Ronny and Tiramisu

By Conrad Beaubien

I had my commune time with Thunder and his fellow paddock mates as the midday sun lowered on the stable, offering a calm of shadows and cool earth on the north lean of the building. It was a good afternoon and it was yet to get better.

The gentle rain of the previous night had earlier greeted a clear-eyed dawn as it opened the horizon on one of the very best of summer mornings. I most often write from a building that in an earlier era was known as Crippen’s blacksmith shop set along the banks of Slab Creek. I like to think that it is only the medium that has changed. Whereas John Crippen hammered away on a hundredpound smithy’s anvil with a sound that resounded throughout the hamlet, I imagine my craft of forging words from a quieted keyboard a continuation of an alternate art form.

This morning also brought a visitor to my studio in the form of small green frog I call Ronny. Ronalda/Ronald came in through the open door and made its rounds around the room and under my desk. Ronny’s been around before, and aware there is a new litter of feral cats in the hood so apparently it reads all the signs before each visit. He/she hung out for awhile; just long enough for me to look up the spiritual meaning of a frog in the house. Definitely concerned it might have negative connotations—a visit from a frog indoors especially on a cool damp morning, that is—in fact I was relieved to know that it is a good omen. The symbolism is that of transformation, luck and positivity. It helped clear away the guilt about how I use to torment frogs when I was a kid wandering barefoot in soft bottom swamps; blessed that Ronny wasn’t in my studio to call me out on any past sins, but had come as a messenger of goodwill. As he/she did the rounds of the room and headed back out the door it seemed cheery and gestured to return again soon, as soon as he/she rid itself of the veil of cobwebs it had become endowed with. This is a studio, and housekeeping is not necessarily the first order of business. But you know I get the feeling that spiders and frogs already know that and is one of the reasons we get along well.

But the story of the Italian desert tiramisu came along later that day when the folks at Hillier Hall readied up another community supper that included fresh buns and salad. Actually three kinds of salad, and I went for the one with ranch dressing—breaking with a conventional choice of oil and vinegar with fresh greens. Home-made lasagna was the main dish, the pasta itself even fait a la maison by Hillier’s resident artisan baker and keeper of tomatoes and garlic from his garden. Tiramasu is made with lady fingers dipped in coffee and layered with a whipped mixture of eggs, sugar and mascarpone cheese. Proud to say how Joe over at the Wellingtom Bakery nailed the recipe. Also please notice how I seem to wander into details when desserts come my way.

Content with a day of adventure I’ll just sit awhile and watch the sun set over Nicholson Island, dreaming of frogs and donkeys, spiders and tiramisu.

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