On Baps and scattering

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We are in the curve of the oval. Tidily, we have mapped out time and changes with our calendars and clocks and linear projections, confirming what we already apprehend in the oldest areas of our brains: that the long days are turning back again toward darkness, toward Christmas and the other turning.

We can lie flat in the green grass where the dirt sparkles and explore the low dense jungle where it feasts on the sun and rain; it is the edge of the sky, I tell my last little one.

We can take our magnifying glass to the lava fields now and take a good look at the dry moss and its patrons, scrabbling across rooms and rooms of old warm stone belched up from the the earth's belly eons ago.

Listen to the flat cottonwood leaves over the pup tent; its whispery chorus through the night. Look, I tell her, the wild grasses are suddenly tall and lacy, their soft greeny-white umbels flash silver and pink in the light. They are getting ripe, ready to travel.

She already knows these things. She is part of them.

Under the long dazzling sunsets with streaks of crimson through the billowing mauves and blues, raven chicks move up to fledglings and learn to fly.

Leggy Paint foals cavort in the corners of the pasture, restless, full of light, far from their mothers.

Dandelions send their scouts off on the breeze to new territories.

The force at the helm is irresistible; go out, grow, carry your message, dance, sing, beat the drum.

Our children sleep freely into the long mornings, restoring themselves from the quick-trot pace of their summer days. Quietly, they are growing out of their new shoes. There is no stopping it.

Their favorite school clothes, relegated to play, are commencing to tatter and shrink and become smudged with use and misuse. Adventuring, building tree forts, digging big holes at the foot of the steps, pounding nails into stumps, their faces full of sun and discoveries, they sally forth every morning, energized little envoys, probing the day for the future.

The big ones disappear altogether for days at a time to camp, into thick books, to jobs, submerged in the study of various athletic and artistic disciplines. They meet and disperse with their friends and we practice life at home without them.

If, on an untrammeled Sunday morning you feel inclined to momentarily slow down the expansive impulses of your loved ones, to entice them to linger and rest, to breakfast en famille in a celebratory fashion, outdoors perhaps, basking in the early sweet air from the mountains,consider Baps for the menu.

They are of Scottish origin and require a bit of leisure, and a mood of indulgence, but no special skills.

1 tsp. sugar

1/3 C. warm water

3 T. active dry yeast

4 C. all-purpose flour

1 1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 C. melted butter

3/4 C. warm milk

1/4 C. honey

1/4 tsp. cardamom, optional

Dissolve the yeast in the water, adding the sugar to feed the yeast. Stir gently and place in a warm spot for 10-15 minutes.

In another bowl, mix the flour and salt and cardamom, if you wish, or a dash of citrus zest.

Add the milk and honey to the yeast mixture, the melted butter, stirring gently, and then the flour mix and stir it to make a soft dough. Knead it for about 5 minutes, taking care to keep the flour to a minimum.

Place the dough in an oiled bowl, cover, and allow to rise for about an hour, or until double in bulk.

Turn the dough out onto a floured board and knead again, until it is smooth. Cut the dough into 16 pieces and form each piece into a small ball. Put each ball onto a greased baking sheet. Allow 30 minutes to rise again.

Preheat the oven to 375. Bake the baps 20-25 minutes, or until golden. Brush the crusts with butter and sprinkle with sugar if you like. Return to the oven for a minute or two. Serve warm.

Take care that they don't float out of their baskets. Drink deeply of the moment; there is no more precious time than this.