A Simple, Healthy and Delicious Recipe

Guacamole Dip

Ingredients
2 Ripe Avocados
1 Chili (de-seeded and chopped very finely)
Juice of 1 Lime
Small bunch of Coriander, chopped finely
I desert spoon of creme fraiche
Salt and Pepper to taste

Mix all the ingredients together, toast a pitta bread and dip away to your heart's content!

I have just discovered the poetry of Maya Angelou

I don't know much about her yet, but she has written several memoirs which I want to read. I know that she grew up in a time of racism and had a difficult life, including being raped as a child by her mother's lover. She worked alongside Martin Luther- King. Her poetry is just full of punch, and it makes something inside me rise up and go "yeah!"

"Phenomenal Woman"

Pretty woman wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to fit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

They swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's the arch of my back

The sun in my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing,

I ought to make you proud

I say,

It's the click of my heals,

The bend of my hair,

The need for my care.

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

"Still I Rise"

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

A few more photos

We're staying at my Mum's house this week and it's felt like a real holiday, lots more space than we're used to and time to really relax. It's great as we're recovering from being ill and I can feel my creative juices starting to flow again. The house has lovely gardens, which I am very fond of as I used to spend the majority of my time in the garden when I was little. Nature has always been a soothing balm for me. Here are a few of my fav piccies!

I seem to have a bit of a passion for photographing birds, but then again they are really the best that British wildlife has to offer- well wildlife that isn't nocturnal or nearly extinct.

A beautiful pink Camellia

A beautiful bumble bee...
A Camellia in black and white. I love the light on the velvety smooth petals.

A brief respite and photo opportunity!

We were all ill last week, and that meant we were all in bed in what is quite a small 2 bed flat. The flat got messier as the week went on, as being ill I had no energy for washing up plates or cleaning floors. One evening it all got a bit much and as I love the evening light I decided to take the camera and drive until I found a 'footpath' sign. The trickiest thing is finding a spot to park on a small winding country lane. I ususally just pull up right alongside the footpath sign now- I used to hesitate every time, looking for a good parking place and I'd miss footpath after footpath, and usually end up quite hot and irritable. So now I park in as close as I can and hope for the best! I found a real gem of a walk just 15 minutes drive from home- I love that about England! I got a few nice shots, the time was about 7 o clock, and the gorgeous golden light gave me some interesting opportunities although the wildlife was really aware of me- maybe I shouldn't have worn my red jacket!

Some sheep peacefully grazing on a sunlit hillside- a typical English scene that I love!
I gave Mr Pheasant a bit of a surprise- and his wife's loud call gave me a shock too- hence why there was no time to zoom in, just snap and see what happens!
These two ladies were really checking me out. When my Camera turned out to be a harmless weapon they lost interest!
I forgot to put the anti- glare bit on the end of the camera, but I actually really like what happened here!

A snippet from 'A thousand days in Tuscany' by my 'author of the moment', Marlena de Blasi...

Later, we drive over the mountains to Sarteano. A jaunt to watch the sky change at end of a day. Just beyond the road’s peak, I notice a bramble of blackberry bushes, their rain- washed fruit preened in the leaving light.

‘Can we stop to pick some?’ I ask.

We climb down into a mud trench. There is a miasma of berries. Branches and tendrils wound and woven together and bound up in thorns, the berries overripe and dripping juice at the barest touch. We pick them, carefully at first, placing a berry at a time in the bucket we keep in the trunk for such events until we taste one and it’s so sweet, a besotted sweet, sweet like no blackberry before it and so we scrap the bucket and go directly from hand to mouth, picking faster and faster, damning the barbs of the vines now, laughing so the juice runs out of our mouths, trickles down our chins, and mixes with the blood from our thorn- pricked fingertips.

Thunder, great ponderous cracks of it. Raindrops. Large, plopping ones, healing ones that feel like tenderness. Climbing up out of the ditch, we head for the car with every chance to outrun the storm. I don’t want the dry port of the car. I want the rain. I want to be washed by this water that smells of grass and earth and hope. I want to be drenched in it, made supple in it like a shrivelled fruit in warm wine. I want to stand here until I’m sure that my body and my heart will remember the privilege of this life. Never minding that we are cold and wet all over we tramp through the skirring furies of the storm and I think, once again, how much I want what I already have.

Marlena de Blasi, a thousand days in Tuscany