On
last week's visit to the Carmel Mission I bought a jar of almond creamed honey
prepared by the Cistercian Nuns of Redwoods Monastery. I used to love creamed honey as a child; it's
another of those things that I lost sight of over the years—like cinnamon
toast, palominos, moss agates, Platero y
Yo, taco meat simmering, white gloves for church, pussywillows, the
Petrified Forest which we'd visit with my grandparents who lived in Flagstaff
(with Gallup, Grants, and Holbrook between us, besides the litany of
reservations, pueblos, tribes). And this
week I've been writing about varieties of Arizona turquoise, which brings me
back to those visits as well, always at Thanksgiving.
To
think of all these things again is like a box of childhood treasures hidden
under a floorboard, found by chance while clearing an old house where I no
longer live.
image: honeyrunfarm.blogspot.com
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