“A few yards down the trench Jack Firebrace was sitting on the firestep with a cup of tea.  He was regaining his strength after six hours underground.  His thoughts turned towards home.  Eight-and-a-half years earlier, when his wife had given birth to a son, Jack’s life had changed.  As the child grew, Jack noticed in him some quality he valued and which surprised him.  The child was not worn down.  In his innocence there was a kind of hope.  Margaret laughed when jack pointed this out to her.  ”He’s only two years old,” she said.  ”Of course he’s innocent.”

This was not what Jack had meant, but he could not put into words the effect that watching John had on him.  He saw him as a creature who had come from another universe; but in Jack’s eyes the place from which the boy had come was not just a different but a better world.  His innocence  was not the same thing as ignorance; it was a powerful quality of goodness that was available to all people:  it was perhaps what the prayer book called a means of grace, or a hope of glory.

It seemed to Jack that if an ordinary human being, his own son, no one particular, could have this purity of mind, then perhaps the isolated deeds of virtue at which people marvelled in later life were not really isolated at all; perhaps they were the natural continuation of the innocent goodness that all people brought into the world at their birth.  If this was true, then his fellow-human beings were not the rough, flawed creatures that most of them supposed.  Their failings were not innate, but were the result of where they had gone wrong or been coarsened by their experiences; in their hearts they remained perfectible.

This love Jack felt toward his son redeemed his view of human life and gave substance to his faith in God.  Where his piety had been the reflex of a fearful man, it was transformed into something that expressed his belief in the goodness of humanity.”

-Sebastian Faulks, Birdsong

 He drops his body to be even with the bottom rail and moves a muscle at a time toward the tree, stopping when they stop-the paw a half-inch off the ground-waiting until they begin eating again to move closer.  Seeing him coming, they gossip.

The cat is not quite a cat.  He is nine or ten months old, still breaking in.  He has two verified kills-a mouse and a sparrow-that he brought home and gave to Mrs. Dexter.  The mouse was still warm.  He also brought her an eyeless catfish.  Call me a crazy romantic, but there is something about the woman that makes you want to do things like that for her.

 The rest of it he is picking up faster.  He lies in the sun well, he can climb trees and urinate in houseplants.  He will jump a bare foot from behind curtains and he can toss a hair ball with anybody.

 But the hunting is slow in coming.  The problem, I think, is mental-related to a batter who can’t get the hitch out of his swing.  The cat will spend all afternoon stalking a jaybird, and then, a second before he is ready to make his rush, his tail starts to twitch and the back feet jump.  His front feet aren’t ready to move yet-there is nothing as stubborn as the front end of a cat-so the part that does move goes up in the air.

Before it comes down, the blue jay is gone.

 The cat will stand in the spot then, staring at the ground-the batter refusing to leave the plate, refusing to believe he has struck out on another change-up.

But things get better for him when Mrs. Dexter hangs the bird feeders.  There are more birds to stalk, and less time between them to sulk.

 And then the geese show up.  Two white and two almost brown, they come every morning after bad weather, and from his first look, there is something in the cat that shows new confidence.  He knows something that big with feathers has to be easier to kill than a jaybird.

 And every morning he seems to get closer.

 He stalks the birds, always from the fence, moving like poured syrup, until he gets to a place five yards from the bird feeder.  Then his back end jumps and the air fills with beating wings and webbed feet.  And when his back end comes down, he chases the geese all the way to the lake, and the noise hangs in the air with the feathers.

 And though he never kills one, there is something about them all running away that he seems to like.  And he walks to the porch and falls asleep in the sun, smiling.

 Today, though, the geese are different.  The older male is chasing the others all over the yard.  He is an old, beat-up renegade and he has decided it is mating season.  The others know it isn’t, and bite at him and shame him and refuse to go near the water, which is where geese have their way with other geese.

They stand together, two ganders and a liberated goose.

The male tries again, he gives up.  He picks at his food while the others eat.  The cat is moving beside the fence, getting closer all the time.  The old male watches him, the others see him and gossip.

The cat gets to a place five yards from the tree and flattens himself to the ground.  His tail begins to twitch, his back legs jump ahead of the front legs, the geese beat their wings and run for the lake.

 All except the old male.  He is still there when the cat’s back end comes down, and he is there when the cat arrives.

 He comes up off the ground, his wings pounding the air over the cat’s head.  He hisses and bites, a piece of fur floats in the air.

The cat backs up, the goose follows him.  The cat turns, flattens against the ground again, and runs for a tree.  The goose chases him to the tree and watches him climb up into the branches.

 It is a half-hour after the goose leaves before the cat will come down, backwards and checking every few feet.

 He sits on the porch, cleaning himself off.  Then he lies in the sun, sleepless, looking out at the spot under the bird feeder.

 Wondering where it all went wrong.”

 -Pete Dexter, Paper Trails

I was served this delightful dish last weekend at the beach….and immediately asked for the recipe!  (after I finished dining on it’s deliciousness, that is)  It was the perfect Sunday morning… a beautiful view of the sea, great company, and a wonderful meal.

Beach Quiche

2 cups fully cooked Ham (cut into cubes)

1 cup shredded Swiss Cheese (4 oz)

1/3 cup green onion, chopped

4 eggs

2 cups milk

1 cup Bisquick

1/4 tsp salt

1/8 tsp pepper

Heat oven to 400 degrees.  Grease 10 inch pie plate or quiche dish.  Sprinkle ham, cheese and onions into plate.  In medium bowl,  beat remaining ingredients until smooth; one minute with hand mixer, or you can use a blender.  Pour into dish.  

Bake until golden brown and a knife inserted in the middle comes out clean. 35-40 minutes.  Let cool 5 minutes before serving.  Enjoy!

I ran across this receipt in a cookbook I picked up at an estate sale.  It’s been many years since most stores did handwritten receipts.  It’s fun to remember such an old-fashioned touch.  My first job was working in the Accessories department at Macy’s California in 1979 and I remember that they had sophisticated (for the times)  registers even then.  Cash registers have been around for many years so the stores that hand-wrote receipts did so to track inventory, keep track of customers, and add a personal touch.  Does 1981 feel like 31 years ago?

I looked up the Williams book store and they are still in business. I was happy to see that, as so many bookshops have gone away forever.  Do you think they still hand write receipts?