Bread pudding

Dorothy Hoff’s (English Purcell's grandmother) Bread Pudding with Whiskey Sugar Sauce

Recipe for Bread Pudding:
¾ to 1 loaf of white bread
½ cup raisins
1 tsp vanilla
1 beaten egg ½ tsp nutmeg
1 tsp cinnamon
½ to ¾ cup sugar
½ stick butter
1 can evaporated milk
12 x 12 or 9 x 13 inch GREASED pan

Break up white bread into small pieces and place in colander. Run water over bread in colander until soft. Squeeze out as much excess water as possible.

In large bowl mix bread, raisins, vanilla, egg, nutmeg, cinnamon, and sugar together with hands.

Place mixture in baking pan, and pour evaporated milk over the top until it completely covers the pudding.

Place pats of butter on top of mixture, sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar, and bake at 325 to 350 degrees for 45 minutes.

Serve warm, sliced into squares, with whiskey sugar sauce (recipe below).

Recipe for Whiskey Sugar Sauce

1 stick of melted butter
1 ½ to 2 cups of sugar
raw egg (beaten separately)
½ jigger of whiskey/bourbon

Mix above ingredients together. Spoon onto individual squares of bread pudding. Keep refrigerated.

Last Call for Summer

Last Look Back

     He thought for a moment. How long have I been here? As the last rays of the failing Carolina sun warmed the back of his neck and cast long shadows that streaked across the sand dunes in a race toward the darkening waters of the Atlantic,it seemed that all time had stopped
     He looked on as two children played in a tidal pool. Their bleached white hair once short in the spring now caressed shoulders tanned nut brown by the long days of a a seemingly endless beach vacation. From afar a mothers voice says its time to go. But its only her promise of a return one day that finally tears them away from their kingdom of sandcastles and seashells.They were now children of the beach for evermore and they left  behind not only their fortress in the sand, but also a small piece of themselves and their childhood for mother nature to reclaim on the next high tide. Blending their souls with all those who have come before into the  tide line of life that stretched from here to eternity.
     He missed the beach umbrellas that had once lined the shore like so many colorful Christmas ornaments stretching as far as the eye could see. Havens for families that had used them to escape the relentless rays of sun, life itself seemed to began and end in their embrace Now cleaned and packed away they left no trace of the world as it had been. Only a landscape of ghosts and memories drifted in the September air,as the last hallow sounds of laughter faded on the cooling breeze, leaving only the  rhythmic tide to fill the void.
      He felt the presence of his father and grandfather move beside him and as they all stood looking out toward the horizon,the days last light had left the world of Summer behind in blends of orange and scarlet and colors not yet named by man. Soon a crescent moon would ascend to crown the Lowcountry sky. A God sent tierra brought down by angels and left as a gift for all  of us blessed to call this land our own. It was then he knew. How long had he been there,,,,,forever.
   
    From the North  the wind began to whisper. making the salty sand stir, gently at first it spoke the words that no one wants to hear,,,,,Summer is over.
R.Sweat

             Advantages to our Two Piece Umbrella and Backpack Chairs Rentals:

#1. Were less than 1/2 the cost of the on beach services!

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#4. Your day at the beach doesn't have to end at 5:30 PM when the service picks up chairs.
       After all sunset isn't until around 9 PM in the summer.  

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#6. Setup takes all of about 5 minutes. Screw in the Sand Anchor, open the Umbrella and unfold                your Backpack Chairs... Thats It, and your where you want to be, when you want to be there.

Stories From The Carolina Coast: Poetry/ Walk On

Stories From The Carolina Coast: Poetry/ Walk On: Sometimes before the morning sun I walk within the dark tides flow And leave no trace that I ever was. Like time before and time to come,...

Poetry/ Walk On

Sometimes before the morning sun I walk within the dark tides flow
And leave no trace that I ever was.
Like time before and time to come, I matter not, but for day or night . A shadow, a ghost more real than I would leave more solid footprints behind. Still I walk on as the waves like yesterday and tomorrow wash away all trace of my passing and still I walk on. 
Once there was a place to be, a sun to see and the sound of my footfalls had a place, now they are just erased and covered by the sound of the waves and warm salt spray.
No more foot falls this day, I have tomorrow to pay, but tonight I walk on in the moon.
R. Sweat

Baseball in my Soul

I Love Baseball. 
Baseball makes you feel young.
Everyone is 12 years old again when they're watching a game.
Food taste better, time moves slower and regardless of the score, there is always another game tomorrow. 
Every time I watch a game with my son, I find myself teaching him the finer points of the game and I swear I can hear my dad's voice whispering them to me, as he once did to me.
In baseball our hero's are forever young and always Ready to give us one more memory.
In baseball our ever expanding family can be defined by cap one wears or our teams logo on the rear window of our car.
Baseball defies time and can't be constrained by a clock. We all know when the first pitch will be thrown, but baseball is timeless both literally and figuratively and so too are our memories of our time spent together. 



Baseball sends us back to a time when the world was large and our hero's on the field were second only to the hero's who were our fathers.
The ones who taught us to throw and hit and honor a game that tied us all, not only to the past and each other, but to the future too. If there is only one truth to be found in this ever evolving world, then that truth is that the game does not change, it adapts, but its the same game played by "Shoeless Joe". The same wooden bat used by "Babe" Ruth, the same bases ran by Jackie Robinson, and the same ball thrown by Nolan Ryan. The bases are still 90 feet apart and even after 150 years the runner and the catchers throw, still seem to always arrive at second base at the exact same second.
I always thought that there was something wonderfully serendipitous in the theme of both baseball and life, that the goal of of both was to make it home safely while committing as few eras as is humanly possible. God I love Baseball.
R. Sweat