Robin McKinley's Blog, page 148

Pumpkin, winter, etc

 

This weather is starting to make me CLAUSTROPHOBIC.   It rained last night, and walking home as a result was unspeakably delightful and I spent most of it murmuring paeans to the gallant yaktrax, or possibly begging them not to self destruct at this moment as I waded through ice-bottomed brooks.*   Today has been a degree or two above freezing so the wet stuff falling from the sky is almost but not quite sleet.  And it's supposed to snow hard tonight which on top of today's antics by tomorrow should be . . . whatever the next stage after unspeakably delightful is.

            So to cheer myself up I thought I'd respond to some of the forum comments which I have been neglecting shamefully.**   And of course the comments I'm the most drawn to concern food.

Tinned pumpkin varies, like so many things in this world.  In years when I couldn't face the whole roasting and scooping/peeling thing—to my mind the worst part of dealing with fresh pumpkin is the seeds:  they don't come loose when they're raw, they still don't come loose even after they're cooked, and while they come looser, since the pumpkin itself is now all squishy it doesn't give you any purchase—there is or used to be a French tinned, or rather jarred, pumpkin that was excellent.  Not to mention seedless.  I preferred dealing with a single too-large pumpkin, because the equivalent amount of seed-grappling produced a much higher yield of usable pumpkin than piffling around with the correct number of small pumpkins with their individual minefields of seeds.  I could afford this attitude because at the old house we had a monster chest freezer and I could freeze the surplus pulp—in premeasured glomps.  I always made pies from fresh, but frozen pulp works just fine for bread, cookies and muffins.

And you always, always, always have to look at what's in your mixing bowl and make executive decisions about texture and runniness.  

When I was laying on Thanksgiving, or some other megaspread, for more people than I had space for, I used to put a tablecloth on the piano.  This habit pursued me through several house moves but reached a kind of apotheosis in Maine.  That was where I had a baby grand piano in a sitting room that was . . . approximately the size of a baby grand piano.  Have I told you this story?  When I had overnight guests—for example, for Thanksgiving—and put them on my Beautiful Blue Velvet Fold Out Double-Sized Sofabed, which had been my first real piece of grown-up furniture and which I therefore adored irrationally***—their feet went under the piano.  The sofa itself was wedged under the window.  You had to take kind of a flying leap from the door:  a bit like my bedroom now, although my bed is complicated by the fact that it's an old four-poster and if you miss and hit a post. . . .

Grah.  I keep meaning to look for my old apple butter recipe, and keep forgetting.  However.  You don't really need a recipe:  Take your apples.  Core, peel and chop them—and you don't have to chop them fine, just chop them—put them in a large, heavy, wide-bottomed pan with as little water as you can get away with—or better yet, apple juice—and boil, gently, till they go mushy.  At this point use a potato masher on them.  I personally find this a lot less effort than all that chopping-small stuff.  Depending on the tartness of your apples and how sweet you want your butter you'll need somewhere around ¼ to ½ c sugar (brown or white:  I like brown) per cup of apple pulp, and if you mix it in with a whisk you'll get the last of the lumps out.  Again, depending on how spicy you like your butter, you'll want anywhere from about ¼ to 1 tsp of cinnamon per cup, and about half that of allspice   Then turn the heat down to low and let it cook forever.  If you want to stand there and stir it you can have the heat a little higher, and it'll take a little less time but . . . not enough less.  Stirring is one of the most boring occupations on the planet.†  You should be in the same house with it, however, your large, heavy, wide-bottomed pot with your future apple butter in it, because you need to stir it occasionally and make sure it's not sticking.  It will eventually congeal into . . . apple butter.  I don't remember how long it takes, but it's one of these put it together before lunch and it'll be done by dinner things, and then you'll have fresh apple butter for breakfast tomorrow.  As you'd expect with something that slow-cooks and is full of spices, it improves with a little age. 

            I never bottled it the way you're supposed to.  A couple of big jars of apple butter in the back of the fridge didn't last long enough to be a nuisance.  And the way I make it—without stirring—if you made it in a big batch it would take FOREVER to cook down to sludge.  My way it's simple enough that doing it again is not a big deal.

            One more warning:  you lose a lot of pectin—the stuff that stiffens the applesauce it into something you can spread—by peeling and coring.  The first time I made it I'd automatically peeled and cored, because that's what you do before you cook apples, and then I reread the recipe and thought, oh, frell . . . and besides, sieving the muck to get the peels and cores out is again to me way too much like work, like endless stirring.  So I did it my way and it still came out butter, and has always come out butter†† every other time I've made it my way.  I don't know if I've been extremely lucky in my apples, or what.  So you might want to follow a proper recipe. 

            . . . I'm interested by the crock-pot version of apple butter that a couple of people mention.  That certainly solves the stirring problem.   And apple butter is a good way to use up all those windfalls or cheap from the farmers' market damaged apples—I have used any and all apples.  You just adjust the sugar and the spices.  If the apples are old and losing their flavour you can also add a little sherry or Madeira.

The chief thing I remember about making crustless pie with your standard pie filling is be sure you butter the baking dish.            

I love squash and sweet potatoes, in or out of pies.  Although I tend to think that pumpkin makes the best pies—stronger flavour—but I'm sure you could fool me if you tried.  You could just say that you used more/less something-or-other than I'm used to:  all these pies are very spicy, and if you're using molasses or maple syrup or cream cheese or cranberry sauce (or apple butter) or all of the above, the base orange vegetable could be almost anything.†††   There are dedicated squash (or sweet potato) pie recipes, although I think the ones I know are regional.  What I think of as yams, but I'm pretty sure I've got my taxonomy wrong, tend to be sweet without a lot of other flavour;  they don't interest me much, although generally speaking sweet = good in my hierarchy.‡  But sweet potatoes don't have to be treated as sweet—somebody mentions sweet potatoes and bacon;  I also love them roasted, either whole or sliced up in coins or wands, drizzled in olive oil (possibly in company with parsnips, carrots and beets treated the same way) and put in the oven on medium-high till they start to dry out and brown a little.  You might want a little salt and a few herbs.  (You should turn them over once, if you can stand it.  Boring.)   They're also excellent in a stir-fry.  

I've just finished supper.  Why am I hungry?

 * * *

* http://www.yaktrax.co.uk/ has restocked so I've ordered a spare pair.  I cannot face the thought of more of this weather, the ineluctable facts of hellhound responsibility, and a single pair of exploded, fled, or eaten by wolverines yaktrax.  I've been trying to remember what I did in Maine about walking in winter.  Chiefly we had infrastructure.  I was complaining to Peter that the mews, the barns and the Big Pink Blot are all a coop, they pay maintenance for stuff like the grounds and the driveway, where is the bloke with the snow plough hung on the front end of his pick up truck (with the bags of sand in the back to keep the rear wheels on the ground) to clear said driveway so we don't all slew sideways and run slowly but irresistibly into the frelling wall coming in or going out?  Peter looked at me as if I'd gone mad and explained loudly and clearly as to someone with suspected brain damage that we don't have blokes with detachable snow ploughs around here.  There's no call for it.  Huh.  I predict that by next winter the local Scats^ will be selling bolt-on personal snow ploughs.  Meanwhile the twelve miles^^ of frelling driveway is what you'd expect of four inches of unshifted snow being ground into titanium by passing cars and a few hellhounds and yaktrax. 

            In Maine there were tiny sidewalk/pavement-sized snow ploughs too, and after the plough went through somebody else laid sand.  I was also younger.  I didn't worry about falling down as much.

 ^http://www.first4farming.com/scats/pages/homepage.jhtml

 ^^ Snow makes it longer.  It's part of the same physics that causes the toast to fall butter-and-marmalade side down. 

** You're glad really.  It's all PEG II time.  I wish it were this simple, of course:  if giving up the blog meant I would begin producing two novels a year—which is approximately the right word count, I regret to acknowledge—I'd do it so fast I'd break the world land speed record.  Unfortunately I've not had a visit from the Really Good Bargains Fairy. 

*** Yes.  It's in the sitting room at the cottage, which is even smaller than a baby grand piano.  And was smaller even before the bookshelves went up.    

† Note:  why I almost never make risotto.  All that stirring?  Life's too short.  

†† It's nothing like butter.  It's a kind of thick jammy gloop. 

††† Heavens.  I'd almost forgotten carrot pie.  

‡ I used to make a fabulous brown sugar and orange juice and sweet potato thing for Thanksgiving.  It destroyed lesser mortals.

Pegasus Party Reports and Schedule (guest post by Black Bear)

Short reportz

This week, probably due to the craziness following the Thanksgiving holiday, I've not heard official reports from several of this past weekend's PRC's.  But!  I stand here to tell you about a few great get-togethers regardless.

Our Anchorage Alaska organizer, Corrie, sent me the following report:

The Anchorage Pegasus Release Cake Party at Title Wave was great. It was smallish, but I managed to convert two new readers to Robin's work and send them home with copies of Sunshine (my favorite McKinley book). Technically our book club is for health related books only, so we are forming an offshoot to meet and talk about Sunshine, and I am hoping it will be their gateway McKinley…  The cupcakes were banana chocolate with chocolate ganache :)

Banana chocolate cupcakes? Sign me up.

Well done, Alaskans!

The other PRCs I'd like to tell you about briefly are ones that were not publicized on the blog.  Thanks to some great Twitter and Mailing List action on the part of Heidi Z., a school librarian in Wisconsin, I was contacted by several schools who were interested in putting together a PRC for their students.  This week I heard back from three of them post-party.  One was a party at an American military base school in Germany, organized by librarian Lori K.  She says it went very well; though I don't have a total student head count, I believe it was pretty good-sized!  Back here in the States, the Winder-Barrow High School Book Club held a discussion of Robin's books, culminating in a giveaway of Pegasus for the students.  While we can't post pictures of minors on the blog without parental permission, I'd like to thank WBHS students Katie C., Beth T., Nick O., Danielle N., Brenda M., Kayla N., Jennifer B., Samuel M., Hannah D., and their super-awesome librarian Dana T. for organizing a Pegasus Party at their school.  Likewise, there was a great Pegasus get-together at New Providence Middle School in Clarksville, Tennessee, put together by the fabulous Becky J.  Shout out to students Sydney M., Lauren S., Jannece V., Tessa P., Joe R., Cheyenne D., Jessica G., Robyne H., Quinn O., Ashton B., Miranda R., David F., Alyssa G., Rebecca D., Sierra B., Marissa B., and Megan Z. for making their PRC a success!  As of right now, theirs is the largest party I've had a report of.  There are some great pictures of these events, and I've forwarded them on to Robin so she can see the next generation of McKinley fans up and coming.

****PRC NewsFlash!  Cutoff Dates!****

Ok, folks, the time of reckoning is at hand.  While you are of course always welcome to eat cake and talk about Robin's books whenever and wherever you like, the final deadline for holding an official Pegasus Release Celebration party is December 31.  On a related note, the deadline for requesting a raffle package from Robin's publisher is December 15. Remember, to qualify for the package, you have to have 3 confirmed attendees, a confirmed location, date, and time, and you need to invite other Robin fans in your area to join!  (Exceptions made for book clubs and schools, obviously.)  If you put together something after December 15, you can still be entered in the contest to win a signed book, but we won't be able to send you a raffle package.  And you might not get it in a timely fashion anyway, at this time of year–so if you've got a party in the works, please get your details firmed up and contact me at whiteape [at] whiteape [dot] net asap.

If you have already held a PRC Party, and you have not sent me your attendee lists, pleeeease do so soon!  Those lists are what we'll use to determine winners of the signed Pegasus giveaway.  The cutoff date for sending me your attendee list is January 10.

Now, on to the PRC UPDATES and SCHEDULES!

****Happening THIS WEEKEND*****

Toronto ONT, Canada — December 3, 7 pm at the Select Bakery, 405 Donlands Ave. Organizer: Manga

Denver Metro area – December 4, 2:30 pm at the downtown Tattered Cover.  Meet at the entrance on the 16th St. mall side.  Organizer: Catlady

Birmingham, England — the Birmingham Waterstones, December 5 at 11 am.  Meet, eat, talk books, and then go to the German Market!  Organizer: Southdowner

****Coming Soon!****

East-Central Illinois – Saturday, December 11, 1 – 4 pm.  Urbana Free Library, Urbana Illinois.  Cupcakes will be provided!  For more info on the event, you can click here. Organizer: Rhymeswithcarrot

San Francisco Bay area – Saturday, December 11, 3:30 pm at  Crixa Cakes in Berkeley. Organizer: Equus_Pedus

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia —December 11, a picnic in Kamesburgh Gardens at 3 pm. There will be loads of delicious food, blankets, chairs, a card table, and there's a service ring in the nearby bell tower at 5:30. Organizer: B-Twin_1

NEW!!! Whitmore Lake, Michigan–December 15, Northfield Township Area Library, 6 pm.  Whitmore Lake is west of Detroit, north of Ann Arbor, and south of Brighton. Cake will be provided! Organizer: Xanthe

Sacramento — Saturday, December 18. 3pm at the Borders Books on Fair Oaks Blvd. in Sacramento. Organizer: Sarahkp

****Still Nebulous****

Chicagoland – probably at a location in Schaumburg, date/time is under discussion.  Organizer: Apple

Los Angeles/Orange Co – proposed for late December, no location/time as yet.  Organizer: Peanut

Dallas – Proposed in forum for late December, several responses but no firm date/time yet. Organizer: livvispatula

Oslo, Norway — proposed in forum, one response suggesting late December.  Organizer: Re Williams

Since we're getting close to the wire, I've removed the links to PRC suggestions that haven't had any planning action lately–but if you check our Talk forum, you can find a number of threads for suggested PRCs–might be one in your home town waiting to happen!  Email me at whiteape [at] whiteape [dot] net with any questions you might have.  Have a great weekend!

Snow, continued

 

Walking home last night was magical.  There was no wind, and the snow was falling hard, and new snow is so incredibly white—or it is out here in the almost-boonies—that the night wasn't even properly dark.  Yes, there are streetlights, but this time of year the hellhounds' final hurtle is pretty invariably after dark, and it's dark.  But not when there's snow lighting up the place like millions of tiny moons picking up the dim yellow electric light and turning it into Shangri-La.  Well, except for trudging up the hill through the town when the Monster Plough went past us at speed, driving a bow-wave that would not have disgraced an aircraft carrier, and drowned us briefly in a snowdrift.  That was not very romantic.  I tell myself that the driver wouldn't have been expecting pedestrians at that hour* but my suspicion is that it was a bit more Major Kong riding the missile toward the end of the world and yelling YAHOO!**  Anyway.  The end of the world shot on up the hill and took a hard left, nearly burying itself in its own bow-wave, and disappeared out of our lives.  And yaktrax, dearly as I love them, fervently as I declaim my gratitude . . . they do have a weakness.  In fluffy fresh still-falling snow they ball like crazy, and you have to keep knocking the stuff loose.  So you walk step step step BONK step step step step BONK.  Not a big deal.  But the rolling gait as if drunken or recently home from the sea*** was due to external conditions.

Can't you get a move on? Our feet are freezing.

 

Home at last

            Today as we scampered around kicking snow over one another and barking† I was thinking that this was in fact a perfectly nice winter day, I'm just not used to it any more.  I'm not used to the time it takes to frelling suit up:  I just want to slap on the All Stars and the leads and go.  But okay, my snow instincts will reassert if necessary.  Grumbling all the way, but hey.  Meanwhile, however, tonight looks like being more seriously nasty:  temperatures down in the teens††.   Time to get out the serious snow kit.

            Time for the . . . 

the serious gloves

 No, really.  Very serious.  They were so serious I couldn't face paying that much for gloves, except they were on sale.  All the normal colours had sold out.  For some reason these were left.

and the hot pink balaclava

I just happen to have one.  No, this one I didn't buy.  I have . . . strange friends.  Strange friends who knit.

* * *

* Well, what do you think? 

** We're all up on our cult 1960s films, aren't we?  

*** Speaking of 1960s cultural icons, my first thought about the driver of the snow plough was more Jamie Brockett's Titanic captain:  I'M GONNA MOVE YOU BABY.   But the main roads are clear today, so that seems a little unkind.  If I'm feeling rather apocalyptic tonight it might have something to do with the fact that Thursday evening handbells were cancelled due to Fernanda being snowed in^.  Niall, who believes that handbells are critical to life to those of us with the disease, you have to keep checking your blood-handbell level, and it's dangerous if it falls below a certain point, actually phoned me and tried to convince me that we could drive to Fernanda.  Uh.  You got that about the 'snowed in'?   We're going to park at the bottom of her Ben Nevis and hike?  Well.  I could.  I have yaktrax. 

            Anyway.  As soon as I post I'm going to ring some handbells on Pooka, my little personal Apocalypse.  I don't want to play fast and loose with my blood-handbell level.  One of the additional weirdnesses of finally having broken the bell-simulator barrier with the iPhone Mobel is that bells are the one thing I do in company.  The great life-altering aspect of bell ringing for me is that it's absolutely a team sport, and I've avoided team sports like, er, the apocalypse, till now.  And somehow or other here I find myself again, crouched intensely over some damn obsessive thing alone. . . . I suppose I could have let Niall talk me into The Assault on Mount Everest.   

^ Colin, in theory, was in another county ringing a peal this afternoon.  I imagine he's actually at home watching TV and having a few beers.  Did I tell you that Monday practise was a disaster?  It was a disaster.  Don't ask.+  I may take up beer and TV.++  

+ My only comfort was that I wasn't the only one having a bad night.  In fact I think everyone but Colin was having a bad night.    

++ Naaaaah.  With Mobel and Beltower~ in the house?  Not a chance.  

~ Which I still can't use.  It gives me all the old bell-simulator-AAAAUGH! feelings.  Sigh.  Never mind.  Mobel and I are getting on great. 

† Of course I bark too.  Arf!  Arf!  

†† Er—minus 8 or 12 or so for you modern Celsius types

my heroines

Weather with teeth

 

It is lethal out there.  I was tweeting earlier that this degree-or-two-above-freezing to degree-or-two-below is the worst because it turns the world into an ice-mirror.  Today I don't think it ever got enough above freezing to put your begonias back outdoors (or anyway I didn't) but it got that crucial .05 degree over the edge to permit all the little water molecules to sigh and stretch and settle into their places for maximum effect when Beira or the White Witch or some other spoilsport comes along and taps them and whispers 'Now, my children' and . . .

            Ice mirror.

            If I didn't have my yaktrax* I'd be dead, or at least in traction.**  And of course the temperature makes hellhounds frantic, even in their coats.  Chaos in particular attains a kind of permanent airborne-ness which involves whizzing around at about human chest-level and trying to catch his lead on the yaktrax ironmongery.  Darkness tends to remain gloomily at my heels, trying to convince me with mind-waves that his coat is cutting him in half.  I did manage to get it around him—just.  And he has finally deigned to pee and crap while wearing it, but he will not jump into the car till I unfasten the bellyband.  He's right, it's too small.  But it is at present what we've got, and it's better than nothing. 

            Jumping into the car is currently a bit moot:  when you're living in the middle of a skating rink, you tend to leave your wheels quietly at home.  And we're supposed to get several inches of snow tonight:  the local forecast is full of Extreme Weather Warnings.  When it crunches down that'll be good.  When it first falls and is doing its self-toboggan thing, it will not be good.  I should go look out the door and see what's happening.  We have to walk home tonight. . . .

            No.  Don't want to.  Whatever it's doing, it's going to do it whether I'm looking at it and clutching the doorframe and moaning, or not.***  Peter was supposed to play bridge tonight.  His partner has a 4-wheel drive car† and was saying oh, it's fine, we can get there, no problem, and I was just taking a deep breath in preparation for having a complete frelling meltdown tantrum, reinforced if necessary by chaining Peter to the banister, when said partner rang up and said bridge had been cancelled.  By sensible people.

            I finally got the poor indoor jungle sorted.  I had got quite used to wasting at least half an hour every day putting it out and bringing it back in again, but it doesn't really get enough daylight that way . . . particularly given my owlish proclivities.††   But I like having things that are still flowering in December on my front stairs, if frelling December would cooperate.  Which it clearly has no intention of doing, any more than the latter half of November did.  The last five days or so the poor jungle hasn't got outdoors at all.  Oops.  So the summerhouse at Third House has finally been turned on, lit up, and re-bubblewrapped, and everything I couldn't crowd onto a windowsill at the cottage††† has gone up there.  I was partly impelled to move on with things not merely by the prospect of my poor jungle turning yellow and collapsing but by the amount of jocularity it was causing among certain members of my handbell crew—who are due to come back and pester me tomorrow, although probably not if the weather is as ratbaggy as predicted.  It's okay though, Pooka and I can sit quietly in a corner practising our bob major.  With an indoor geranium or twelve hanging over our shoulders.

 * * *

* I was going to give you a link, but they're all sold out—except, I imagine, in Australia.  I raved about them last year anyway.  I'll be raving about them some more this year.  Rave rave rave.  I've tried a few other of those strap-on walking pitons and personal caterpillar tracks but yaktrax are the best.   

** And who would hurtle hellhounds.  Maybe we could work out a sort of velodrome around the ward.  Um.  A chien-de-chasse-drome.  

*** Yes, I could go home early, and finish this post at the cottage.  But at present the desktop is possessed by demons, and I'd rather not.  

† I told you I was determined to get Wolfgang through at least one more winter, despite bits starting to fall off at a somewhat alarming rate?^  I have also been saying that while the future, global warming, next season's flash All Stars colours and the minds of hellhounds are all opaque to me, I was going to use this winter as a coin toss:  if we revert and have what I used to consider a normal Hampshire winter, the next car will just be a normal car.  If we have another winter like last winter, where there were weeks when my yaktrax were my best friend, then I want 4-wheel drive again, which I had in Maine.  It's beginning to look like a 4-wheel-drive prospect.  Which only adds £978,500 to the purchase price and a clause in the contract requiring me to be Beira's handmaiden^^ for a month every winter. 

^ Although Atlas gave him a truly Olympian+ clean about a fortnight ago and he now looks like a car again instead of a four-wheeled shrubbery.  I'm sure he runs better, the way you present better in a sharp suit.  Not because of the suit, but because of the way you feel in the suit.  Okay, maybe not a sharp suit in my case.  Maybe my Blondie All Stars.

+ Yes, Titan, I know, but Olympian sounds better 

^^ Or in my case, handhag 

†† You can take that any way you like, but I was referring to my tendency to go to bed late.  

††† Every year I seem to manage to find a way to crowd a few more things onto windowsills.  I'm not sure how this works.  There might be a Tardis gene involved.  But my craving for little green growing things seems to be a slightly warped version of SAD.^  My latest mad plan is to research the smallest possible greenhouse light and hang it from the kitchen ceiling at the cottage.  Here I've got the Winter Table.  And the Aga.  And the permanent fog that English winter seems to produce. . . .  So, warm, well-lit fog.  Mmm.  Rainforest.  Orchids.  I wonder if they've figured out a dwarf pineapple yet?  Those blade-edged leaves are not the best option in a kitchen four feet square inhabited by a human klutz and two hellhounds. . . .  A bird of paradise?  A small one?  And a poison dart frog.  They don't take up any space.  Probably not an anaconda however.  Even a small one. 

^ Seasonal Affective Disorder?  We all know about this?  http://www.sada.org.uk/    It's pretty common among us old codgers and not uncommon among the younger.  I'm amazed SADA's home page is saying only 7% of the population, although maybe they mean truly functionally-impaired severity.

PS:  OH GODS IT'S SNOWING LIKE A BASTARD OUT THERE.

Further manifestations of creative reader baked goods & Ask Robin

Okay, is this too amazing or what?  One of our lurkers emailed me out of the blue a few days ago to say that (a) she really liked my books (b) she read the blog faithfully and (c) oh by the way she got married and I might be interested in her wedding cake. 

           Yowzah. 

           I'm not sure how clear the photo is going to be on your various screens (yes I asked her if I could post it first, she showed a bizarre pleasure at this request), but the bottom book is the complete Jane Austen.  The top one (the only standard item for a wedding) is the Bible.  The middle two I think you can see.  She wrote:  I am both an aspiring writer and a part time librarian and have a deep love of books so when none of the traditional wedding cake styles struck my fancy, I came up with my own design.  I chose my favorite love stories for each layer of the cake, the Bible on top, and the collected works of Jane Austen on bottom and Beauty and Spindle's End in the middle.  . . . I thought Spindle's End was especially appropriate as my husband often reminds me of Narl, right down to the occasional grunt.

              Also hee hee hee with the yowzah, then.

 * * * 

So in honour of all of my craz—of all of my thoughtful and judicious readers, let's have an Ask Robin or two to finish off with.  I realise we haven't had any in forever but this is mostly because I've been doing an awful lot of Ask-Robiny things* as part of the marketing splash for PEGASUS.  But the flood of these seems to be abating so I can flop back into my usual Days in the Life froth.**

            And remember the Ask Robin archive.   The official—as opposed to the clueless—queries about the sequel to SUNSHINE have fallen off, which would make me happier if the clueless ones didn't keep coming in, but I'm still regularly asked whether Luthe and Aerin get back together, which I dealt with definitively here http://robinmckinleysblog.com/2010/09/21/ask-robin-sort-of-not-yes-no-maybe/  (it's in among others, you have to scroll down a ways) although I've mentioned it various other places. 

            Here's another one that I get regularly, and it's certainly been answered in previous incarnations but I'm not sure it's ever appeared on the blog and thus got into the archive: 

I've been wondering this one for years, and I think I've checked everywhere else for the answer. In Hero, after Aerin defeats Agsded, she falls asleep and dreams three different scenes. One is of Hetta from Water and one is Harry, I thought. But the last one is of three men, one of whom we hear is called Tommy and one called Leo. Is that a story that is published somewhere and I missed it, or is it a story not yet written, or is it in a drawer somewhere?

That's actually not Hetta, although it's a reasonable guess.  But 'The white walls around her were so high there seemed to be clouds resting on their heads;  low steps behind her led to an open door . . . and the flat earth around the pool was covered with squares of white stone.'  Nope.  Not Hetta.  It's yet another Damar story I haven't told yet***, this one about a (relatively) back-country witch (she's been banished for the sin of being inconvenient) who finds herself inadvertently going up against a general who is on her side in terms of feeling that the tyrant who banished her ought to be himself removed.  They have a slight disagreement about justifiable means.  The second one is Harry.  And the third one is a snippet, edited for inclusion there, from the original Damar story, the one I was writing and losing my mind over that I put aside to write BEAUTY, which was going to be a short story, right?  Just to give me a break from Damar.  It all began with Damar.

 * * *

* The most recent was headed 'I'm a reader not a writer' and was a list of funny or non-writing questions, such as What is the last film you saw? (I don't remember, it's been so long:  you could ask me what was the last opera I saw, I could answer that, and so could all my blog readers), or You have won one million dollars, what is the first thing you would buy? (A new front door for Third House), and various others that take too much backstory for anyone who doesn't read the blog regularly, plus a lot of 'what is your favourite—?' 'what is the single—?' which always make my mind go blank.  But one of those that I knew the answer to instantly was 'what is your favourite flavour of ice cream' . . . which regretfully I decided not to answer.  Of course I'm going to post the link when it goes live, and lots of faithful blog readers were going to say, favourite ice cream, she doesn't eat ice cream, she's always moaning about not eating dairy, what's with this, I'm not going to feel sorry for her any more.  I would hate it if people stopped feeling sorry for me for not being able to eat ice cream.  So I thought I'd tell you that while my tradition of having an Ice Cream Blow Out about once a year has rather lapsed because the last time I did it I really paid for it and I'm thinking even ice cream isn't worth it . . . I can still remember the Perfect Ice Cream, which is chocolate chip in vanilla ice cream.  LOTS of chocolate chips in a SUBLIME vanilla ice cream.  Which they pretty well frelling stopped making, or maybe it's just what I could find over here, and maybe, since I stopped having blow outs, the fashion has swung back in my direction (in which case don't tell me).  I used to end up buying a pint of sextuplet chocolate super whammy ice cream plus a pint of vanilla, Haagen Dasz^ or Ben and Jerry's or—more lately—Green & Black's, and mixing.^^  And yes, I could get through two pints of ice cream in a single blow out, no problem.^^^ This used to freak Peter out enough however that the last time or two I did it when he was playing bridge.

^ I don't remember how to spell this, so I was googling it and . . . they appear to have a theme song 'Melt Together'—??!!!??   Okay, it's a good thing I don't buy their ice cream any more.

^^ I think it was Haagen Dazs that used to have a vanilla ice cream with chocolate-covered almonds.  This with octuplet chocolate whatever . . . mmmmmmmm.  All right, I'm homesick.  I'm homesick for a body that can eat ice cream.  Never mind. 

^^^ A woman who can eat a quarter of a pie for supper is not going to be stymied by two pints of ice cream. 

** I originally wrote 'sloth' and then thought SLOTH?  800-1500 words every night is SLOTH?  Holy slavedriver, Batman, what is my idea of hard work?  Froth, however, is clearly valid. 

*** It's not even one of the regular Several Third Damar Novels

Morning After Pumpkin Pie

 

Meanwhile . . . it's still cold.  And you'll be hustling along after your hellhounds trying to warm up enough to stop your teeth chattering and your fingers burning*, so you're also breathing shallowly because that air in your nice warm lungs is cold, and sooner or later the imbalance between output and input catches up with you and you are forced to take a long, deep, painful breath and . . . it smells like snow.  AAAAUGH.  According to the forecast we're going to have flurries for the next several days, culminating in proper snow which will then turn to sleet this weekend.**  So charming.  Whoever pissed the weather gods off, can we please stake them outside the village walls for the tigers, Skadi, Boreas, Beira, or whoever, and get on with our lives?  I'm not dreaming of a white Christmas, okay?  I'm dreaming of hurtling hellhounds without getting knotted up in Chaos' dranglefabbing slightly-too-small coat*** which will not stay where it's put, but moseys around like a housefly on a wall.

            This disagreeable weather continues to rouse memories of holidays past in regions where snow for Thanksgiving was not unheard-of and snow for Christmas planned for.†   And I had a long conversation with Hannah this afternoon including comparative Thanksgiving dinners, and hers wins, since she was catering for the multitudes, and for the American multitudes at that, who have expectations.††  And specifically what I found myself remembering was one or two unsatisfactory Thanksgivings from the dim and distant past, and coming home afterward to a cold house without even any of the right leftovers in the refrigerator because I'd had dinner somewhere else, and feeling out of sorts because however admirable the dinner and enlivening the company, certain specific Thanksgiving cravings had not been slaked.  Take pumpkin.  I love pumpkin.  I realise this is not a universal philosophy.  There are people who positively dislike pumpkin.  These unnatural creatures have even been known to host Thanksgiving dinner . . . and fail to produce pumpkin pie. 

            On one of these occasions I came home late Sunday night, tired, cranky, and jonesing like a koala bereft of eucalyptus.  Monday morning I went out in a purposeful manner, got a bargain on tinned pumpkin and made the following:

 Apple Butter Pumpkin Pie 

1 9" unbaked pie crust

1 c mashed cooked or tinned pumpkin (DON'T use so-called 'pumpkin pie filling')

1 c apple butter:  herewith begins the lecture.  It all depends on your apple butter.  You want something as thick as possible, and preferably not too sweet, but use what you like

¼ to ½ c dark brown sugar, depending on your apple butter

Again, the amount of spices you use will depend on the spiciness of your apple butter.  So, approximately ½ tsp cinnamon, ¼ tsp allspice, ¼ tsp ginger.  I like sweet spices and would expect to use 1 tsp cinnamon, but if I'm using apple butter that I also made, this may be overkill

3 eggs

½ c evaporated milk

Probably a tablespoon or two of ordinary milk

Combine pumpkin, apple butter, brown sugar, spices.  (Mush up the brown sugar in a little of the pumpkin first, so it'll beat in smoothly.)  Beat eggs together vigorously, then lightly into the pumpkin.  Stir in about half the evaporated milk and look at what you've got.  It should look gloppy but not runny.  (It helps if you're used to what ordinary pumpkin pie filling looks like raw.  This will be darker and have more texture because of the apple butter, but it should be about the same consistency.)  If it's already runny, stop now.  If it still looks kind of La Brea Tar Pitsy, stir in the rest of the evaporated milk.  Now look at it again.  If it'll actually keep its shape in a spoon, that's too gloppy:  add a little milk.  If it slowly oozes over the edge of the spoon—perfect. 

            Pour in the unbaked pie shell.  I cover the edges with tin foil so they don't burn.  400°F for about 10 minutes, then lower to 350° and start checking after about 20 more minutes.  You want it set but not shrivelled, and you want to take the tin foil off the edges of the crust about 15 minutes before you take the pie out.  I usually figure 45-50 minutes total.

             As I recall it took me four days to get through it.  It was gone by the weekend—I did have a friend round once for a cup of tea and a slice of pie.  That was back in the days when I had a metabolism however . . . and also I lived alone, so if I wanted to have a glass of cranberry juice and a quarter of a pie for supper, it was my business.

* * *

* although the woolly liners in the All Stars are a great success in preventing the " . . .Oh, oh! My feet of fire! My burning feet of fire . . . !" thing, although a lack of wendigoes in southern England is also helpful.

** Penelope and Niall are being punished for leaving the Deputy Ringing Master in feeble and desperate charge for something so mere and frivolous as a holiday.

*** He is also dreaming of this

† Things I have never once been nostalgic for include the set of chains that lived in the boot of your car.  Yes, I keep telling you, I am that old. 

†† Someone on the forum wanted to know how you go about having Thanksgiving in England.  Basically you just roast your fowl of choice, slap a few platters of this and that on the table, line up the pies on the sideboard and shout, Yo!  Dinner!   The one standard I did officially allow to slip, back when we were at the (large) old house and had things like dinner parties cough cough cough COUGH which is to say feedable people in the vicinity, was to have the Thanksgiving blow-out on the following Saturday, since British employers don't give you the Thursday and Friday off.

Blah blah blah cold blah blah bells blah blah COLD COLD COLD

 

It's damnably cold here and I have to keep going out in it.  Hellhound hurtles, frelling belling, hauling dustbins down the death-defying cottage steps for Monday dustbin collection, which involves a lockdown on the entire town for half a day, caused by a single very-well-deployed dustbin juggernaut.  The only thing I can think of (trying . . . trying) in favour of freezing your appendages off is that it does put an old Maine girl in the mood for Christmas.  Sort of.  Christmas lights have been going up all over this weekend and my inner Scrooge is stirring and muttering.*

        Stuffed Chaos in his coat this afternoon because he feels the cold much worse than Darkness does, and stuffed proves to be the applicable verb.  He's filled out at last.  Yaaaay.  Well, yaaaay from a happy-owner-he-EATS** point of view***:  not so much from a I-paid-money-for-these-coats-and-now-I-have-to-do-it-again? perspective.  Although it's less the money than the prospect of finding the necessary:  my guys fall between sizes in a highly inconvenient way.†  Chaos, who heretofore has put up with his coat with minimal fuss, was Not Happy, and produced some eloquent postures that Marcel Marceau might have killed for (expressively).  And chances are, if Chaos' is straining at the seams, Darkness' isn't going to go round him at all, so I'd better get, ahem, hot on the greyhound apparel sites.  Happy Christmas guys!  New clothing!  . . . There are some things that none of the men in my life really understand.††

          Eight a.m. was somehow even earlier than usual today and autopilot was much in evidence.  I was just recovering with a cup of tea and a bit of handbell bob major on Pooka††† when the phone rang and it was Amy, needing a last-minute fourth ringer tonight at Sox Episcopi.  Certainly, I'm not doing anything this afternoon but writing a novel.  It's a good thing I left early, the church is completely invisible in the dark—even after I figured out by a process of crude elimination, consisting of driving through the village two or three times and turning around a lot, where it had to be I still couldn't see it.  Even the lych-gate, favoured landmark of church-seekers all over these islands, is nestled in caliginous shrubbery—very tall caliginous shrubbery, so espying the steeple isn't an option either.  Dranglefab.  And of course since you're ringing before the service the church isn't lit up yet. 

            Sox Episcopi's bells are not possessed by demons in any of the standard ways.  but they're itty-bitty tinkerbells, slightly larger than your standard 250ml wine glass but not by very much‡, and for those of us accustomed to more weight in the hand it's a constant check and pull in so as not to yank one inadvertently out of the tower‡‡—and the ropes, furthermore, are about as thick and, crucially, as glossy as embroidery floss, which means you can't get a grip.  It was a trifle exciting.  Amy wickedly had her hand through the bottom loop, which you must never, never, NEVER do, and I was ringing with my hands horizontal instead of vertical, my left hand creating a 90° bend in the rope as it fed through my right, to slow the oiled-pig slither down somewhat:  and little bells turn fast on their little wheels, so we were also going at almost handbell speed . . . gah.  I apologised at the end for having less than perfect control over my instrument, and Amy, bless her, apologised for dragging me away from a heap of warm hellhounds and said on the contrary, she was very grateful I'd said yes, because the bells were a bit tricky, and there were a lot of ringers she didn't dare ask.  Flattery will get you everywhere:  Amy now has a slave for life.  If a somewhat insubordinate slave.  It had occurred to me as I was casting around in the dark for this legendary church which like Brigadoon only appears every hundred years and/or when it jolly well feels like it, that I could perhaps ask very submissively if there was any chance that Amy could come to New Arcadia tower practise this Friday?, because Niall and Penelope are going on holiday, I'll be in charge, and I need supporters.‡‡‡ 

* * *

* Chiefly NOOOOOOOO.  GET AWAY FROM ME WITH THAT TINSEL.  It's funny, you'd think I'd be delighted—any sparkle must be good sparkle, right?  Hmm.  It's challenging, being a pink-glitter-loving grouch.  I wonder if I'd like the flash parts of Christmas any better if one of the denotative colours was pink?  My native extremism gets a workout around Christmas and Christmas doodah and fandangle however—I tend to want either NONE or TOO MUCH, and if you're going to go for the latter it needs to be the right kind of too much, which is to say tacky, but even here there are pitfalls:  there's a right and wrong tacky too.  This year like every year since we moved into town I will make excuses to walk past my favourite overstuffed garden of gewgaw delights as often as possible^ . . . and, for the last three blog-burdened years, to sigh over the impossibility of photographing it.  On the other hand, the two-storey inflatable Homer Simpson^^ remains in my mind as a touchstone, if perhaps not quite a shining light, of the Wrong Way to Go.^^^ 

^ I'm sure the hedges, fences and little public greens on that street are just as adequate for hellhound purposes as any others. 

^^ Which was not repeated after its first Christmas:  possibly the neighbours had no sense of humour. 

^^^ I have no sense of humour either.  Besides, he wasn't even dressed up as Santa.  Or Rudolf.  Or even the Nuckelavee, although if one were feeling sufficiently unkind one might say he didn't need to. 

** usually 

*** This includes not cringing when I see the RSPCA or the dog warden van go by because they probably won't stop and talk to me about neglect and the importance of regular worming, etc. 

† Not least because by having kept their balls, they're more robustly built, as I think Diane in MN pointed out. 

†† Although Peter obeys signals better. 

††† It's working.  I'm afraid to tell Niall.  His face will light up in a truly ominous manner and he'll start talking about Kent and Cambridge again.  This is a bit like a pianist who has finally mastered Three Blind Mice using both hands being assigned Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition for next week.  

‡ This is bellringerspeak, you know.  The biggest bell is about 400 pounds.  Which is a pretty large wineglass really. 

‡‡ More bellringerspeak.  They're up there with monster great frames and a lot of hardware.  But you could certainly break a stay, which would make you very, very unpopular. 

‡‡‡ Holidays, for pity's sake.  Who needs holidays?  Although . . . if I'm getting into blackmail^ . . . I asked Niall in an insinuating fashion if there was any chance of ensorcelling him off to ring at Rumbelow some Sunday afternoon:  I'm not a beginner any more, but it still wouldn't be at all a bad thing to be bringing along a really good ringer if you're making an assault on a ring of notoriously difficult bells with a crack band, even if said crack band is avowedly desperate for any ringers for their second Sunday service.  He went away and consulted, and was advised that the marital CEO felt that he was already spending quite enough time ringing, thank you very much.^^  I happen to know however that he's ringing handbells this evening and I'm wondering if some trade-off might be accomplished, possibly even including a lead or two of handbell Cambridge or Kent. . . . I can only die if my brain explodes. . . .

 ^ Saints preserve me, I'm turning into a politician

 ^^ I've heard a similar line myself, once or twice.  These tedious people with their ideas about moderation

Pegasus Parties – NYC and Indy (Black Bear)

On one hand, I feel guilty for hi-jacking Robin's blog regularly with these Pegasus Party Reports.  On the other, every guest blog gives her that much more time to work on Pegasus II, so I can't feel too bad about it….

So you've already heard about Jeanne Marie's spectaculariffic get-together in Kansas City last weekend.  Our other two public PRC's were in Indianapolis (my own stomping grounds) and The Big Apple.  Our New York gathering was small, but cozy–held at Irving Place Coffee in Manhattan.  Here's a report from Kathy L., our intrepid organizer:

The cake party went very well!  We had 4 people in all–I think the confluence of the weekend and upcoming holidays derailed some plans.   However, a grand time was had by the four of us–we had tea, red velvet cupcakes, and even chicken soup!  We met at a classic, stereotypically hip New York cafe, identifying each other by our carefully positioned copies of Pegasus.  We talked books, books, and more books, circling around Robin's many times, and gathering some terrific recommendations along the way.  I made everyone say what their favorite Robin book was and we had quite the range:  The Blue Sword, The Hero and the Crown, Deerskin, and Dragonhaven.  One of us was an eighth-grade teacher, and since everyone already had a copy of Pegasus, we agreed that the publisher's copy ought to be donated to her classroom.

And a close-up of cupcake, coffee, and book:

Well done, Kathy L and the NYC crowd!

The central Indiana PRC was similar, in that it involved cupcakes, book chat, and more book chat!  I had a sudden attack of paranoia that we might only have 2 people (Kathy_S and myself, who were carpooling) and so I posted on my Facebook that I was on my way to a Pegasus Release and Cupcakes Party, about an hour before launch time.  Lo and behold, my friend Andy called out of the blue and asked to tag along–despite never having read Robin's books, he's a fantasy fan and is always up for trying something new.  So the three of us headed to the bookstore with a pile of McKinley books and a large box of cupcakes in tow.

The icing on the peanut butter chocolate one is to die for.

When we got to the bookstore, we found jhutchison already waiting for us–and SHE brought cupcakes TOO!

I don't even know what flavor this cupcake was. I don't care.

We all settled in to get to know each other, spread Robin's books out on the table, and started chatting.  Soon we were joined by Maureen E, and Suzanne (who's seldom on the forum, but reads the blog and decided to join our soiree!)  Andy was very excited to have an intellectual discussion about fantasy novels:

CUPCAAAAAAAAAKE

Well, after the cupcakes, that is.  Really, though, we had a great conversation about books–after some talk about Robin's work, we went around the table and gave recommendations for the best thing we'd read recently that was NOT Pegasus.  We raffled off the posters and the book, plus a copy of YA Chalice (I had an extra.)  Pegasus was won by jhutchison, who already owns the book and thus declared her intention to donate it to her local library.  Hooray!

Finally the Barnes and Noble coffeeshop dude came over to find out just what we were up to.  We offered him a cupcake in exchange for taking our group photo; he readily agreed.

From left, that's Maureen E, Andy, Kathy_S, jhutchison, Black Bear, and Suzanne

As you can see, it was a highly successful Pegasus Release Weekend!  I'm looking forward to hearing from this week's folks, we've got 4 coming up before the end of November.

****Special Note!**** If you are in the Denver Metro Area and you like Robin's books, please consider coming to the Denver PRC!  They lost a couple confirmed attendees due to scheduling issues, but are pressing ahead regardless.  It's December 4, at the Tattered Cover on 16th St. at 2:30 pm.  For info you can contact our organizer directly: hilarylpalmer [at] aol [dot] com.

 

Reading in Bed

 

The tooth isn't so bad but the anaesthetic hangover is pretty extreme.  I slept like a dead thing last night (which is much to be preferred to not sleeping at all, of course) but having some experience of dental anaesthesia hangovers I thoughtfully set my kitchen-timer alarm to get me up this morning before the hellhounds' bladders exploded.  When it went off I came gimping up to the surface like a wounded mole, peered out from under the duvet, several extra blankets and two enormous pillows*, blinked my tiny blind eyes at the terrible light** and wondered what planet I was on.  Earth?  Still?  I'd've sworn I'd reincarnated by now.  And it's so COOOOOOLD.  Geez.  At this rate I'm going to turn the central heating on.  Such profligacy.   Usually the Aga can handle Hampshire winter, but when the hellhounds and I press ourselves against it till there is a faint charring smell and our outer surfaces are still cold, it may be time for drastic measures.  Barring the importunities of various bladders, including my own, I could just stay in bed . . . hey!  I have an idea!  We can all have a pee and go back to bed with a good book.*** 

            Ally Condie's MATCHED is officially out the end of the month (according to the back of the ARC), but I've been seeing plugs and squees and rocketing sales for it for a little while now.  It's another of these books I wasn't going to like.  It's dystopian.  Ugh.  I'm so over dystopias.  It's told in present tense.  I continue to cling to my dislike of present tense narration, although there are getting to be kind of a lot of books that I've liked that are told in present tense.†  It's chiefly a love story.  I like a little romance with my story;  when the love thing takes centre stage I get testy.  And this book has a clear moral.  Get away from me with that thing.

            In fact it's subtle, perceptive and engrossing.  It's told in this cool, simple, faux-naif voice (which fits the present-tense narration very well) by seventeen-year-old Cassia.  She has grown up in the perfect Society, where everyone (or perhaps almost everyone) is healthy and contented and has work to do that suits their abilities.  And, in this Society, when you are seventeen, you go to your Match Banquet, where you will meet your (perfect) mate, as perfectly chosen by the Society administration.  The book begins with Cassia, accompanied by her parents, her best friend Xander and his parents, going to the Match Banquet which will introduce both Cassia and Xander to their future spouses.  Cassia is nervous;  Xander is not.  You-the-reader may already be wondering about this Society, its arranged-marriage system and its curiously docile citizens.  Then there is this exchange between Xander and Cassia:

            '"How could you tell I was nervous?"

            '"Because you keep opening and closing that."  Xander points to the golden object in my hands.  "I didn't know you had an artifact."  A few treasures from the past float around among us.  Though citizens of the Society are allowed one artifact each, they are hard to come by. . . . '

            Citizens of the Society are allowed one artifact each?  Cassia's precious object is a compact:  '"But look," I tell [Xander], popping the compact open to show him the inside:  a little mirror, made of real glass, and a small hollow where the original owner once stored powder for her face, according to Grandfather.  Now, I use it to hold the three emergency tablets that everyone carries—one green, one blue, one red.'

            The three emergency tablets that everyone carries?  Okay, I'm pretty well hooked, and I'm only on page four.  The book is like this:  Condie smoothly feeds you the facts of Cassia's life as they come up—and they come up steadily and appallingly—she slides a lot of the Society's grotesque machinations over without Cassia ever noticing they're grotesque, and you half don't notice yourself which adds to the what??? when you do.  The force of the story is in Cassia slowly waking up to what we out here in this reality would call the horror of her situation:  'I've always wondered what my dreams look like on paper, in numbers.  Someone out there knows, but it isn't me.  I pull the sleep tags from my skin, taking care not to tug too hard on the one behind my ear. . . . Glad that my turn is over, I put the equipment back in its box.  It's [Cassia's brother] Bram's turn to be tagged tonight.'  What?  And I'll leave you to discover for yourselves the 'commissions to choose the hundred best of everything:  Hundred Songs, Hundred Paintings, Hundred Stories, Hundred Poems . . .'

            But something odd—something unprecedented, something un-Society-like—happens to Cassia.  At her Match Banquet she is Matched with Xander, her best friend.  This is rare enough;  most Matches have never met each other, never heard each other's name, weren't aware each other existed.  But it does happen, that Matches are known to each other.   But when Cassia reads the microcard the Society provides each person on their Match . . . for a moment the face that comes into view on the screen is not Xander's.

            It is a boy named Ky Markham, whom Cassia also knows, although not well.  But when a Society official draws Cassia aside, apologises for the mistake, and gives her a new, perfect microcard containing only Xander's face and information about Xander's life, the official also tells her—to reassure her that the mistake was superficial only, that there was never any chance that Ky would have been her Match—that Ky will not be anyone's match, because Ky is an Aberration.  Cassia is curiously distressed by this news.  And then she finds herself in a new hiking leisure-activity group (of course the Society monitors your leisure activities) with Ky, and begins to get to know him, and begins to wonder about a Society that would brand him an Aberration. . . .    

* * *

* These are a total necessity.   While it's still dark, they block my over-the-road neighbour's frelling security light which penetrates my feeble little curtain like an enchanted sword through the vitals of a miscreant.  Once it's daylight they allow me to ignore people on the telephone wanting to offer me further unprecedented handbell opportunities;  upgrades on my iPhone package involving not only more minutes a month than there are minutes in a month, which I already have in my present package, but the chance to put my name down now for a real-time feed from the new space station they're building around Rhea^, and if I die of old age first I can leave it to someone in my will;  and the Folio Society wanting me to resubscribe, which I have every intention of doing after it's too late to qualify for their Christmas giveaways of large heavy books I don't want but will feel a strange reluctance to give to Oxfam.  Said pillows also allow me not to hear brisk knocks on the door heralding the presence of meter readers, Jehovah's Witnesses, and frelling delivery persons who have been told 1,000,000,000 times to leave it behind the gate, you moron.  Pillows up to these arduous tasks are indeed so large and heavy I need three more support pillows to prevent my neck from breaking.

^ http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2010/nov/25/oxygen-saturn-moon-rhea

** And what is making that damned beeping noise?

*** Hellhounds like this plan.  It means they get to go to my bed.  Yes.  The one drawback to reading in bed in the winter (not that it stops me) is that one must have certain crucial body parts clear of the bedclothes with which to view and manipulate the book.  Well placed radiant hellhounds are of great benefit in these circumstances.  Totally worth all the hair they leave behind.

† I'm reading another one now, drat it, which will grace these virtual pages some day.

Happy Thanksgiving, you calendar-minded people

 

And BE SURE to keep scrolling down to read Black Bear's PEGASUS AND CAKE updates, and especially to applaud the Urbana, Illinois PRC's poster.

I've been, as Niall likes to say (but he has better teeth than I do), dented.  Two hours in the tortu—I mean the dentist's chair this afternoon.  I'm thinking, hey, McKinley, it's only two hours—the day has twenty four of 'em.  Yes, but not all hours are created equal.  Hours spent in the dentist's chair count for quadrillion.*  I'm now officially shattered till 2251.**  Then I had to, ahem, hurtle home and pelt out with hellhounds again*** because Thursday is handbell evening.  Gaaaaaaah.  A sane woman would CANCEL for pity's sake† . . . but I left sanity behind long ago. ††

            It was not one of our more glorious evenings.  When it was just Colin, Niall and I, Niall was thirty three percent of us, bob minor on six bells is some really impressive algorithm easier than bob major on eight, and I'm actually not too bad at bob minor myself.†††  Bob major . . . Niall is only twenty-five percent of us, Colin and Fernanda are still thinking like tower ringers‡ . . . and I can't ring the damn thing to save my life.‡‡  The only thing that is saving us, to the extent that we are being saved, and we're talking a broken spar in a gale halfway between South Africa and Tasmania and I'm sure there are sharks in the vicinity, is my peculiar small gift for ringing the lines of the method as I'm reading them off a piece of paper.  If I were a magician, while everybody else was saving the world and creating Taj Mahals and Hanging Gardens of Babylon with a wand-wave and a few muttered words, I'd be cleaning shoes.  Well, sometimes you really need clean shoes.‡‡‡  Sigh.  But I think I may be reading the lines off a piece of paper for the rest of my semi-saved life.  I'm not sure Niall was best advised to say brightly at the end of the evening, as we were all preparing to crawl away and drown our sorrows in our respective liquids of choice,§ John Paternoster told me that it took them a year to get bob major right!  The Paternosters are handbell royalty.  There are about eight of them—some brothers, some cousins, and at least one dad§§—I've even rung with John.  Think Gary Cooper in HIGH NOON.  I didn't like ringing with John:  he makes me feel like one of the townsfolk hiding behind a door and listening for the noon train.  And it took them a year to get bob major right?  Whimper.§§§

            Meanwhile, for the majority of Days in the Life's readers, it's Thanksgiving.  Happy Thanksgiving.  I hope you're having a better time than I am.  The anaesthetic has worn off.  It's time to apply chocolate. . . . 

* * *

* Which, assuming a conventional professional hourly rate, would explain the cost.  AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE.  You're all planning on buying multiple copies of PEGASUS for Christmas presents, right?  I really need the money.  And I have to go back to R'lyeh in three weeks and do it all again.  Including the writing-the-cheque-afterward part.

            My dentist looked a little tired himself.  The flush of chartreuse across his sharp cheekbones was muted, the slender writhing coils of his hair were looser than usual, even his long yellow talons seemed blunted.  But his eyes still glittered when he started the drill, and the front eighty-four of his teeth that you can see when he smiles^ gleam in their own horripilant light. 

^ AAAAAAAAAUGH

**Hey!  Maybe I'll meet Mr Spock! 

*** I've realised that I love sports afternoons at the local comprehensive [school].  This means that there are kids everywhere on the big open grounds and morons walking their aggressive, mannerless dogs keep them on lead.   

† Or possibly Shub-Niggurath's. 

†† Occasionally I send it a postcard. 

††† At least some of the time, and particularly on the trebles. 

‡ What is this second frelling clinky thing in my other hand.  Make it go away. 

‡‡ At least the other three of them have rung it in the tower (she says sullenly).  I have not.  I think I've fudged a plain course or two on the treble.  I wouldn't have a clue about inside. 

‡‡‡ I'd be extremely glad for a wand-wave and a charm that would clean my All Stars without recourse to such low and inefficient options as laundry soap and washing machines. 

§ No, actually.  Cider—British brewed cider.  I don't drink champagne every night.^  And good cider is lovely. 

^ See:  writing cheques to dentists from R'lyeh.  Even most of our champagne nights aren't champagne, they're just fizzy.  Fortunately cheap fizz has got a lot better lately. 

§§ Yep.  All blokes.  I'm not going there. 

§§§ And speaking of whimper . . . have I told you that Beltower arrived?  The ringing ap that Tilda recommended, because it has little cartoon people ringing the bells on your screen so in theory it looks more like the real situation in the tower, when you're looking around at big real people ringing the bells?  I loaded it yesterday.  AAAAAAAAAAUGH.^  All right, maybe I'll get accustomed to it.  Maybe I'll learn to use it and it will teach me Cambridge minor and Grandsire triples and Spliced Doolally Surprise Maximus.  Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow morning and PEG II will be finished, and I can read the ending and find out what happens.    

^ There sure is a lot of screaming tonight.  Okay, I have no reason to give you this link except that it was in today's GUARDIAN and I like Stephen Sondheim.  The article is excerpted from his FINISHING THE HAT which regular blog readers will remember Peter gave me for my birthday last week.  Sondheim does not suffer from any nonsense about Pollyanna or not speaking ill of the dead, which is only what you'd expect from the man responsible for SWEENEY TODD.  It's a thought-provoking article for anyone at least remotely interested in classic music theatre:  which would include me. 

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2010/nov/24/stephen-sondheim-on-lyrics

But this is the bit I want to draw your attention to, even if you're not interested in music theatre, classic, Sondheim, or otherwise:

The pencils I write with are Blackwings, a brand formerly made by Eberhard Faber but alas no longer. Their motto, printed proudly on the shaft, is "Half the pressure, twice the speed" and they live up to that promise. They utilise very soft lead, which makes them not only easy to write with (although extremely smudgy) but also encourages the user to waste time repeatedly sharpening them, since they wear out in minutes. They also have removable erasers which, when they have dried out, can be reversed to resume their softness.

I write on a yellow legal pad with 32 lines, allowing alternate words to be written above one another without either crowding or wasting the space. These pads are hard to find, as most come with fewer or more lined spaces. Having been warned that stationery supplies are frequently discontinued, I had the good sense to stock up on them, as well as the Blackwings, before they disappeared, and now have a life-time supply. 

Emphasis mine.  I love this.  I am so there.  You find a system that you like and you want to keep it, and progress and innovation be damned.  The problem is that you couldn't do it with typewriter ribbons, because eventually they dry out, and then the moving parts of your typewriter wear out and suddenly you find yourself with a computer.  Screaming. . . . I wonder if Sondheim had to put in a weight-bearing attic floor anywhere—?