We'll Eat You Up

food, adventure, stories, and coming back to the people we love

Month: September, 2012

it’s the end of breakfast week, and now you’re all asking…



the best of all breakfasts


“When you wake up in the morning, Pooh,” said Piglet at last,
“what’s the first thing you say to yourself?”

 “What’s for breakfast?” said Pooh.

a harvest breakfast

Challah dough makes for great cinnamon rolls- the dough is sweet and a little chewy, yum! Use my recipe for challah dough as is (or add a little pumpkin puree when you’re mixing it together). I  found a jar of pumpkin butter at Trader Joe’s which was a great glaze,  but you can also just make a basic icing (1c powdered sugar + 2T butter +  2t milk+ 1/2t cinnamon). Glaze right as they come out of the oven and  enjoy immediately!

I couldn’t resist reposting this recipe for Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls I found over on The Forest Feast. The Challah dough recipe is on her website as well…which is full of beautiful photographic recipe illustrations from her storybook cabin in the woods of Northern California.

{Photo by Erin Gleeson for The Forest Feast}

advice from a hobbit


“And now leave me in peace for a bit! I don’t want to answer a string of  questions while I am eating.  I want to think!” said Frodo.

 “Good Heavens!” said Pippin. “At breakfast?”

How’s THIS for muchness?

“Sometimes I think of as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” -Alice


It is rare that I like a movie better than the book that inspired it, but Tim Burton’s Alice In Wonderland comes pretty close.  I love it because, in a rare twist of the natural elements of story, Alice herself is the champion who slays the Jabberwocky, the one in all the prophecies who delivers Underland from the evil queen.

And of course all of these great archetypal themes are woven in with the charming weirdness of Tim Burton and Lewis Carrolls’ imaginations.


The characters are so true to life, despite their living in Wonderland.  Tim Burton’s Underland is a lot like Max’s world in Where the Wild Things Are, where the wild creatures are giant fur-covered versions of all of the people he knows back in the real world: needy, tempestuous, maddening and absolutely wonderful despite it all. The stories get at the root of the complexity of human relationships.

What really makes Alice so brave, though, is her determination to live within the paradoxes; to love the people in her life despite the fact that they are so impossible to love. She’s a risk-taker, in more ways than one.  Through the course of the story she overcomes her biggest fears, realizes her intrinsic value, and takes action on the truths she embraces about herself on behalf of those she loves.

And here I am, waxing semi-eloquent about a movie written for children. I must be going mad…



changing bread and water into tea and cakes

l’arte d’arrangiarsi is an italian word. It doesn’t translate precisely into english.
But if it could be, it would translate something like this:

the art of making something out of nothing.

{how do you practice arrangiarsi? with a list? a letter? a meal?}

Green Tea

Sorry I didn’t post yesterday. You know, I don’t think I’m actually much of a blogger. When I’m blogging, my mind is going sixteen thousand miles an hour but my body is in this weird funk, frozen except for my fingers curling over the keys.

It feels like a sedentary lifestyle.

Anyway, tonight I went on a barefoot night run to get out some of the kinks, try to use my body instead of my brain. It felt wonderful.

I’ll admit it, people.
This week has been overwhelming.  I have a tendency to put too much on my plate (more ways than one) and to boot I let my brain get stuffed full of ideas that I can’t act on until I just want to explode!

(Suddenly I understand why people use that phrase…)

But my friend Connor (who understands tea and adventures and how they go together) has another phrase, when things get piled up. He would just breathe deep and say, “green tea.”

It’s a good few words, not just for the object itself. Each word is a calming one.

Green is pine forests and moss and new tulip tree leaves. It’s the new sting of warmth when the frost breaks and the buds tendril up. It’s the heady wind before and the glowing lawn after a wild summer storm.
Tea is curling up in the middle of a storm (six months later) with your hands wrapped up, warming you all the way down. It means good talks and wool blankets and brown sugar by the spoonful. It’s a little amber cove you sip as you rustle pages of adventure.

…and of course, the two together mean something obnoxiously healthy – with all the antioxidants and anti-inflammatories and whatnot. Down and out of the metaphysical, into the physique.
Really, it’s the mental practice of just focusing on one thing at a time that carries the calming power. Our moments are all we have. Each is precious.


(Wishing green tea on you all. Goodnight!)

a literary tea party

I found this poem on a rainy day in my high school library, after checking out a thick dusty book title Parodies. (I was such a nerd! The last time someone had checked out the book was in 1972! I bought the book off the librarian when they decided to revamp their collection…)

You may have to brush up on your classic poets to appreciate the wit of this poem – I sure did! I still don’t catch some of the allusions.
I was most familiar with Poe’s commentary, after his poem, The Bells.  And of course, Robert Burns‘ whiskey-laced offering just makes sense.

It is just as the title describes: All the poets, sitting down to tea, all start waxing eloquent about the kettle and the cups…

The Poets at Tea
by Barry Pain

I. (Macauley, who made it):

Pour, varlet, pour the water,
The water steaming hot!
A spoonful for each man of us,
Another for the pot!
We shall not drink from amber,
No Capuan slave shall mix
For us the snows of Athus
With port at thirtysix;
Whiter than snow the crystals
Grown sweet ‘neath tropic fires,
More rich the herb of China’s fields,
The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;
Forever let Brittania wield
The teapot of her sires!

II. (Tennyson, who took it hot):

I think that I am drawing to an end:
For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,
And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,
And a great darkness falling on my soul.
O Hallelujah! … Kindly pass the milk.

III. (Swinburne, who let it get cold):

As the sin that was sweet in the sinning
Is foul in the ending thereof,
As the heat of the summer’s beginning
Is past in the winter of love:
O purity, painful and pleading!
O coldness, ineffably gray!
O hear us, our handmaid unheeding,
And take it away!

IV. (Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it):

The cosy fire is bright and gay,
The merry kettle boils away
And hums a cheerful song.
I sing the saucer and the cup;
Pray, Mary, fill the teacup up,
And do not make it strong.

V. (Browning, who treated it allegorically):

Tut! Bah! We take as another case–
Pass the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule
(A sick man’s fancy, no doubt, but I place
Reliance on trademarks, Sir)–so perhaps you’ll
Excuse the digression–this cup which I hold
Light-poised–Bah, it’s spilt in the bed!–well, let’s on go–
Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told
The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?

VI. (Wordsworth, who gave it away):

“Come, little cottage girl, you seem
To want my cup of tea;
And will you take a little cream?
Now tell the truth to me.”

She had a rustic, woodland grin,
Her cheek was soft as silk,
And she replied, “Sir, please put in
A little drop of milk.”

“Why, what put milk into your head?
‘Tis cream my cows supply;”
And five times to the child I said,
“Why pig-head, tell me, why?”

“You call me pig-head,” she replied;
“My proper name is Ruth.
I called that milk”–she blushed with pride–
“You bade me speak the truth.”

VII. (Poe, who got excited over it):

Here’s a mellow cup of tea–golden tea!
What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!
Oh, from out the silver cells
How it wells!
How it smells!
Keeping tune, tune, tune,
To the tintinnabulation of the spoon.
And the kettle on the fire
Boils its spout off with desire,
With a desperate desire
And a crystalline endeavor
Now, now to sit, or never,
On the top of the paled-faced moon,
But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,
Tea to the n-th.

VIII. (Rossetti, who took six cups of it):

The lilies lie in my lady’s bower,
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady’s head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);
She poured; I drank at her command;
Drank deep, and now–you understand!
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost).

IX. (Burns, who liked it adulturated):

Weel, gin ye speir, I’m no inclined,
Whusky or tay–to state my mind
Fore ane or ither;
For, gin I tak the first, I’m fou,
And gin the next, I’m dull as you:
Mix a’ thegither.

X. (Walt Whitman, who didn’t stay more than a minute):

One cup for myself-hood,
Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,
O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you’ve done with it.
What butter-colour’d hair you’ve got. I don’t want to be personal.
All right, then, you needn’t. You’re a stale cadaver.
Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.
Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.

books and teacups belong together


“You can never get a cup of tea large enough
or a book long enough to suit me.”

~C. S. Lewis