Yet another Christmas party with a fancy festive theme.
“The third one in three weeks!” exclaimed Koji, half bemused and half annoyed (Grinch that he is).
“Yes, but you know everyone at this one, or just about know them, and we only have to make one thing each” replied I, contemplating the theme. “Also, we agreed to go way back in October. Or November. Or something.”
“Well in that case, I’m making jelly.”
Would you believe me if I told you that I refused to eat cheesecake in my childhood years?
Something about the heavy creaminess and rather plain appearance must have dissuaded me from ever giving it a try.
(The Bean – she who loves all things orange vegetable and won’t eat a meal without meat in it – loved it. Of course. She was always eating all of the things I didn’t like, and in double portions too.)
“What’s in this?” asked the group, peering at the dark brown, ruby studded slab in front of them.
“Chocolate and blackberries and gingerbread. It’s pretty spicy and it tastes like Christmas!” said I, settling into my position on the floor.
“What kind of cake was it again?” queried a latecomer, physically present but distracted.
“Gingerberry” replied another, with the gravitas that only someone who has no idea at all can possess.
“Yeah. That.”
For years, on hot and still afternoons (not unlike the one happening right now in good old Sydney town), Hilaire and I drifted in and out of each others offices spouting nonsensical rattlings.
“What did you end up eating for lunch?” one would ask, the lethargy of a stinking Summer’s day mingling with the slow churn of air-conditioning units and insipid bits and bobs of work that remained to be done.
“You know. The expected,” the other would answer, all the while spinning round and round and round.
“You should have gotten a pie.”
A small, slightly suspicious, burst of interest.
“What… kind of pie?” would come the response, a glimmer of understanding twinkling in their eye.
It seems I rediscover the local library every couple of years. Oftentimes it’s due to me being stuck in a location that I can’t get out of, without a dollar in my pocket and a good half hour until I can ride on out.
(I mean, I could walk on out, but I’m just not that keen on it.)
(I probably should be keener on it. Especially seeing as I’m baking, and eating, all those things you see on this here site.)
(New resolution: walk on out of joints you get stuck in. Sometimes.)
 |
 |
 |
