Cooking . Recipes . Someone's Mum
Someone’s Mum’s Cinnamon Buns
On November 7, 2015 by Speranza
I don’t care for the commercial grade, overly hefty cinnamon buns.
It’s what my mum would call “too much of a muchness.”
It’s just not okay to me when a bun looks as though it’s been carved away in the style of a Chicago Deep Dish pizza; it’s too much on the plate, the icing texture is reminiscent of toothpaste and no matter how tantalizing the smell is at the time, ultimately, there will be disappointment and a broken plastic fork.
If you can relate to any of this, you will be very happy with the following recipe.
Cats . Darkness . Music
Balkan Beat Box
On November 6, 2015 by Speranza
If you have been reading this blog regularly I apologize for the abject misery I’ve been pumping out.
I’m just starting to emerge from a funk-of-no-name, the kind of misery that makes you feel desperate but you are not sure why : there have been a few things of course, not the least of which was the sudden and shocking death of one of my young, sweet Siamese cats. Her brother has been grieving loudly and hourly since, making those dark sonorous chest yowls usually associated with Tibetan monks. It’s a chilling heart-breaking sound and cannot be stopped with food or entreaties from those around him.
I will write about The Willow Cat in a later post but for now, it’s still too fresh.
Anyway how to pull out of a funk when one wakes up with tears in one’s eyes wondering how to get through the day?
No quick answers here but a visit to my past and recalling which (small) things have cheered me before is always helpful and a good starting point.
Childhood . My Fiction . Writing
Hounds-Tooth
On November 1, 2015 by Speranza
A tiny slit of light creaks through the ill-fitting wardrobe door even after it clicks shut behind me. Under different circumstances to these I might feel self conscious, or perhaps unbalanced. But the pain of loss has driven me here, and I care nothing for such thoughts. The coat hangers move quickly under my touch whining the screech of steel on steel, till at last I find what I want. It slips around my shoulders easily, enveloping me in its scent and at once I breathe in a thousand memories. The smell of spearmint gum still lingers in the pocket, and the faint tang of old-fashioned shaving soap comes up to me from the warmth. This coat is a traditional hounds’ tooth tweed, but worn soft and the lining still glows cheerfully, a dull vermilion red like the inside of a magicians’ cloak.