Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
|2||cups chopped unpeeled apples (2 medium)|
|2 2/3||cups old-fashioned oats|
|2||teaspoons ground cinnamon|
|4||cups vanilla soymilk|
|1/4||cup real maple syrup|
|Additional soymilk, if desired|
|Chopped toasted walnuts, if desired|
|Heat oven to 350°F. Spray 2-quart casserole with cooking spray. In casserole, stir together apples, oats, raisins, cinnamon, salt, soymilk and syrup.|
|Bake uncovered 45 to 50 minutes or until most of liquid is absorbed. Pour additional soymilk over each serving; sprinkle with walnuts.|
Monday, September 24, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools. - Henry Beston, Northern Farm
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns. - George Eliot
Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. - Alfred Lord Tennyson
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.