the song of the waves, rarefied light, everything seems to be shrouded in a halo unreal" . We found that someone had lit a bonfire with some pieces of wood and sheets of paper. He was now off, I threw myself on top of other branches and riattizzai fire with a copy of the Gazzettino that someone had left on a deck chair. The sparks were flying in the sky, and she began singing with a voice that could only be described as angelic "Summertime and the livin 'is easy, fish are dumping' and the cotton is high ..."

seemed the Fifties, we had learned from the episodes of Happy Days , Alessandra could be one of those girls with flowing skirt that will go to drive-in. The sea continued to murmur, seemed to make the counterpoint. The wind continued to blow light, made more vivid lights of the coast. Alessandra's voice came into my warm heart, a balm that was cured scars, could have been years since I was sitting at the table of the "Taste right" and instead had not spent that two hours.

The fire was now off, muted over the last embers throwing handfuls of sand. Alex stood in tiptoe and kissed me gently, a quick friendly kiss. He had shoes in hand and grazed his back as I felt round his neck. She took my hand and we went so slowly eastward. We walked for a long time, we stopped at the swings and there swinging like children and then die laughing. We lay down to watch the stars. Then the beach was over. And she had come: he lived just across the bridge over the canal. He put her shoes and greeted me with another kiss. The drive over the bridge and then saw the light of a door swallowed.

I was young, I was stupid. Our love lasted only one night, the night I waited in vain for a girl at the "Taste right "and another had instead found myself on a pedestal. On that long walk we had concentrated all the happiness we could give.

Photo © Elinor Gaddy

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Women


A shining example of how to read a novel trigger a desire to learn more, Conoco better. And in this particular case, for me, to discover the life and work of great charm and Frank Lloyd Wright. An undisputed genius, a man of talent and the revolutionary character of fireworks, self-centered dreamer, a narcissist.
Boyle narrates the life of the great architect tracing back his romantic relationships through the eyes of admiration and ironic that a young Japanese student arrives at Taliesin in 1932 to practice in the study of the great master and to share the dreams and projects . And this is the starting point. Then, page after page, are experienced of stories through their suffering, their joys, diffficoltà, obstacles and prejudices. Rural America in the background, bigoted, naive and a bit 'cruel.
It 's a book that I really liked, I enjoyed it, took me to search the faces of the characters and photographs of buildings designed by Lloyd Wright. And I did appreciate its modernity, his taste, his vision.
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loves

;

There are hiking trails that you walk up through larch forests, listening to the water of a stream gurgling down my throat. Then the trees become more sparse, there are only rocks and stones, the road becomes more difficult, closer, and after a bend you are in front of the ravine or a cliff or, if you're luckier, a hill so steep you can not even imagine forwarders.

also end up so loves, sometimes leave there looking into space, to inquire into that you never thought to meet the curve after a debate or a betrayal. The less powerful, the most sensitive, let go, you are swallowed by the void. As the poet Milan Antonia Pozzi, torn by love for his Latin teacher in high school and greek classic Manzoni opposed by his father, disappointed by the same lover, is left to dig in the heart of the anxiety, while the pain is magnified and His fire burned the strings that the still life. Antonia Pozzi December 2, 1938 was twenty-six. He went to the Abbey of Clairvaux, near Milan, swallowed dozens of sleeping pills and lay down on the grass and dry cold front of the church, waiting for the abyss to swallow. The black hole just wrapped it the following evening, the hospital, where he was taken after a farmer found her asleep on the lawn.

love ends, it will crumble like a hilltop and valley landslide while the heart is swollen, pump emotions, bile salt, the liver absorbs toxins. The words are transformed into sharp spears, daggers that tear in the skin, stones that hurt, they become stuck thorns in the flesh of the other. Or just get silence, a thunderous and deafening silence, a void so huge next to nothing that you wonder if it is logical that do not exist so badly. Or becomes memory, the image of a blond and thin rising from the sofa, was a last gesture in the air, rattling bracelets and scented narcissi.

also loves come to naught, then, well liked and seems wasted, thrown away. Or still lingers like a ghost - and the spectrum is the memory, is the illusion fall off some day vanish as a last blaze flares up and sets fire to the West, we live the last glow of dusk as the night falls cold and dark. The only thing to do is turn our backs to the abyss and return to the path, turn up at a crossroads and go down another path.

Photo © Hans Peters

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Even a walk in the woods and still naked branches to take shape against the sky. But just for now!

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Update # 7 work in progress

cross-stitch work progresses, but the update would be very differently if he had not taken the foolish embroidery fireflies for lanterns and had not wrong to interpret the legend of the color chart ... result?

Two nights of work , an evening of unwrapping, an evening of settling, a new beginning, a lot of lost time! An exercise in patience, are now well-tempered and I would say not only about the work of the needle, most of all was the life and its circumstances to teach, sometimes I feel like a zen monk and I have to congratulate myself!

And then the work, corrects me, the fun continues on other fronts, on that of 'Adrift , the Kal-March I are having a great time even though they are only the beginning. The funny thing, the more fun I would say, is work together with fellow KAL that offer support and enthusiasm, was also an opportunity to unravel my first skein of Malabrigo Lace did not know and that I immediately won for his incredible softness and for its great color, just vanished.

It 's a top-down, a challenge for me that I am used to working in a traditional way!

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Congolese

An ugly name I would say for the delicious cakes. It seems to me a name a bit 'back to colonialism, but so much so, their main ingredient, coconut, clearly evokes exotic images and sensations. This recipe is an excellent solution for advanced use of egg whites from some previous preparation, and then these are the ingredients: 4 egg whites


250 g brown sugar 300 g grated coconut

1 tablespoon apple sauce 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract


Put the egg whites and sugar in a saucepan and whisk vigorously in a water bath (and then in another pot) until the mixture is nice and bubbly hot.
Heat oven to 180 degrees.
Remove the pan from water bath and add the apple sauce (I just cooked a bit 'before a pippin, I used a spoon and me are the remaining jelly on the spot!), Vanilla and coconut and continue to beat for at least another 3 minutes so that everything is properly installed.
Using slightly damp hands make into balls the size of a walnut and shape and then putting them on the plate coated with baking paper.
Bake for twenty minutes until they are golden. At the end will be crispy outside and soft inside.
cooled you can store up to 10 days in a box sealed and stored in a cool, asiutto.
Bon appetit!

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The road not taken

would be nice to go back in time, retracing their steps back and remove errors, mistakes chase with a huge rubber and delete stupidity. Who has not committed? Who has not made a fool? Who has not humiliated? The fact is that when we realize that we have made those mistakes now the time has passed and we took a path on which we can not go back - as in that famous poem by Robert Frost: "Two roads diverged in a wood / yellowed and sorry of them do not / Either as a single, long I stood / One of them until I could peering / Where among the bushes done. " Now we have the painful baggage of experience, an unnecessary burden on the one hand allows us to evaluate different choices now, but we can not change the past, we can only imagine what those roads not taken might have been as our lives might have changed if we had chosen differently at a crossroads.

And are those stupid mistakes that we commit to love is like falling in love we darkened the mental faculties, as if stravolgesse reason and left us in a condition of temporary madness, entrusting the government to the heart of our decisions in accordance with, the passion. Even the wisest, even the most conservative, they fall into the traps that tends Cupid, let themselves be duped by quell'amorino flying armed with arrows. One day of September in the 80s, for example, I committed a big mistake going to try what I believed at the time my girlfriend, or rather something more - remember: love alters the mental faculties, then maybe that girl 's I defined "reason of my life" or "the whole universe" or "the sun around which gravitate" and was not a girl, a sweet and beautiful girl, affectionate and sympathetic, but still a girl, whose love was not as intense as mine.

At that time she worked in the family business in Veneto, I studied in Milan, at the University. I took lodgings in a hotel of this provincial town, a town on the sea: the day she worked and I went to the beach - a mistake, I repeat: languished all day and my heart was languishing with me, a withered rose in the glass of Coca Cola in front of me at a table in a bar. I had a thirst that could not pay off: it was the thirst for her, un'arsura that I had tried so hard even when I was away and felt only by phone. More and more was at hand was impossible: there met only in the evening when we went to dinner in the evening and then we growing melancholy sad - have you ever tried to be at sea in September?

The cavernous wind blowing from the coast was seething in us, the darkness that fell away as ever before. We were already divided, although together while holding hands, hugging and even baciandoci. The words clashed with the crash, although trivial simple words fell to the ground as the pianos in the old comedies, come apart, they went to pieces. It was love that was broken, our love as fragile as crystal, we could see the remains sharp on the rocks below us. If the survivor had decided to charge the bottle to the sea his rescue had the wrong target and now his hopes were vain. So the story ended, he died in the wind that blew from the east and carrying the sand in the streets, which tore the branches of oleander and was swinging the curtains on the balcony.

Many times I wondered what would happen if that love in the week of September instead of going in his home town I stayed in Milan, going to movies with friends, walking along the quiet canals, just listening to the records released to Musical messengers, playing ball in the Parco Sempione. Many times I wondered what would happen if the front fork that I had not chosen the wrong path.

Edward Hopper, "Gas", 1940

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PREMIUM BLOG Liebster

Heartfelt thanks to Dayana for honoring me with the award

visit your site many, there are lots of ideas wonderful to give vent to the desire for creativity vs!

WHAT 'THE PRIZE Liebster BLOG:

The prize' initiative designed to give a blog born just a chance 'x get to know more '.

rules to follow to receive the award are:

1. - accept the award and write a post about
2. - choose three to five bloggers that we like and tell them that they won
3. - link to the blog of the person that I will left

sites that wish to award the prize Liebster Blog are:

Taina's blog "The hedgehog's den" http://web.me.com/tainadavide/Pikkusiilin_pesä/Home.html

Silvia's blog "The shop of wonders" http://thewonderemporium-mimmi.blogspot.com/

Ms Laowai's blog "My Soapmaking diary "http://mysoapmakingdiary.blogspot.com

good vision!

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"There is silence there"


One of the last reading of this period. A beautiful book, deep, minimal, sad, but with a happy ending.
The story of a man who has seen his life interrupted the night when her twin brother, died in a car accident. From that moment everything changed, university studies were interrupted and he has remained only life on the farm, under the orders of a father, petty and mean, sometimes very cruel. Life flows, the years go by over and over, crisatallizati in their repetitiveness.
And then one day, Helmer is the first choice of his life and decides to confine ilpadre in a room upstairs and renovate the house. And it is as if a spell had broken and thoughts and feelings to the surface to be revived and analyze. And then of course I'm not saying the rest.
I do say that this book, this story is extremely fascinating. The writing is beautiful, the descriptions of the natural environments are very engaging, and the author tells the story of a man also speaks of her double or better than his other hand, speaks of separation and absence, loneliness and a feeling of incompleteness that accompanies a life. And lets see, however, the possibility of redemption, of a rebirth.
Gerbrand Bakker - There is silence there - Hyperborea

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apple and raspberry crumble

know the crumbles? They are delicious, very fast to do and very British. In France in recent years have been a great success and are spreading in Italy. Born as a sweet preparations, but they are also delicious in savory version. Crumble
means crumb, and it is the crumbs to characterize this dish. Crumbs sweet or savory, depending on the case. It is important to make them with your hands, rubbing the various between the pads because the ingredients must be of different sizes and irregular, past Mizer to be too uniform. The first that I propose is simply delicious and is now:
Crumble with apples and raspberries :

4 apples
fifteen raspberries (also frozen)
2 tablespoons of sugar cane juice

of half a lemon 1 pinch of mixed spice or cinnamon 4

100 g flour 45 g butter 50 g sugar cane

Cook the apples cut into chunks with the sugar and lemon juice and let cool .

Heat oven to 180 degrees. In a bowl
Put the flour, sugar, cold butter into pieces, spices, a pinch of salt (always!) and mix all the rub between your fingertips until fine crumbs of some small, others larger.
Place cooked apples directly into a baking dish, add the raspberries (if frozen, no need to thaw) and sprinkle with the crumbs to coat the mixture well. It should not be crushed!
Bake for about 30 'until the crumbs are not beautiful golden and crisp.
Serve warm.
Bon appetit!

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Deceived by gray

She says it is like we are, that natural conflict that occurs every day. He says it's the difference between us, for we have different ways of living that diversity if the two of us and chase us away, the hunter and the prey, even though the two roles are not well defined and sometimes interprets them ' one, sometimes another. I like an ancient greek athlete triumphed in ludi, Apollonian with my spear and shield, she turns to museums and girl who wears the look of Aphrodite. And we love as we go to war, we help eachother and head decked with the coat of mail, careful not to be wounded, not to make us move from side to side, close grip on the mantle of the horse, trying to unseat not leave for fear of being taken prisoner. Even when naked fight in a bed, clutching carry on the battle field of feathers and a kiss rude and breathless escape our mouths loud sounds as if a mountain had been cut off and upside down in our hearts.

Deceived by gray, wander like shadows in the fog or as passengers on a train traveling from dusty glass: we can not see the landscape that vague unnecessary details from which we do not know the whole rebuild. They are emotions that gleam for a moment, feeling that spark when a sudden ray of sunlight hits them, the feelings which now pose the dusty patina of time.

So we are always looking for something that even we define, hopefully waiting for the deus ex machina , the wagon that brought the scene to solve things, we believe that the road can lead us ever attempted anywhere else and will not give up in a matter of seasons in the Waltz of the day, we think we can eventually penetrate the mystery, revealing the pieces slotting together, finally get to the bottom of the secret. Not even realize it, we continue to leave at the same day to day and perhaps it is in this carpe diem the solution, which is probably hidden under the circle, not deep, but the surface.

Or maybe happiness is this continual bustle, quiet time is over when handling potentially dangerous items such as: do not even realize it, and meanwhile you cannot angles, plugs within the stem, as animals become indispensable in symbiosis. Who knows which of us is blind shrimp digs a burrow and the fish Gobius who warns of the danger that touching ...

Photo © Zoomink

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A Season: Winter # 6, but the candles lit!

Here I am, late again! Yes, because the rule Winter says that the photo must be published on Thursday and again this morning in effect for a while 'I thought it was Thursday for the note. And this one I shot last Saturday during a walk in the mountains to ski in a winter landscape is absolutely still, white, blue and sparkling.
say that a week has been hectic, exhausting, full of thousands of commitments and tasks seem simplistic. This of course did not stop me from one thing and another to trap the fleeting little visits to the group kal of the March and hence little shopping for my first Malabrigo here! A little 'wool comfort and support you need in some cases:)
And then I finished the first box of Christmas at Hawk Hollow Tun that required a great exercise in patience. As a result, I really like and I enjoyed the last to leave the candles fiammellelle so it seemed almost to really turn it on the tree!

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Alchimie

Alchimie altering our deductions, interact with hormones and chemical processes that in the end we call love. Even the memories, of course: a molecule that acts as a bit 'as the deus ex machina of the ancient Greek tragedians, fixed them in our brains as if they incidesse on film. Image of which I have abused this memories like a film: clearly, the unconscious was already the germ of this insight is not mine but that of learned scientists. This molecule, called N-methyl-D-aspartate, glutamate in contact with the fixed electrical events but only if the cell membrane is depolarized and then subject to activation. In practice, it is as if he was running a wrench or turning on a circuit allowing to recognize how important the events that we remember: just because we set these in the brain.

The day I read this article, I reflected that after all of this at the end did not matter that the memories that crowded into my memory, of which she was an absolute star - "the lady of the mind" I loved to call it - not I really like were formed. On the other hand because I already knew, because she was important to me. Of course the night when I said "If you wanted to, if only you loved me" and I remember every detail perfect, from the creaking swings that still moved along the beach at full moon the color of butter, the singsong chant of the sea dashed on the rocks in the cool touch of wet sand under my bare feet, that night I was certainly thinking about molecules and glutamate.

Now maybe I can be interested in these scientific articles, these abstruse mechanisms that explain to us what actually happens and has happened for centuries and centuries, that has descended over the millennia of Sumerian lovers in love with Egyptian mothers Roman a daughter Barbara and down down to avoid to this day, to me, to her. Now I let the word "remember" catches my attention when I find a scientific publication or a book of poems and dotted here and there in a collection of aphorisms. This is because the famous night she did not answer "Yes" but asked for time. And time, you know, you care more ...

Image © Eagle Gifts

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Dominika!

Here it is, finished a few days! Almost true to the original model Rowan, I modified the sleeves by reducing the size by replacing the blue and green consigliatoil acid. The left sleeve conforms to the colors of the!

E 'was fun work, some 'long because I finally realized a mistake and I had to undo a long time after I had virtually sewn, but eventually I did and I am very satisfied.

I'll do I see worn, out of pure vanity Knitter ...

And from behind, always for the same reason, a good weekend everyone!

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A Season: Winter # 5

A winter Sunday in mid-February. A beautiful walk in the fields and between Arignano Mombello, the church dedicated to San Lorenzo. This blog participates

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rice cakes with almond

Good, very delicate flavor, slightly sweet, perfect for breakfast or for afternoon tea. A healthy snack for children and ntriente!
Ingredients: 1 liter of milk

250 g of rice from (perfect for desserts!)
150 g of sugar cane
30 g of butter (optional) 150 g of almonds
tritatate
100 g raisins
1 vanilla pod 4 eggs

grated rind of one lemon bio

Put to boil milk, sugar, a pinch of salt and the inside of the vanilla bean. Add rice and cook gently until it has absorbed all the milk but remained slightly al dente. When cooked, add the almonds, raisins, lemon zest and butter if you like. Mix well and let cool completely. When the mixture has cooled, add the yolks, stirring constantly with care and the egg whites until stiff incorporating them gently to the mixture from the bottom up.
static oven to 180 degrees.
not completely fill the molds and bake for half an hour, checking from time cooking time.
are good cold, but lukewarm.
Bon appetit!

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wires in Turin

Hundreds and hundreds of threads with hundreds of colorful balls. And hundreds of hands to pull the balls in the air, to unravel and to hold the wires high above their heads, but also to do with it and wrap wire. In joy and fun, with great civility.
idea beautiful in its simplicity, a common thread between people and different minds, however, united by the hope that something can be done to change the state of things.
Who knows!

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A photograph

"We were born for another joy"
Andre Gide, The Narrow Door

But how beautiful you. Only now I realize now that so much time has passed and the calendar is a river in flood. In memory becomes even more beautiful and I even more stupid and clumsy. I do not know if me or dell'idiota blame if the events, leaning against the sins long hand of Fate, the chains of the case, the effect of chance. "First you said" I seem to hear it and then laugh like that you had to tilt his head back and shake the wave of the hair. "First you said," but I knew how I've changed and what I spent ...

of those nights with you I still remember the sweet and bitter taste in the mouth feel of something that perhaps it was only our unconscious, the bitter fruit of youth. I get drunk the sweetness that made me hold you to me, looking dreamily or just tired, abandoned in my arms as he fell the night. Now think of it like a fever, a burning sensation on the skin that burns and burns in the mind, the fire kept constantly on the Vestal Virgins in ancient Roman temples, the eternal flame dedicated to the fallen for their country in the Mausoleum of Largo Gemelli.

not regret, not even nostalgia. It's a feeling hard to analyze, perhaps made a resigned inevitability of events, an understanding that things could go differently, that what we might call fate or contingency was not simply the natural course of things. It was a pure love, they believe in, and has consumed itself, was so exhausted, spontaneously, like a candle under a bell glass. Not like a plant that dries up and dry, but just like a fire that goes out due to lack of oxygen.

parted our ways, changed the city, friends, prospects. Our relations were limited to postcards, some courtesy call, to schedule appointments that we knew we would not have ever put on the calendar. The weather began to flow faster, the days, months, years piled up like stones. Today, searching for an old photo of my baby when I'm dressed as an astronaut for Carnival, a bundle of flash output is your image, slightly faded colors: light wear that dress that I liked so much, narrow at the waist by a belt Leather and in your eyes shining spark of love. Juan Ramón Jiménez as I can tell you: "Following the spring as it was not you, as it was not you." But oh, how wonderful and how beautiful our youth ...

Photo of Brian C. Chillemi

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A Season: Winter # 4

male flowers of stone: early spring and allergies! In the regional park of Superga a few days before the blossoming of primroses and violets.

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A Christmas tree and a fish.

Here is a post update on the progress of work in progress. The Christmas tree is really a novelty, is the first of the twelve panels that make up scheme Carriage House that I finally started and waiting for some months now. It 'fun to stitch, I really like the designs and colors of this scheme and also the 16 linen thread I'm working on, after a moment of panic (I could not see!) And after a skilful use of the lens is beautiful and allows me then to have completed a small job.
The fish is the one created by Janet Martin and is the seventh of my GAAA square .

In this design, in a typical plot Aran, a fish made to remind the fishermen of the islands Aran precisely, rough men and brave, knitters!

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Women bottled

Who would have thought? The certainties now I'm scared ... Know you are different from imagination, from the sweet illusion in which I lived as in a bubble, in which I basked comfortable as a cat lying in the sun, to know that you could destroy irretrievably lost My fragile dreams would break into a thousand pieces like a mirror and it would be impossible to fix. It's me, myself, I want to avoid a meeting, I who looked so much, that many times in the street I stopped to investigate if it was for that girl if you had hit me on the pace, for 'hairstyle, a gesture designed your shadow. It is I, myself, I do not want to re-establish relations not to pay the price of disappointment. So

remains suspended in the limbo of my thoughts, a woman in the bottle on the shelf: what you have are words barely discernible, as the sea's voice heard in an external sound asleep or disguised as a dream just before awakening. You lose and you'll find at any moment and you're not recreate what you were like and how you Contamination with other women, with other ideas, you mingling with the desires of the unconscious, with his projections. It ends up that showcases the side of you that I was in, that of memory, that of intuition: it pops up with a plausible figure that tells you but that is definitely false, as I convince you otherwise. And this hyperbole you continue to develop, to change itself, rises to power on a true but without checking the accuracy of the calculations, and any error you are away, as those who take a road full of forks to choose a fork in the wrong way and continue right, sure to be on the right path: Clearly, after the first error, all data are unpacked and the false choices accordingly.

yet thought to act with reason and not with the heart. Might be able to rationally cope with everything and was not a narcissistic contemplation of the goddess. Want you to reduce to a pure mathematical formula seemed to me a good insight and was not that un'indecorosa cowardice, I will say more: a core of base metal coated with a false gilding. My search was not that hypocrisy. In short, the dream is gone inlaid with reality has been reduced to mere ravings, has become a sprawling octopus devouring rare flashes of lucidity and features as stainless beliefs illusions less sensible to believe the real focus images while preventing contact with reality. Clearly we find ourselves in a comment happened that never happened, not recognizing the undeniable gap between reality and dream.

For this reason, now that promises a fixed point around which a buoy turn, I leave aside the utopian illusion that my not fall as crystal, because my love will not go to pieces impossible to bond. Pull the sheet over the head worn and faded memories of me and Corinth because memory is known to have large gaps where sometimes breaks suddenly the dream to gallop unbridled.

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One season: the nverno

After heavy snowfall on Sunday has returned
the sun to shine.
On the hill behind the house stands a bit 'of snow.


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# 3 brothers and a wedding cake for the snow

On a Sunday afternoon so quiet that seems almost hear the sound of soft flakes that settle on the branches, on a Sunday afternoon, where even those who usually rushes remains locked in the house by an ordinance as stupid and pointless, a of the greatest joys for me is to drink tea. Not all tea, bought somewhere, with a taste of some kind, so then one takes the sugar, or lemon, or maybe the milk. No. For two decades the tea for me to be that of Mariage Frères. I discovered just such a long time ago in Paris, in a small street in the Marais. A wonderful shop, ancient, fragrant, with an adjoining tea room (one of the most expensive in the world, seeing is believing), very refined, a bit 'Art Deco ephebic where even the waiters are very beautiful and elegant.

varieties of tea are no longer know how many and their blends are scented and flavored only with flowers, fruits and spices. If you love the tea is to die for.

And of course there is anything you can imagine made with tea or the tea strainers, teapots, cups, jellies, jams, sugars, perfumes, samovar, a real magic! But we had to go to Paris, or even buy it by mail when the on-line purchases are not made. But I do not miss ... have never done

few years, however, in Turin, two delightful sisters have opened in Turin in Via della Rocca 's Ancienne Maison du Thé and everything became easier! Of course they will find only a selection Mariage teas, but is fine the same, my favorites are very close to all. Lately I got a fantastic blend of spicy and slightly spicy green tea: hot, with a little 'sugar cane is a marvel in the afternoons in the winter cold and sad, warms the heart, soul and hands! Especially if, in order not to miss anything, maybe one in the morning, just rolled out of bed prepared this "diet" for squirrel pie.

tart for squirrel :

150g butter 300g flour

70g

sugar 1 egg slightly beaten

a pinch of salt 100g hazelnuts

100g almonds 100g walnuts

2 tablespoons butter 3 tablespoons honey

First of course is preparing the pastry quickly knead the ingredients and putting it to rest in a cool place for about thirty minutes. While the pastry is resting prepare the filling of the tart coarsely diced dried fruit. The three tablespoons of honey to be made with a thick-bottomed pan that can also contain fruit and even after adding the butter melts and melt on low heat. You add the fruit and mix everything thoroughly.

The dough is stretched into a mold with low sides from tart and cook in white for about fifteen minutes in the oven to 180 degrees. When partially cooked is extracted out of the oven and are stuffed with the filling. Others in the oven for 10 to 15 minutes and is ready! Visually check the last area, you must keep an eye on the nuts that burns very easily ... bon appetit!