Monthly Archives: September 2017

Painting Flowers In The Field

“What are you doing, René?”

“Peinture des fleurs dans le domaine.” “Painting flowers in the field.”

“They are beautiful.  Such a beautiful canvas.  A bit colorful with happiness. Yes, happy flowers,” said André.

“Yes, they are.  I paint what I feel.  I feel like flowers.  Yes, I’m happy.  See?  It’s an expression of me, what I feel inside.  I take what I feel and apply it to canvas.  That’s what most artists do.  Their art speaks.  It speaks to you.  Can’t you hear it?  Not yet?  OK, it will speak to you later.”

“How do you come up with these ideas, René?  I didn’t know you could paint what you feel inside.  Never thought about painting flowers in the field, but if you do it, then maybe I can imagine it,” said André.  “Yes, you can imagine it.  I always try to paint what I feel.  So, if you feel happy,  maybe you can imagine it.  You see, flowers are there for a purpose.  They are there for many reasons. They are beautiful and colorful, but I don’t know what happened to these?” laughingly said René.

“René , I do know life in color, but when it comes to feelings, I know no color.”  “Well, you see it now.  For some people, they have to imagine color, even black and white because they can’t see it.  Some call it vision impairment.  A nice way to say blind.  But what is color anyway?  Is it for real or is it an illusion that we create inside our minds?  Who knows?  Good to see you, André.  You are a colorful character.  That means you have personality.  I’ll tell you more later.  Bye for now,  my friend, I must add color to these sad flowers in the field,” said René as he smiled at André.  “OK, I will go along, as you say, and try to imagine feelings with color, but I don’t think so.”

“Hello, René.  I see you are in the artistic frame of mind,” said Michelle.  “Always, Madame.” “Hmm.  Flowers in the field, I see.  Quite fanciful with so much color,” said Michelle.  “Yes, colorful as you, I mean, beautiful as you,” said René as he applied more paint to his canvas. “Oh, so you are feeling beautiful today, René.  You are a man of romance.  I can tell.  There’s  a blush of rose in your mind,” said flirtatiously by Michelle as she brushed her fingers through her hair.  “No, they are not roses, but wildflowers of all colors and assortment.  See, a touch of color?  A little red, some yellow, maybe a touch of green and a little brown,”said René as he placed his brush down on his palette.  “So, the painting is finished and ready for me to have it?  I know it’s for me, dear René,” said Michelle .  “No, it’s not finished.  I must stop for now.  Maybe paint some more another day.”

“André, you’re back.  Are you feeling color today?”  “No color yet, René.  I feel nothing.  How can you feel and see color when all you see is sand and surf?” said André a bit puzzled. “Even at the shore, I can feel color and paint flowers in the field. I know it doesn’t make sense, but in time you will know and see color anywhere,” said René as he paints with color on his canvas.   “Should I go again, René, as you said before, since I see and feel no color?” said André with a disappointing affect. “No, no, André.  You must stay and watch as I paint.   I know the feeling and color will come to you.  You must not be sad, you will see nothing but black and white.  Look at me.  I’m happy and I can paint color,” said René with a smile.

“Hello, Michelle, you’re back.  I do not feel rosy, but earthy.  Colors of green, yellow, brown and red.  Flowers in the field, I paint.  See?”  “René, I don’t understand you.  I never feel color.  Only black and white,” said Michelle a bit perplexed as she gazes at René in wonder. “You too, feel nothing, as sad as André.  I don’t understand neither of you,” said René as he turns his head away from Michelle. “Should I go, so you can feel color?”  “Yes, please go.       I can’t be inspired with you around.  Good bye, Michelle.”  “OK, I will go, but I will never come back.  I feel nothing.   You are colorful  but I am not, René,”said Michelle as she walks away looking back at René in dismay.”  “See ya, Michelle.”

René thinking to himself, I hope they never come back.  It’s sad that they feel nothing but black and white.  I must continue with my feeling of happiness.  I must paint color.

So René continues with his brush and pulls color from his palette.  He is happy and joyful because he likes what he is doing.  Maybe others can feel happiness, if they try.  Sometimes it’s a matter of attitude.  If you can’t pull yourself up from circumstances that bring you down, a change of mind is necessary.  A positive attitude can make a difference with how you feel.  It can motivate, if you try.  Really, no one needs to stay where they are.  Maybe this painting can inspire.  I certainly hope so.  Just try to paint happiness in your mind and maybe you can see it and eventually feel it.

“Peinture des fleurs dans le domaine.”  Painting flowers in the field can make a difference.   Just try it.  Think color and maybe happiness can come to you.

Hello Readers!

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Oleo Buttermilk

“Hello, Oleo, what are you making?” “I’m making buttermilk pancakes, Mrs. Butterworth.  Recipe calls for two aigs, a stick of oleo, and a large cup of buttermilk.” “You mean two eggs, a stick of butter, and a large cup of buttermilk.” “I mean two aigs, a stick of oleo, and a large cup of buttermilk.”  Mrs. Butterworth to Oleo, “If you’re making buttermilk pancakes, it requires more eggs, more butter, and more buttermilk. You need four eggs, two sticks of butter, and two large cups of buttermilk.” “Okay, if you’re doubling the recipe, then it’s four aigs, two sticks of oleo, and two large cups of buttermilk.  That means we’re making twice as many pancakes,” said Oleo to Mrs. Butterworth. “Whatever you think, Oleo.  Four aigs, two sticks of oleo, and two large cups of buttermilk.  I have no idea what aigs are, but if they’re like eggs, then, they will do,” said Mrs. Butterworth.

“Where did you get this recipe, Oleo?  It’s not the standard pancake recipe,” said Mrs. Butterworth. “Yes, it’s a special family recipe.  It’s my Mama’s recipe.  Not one like it.”   “Whatever you say, Oleo.  I don’t quite understand your ingredients.  Rather primitive.     My mother would not approve.  She always follows the exact recipe and it always comes out perfect.”  “I follow Mama’s recipe and it always comes out just as Mama told me,” said Oleo.

“Let me give a call to my sista.  She can interpret and confirm that this is Mama’s genuine recipe.  Sista, this is Oleo, can you come over and explain my buttermilk pancake recipe? On your way, good.  My sista lives next door.  She knows the recipe well.” “Thank you, Oleo.  It’s always a good idea to have someone else, who knows the recipe well, verify that you know what you’re doing, which I think not.  This is not a standard buttermilk pancake recipe,” said Mrs. Butterworth.

“Sista, good mornin’.  Mrs. Butterworth, meet my sista, Jolene.  This here lady is having a problem understanding Mama’s buttermilk pancake recipe.  Can you explain it to her?” “Glad to, sista.” “Mrs. Buttermilk, I mean, Mrs. Butterworth, it’s a simple recipe.  Let me clear up your problem.  I’m sorry you can’t follow the directions, but let me see if I can make sense out of it for you.  Once I explain it and show you how, any idiot can make these cakes,” said Jolene. “Oleo seems to be the one that doesn’t know how to follow directions. This recipe is a train wreck in the making.  Give me a sensible explanation to your Mama’s fine recipe and it’s proper ingredients,” “Glad to do it, Mrs. Butterworth,” said Jolene.

“Now, Mrs. Butterworth, these are the main ingredients.  Two aigs, a stick of oleo, and a large cup of buttermilk,” said Jolene. “It’s the same as Oleo’s recipe.  Surely there must be other ingredients.  I just cannot imagine these ingredients making a culinary delight,” said Mrs. Butterworth in a repulsed manner of speaking.

“Here’s the rest of the ingredients. Two cups of flour, a teaspoon of baking soda, a teaspoon of baking powder, a little salt and sweeten as you like with white sugar,” said Jolene to Mrs. Butterworth. “Well, Jolene, you, at least, know the rest of the proper ingredients.  Two aigs and a stick of oleo makes the worst kind of anything,” said Mrs. Butterworth to Jolene. “Sista, Oleo, you got one ingredient wrong, only a half stick of oleo.”

“Mrs. Butterworth, here’s a mixing bowl.  I’ll let you do it for yourself.  Add two cups of flour, two aigs, the oleo, and buttermilk, then add the rest.  Stir the batter, not too much, then you’re ready to make your pancakes,” said Jolene. “Sounds so simple and it’s easy to do.  Maybe these will turn out to be pancakes after all. Maybe,” said Mrs.Butterworth, a little skeptical, yet with a positive manner of speaking. “Oh they will, you’ll see.  Mama told us so and we are right,” said Oleo emphatically to Mrs. Butterworth.

“Mrs. Butterworth, have you ever tasted buttermilk?  No? Well, have a taste,” said Jolene. “This is awful, spoiled milk.  So bitter and so sour.  There must be a substitute for it.” “Nope, that’s the way it is.  It’s the left over butter cream with bacteria added to it.  A tangy and sour taste.  You will be surprised with the outcome.  You’ll see and taste the difference,” said Jolene to Mrs. Butterworth. “I am not responsible for any sickness caused by these flat and despicable pancakes.  In good conscience, I cannot do it.  Mother would, certainly, not approve.  She would disown me,” said Mrs. Butterworth.

“Now, here’s the pan.  It’s a cast iron griddle.  Been in the family for years. It was Mama’s,” said Jolene with pride. “You mean, pancakes are made on that dirty, smutty flat pan?  I really don’t think these buttermilk pancakes will be pleasing to the eye. Like burnt toast, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Butterworth. “Now don’t draw any conclusions, yet.  Let’s make them, then you can judge for yourself.  You will be surprised with the outcome.  I promise,” said Jolene. “Turn your fire on low, then slowly add your batter, a large tablespoon for each pancake.  We are making large pancakes.  Just like Mama told us so,” said Jolene. “Oh, I’m so nervous. Here goes. Batter on the griddle.  How long do I cook them, Jolene?” said Mrs. Butterworth. “About two minutes on one side and one minute on the other because the griddle is already hot enough,” said Jolene.

“You know, Jolene, these do look like pancakes.  I like what I see. Just like mother learned in culinary school.  She may approve.” “Now flip them over and in one minute you will have made your first genuine buttermilk pancake.  Just like Mama told us, and she is always right.  You’ve done it.  Have a taste.  What do you think?  A culinary delight?” asked Jolene. “These are more than culinary, they are delicious,” said Mrs. Butterworth.

“Now, place your cakes on this here plate.  Add two pats of oleo and pour a hot warm liquid of real, artificial, maple syrup.  I guess you may know something about artificial.  The pancake mix out of a box just doesn’t taste like Mama’s cakes.  Mama knows best,” said Oleo. “I think your Mama does know best.  These are cultured and I like them,” said Mrs. Butterworth.

Any homemade recipe is always better than out of the box.  Real ingredients make the difference.  Whether it’s Mother or Mama, they know best, really.