Britt-Arnhild's House in the Woods

A tree is a tree is a tree is a tree......

text and images britt-arnhild.....though the image is nature's own.....

A busy day at work, then the three hours drive to reach Snåsa where I go from time to time to meet the Sami people. Driving in the afternoon is a challenge. I am tired, I want to go home to cook in my own kitchen, to eat with Terje and Marta, to have a nap. Instead I find myself alone in the car, three hours along the road.

I have given myself a promise though. Along the drive I will stop for photos when I find something beautiful, and every time I drive this three hour distance I will find at least one place of beauty which I haven't seen before.

That's why I suddenly stopped my car on the narrow road shoulder yesterday, grabbing the camera from the purse in the back seat, walking out to befriend this tree.

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This afternoon I will drive the three hours back home again.

Me and my camera.

To learn from a confectioner

text and images britt-arnhild and marta

We were excited. Filled with anticipation. Marta and I had been invited to a cake decorating course. Lead my a professional confectioner.

Eyes and heart open. Camera busy.

We followed every single step done by Freidis Dahl, the owner of a cafe at Spongdal, just outside Trondheim.

Chocolate, sugar, marzipan, berries, fruit.

Our eyes grew bigger and bigger.

It looked so simple when Freidis made her creations.

Will be be able to adapt her tricks at home?

White and brown chocolate, melted, formed, frozen and then ready to use. A collection of tasteful colours.

Red foxberrries with their green leaves. We are in the middle of the foxberry season now.

Marzipan roses. We all got marzipan to make our own rose, and Freidis used some of them in the huge grand finale cake. All the way sharing tricks and treats with us.

Oh my. I simply love cream cake covered with marzipan!

 

Up in the clouds, on cloudberry wings

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For many weeks I have had a jar standing on the kitchen bench. A jar filled with golden cloudberries swimming in a lake of 60% pure alcohol.

For the first time in my life I am making my own liqueur.

A few years ago a friend told me that he uses to make his own cloudberry liqueur. Ever since then I have dreamed about making it myself.

My mouth watered.

You remember the day my dad, my brother and my husband were out picking the gold of the mountain, don´t you? I "stole" a few of Terje´s berries then, and also found a few myself a couple of days later. Enough to fill a 1litre jar. Enough to start my dream.

Every day for weeks now I have been shaking the jar, trying to imagine what it would taste like. Many years ago I bought a bottle of Finish cloudberry liqueur. It lasted for years. It was okay, but a little too sweet for my taste buds. My friend told me that the home made one was nothing like it. I had magic to look forward to.

My mouth watered. 

Finally came the day to finish the liqueur.

I made a syrup of a lot of sugar and a little water. Sifted the berries, mixed the liquids, and......simsalabim, a sweet, heavenly smell filled the kitchen. Magic in the air.

My mouth watered.

 

An antique liqueur glass was filled and I was finally ready to taste........but wait, wait, wait. I had promised to pick up Marta from her cheer leading practice. No alcohol before driving!

My mouth was watering!

 

But the, finally, before going to bed, I was able to taste and to swallow the magic.

Perfect.

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Cheers to Kristian for the recipe

Lanny and Steve, dear Californians, you are both welcome back to The Blue Café for a taste and a cheer.

Hiking the memory tracks

text and images britt-arnhild

Trondheim is surrounded by countryside, hills and mountains. I grew up hiking and skiing in these mountains, still there are so many parts I´ve never been to, so many tracks unfamiliar, so many mountains calling out my name.

With Terje still away and Marta sleeping over at  friend´s, I woke up Sunday morning in an empty house. I blogged, I wrote emails, I had breakfast.......and it was still two hours till church time. Outside the sun was shining bright and playful.

"Well" I told myself, "I am sure you can skip church today and instead go for a hike to see if you find some of your childhood tracks"

 As soon as the desicion was taken, I found myself busy - making coffee, cutting two pieces of bread, adding butter and brown cheese, taking out a chocolate bar from its hiding place in the cupboard, filling a water bottle, packing it all into my old black backpack.

And then I was on my way.

Driving up to Henriksåsen where I parked my car. And then I was ready to start the hike.

With Storheia as my goal.

Being out early meant that I had the tracks almost alone.

I love this loneliness. In my own company. The speed is mine to decide, my words are mine to think, the world is mine to live.

Best foot forward I walk on. Using my body, breathing hard, praising God.

Cross roads with signs to follow. I knew my way, and as I walked on, I let myself dwell in childhood memories, remembering cross country skiing with an old boyfriend, Then, years later, Sunday following Sunday hiking and cross country skiing with Terje and the kids......one at first, then two, three.....and when Marta finally was born only two kids again, the boys living their own lives, their own Sundays, with their own friends.

The tracks took me higher and higher. Soon I could see the city, the fjord, more mountains.

Sitting down with my coffee and my brown cheese bread was a reward after I finally reached the top.

Then it was also time to shot a photo on my cell phone and send it to Terje.

A broad smile spread on my face when I got his reply "IMPRESSED!"

The Long Shadows. The low Sun

text and images britt-arnhild

The morning sun makes shadows in the blue garden.

The nights are cold, almost frost, and the sun needs hours to warm up the garden. I wrap myself in a warm coat and run out to play with the shadows.

The cold, dark, icy winter is approacing. I am gathering as much as I can of the light, of the sun, of the growing life.

Mysterious patterns on the wall. I look around, is there a robin here with a Secret Garden Key. A key to open the door to the faitytales, the eventyr

A little sparrow has been following me for a few days. She has something to tell. Deep in her brown and grey feathers  she has a colour hidden. Here is the colour you are seeking, she is saying. Take it. Use it.

I am in the middle of eventyret

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From the deepest of my heart I want to THANK YOU for your comments on yesterday´s post. Yes, I have a mailbox fillwd with world wide friends. And I also have a blog, my tiny little corner of the blog world, where people come to share beauty.

I appreciate it deeply.

I have written each one of you back (Dawn, I got the email I tried to send you back with a message saying that your address doesn´t excist), but also want to share my THANK YOU here.

The Autumn Table Cloth

text and image britt-arnhild

 

The huge pine trees set my table. The table cloth is softly unfolding, leading me into autumn.

My eyes rest on its rustic beauty.

Down near the green house a basket with bulbs is waiting. A basket with hopes. Of a spring to come.

In the kitchen water is boiling, a mug filled with mint leaves is ready to be filled.

Life will soon continue.

I am here to have some silence first. And beauty. To do some thinking.

I am here to live my feelings. The rainbow.

To paint the colour I have hidden for so long.

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I came here this morning to write a different post. I came here to ask you, my readers, about what you want me to write about, what you prefere to read, what my blog means to you, asking for your comments.

Then words found themselves. Thoughts. The question turned around. What does the blog mean to me? Old clay pots filled up with thoughts. With answers. To blog or not to blog. To make the blog my personal diary. Am I right to share so much of myself openly.

I don´t have any answers.....yet.

I have more and more questions.

 

I pick the pine leaves one by one, let them fall softly.......do love, do not love, do love, do not love......do blog, do not blog, do blog, do not blog, do blog, do blog, do not blog, do blog, do blog, do blog, do not blog, do blog, do blog, do blog, do blog......

All this rain. All these numbers

text and images britt-arnhild

It rains. It pours.

Umbrellas, wellingtons, raincoats, digged out from somewhere deep inside the cabinets. Marta needs a new raincoat, but for the moment there is no time to buy one. Good for her that she is a stubborn Norwegian with viking blood in her veins.

The annuals are drowning. I really need to empty the flower pots for water. But when I finally come home from work with numbers dancing in my brain, spilling all over, it is dark, wet, windy. And all I want to do is to sit down with a glass of red wine.

We have had an election in The Church of Norway, and for hour after long hour we are counting votes.

Numbers have never been my friends, though I am sure that if I had had better teachers I would have loved maths. But girls were not supposed to love numbers when I grew up.

Right now my head is spinning though..........7, 9, 14, 19......make sure to feed the computer the correct ones. Hour after long hour.

I´ve had a good night´s sleep.

Now it is time to start counting again.

1, 3, 14, 13, 7, 19........

In Each Others Ease

photo: a friend

poem: Hugh Prather

 
The quiet thoughts

of two people a long time in love,

touch lightly.

Like birds,

nesting in each others warmth.

You will know them by their laughter.

But to each other,

they speak mostly through their solitude.

If they find themselves apart,

they may dream of sitting undisturbed

in each others presence.

Of wrapping themselves warmly,

in each others ease

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Thank you Jane for the poem. Thank you Olav for the photo.

The photo is from a hike near our cabin July 23th, the day after the imaginable. It was good to be together. Good to be out hiking.

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Terje is leaving today for the funeral of his aunt. Since he is going back to where his father lives, 1000kms south of us, he will use the opportunity to spand a few days with his old father.

I will miss him.

Thanksgiving. Giving Thanks

text and image brittarnhild

Once a year, in September, we have a special thanksgiving service in the cathedral. The service is held on a weekday afternoon, and we invite people  who are usualy not able to come to the church.

The late Norwegian poet Inger Hagerup once wrote a poem about our "small sisters and brothers born into this world with less luggage".  The poem is beautiful and has been loved in Norway for generations. Today I don´t think we would talk about less luggage, more about a different luggage.

The thanksgiving service is a highlight in my year. The cathedral is filled with noice, both laughter and cries, many are in wheel chairs, some are unable to sit still and walks around. God is there walking with us all, crying, laughing, loving, living with us all.

I was lucky enough to be seated together with three young girls, Trine, Marianne and Eva, at least two of them with Down´s syndrom. I got their names, handshakes and their smiles, and one of them couldn´t stop looking lovingly into my face, smiling broadly every time she met my eyes. Her admiration, her happiness, her smile completely filled my heart.

Bishop Tor and priest Camilla preached, both of them searching the cathedral for a golden coin Camilla had lost. The gold (a chocolate in golden paper) were hidden under my purse, a secret only I and my three new friends knew, and while everybody were trying to help Tor and Camilla in their search, the three girls and I could hardly sit still, it was so hard to keep our secret. Then I could rejoice and share their exciting happiness when bishop Tor finally found the gold.

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I came to the church tired after a busy day. I left it beaming, with joy, love, happiness.......but most of all thankfulness......for God´s almighty creation!

A travel is a travel is a travel.......

text and images britt-arnhild

When my husband was a boy his parents loved to take him and his brother out on picnics, hikes, camping. Nothing far away, nothing "exotic", a lot of adventure. My husband has told me many of his memories. Once they had planned an outdoor picnic. The backpack was packed with comfort food and hot chocolate, but then the weather decided to spoil everything. Weather was defeated though. My parents in law took their two small boys up the steep ladder to the attic. There they spread out a carpet, the food and the hot chocolate, and sat down. The picnic was a success, the memories stay with my husband after 50 years.

The same attic was used years later when Ingrid as a little girl wanted to sleep in her new tent, but was too young to sleep outdoors by herself. The tiny little play tent was put up on the attic floor and Ingrid had a real adventure.

I try to make every day a travel day, adventures on the menu. On my way to work I walk through the park instead of the shorter way along the road. I can make the park walk in a minute, or I can make it loooooong. On my way to work I walk along the river. I can make the river walk in a minute, or I can make it loooooooong. Like yesterday when a heavy rain shower had made the river water, which usually reflects the sky, brown. The way the white fence enjoyed his mirrored image in the brown water was a new experience. Something to stop for. Something to shot.

My adventure was there and then.

A travel is a travel is a travel.