Good Books

Nan shared this poem and I enjoyed it so much I thought I'd share it too... Thanks Nan :0)

Good Books

Good books are friendly things to own.

If you are busy they will wait.

They will not call you on the phone

Or wake you if the hour is late.

They stand together row by row,

Upon the low shelf or the high.

But if you're lonesome this you know:

You have a friend or two nearby.

The fellowship of books is real.

They're never noisy when you're still.

They won't disturb you at your meal.

They'll comfort you when you are ill.

The lonesome hours they'll always share.

When slighted they will not complain. 

And though for them you've ceased to care

Your constant friends they'll still remain.

Good books your faults will never see

Or tell about them round the town.

If you would have their company

You merely have to take them down.

They'll help you pass the time away,

They'll counsel give if that you need.

He has true friends for night and day

Who has a few good books to read.

Edgar Guest (1881-1959)

Rustic loaf

Last night I dumped 3 teacups of flour into a big glass bowl added 1 tsp of salt, 1 rounded teaspoon of dried yeast and  about 2 teacups of warm water ..perhaps a little more  and stirred it all together until it was a rather soft almost sloppy dough.
  I put the lid on and left the mix on the kitchen table until the next morning (so it proved for about 18 to 2 hours.) This morning I set the oven to 450 f and put in the cast iron lidded pan to preheat for 1/2 an hour. Then I took the hot pan out of the oven rather carefully and added the soft ball of dough (that I'd very roughly shaped into a sloppy ball on a well floured board.)
Popped it into the oven  with the lid on and there it stayed for 30 minutes.Then the timer buzzed and I removed the lid and let it cook for 10 more minutes. Then it was lifted out onto a rack to cool and there was my first Rustic style loaf, crusty and tasty...yippee!

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.