Spy Journal Archives

Looking at the Masters: St Martin’s Day and Martinmas

November 6, 2025 by The Spy Desk 3 Comments

”Saint Martín and the Beggar” (1597-99)

The Feast of St Martin, or Martinmas, is celebrated on November 11. El Greco’s painting “St Martin and the Beggar” (1597-99) (76”x41”) (National Gallery of Art, DC) is a depiction of St Martin of Tours (c.316-397), a member of the Imperial cavalry of the Roman Emperor Constantine the Great. Martin was stationed in Gaul in the French city of Amiens. The story goes that on a cold winter day Martin came across a naked beggar. He took off his warm green wool robe and cut it in half to share with the poor man. That night Martin experienced a vision of Christ wearing the robe, Christ said to him, “What thou hast done for that poor man, thou hast done for me.” Another story tells that when Martin awoke, his cloak had been restored. In the painting, Martin rides a magnificent white Arabian horse, in keeping with his position. He wears black armor decorated with elaborate gold designs in the Damascene style developed by the craftsmen of Toledo, Spain.

El Greco, was born on the island of Crete, off the Greek mainland. He was trained to be a Byzantine Greek icon painter. He later moved to Toledo, Spain, working there for the last 37 years of his life. His Greek name Doménikos Theotokópoulos was hard to pronounce, so he was nicknamed El Greco (the Greek). He continued to paint elongated figures in the Byzantine style to accentuate the spiritual over the physical, apparent in the figure of the beggar. The viewer looks up at the two figures, and they seem monumental. In the background is the city of Toledo and the River Tagus that El Greco often included in paintings at the time. Also typical of El Greco is the use of intense colors and portrayal of a “moody” sky. This painting is considered one of his greatest.

“St Martin Renounces his Weapons (1322-26)

Martin’s father was a senior military officer; thus, Martin was obligated at age 15 to join the army. Martin’s vision encouraged him in his Christian beliefs, and he was baptized at age 18. “St Martin Renounces his Weapons” (1322-26), painted by Simone Martini of Siena, is a depiction of the time when Martin left the army. Young Martin stands before the seated Emperor Constantine. Martin holds a cross. Constantine holds a sword. The setting is in a military camp with elegant tents, members of the Imperial Guard in attendance, and horses set in a rocky landscape.

The painting was commissioned by Robert d’Anjou, King of Naples, to fulfill the last wish of Cardinal Montefiore, who went to Buda, Hungary in 1307 and gained the crown of Hungary for Robert d’Anjou. St Martin was born in Hungary, and Montefiore considered Martin’s aid a significant factor in his success. On returning to his home in Assisi, Montefiore asked that a chapel dedicated to St Martin be built in the church of San Francesco in Assisi. This painting is one of ten depictions of the life of St Martin painted by Martini at Assisi. An early Renaissance artist, Martini and the Sienese artists were beginning to create fully three-dimensional works of art.

”Saint Martin Healing the Possessed Man” (1630)

Martin declared he was a soldier for Christ and became a monk, holy man, and ultimately the Bishop of Tours in 371. The hagiographer (biographer of lives of saints) Sulpicius Severus, knew Martin personally, and described several of Martin’s miracles: raising the dead, healing the sick, exorcism, and others.

“St Martin Healing the Possessed Man” (1630) (48”x34”), painted by Jacob Jordaens (1593-1678), the leading Flemish painter after the deaths of Rubens and Van Dyke, could represent a healing of the sick, or perhaps an exorcism. In the classical Baroque style, Jordaens places Martin on a high porch and dressed as the Bishop of Tours. Below him are a number of persons who appear to have come for his help and his blessing. The naked and apparently possessed man writhes on a lower step. An old man and three women of varying ages look in fear at the figure wearing the gold and blue turban, red robe, and leather boots, and drawing his sword. Is he evil, perhaps a devil, or is he the executioner if the possessed man cannot be cured? He is the only figure in foreign dress. The setting is a compilation of gilded capitals, marble columns, and arches. Jordaens leaves the viewer confused about the setting and the cast of characters. He does present a solid and masterful image of St Mark.

‘Saint Martin Healing the Possessed Man” (detail)

During restoration an overpainted coat of arms was discovered at the base of the column. The coat of arms belonged to Antonius de Rorre, a Benedictine abbot, most likely the patron for this painting, the first Jordaens altarpiece. Jordaens would continue to grow as an artist as did his reputation as the successor of Rubens and Van Dyke.

“The Death of St Martin of Tours” (1490)

St Martin foresaw his death, and it is recorded that he said, “Allow me, my brethren, to look rather towards heaven than upon the earth, that my soul may be directed to take its flight to the Lord to whom it is going.” “The Death of St Martin of Tours” (1490) was painted by German artist Derik Baegert (1440-c.1515). Although St Martin was born in c. 316 and died on November 8, 397 CE, at the age of eighty-one, he is depicted as a young man. Wearing a red robe, St Martin lies on a coffin covered by woven straw mat. He is mourned by a kneeling angel and four men. One with glasses reads from a scroll, the second reads from the Bible and sprinkles him with holy water, and a third prays. The elderly man kneeling in the front holds a gold candle that symbolically will light St Martins way to Heaven. Outside the windows is a Germanic landscape, and God receives the naked bodies of the faithful. The two-headed devil gesticulates at the foot of the coffin. St Martin reportedly stated, “Why are you standing here, cruel beast? You shall find no cause for grief in me!”

“Wine on St Martin’s Day” (1566-68)

Martin was called a Saint by popular acclaim in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries, before he was actually canonized. In the Middle Ages, Catholics began a forty-day fast on November 12, the day after St Martin’s Feast Day. The period of fasting was called Martinmas, the spiritual preparation for Christmas. The harvest season had ended and the slaughtering of livestock, particularly cattle and pigs, for winter began on November 12 in Europe. Sausage and black pudding known as “Pig cheer” were gifts. Two popular dishes were Martinmas beef and Martinmas goose. When Martin tried to hide from those who wanted him to be the Bishop of Tours, he chose a barn housing a flock of geese. Their honking alerted his trackers, and he was forced to take the job. The goose is one of Martin’s symbols.

In many European countries Martinmas began with the lighting of bonfires or candle-light processions. A member of the community would dress as St Martin and ride on horseback distributing gifts. The ashes from the fires then might be spread on the ground as fertilizer. Another feature of Martinmas was drinking the first wine of the season. “Wine on St Martin’s Day” (1566-68) is by Pieter Brueghel the Elder (c.1525/30-1569), one of the best-known painters of landscape and genre scenes in the Netherlands. It is his largest painting (3’10’’ by 8’10’’). The celebrating villagers are composed in a triangular mass that leads up to a large red barrel of wine. Typical of Brueghel’s paintings, peasants of all ages and types drink, eat, dance, brawl and otherwise celebrate the day. Astride his white horse, St Martin cuts his red cloak in half to give it to two crippled beggars. Brueghel is known for including the poor and disabled in his paintings. The whole scene takes place outside a local village. Houses and a church tower are placed at the right side of the scene. In the distance at the left are a large town with more substantial buildings and towers. They are the homes of the wealthy, but they are not here in this merry scramble of peasants.

St Martin was the patron saint of beggars, wool-weavers, and tailors, to name a few. Although opposed to violence, he was made patron saint of the US Army Quartermaster Corp. It considered Martin to be a role model for soldiers because of his military service, compassion, and selflessness. On February 7, 1997, the Quartermasters Corp established the military Order of St Martin. Armistice Day (now Veterans Day) marks the day of the ceasefire that ended World War I at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month.

Beverly Hall Smith was a professor of art history for 40 years. Since retiring to Chestertown with her husband Kurt in 2014, she has taught art history classes at WC-ALL and the Institute of Adult Learning, Centreville. An artist, she sometimes exhibits work at River Arts. She also paints sets for the Garfield Theater in Chestertown.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Chicken Scratch: Signs of Life — by Elizabeth Beggins

October 26, 2025 by Elizabeth Beggins Leave a Comment

I shall gather myself into myself again,
I shall take my scattered selves and make them one,
Fusing them into a polished crystal ball
Where I can see the moon and the flashing sun…

As the weekend came to a close, the man who brings me persimmons showed up at the door with a bag of fruit just starting to ripen, the blush of orange barely outcompeting the yellow-green. But I know what’s coming. Soon enough, they’ll mature into slumping orbs of sweetness, all marigold and Aperol, like homemade jam without the work.

I’d thought his arrival was just another in a string of unrelated events that left me simultaneously fulfilled and exhausted. Introvert math means even the most enjoyable interactions can overdraw the battery. But looking back, I noticed an unexpected throughline.

In the backdrop of each occasion was someone in the late chapters of their story—people who shaped the world in ways large and small, and whose legacies linger, even as the light shifts around them.

A midweek lunch with colleagues ended with a tour of a new home, a single room at the end of a long hall in an assisted living facility, where the couple relocated just a few weeks ago. The farm is closed. The house will be listed soon. What remains overflows in their new space, but it’s all they have.

Before we arrived, she apologized for not making the bed. I was amazed when a spunky little dog greeted us at the door. I asked about the breed—maybe a shih tzu mix—but neither of them could quite recall. Her dementia is more advanced than his.

The fluffy pup made everyone smile.

That evening, prompted by a visit from a friend who recently moved west, we had dinner with neighbors, our first time at their home, just a short walk from ours. We admired their camelback sofa and two cats. We talked about family and kids, especially those who have trouble staying out of trouble. We talked about food and politics, how his father was a career reporter at the New York Post before being canned by Rupert Murdoch.

A night later we joined some of our nearest and dearest to celebrate, Roaring 20s style, the 100th birthday of our library. Guests were smartly dressed, some in full flapper regalia. I spruced up what I had in my closet with a few sparkly bits and hoped enthusiasm would make up for any lack of authenticity. There was a red carpet and live music, speeches, dignitaries, and dancing.

Born at the end of the 1800s, my mother’s parents were married in 1923. Theirs was a world full of confidence and promise, though we know, now, what came next.

Iowa, June, 1923, soon after my mother’s parents were married.

At a No Kings rally the next afternoon, we stood on the shoulder of a main road among strangers and friends. A few elders took up their positions with walkers and wheelchairs, holding signs with practiced hands. Each time a car honked or someone waved from a window, I felt the lump in my throat rise again. It’s hard to name that particular emotion. Relief? Hope? Maybe just gratitude.

A trio of men in Trump-emblazoned pickups circled the block for two hours. I wondered what their protest cost them in fuel. Behind us, a mural of Harriet Tubman stretched out along a grassy lawn we were told not to use. Irony and inspiration are unlikely partners.

“Don’t make me repeat myself!”

A birthday gathering the next day capped off the week of activity. New faces mingled with familiar warmth. We met Mary, a former truck driver now caring for elders like the 87-year-old honoree and his wife, whose cognitive decline has been advancing for years now. The things this couple has endured would have broken many. Surrounded by laughter and applause, the birthday boy offered words of wisdom.

“Don’t put off your adventures,” he said.

The man who brings persimmons doesn’t come every season. Sometimes the tree bears no fruit. This year, he says only a handful of branches are still producing. The others have died. He’s driving the same white sedan, but the curve in his shoulders is more pronounced, his beard a little less tidy.

Persimmons like these take patience. Eat them too soon and they’ll let you know, all astringence and cotton. But wait, and they soften into something lush and generous. The pudding I make each Thanksgiving is the kind of dessert that tastes like it belongs to someone else’s memory.

We go on.

…I shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent,
Watching the future come and the present go,
And the little shifting pictures of people rushing
In restless self-importance to and fro.

“The Crystal Gazer” (1926)
Sara Teasdale 1884 –1933

An audio version of this essay, read by the author, is available here.

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in realistic optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, become a free or paid subscriber here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Looking at the Masters: Charles Burchfield in Autumn

October 23, 2025 by Beverly Hall Smith

Charles Burchfield (1893-1967), born in Ashtabula, Ohio, has been associated with American Modernism, but this category does not begin to capture the scope of his watercolor paintings. They are in the collections of more than 100 museums in America and Europe. He was a visionary whose love of nature in every season, time of day, and condition inspired his unique paintings. Autumn is upon us, and Burchfield shares his response to the season through his watercolors and journal entries.

“Autumnal Wind and Rain’’ (1915)

Burchfield began his journal in junior high school. He was determined to record all the flowering plants in Salem, Ohio, where he grew up. “Autumnal Wind and Rain’’ (1915) (14’’x20’’) (watercolor) is an early work that concentrates on the shapes of leaves blowing in the wind. White streaks are painted across the leaves. The viewer might think at first the white streaks are a depiction of rain. However, the hazy yellow sky in the background gives no indication of a storm. A simple compositional device, two green spots of paint in the foreground anchor the image, and the red paint at the right also holds the composition steady. The group of light gray towers to the right suggest a town beyond the trees. Another area of light gray painted in the middle ground also suggests the presence of a building with two windows. This early painting is simple, subtle, and effective. In a journal entry dated October 21, 1914, Burchfield commented on the piece: ‘’The third of wonderfully fair October days. My heart seems ever on the point of bursting with the beauty of this autumn. It is a golden age. All my thoughts seemed touched with the golden atmosphere.” In 1915, he wrote, “My diary seems to be a journal of the wind, sunshine and sky.” He was “gathering the materials for a lifetime.”

Burchfield did not write about the influence of other artists on his style; however, in “Autumnal Wind and Rain’’ and other early works there is an oriental tendency. He worked as a guard at the Hatch Galleries in Cleveland in 1914. He saw an exhibition of Chinese scroll paintings. He wrote that he would “execute, in a continuous form, the transitions or sequence of weather events in a day, or several days or seasons.” These he called “all-day sketches” and there is a sense of sequence to the painting of the leaves.

Burchfield graduated from the Cleveland Institute of Art in 1916, and he received a scholarship to attend the prestigious National Academy of Design in New York City. After just one day in a life drawing class, he left. In his early work, he had developed his own watercolor technique using washes, black ink for opaque areas, and white gouache, not acceptable in traditional watercolor. He used dry-brush watercolor on paper that stoop upright like a canvas on an easel. His unique technique would continue, but his subject matter broadened to include architecture. Burchfield served in the army, applying his painting skills to camouflage tanks and artificial hills. He was honorably discharged in 1919.

Burchfield married Berthe Kenreich in 1922. They had five children. The family moved to the rural neighborhood of Gardenville in West Seneca near Buffalo, New York. He was represented in 1928 by the Frank Rehn Gallery in New York City. Edward Hopper, Reginald March, and Bradley Tomlin also were represented by the Gallery. From 1928 onward, he was able to support his family by making art. The Museum of Modern Art exhibited his watercolors in 1935. In that same year his work was included in the International Exhibition of Paintings at the Carnegie Institute in Pittsburgh. Also in 1935, Life Magazine named him one of the ten most important American painters.

“Wind Scattered Leaves” (1944)

As Burchfield’s paintings developed, he added a wider landscape that included nature in all its moods. “Wind Scattered Leaves” (1944) (20”x25’’) is a depiction of autumn. Orange and yellow leaves are spread below the trees. Fields in the distance transition from bright greens to dusty brown and other pale colors. Evergreens provide contrast with the black trunk of a nearby tree in the foreground. Farther off, a dull gray-green and tan bush, still holding its leaves, is a reminder that winter approaches. Some of the black leaves higher in the sky could double as crows. Some of the leaves in the right foreground are painted with sharp brush points to depict the dryness of the season. Burchfield noted, “Most of the leaves are down, dried & pale-yellow brown but here & there some glowing red ones. A puff of wind scattered the leaves along the surface and they caught the sunlight with little halos around them.”

“Wind Scattered Leaves” (1944) (detail)

A look at the application of the paint in “Wind Scattered Leaves” reveals Burchfield’s technique of overlapping brush-strokes of color. The energy can be seen. He was a master of watercolor, considered to be the most difficult of medium.

“Autumnal Fantasy” (1944)

“Autumnal Fantasy” (1944) (37”x53”) displays another aspect of Burchfield’s painting. From the beginning his fascination with nature and with Transcendentalism, developed in New England in c.1836 and promoted by authors Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson, among others. Burchfield held the belief that God and nature are the same, and through intuition, emotion rather than reason, and being in nature the individual can experience the divine. In the painting, repeating and swirling lines of paint are used the depict earth and water. Tree bark is painted with distinct and detailed patterns.

The sunlight is painted with a mystical golden glow. The sounds of bugs and birds in the woods are created by rows of black semi-circles coming from various parts of the woods. Burchfield wants viewers to experience all of the senses–sight, sound, taste, smell, and touch–as he does. At the end of his life, he asked, “Will I ever truly be able to express the elemental power & beauty of God’s woods?”

“Autumn Storm” (1948)

In “Autumn Storm” (1948) (26’’x40”), Burchfield captured another of nature’s moods, with dark clouds of a coming storm. The clouds cast the earth beneath them in darkness. The skeletal trees bend in the wind, and the dry grasses seem to quiver as the storm approaches. Burchfield’s journal reports many such experiences: “I spent some time wandering around in the woods trying to find just the right spot to carry out my idea, which has obsessed [me] for some time (the lynx woods giving the feeling of the coming of winter into the glory of autumn).” (October 17,1956) Later, he wrote, “In the north, gigantic thunderstorms were slowly moving eastward, constantly swelling upward and changing form–breath-taking sight, with such pure white tops, and never getting much darker…” (September 1, 1962)

Burchfield was elected in 1954 to the National Academy of Design in New York. The prestigious honorary association was organized “to promote the fine arts in America through instruction and exhibition.”. He also was elected in 1958 to the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and received a gold medal in an exhibition in 1960. During that period, he began to experience problems with his health: rheumatoid arthritis in 1955 and a heart attack in 1963.

“October Outside” (1963)

Burchfield painted “October Outside” (1963) (39”x27’’) indoors. He continued to paint no matter his health. The viewer sees a well-weathered wood door with several decorative panels and a glass window. The outdoor scene is reflected in the window. The pickets of the fence cast green shadows across the lawn. A green pot is set on a plant stand. The black tree trunk is topped with orange, red, and yellow leaves. Burchfield suffered a fatal heart attack in 1967. He was in the yard of his home, working on a painting to be titled “Early Spring.”

The Charles Burchfield Center at Buffalo State College was dedicated to the artist in 1966. It was renamed The Burchfield Art Center in 1983 with a mission to support various artistic pursuits. It became the Burchfield Penney Art Center between 1991 and 1994, when Charles Rand Penney donated 1,300 works by New York artists, including 183 by Burchfield. A 29-acre art and nature complex in West Seneca, New York, was named for Burchfield in 1992.

Near the end of his life, Burchfield expressed the sentiment, “How slowly the ‘secrets’ of my art come to me.”

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Food Friday: Easy Bake

October 17, 2025 by Jean Sanders

Now that the threat of the nor-easter has swept past us, and there are cooler, clearer days ahead, we seem able to prepare for autumn. I have a new copse of trees out my window – no more dramatic pecan orchard swinging its loose limbs with abandon. Instead I look out at tall, skinny birches and long-legged long-needled pines. Some of their leaves are turning yellow and gamboge as they glisten and sway with dappling light, shuffling cards and dancing in place. I don’t see many of the opportunistic squirrelly boys we had patrolling the orchard, but this weekend I did see a merry band of bluebirds, joyously celebrating their farewell tour. The changes are slow-moving as we wait for summer to finally depart, and for the cool breezes of fall to waft over our fevered brows.

It’s time to do some easy baking; baking that delivers deliciousness for our minimal investment of time (and skill). It’s time for focaccia. Which is sublime when hot from the oven. It is good warm, it freezes well, and can be eaten for any meal. It is deeply satisfying to bake something warm and oozing olive oil and garlic – without all the bother of sour dough starter maintenance that found its way onto every homebound COVID-19 survivor’s to-do list.

Focaccia can be mixed up after breakfast, and ignored until an hour before dinner. Or you can make the dough after watching the Slow Horses, letting it rise over night, to be put it in the oven the next day. Yet, if you are suddenly seized with the yen for warm, home-baked bread, you can start the dough at lunch and hurry it along through the afternoon, and start baking in time for cocktail hour.
The Practical Kitchen We spent this past week experimenting.

Years ago I found a mix for focaccia at our local IGA market and it was a revelation to someone who had grown up on Pepperidge Farm white bread, Levy’s Jewish rye bread and the occasional loaf of freshly baked Italian bread from the red sauce Italian restaurant my family frequented for celebrations. I wasn’t used to warm and crusty, fresh, yeasty bread. During my European interlude I experienced the standard American food epiphany upon discovering baguettes, brioche, pain perdu, naan, crumpets, scones, hot cross buns, challah, pita, ciabatta, and finally focaccia di Recco col formaggio. Translation: my unformed suburban brain was blown.

Moving to the south brought me a deep appreciation for the simplicity of the biscuit. Upon moving further south (though considering Florida “south” is often debated, volubly) we found a wonderful French bakery, and we worked our way through their inventory of baked daily epi breads, baguettes, pain aux chocolate, croissants, and brioche. Jim and Kim’s bakery on Flagler Street in Stuart was deliciously aromatic, and educational.

This week our first batch of homemade focaccia was wrong in so many ways. The pan I used was too small, so the dough rose to epic, cornbread-y heights. Focaccia is considered a flatbread, or a hearth bread, not a voluminous soufflé. I also relied on the recipe, instead of my experience, and merely coated the pan with olive oil. What I should have done was use a larger, shallower pan, (thank you, Food52 for the sheet pan suggestion) and line it first with parchment paper, and then generously coat the parchment paper with olive oil.

The second batch was better, and more attractive. I dotted the dimpled top with halved cherry tomatoes, and a scattering of Maldon salt, finely minced garlic, and fresh rosemary. You can also consider decorating with cheese, basil, or onion. To bask in the glow of the Mediterranean, you could add lemon slices and green olives. For a more abundantly flavored focaccia you could add Prosciutto, mushrooms, green onions, and arugula. If you’d like something sweeter, for a breakfast dish, consider honey, apples, raisins, raw sugar, orange peel or lemon zest.
I aspire to baking airy, crisp baguettes, and hope in time I will master some of the necessary skills. In the meantime, I am content to have spent a week learning about the simple goodness of focaccia. In these perilous times, it is good to ratchet down some of the anxiety with soothing oozy, warm, crunchy, garlicky goodness. And with the stash in the freezer, it is always close at hand.

Taste Atlas

Bon Appétit

Food52

These are easy – you can start after lunch and have tasty, fresh, piping hot focaccia for dinner. My favorite part was poking the little dimples into the dough after it has risen. And then artfully scattering the rosemary leaves, which I picked from the plant running wild in the container garden. (The rosemary plant has thrived outside even through the past two winters. It is an amazement to me.)

I just loved baking a version of focaccia in our trustworthy cast iron skillet. I’m adding it to the list of good foods that can be prepared in just one pan – always a plus in my book because most of the time I am the designated dishwasher. It was crispy and crusty and tasted divine dipped in a small saucer of olive oil and garlic, salt, pepper, dried oregano and basil. It is practically a meal unto itself. Add salad and wine, and if you are being really pesky, a protein. Mr. Sanders and I gobbled up half a pan, which left half a pan to go in the freezer, that we hauled out delightedly a few nights later. Food in the freezer = money in the bank and less prep time. More time to paint the back porch, or weed the lettuce bed, or watch the blue birds soar through the shimmering, pointillistic autumn leaves.

Skillet focaccia

“The smell of good bread baking, like the sound of lightly flowing water, is indescribable in its evocation of innocence and delight…”
—M.F.K. Fisher

Jean Dixon Sanders has been a painter and graphic designer for the past thirty years. A graduate of Washington College, where she majored in fine art, Jean started her work in design with the Literary House lecture program. The illustrations she contributes to the Spies are done with watercolor, colored pencil and ink.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Chicken Scratch: Unforgettable and already gone — by Elizabeth Beggins

October 4, 2025 by Elizabeth Beggins

Lare* and I cross paths for the first time in Security, he painting a smile across a sideways remark about livestock, me hoping the freezer pack in my lunch box isn’t so defrosted as to have become liquid. I meant to stash it in my checked luggage, but in the process of assimilating into sheep culture, it slipped my mind. Pockets need emptying, but remarkably, shoes are allowed to stay on. That also amuses Lare, who shows up at the gate adjacent to mine a few minutes later, face bright behind the thin-framed glasses that match his physique.He takes the seat beside me and continues with his stream of jovial commentary. He’s so affable I can’t help but enjoy him as he tells me about spending some years in D.C. and losing his mother before moving back to the west coast, about how he used to be a marathoner but gave it up when his knees got cranky, about his sister the nurse and his surrogate grandmother. He offers to share his Mentos, explaining that he loves a pre-flight candy binge to bring on a solid crash during travel. I barely notice the unfortunate word choice.Muscling my bag into the overhead with gratitude for arms still strong enough to get it there, I uproot the men already in place to take my A-seat for the duration of the shorter leg of this so-long journey. Neither meets my eye, which feels like a relief at this point.

Just after takeoff, I discover that the pronounced vibration in the plastic sheathing around the window stops when I push my hand against it. Stop, start. Stop, start. Stop. Start. I can’t maintain the pressure needed to shut it down completely, so I make a note to tell a flight attendant about the rattle, and about how my seat cushion scoots forward and back like the glider on my grandmother’s porch. But I never do.

From where I take off, the trip to Sydney, Australia takes close to 24 hours in the air.

Melissa and I are delighted no one claims the seat between us for the 13-hour flight down under. She’s from Brooklyn by way of Connecticut, flying halfway around the world for her cousin’s wedding. She has already traveled to 42 countries in her 31 years and is allergic to caffeine. I tell her I’ve never met anyone like that before. She’s following an app meant to reduce jet lag by encouraging a close approximation of the schedule she’s left behind. She plans to stay awake until 7 AM, but I notice, as I come to consciousness for the fourth time in three hours, that by 4:15 she’s given in.

We are travelers, each of us making our way to and through places we cannot stay, places we don’t call home, places we do.

The people I leave tell me they can’t wait to hear about my trip—a destination 10,000 miles from where they are, a place most are unlikely to visit. They imagine water swirling in the opposite direction. They picture moon phases out of sync. I tell them it’s the birdsong that’s different, and that the tree trunks look like elephant legs. A childlike part of me marvels that I don’t fall up, that gravity works the same everywhere I am.

The people I meet who find out I’m American lift their eyebrows and hold their mouths in shapes that seem to ask how I’m getting on and what I’m doing about it. Some seem sorry.

Ficus rubiginosa: Commonly, Port Jackson Fig. But I’ll always think of elephants.

There’s the hulking gallery manager, representing whimsical art, who gives the impression that he’s just there for the job. He offloads his thoughts on racism and sexism, says Hamilton isn’t worth seeing because it’s not historically accurate, argues that reimagining James Bond perpetuates the problem. We don’t need a 007 in different packaging, he says, we need a 006 and a 008 who are equally compelling. His American niece called him a pig.

There are the dog lovers. So many dog lovers. Park goers and beach walkers, outdoor diners and shop owners, construction workers and kids in school uniforms turn their heads, reach their arms, bend, crouch, coo, smile, as if this is the tonic they’ve needed for longer than they can remember. They are not concerned about my accent or my president; they just crave the temporarily available, unbridled, unconditional affection of a dog. Who could fault them for that?

The indomitable Frenchie my daughter borrows on the regular.

Like pups making our way through the streets, tucking eagerly into stores where we know we’ll be rewarded with snacks, we are transient beings looking to give and receive attention. We are creatures of appetite and recognition, hungry for tenderness.

We pass through places and people the way a scent settles into hair, a voice lodges in the gut, unforgettable and already gone.

At the Italian restaurant, Adrian and Joya insert themselves into our conversation—or maybe it’s the other way around—but no one cares how we come to be leaning forward in our chairs and into each other’s stories. We just do. We are expats and migrants, we are commuters across borders, we miss each other, our families, our food, our cultures. We travel. We speak of sun signs and politics. They say we’re teaching kids things they’re not ready for. She says I look peaceful. He says what’s happening in Gaza can’t be helped. I want to say that’s a goddamn lie. I want to say that everything good we shared up to that point just crumbled like ruined buildings, and children, and dreams. But I don’t. I don’t, because I don’t know enough about who he is, because nothing felt all wrong until then, because we are transient, because nothing I say will matter to him, which is also a lie, or at least not the only truth.

We are made for movement, yet we hold to the familiar, settle when we might venture.

Nestor pushes me along in the wheelchair I requested to meet me at the jet bridge when I land in Los Angeles again after two weeks away. Mobility issues, I say, which is true only because I don’t trust my ability to make it from point A to point B in the hour I have to make it happen. Baggage, customs, security. There is a story from a previous trip that ends with arriving after the doors to the plane are closed, after my anxiety has turned to anger, after I’m no longer the person I want to be. An hour is just not enough time for most anyone, and certainly not for someone who loses herself in familiar places.

So Nestor and I chatter as he navigates my temporary chariot down ramps and into elevators, through deserted areas and populated corridors, out the door and back in again. He says he only gets outside for international flights. He says he moved from the Philippines the same year I was married. He says he has a 20-year-old son who he hopes will go to college. He says he bought his house when Obama was president. He says he has no idea what anyone will do now when they can’t work enough jobs to buy a house, least of all his son. He talks about the elderly man, in his 90s he wants to say, who lost track of himself yesterday, accused Nestor of kidnapping him, required police intervention. He wants to know if I’ve traveled to a Third World country. America, he says, is still the best place to live. Americans, he says, are spoiled.

We are travelers. Even when we are home, even when our luggage is emptied and we’re back in our own bed.

My second born, the real purpose of my journey, is 28 now with a new city, a new partner, and a language I don’t speak. I watch my children build lives I can’t quite follow them into. I love them, I let them go, I love them desperately, still. The pain of parting is sharp, tracing the border where presence fades and absence settles.

It’s one of the hardest things we do, daring to give ourselves over, and over, to what we can’t keep.

Palm Beach, a suburb in the Northern Beaches region of Greater Sydney, NSW.

I found that out again on the morning of my third day home. A woman I once worked with, who I still cross paths with from time to time–someone I think of as a friend–has stopped treatment. She’s in hospice now.** She’s just a little younger than me.

This news sits beside me, a traveler neither burden nor blessing. I think of her and of what we carry: worn arms, words folded in, hearts that crack and heal, kindness shared without measure, and the letting go that comes.

~~~~~~~

*In the interest of privacy, all names in this story were changed.
**Shortly after this piece was published, I learned she’d passed away.

An audio version of this essay, read by the author, is available here.

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As the Supreme Court Term Begins… Some Reflections by Margaret Andersen

October 3, 2025 by Opinion

As the U.S. Supreme Court begins its new term and at a time when public confidence in all national institutions, including the Supreme Court, is at an all-time low, I am heartened by remembering how one letter, sent long ago to Associate Justice Harry Blackmun, can remind us of the heart beneath a justice’s robe, even at a time when a justice was under vicious attack by political opponents. I am also reminded of what it can mean to bring joy to a justice’s chamber. And I am thinking about my long-gone dogs.

I named my two dogs, who were abandoned as puppies by their owners, after Justices Thurgood Marshall and Harry Blackmun, two giants in judicial history. Thurgood Marshall, the first African American to serve on the Court (appointed in 1967), was touted for his long-standing commitment to civil rights, including early cases that prohibited racially restrictive real estate covenants. In another of his decisions, he invalidated the white primary, long a method by which southern Democrats maintained their political power. He is, though, best known for arguing the landmark case Brown vs the Board of Education before the Supreme Court in 1954. A staunch advocate for people who had too long been denied legal protections in the United States, Marshall retired from the Court in 1991 and died in 1993.

Likewise, Associate Justice Harry A. Blackmun left an indelible mark on U.S. judicial history. Appointed to the Court by President Richard Nixon in 1970, Blackmun’s early decisions on the Court were most aligned with conservative justices. Over time, however, his decisions became more in tune with those of more liberal justices. He was passionate in this support for abortion rights and defended affirmative action. Writing in the 1978 Regents of the University of California vs. Bakke decision, allowing some consideration of race in university admissions but disallowing racial quotas, Blackmun wrote, “In order to get beyond racism, we must first take account of race. There is no other way. And in order to treat some persons equally, we much treat them differently.”

Blackmun’s support for abortion rights was unyielding. The very week we adopted our dogs (in 1989), Blackmun wrote a scathing dissent on the case Webster v. Reproductive Health Services, the first Supreme Court case to chip away at the constitutional right to abortion established in Roe v. Wade. In his dissent, Blackmun wrote, “For today, the women of this Nation still retain the liberty to control their destinies. But the signs are evident and very ominous, and a chill wind blows.”

How prescient that dissent—one of the reasons I so admired Justice Blackmun. How did two photos of my dogs ended up in Harry Blackmun’s papers housed in the Library of Congress?

Very few dogs find themselves memorialized in the Library of Congress. Dogs included famous people, such as TV host Ed Sullivan, singer Billie Holiday, actress Joan Caulfield, and actor Jimmy Durante mostly own those. Also included are some photos of national dog show winners. The Library of Congress is the largest library in the world, housing documents that tell the history of the United States by documenting and preserving some of the nation’s most important records. These are treasured archives, a repository of national civilization and creativity.

The Library of Congress hardly seems a place where ordinary neighborhood dogs would be seen. I am not a celebrity, nor a Washington insider, nor have my dogs ever been in a competitive dog show. Yet, sure enough, my dogs’ photographs are included in the hundreds of boxes that archive the work of Supreme Court Associate Justice Harry A. Blackmun: Box 1445, Folio #9.

When my husband and I took in these puppies, the house next door to us was a concrete block shack, owned by a notoriously obnoxious absentee landlord. The tenants, seemingly living on the margins of poverty, absconded in the middle of the night, probably owing back rent and fearful of the landlord’s well-known violent temper. Left behind were the mother dog and four newborn puppies. A reclusive neighbor who lived in the woods across the street took in the mother dog, but the puppies were left to fend for themselves. One poor pup was hit and killed in the road. A second pup was adopted by a neighbor’s friend. Left behind were two little black lab puppies.

Even before the tenants fled, the two puppies had been frisky, though largely ignored by their owners. The puppies liked scampering around on the riverbank, occasionally falling into the Chesapeake Bay where our house is located. My husband would jump in our rowboat, row to their rescue, drag them out of the water, and bring them back home. Later, they never seemed to like water—odd since they were mostly black labs, though not purebreds.

When the dogs’ owners fled, we took in the two puppies, thinking we could find a home for them. We already had two cats and never intended to add dogs to our household, certainly not two of them! We tried to find people who would adopt the two puppies, preferably as a pair because they were brothers. We considered posting a “free puppies” sign at the local market but rejected that plan when we heard that puppies so publicly advertised might be picked up by an unscrupulous puppy mill operator.

Once they were living on our porch, we became very attached. After a few weeks of trying to find a new home for them, we relented and decided to keep them. Like other dog owners, we tried to find fitting names for our newly adopted pups. It was 1989. The nation was emerging from the Reagan years—a time when many hard-fought civil rights were being retracted. George Bush Sr. was the President. Roe v. Wade had established the constitutional right to reproductive freedom in 1973, but the movement to overturn Roe was simmering. As someone who was teaching university courses on racial and gender inequality, I was keenly aware of the backlash against women and people of color that our nation was facing.

I told my husband that, given the times, we had to name these two dogs for men who had done something good for women. I had long admired U.S. Supreme Court Associate Justice Thurgood Marshall, then retired from the Court. Our two dogs became Blackmun and Marshall.

I often thought about writing to the two justices about their namesakes, but life was busy and I didn’t do it until 1994. Moved by Blackmun’s announcement of his pending retirement, my husband and I drafted a letter to Justice Blackmun explaining why our dogs bore his and Thurgood Marshall’s names. The letter we sent, signed by my husband, included two pictures of the dogs together on our front lawn.

Our letter said:

I didn’t really expect a response, but only a few days later, and much to our surprise, a letter on embossed Supreme Court stationery showed up in our mail! Written with wry humor, the grace of a gentleman, and with a subtle reminder of his positions on conception, Blackmun’s letter to us was hand-signed.

We cherished that letter and our two amazing dogs, but life went on. Then, in 2004, things took an unexpected turn.

In honor of the fiftieth anniversary of the Brown v. Board court decision, the University of Illinois College of Law, like many academic institutions that year, sponsored a symposium about the impact of the Brown decision and invited me to present a paper. I gladly accepted and wrote an article on the implications of the Brown decision for different groups. I had presented many conference papers prior to this commemorative event. Still, I had never spoken at a law school or to a room packed with mostly law professors and other legal scholars. I am a sociologist. That is my usual audience. I was nervous and felt very out of my element. I knew no one on the featured panels and hardly anyone in the audience. But I knew my paper was solid, despite my anxiety about its reception.

As I wrapped up my presentation, I thought it had gone well and considered adding that I had named my two dogs for the two justices I so admired. It seemed a little corny to bring up my dogs in such an esteemed and unaccustomed, for me, place, but oh well…I did it. The audience seemed to appreciate it. I sat down to a round of applause.

The next speaker was introduced as a law professor at Duke University. When she began her remarks, she expressed her appreciation for being with known colleagues and meeting new people…a common way speakers warm up their presentations. She then said, “And I am especially pleased to meet someone I have a special connection to…Maggie Andersen.” I was floored! I had never met her, did not follow her field of legal study, and could not imagine how she thought she knew me. She continued, “Years ago I was a clerk in Justice Blackmun’s chambers. One morning, he called all his clerks together because he had received a letter from ‘some professor in Maryland,’ and he wanted to share it with us. Treating his clerks to breakfast, he read the letter out loud.” She then said, directly to me, “You will never know how happy your letter made him!” She proceeded to deliver a very good analysis of the impact of the Brown decision on disability rights.

As we sat at the symposium on Brown, the release of Blackmun’s papers to the Library of Congress was very much in the news. Blackmun had died five years earlier (in 1999) but had arranged for a quick release of his papers to the Library of Congress. His papers were released only five years after his death, which is unusual because most justices do not have their papers released until 50 years after their death.

Because of the prominence of Blackmun’s papers in the daily news, I asked the former clerk if she thought our letter—and the photos of our dogs—would then be in the Library of Congress. She said, “No doubt! That’s how important your letter was to him.” As the session ended, she said she wanted to rush right out and call Justice Blackmun’s former secretary because she knew the secretary would be excited to know she had met me!

I later learned, by reading Juan Williams’ excellent biography of Justice Blackmun, that at the time Blackmun received our letter, he was besieged by hate mail from those who strenuously objected to his more progressive opinions—particularly his defense of Roe. Our letter was a rare praise song!

Now, even more years later and with both dogs long gone, Blackmun’s fears have come to pass. More than a chill wind blows today. There is a full-blown hurricane toppling women’s rights, smashing civil rights, and crushing institutions themselves. The assault on reproductive rights is no longer directed at one man, but, rather, at entire institutions. Confidence in the judicial system, including the Supreme Court, has hit an all-time low, as has public faith in all national institutions. Even when under attack by the right, probably overwhelmed by case work, and fearful for women in America, Harry Blackmun found the time to pen a letter, honoring not only our dogs, but also the best of America: national institutions that adhere to American values, the cherished connection between public servants and citizens, and the protection of civil and constitutional rights of all Americans. How I long for the values and graciousness that Justice Blackmun demonstrated. My next dog, if a female, will be named Sonia. Or, should we acquire a litter, maybe Sonia, Ketanji, and Elena—women who are speaking truth to power. I miss Blackmun’s wisdom on the Court, and I miss my dogs.

With thanks to Patrick Kirwin, Manuscript Reference Librarian, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress and to Connie Cartledge, Senior Archivist, Library of Congress

Dr. Margaret L. Andersen is the Elizabeth and Edward Rosenberg Professor Emerita and Founder and Executive Director of the President’s Diversity Initiative at the University of Delaware, who resides in Oxford.

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Maryland Caucus Podcast with Foxwell and Corchiarino: Maryland’s Emerging Financial Perfect Storm

October 1, 2025 by Len Foxwell and Clayton Mitchell

Every Wednesday, Maryland political analysts Len Foxwell and Clayton Mitchell discuss the politics and personalities of the State and region. This week, however, Len is joined by Republican Queen Anne’s County Commissioner Chris Corchiarino to fill in for Clayton while he’s away on vacation.

This week, Len and Clayton discuss the combined political impact of Marylanders losing 28,000 federal jobs due to the Trump administration’s cost-cutting initiatives and an additional 5,000 to 10,000 workers out of work after today’s government shutdown at the same time the State anticpates a $3 billion shortfall in the next fiscal budget when Maryland’s Blueprint for Excellence public education plan will be requirign another $3 billion investment. They also share their “hot takes” for the week.

This video is approximately 13 minutes in length.

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Mark Dion and Alexis Rockman: Journey to Nature’s Underworld

September 27, 2025 by Anke Van Wagenberg

Mark Dion (1961) and Alexis Rockman (1962), American Landscape, 2022, Mixed-media diorama with taxidermy, found objects, and painted background, 96 x 192 x 87 in.. Courtesy of the artists

Such an honor to attend the opening (Sep 11, 2025) of Mark Dion and Alexis Rockman: Journey to Nature’s Underworld, at the Palmer Museum of Art at Penn State, University Park, PA. A beautiful installation of this AFA-organized exhibition! The first two-person exhibition of these celebrated artists, Mark Dion and Alexis Rockman: Journey to Nature’s Underworld explores their shared allegiances and sustaining friendship over a period of three decades. Dion and Rockman were among the earliest artists to address, and even anticipate, the epic ecological problems. Together, they have embarked on tropical expeditions; published dialogues; and co-edited the pioneering 1996 book Concrete Jungle, on anthropogenic ecosystems.

The exhibition will beget a voyage of discovery through various pressing subjects, with the artists’ works serving as enticing guides. Beginning with a section evoking the fieldwork of pioneering naturalists and explorers, visitors will encounter field-station tableaux by Dion alongside Rockman’s paintings of fauna and dramatic terrains, often with cross-sectioned views. Ensuing works will address such themes as invasive and endangered species, beleaguered aquatic environments, anthropogenic landscapes, and future scenarios evincing effects of climate change and waning biodiversity. An exhibition highlight will be the debut of a grand sculptural diorama, titled American Landscape, created especially for the tour and marking an unprecedented collaboration between Dion and Rockman.

This zoological group portrait, set on a golf course, will feature a cast of scrappy species that, according to the artists, successfully “exploit niches and opportunities generated by a human-transformed landscape” representing “the future global ecosystem.” The exhibition will also include a selection of related drawings and prints by both Dion and Rockman. In addition, participating museums will have the option of developing, along with the artists, an adjunct “Chamber of Wonders” display, conceived as a flexible cabinet of curiosities intended to inspire both awe and concern about the natural world.

The collaborative work American Landscape was created for the exhibition and commissioned by the American Federation of Arts.

On view from August 23 to December 7, 2025, at the Palmer Museum of Art at Penn State, University Park, PA. Organized by the American Federation of Arts, and after The Bruce, VAMoCA, The Tang, and The Lowe, this is the last museum partner in this successful tour.

Anke Van Wagenberg, PhD, is an art historian and serves as Senior Curator & Head of International Collaborations at the American Federation of Arts in New York, NY. She resides in Talbot County.

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From and Fuller: Should Democrats Allow a Government Shutdown and a Pending Comey Indictment

September 25, 2025 by Al From and Craig Fuller

Every Thursday, the Spy hosts a conversation with Al From and Craig Fuller on the most topical political news of the moment.

This week, From and Fuller discuss how the Democratic Party should navigate the current federal government shutdown negotiations, as the Trump administration vows to cut the federal workforce if an impasse occurs. Al and Craig also weigh in on the Department of Justice’s plans to indict former FBI director James Comey.

This audio podcast is approximately sixteen minutes in length.

Background

While the Spy’s public affairs mission has always been hyper-local, it has never limited us from covering national, or even international issues, that impact the communities we serve. With that in mind, we were delighted that Al From and Craig Fuller, both highly respected Washington insiders, have agreed to a new Spy video project called “The Analysis of From and Fuller” over the next year.

The Spy and our region are very lucky to have such an accomplished duo volunteer for this experiment. While one is a devoted Democrat and the other a lifetime Republican, both had long careers that sought out the middle ground of the American political spectrum.

Al From, the genius behind the Democratic Leadership Council’s moderate agenda which would eventually lead to the election of Bill Clinton, has never compromised from this middle-of-the-road philosophy. This did not go unnoticed in a party that was moving quickly to the left in the 1980s. Including progressive Howard Dean saying that From’s DLC was the Republican wing of the Democratic Party.

From’s boss, Bill Clinton, had a different perspective. He said it would be hard to think of a single American citizen who, as a private citizen, has had a more positive impact on the progress of American life in the last 25 years than Al From.”

Al now lives in Annapolis and spends his semi-retirement as a board member of the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University (his alma mater) and authoring New Democrats and the Return to Power. He also is an adjunct faculty member at Johns Hopkins’ Krieger School and recently agreed to serve on the Annapolis Spy’s Board of Visitors. He is the author of “New Democrats and the Return to Power.”

For Craig Fuller, his moderation in the Republican party was a rare phenomenon. With deep roots in California’s GOP culture of centralism, Fuller, starting with a long history with Ronald Reagan, leading to his appointment as Reagan’s cabinet secretary at the White House, and later as George Bush’s chief-of-staff and presidential campaign manager was known for his instincts to find the middle ground. Even more noted was his reputation of being a nice guy in Washington, a rare characteristic for a successful tenure in the White House.

Craig has called Easton his permanent home for the last eight years, where he now chairs the board of the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum and is a former board member of the Academy Art Museum and Benedictine. He also serves on the Spy’s Board of Visitors and writes an e-newsletter available by clicking on DECADE SEVEN.

With their rich experience and long history of friendship, now joined by their love of the Chesapeake Bay, they have agreed through the magic of Zoom, to talk inside politics and policy with the Spy every Thursday.

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Food Friday: Hello, Breakfasts!

September 5, 2025 by Jean Sanders

Let us take a page from Christmas. Don’t panic – we still have a few months to go before we start worrying about that! But summer vacation is over. And school has started. What are you going to serve for breakfast on a busy Monday morning?

I suggest that a little of the planning, just like holiday prep can be applied to our everyday, real life breakfast experience. So easy to natter on about, so difficult to to sustain. Which is why it is a good thing that Christmas comes but once a year. Point of fact, on Christmas morning, we wander groggily into the kitchen, where we always have a couple of favorite breakfast casseroles pre-cooked and sitting in the fridge, waiting to be re-heated. And while you might not want to prepare a casserole or a sheet of sausage rolls every night, you don’t need to panic every single morning about breakfast, now that school is starting, the busses are rolling, and time is not on your side.

You can start off small, with a batch of Scrambled Egg Muffins, courtesy of Food52 that you can bake on Sunday afternoon. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. By Thursday you’ll feel confident enough to toss frozen, homemade pancakes into the microwave. (Emily Peck on Slate’s Money podcast recently extolled the deliciousness of the Lemon Ricotta Pancakes from a recipe in the New York Times – enjoy! Lemon Ricotta Pancakes On Friday you’ll enjoy revving up the blender for a healthy, avocado smoothie. You can make a new playlist for every week, or get some items into a regular rotation.

It will be almost a full year before you will again enjoy leisurely summer vacation breakfasts, spent contentedly scrolling through IG at a picnic table overlooking a lake from your summer rental. You won’t be tasked with documenting the perfect sunrise to humblebrag about any more, either. You are back in the saddle, like it or not. And some of you have young folk who need to be stoked up and filled to the brim with healthy brain food every morning.

There’s a lot going on in those growing brains, and we know that we should be doing better than a bowl of Cap’n Crunch. We want them to concentrate, remember what they are learning, and keep their energy levels up until lunchtime. It is a daunting task, particularly when we are trying to feed everyone good, healthy food, fast and with the fewest morning squabbles.

A lot of the prepared foods are full of sugars, fat and salt; all the deelish things we human beings are naturally drawn to. But they are not very healthy for us, I’m sad to say. And look at that fourth grader, staring moodily at you across the counter. Does he really want a bowl of heart-healthy oatmeal. Not likely. So consider your audience as you peruse my handy dandy sheet of breakfast ideas.

I love repetition. I can eat a turkey sandwich every day for a week. Maybe even two weeks. But you might be a little more normal, and like to shake things up. When you bake a sheet of twelve muffins, that might seem like money in the bank. But only for a couple of days. Don’t plan on foisting off healthy crunchy twiggy muffins on your first grader for the next 5 days in a row. Even if they really seems to like them on Monday, by Tuesday it could get ugly. Maybe you can consult with said child, and see what their take is, and maybe the two of you can make a plan. Rapid rotation is probably key!

Most mornings I have about enough energy and enthusiasm for a slice of cold pizza and the headlines. But given the proper motivation (this list) and a calming trip to the grocery store, even you can have a variety of healthy ingredients on hand to make some tempting make-ahead, back-to-back breakfasts. And then you can devote your worrying to charging the iPhones, signing permission slips, finding the sneakers, getting the laundry out of the dryer, putting the dog in his crate, and finding your car keys.

Maybe the two (or three, four, five) of you can make it a weekly family event. Quality Family Breakfast Prep Time might only last for the first couple of weeks of school before it comes crashing back down on your shoulders, but it could be a pleasant time for you all. Instead of sinking onto the sofa with HGTV after dinner, maybe you can whip up a little batch of granola – which can then be a cereal base, an ingredient in a yogurt parfait, or tossed into a smoothie or made into snack bars.

I have some great memories of times in the kitchen with our children. You can’t expect every minute to go smoothly, and you have to keep in mind that their attention spans can be short (it’s a lasting effect from all that Cap’n Crunch they used to eat). Consider it a moment of triumph when someone learns to measure a cup of whole wheat flour, or remembers to line the muffin pan with paper cups without first being asked. You can teach some life skills, like how to bake bacon, or wash blueberries or peel carrots. And don’t forget about learning first aid!

You are saving time from chaos and tears in the morning, and exercising those potentially sizable and vulnerable little brains. And it is screen-free quality time. Maybe after you figure breakfast out you can all go read a little Harry Potter. Magic!

Muffins
smoothies
eggs
granola and muesli
oatmeal
pancakes
fruits
pizza
bagels and breads

Pizza (I had to include it!)

Bagels

“My breakfast is usually a wholegrain cereal or porridge, with walnuts sprinkled in it, berries, a tablespoon of honey, and chia seeds. I have coffee and a little cherry juice with seltzer. I have a seat by the window, and I look out at the view.”
—Amy Tan

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