This crostata will never disappoint, just imagine a thick layer of chocolate ganache on top of a creamy filling of fresh ricotta and cream.
Similar to a mojito, this Minty Gin Rickey recipe is made with gin, lime juice and club soda in an iced highball glass with muddled mint.
Source: Minty Gin Rickey
So, fourteen days of self-isolation ended yesterday, and I went into the world. That, plus being super careful at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, meant I had not stepped into society for three and a half months (except for the inter-city bus ride to get me here).
Mask on face, I got on the city bus and sat in a designated seat, keeping folk (hopefully) at a healthy distance. Seating was reduced by half. Not everyone wore masks.
Reaching my destination, and out on the street where I could keep my distance, I pushed my mask off (though I did not put it away). There was moderate foot traffic, and it was not difficult to keep from getting close to people. I ‘d guess only one in twenty wore a mask.
I have a favourite walk along the harbour, and when I reached the water I attempted to set out on it. First, I did check to see if the public washroom was operating. It was. However, I found my usual trek was restricted by construction. I had to start along a city street, which is narrow this close to the harbour. There was no way not to be close to folk walking in my direction, and I pulled up my mask. Again, few others were wearing masks.
Once beside the water, where the wooden walkways are wide, it was much easier keeping away from other folk. There were many people there (it was a nice summer day) and the majority of them did not wear masks. Outside bars were open, and I saw groups of people (10 – 20) sitting at long tables. There were also folk in twos and threes sitting on public benches.
I knew there would be no cruise ships in port (that business is dead for the year), but I eventually realised there were no pleasure crafts, either. All of the moorings were deserted, and it made quite a difference. The only marine traffic I saw was a Pilot Boat on its way out.
I did sit awhile (a favourite pass time) at an individual chair, and looked out toward the Atlantic Ocean. And was happy there was some breeze.
As I continued, I was surprised that (I believe) all the restaurants were open. Folk were inside and out on the patios. No masks were visible (except on the servers). There were reduced numbers, of course, but I bet the restaurants were as full as they could be.
I eventually continued along the streets to get of a large grocery store. I had not been in a commercial building for three months. I lucked out when, as I entered, one employee was wiping down a shopping cart. I grabbed it. I was only getting a few items (though – as usual – there were some unplanned purchases). More shoppers had masks, but I’d guess 50% did not. Nor (you can believe this) did they all follow the arrows on the floor. Still, I was in and out quickly, paying with a credit card (I did see one person use cash).
Next door is a Liquor Store, and I made some purchases there. No one else wore masks. I did not stay long, knowing full well what I wanted.
The bus back was much like the one I took to the harbour. Enter by the side door. Designated seat. No ticket necessary.
So a day has passed. Purchases requiring refrigeration were disinfected and put away. The rest I’m just going to let sit until the respective safe time frames for the respective containers passes.
I decided to stay put today.
(image) https://i.pinimg.com/originals/64/9a/83/649a839d99330f27cfb30eaa867f3d61.jpg
An Excerpt from my Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of his missing diary entries. Kafka never avoided life – if anything, he perhaps plunged too deeply into it. But I think he never felt he was a part of what went on around him. He understood reality too well.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
01 June 1917
I have been on the outside, looking in – the darkness of the night behind me, the fog resting close upon the harbour.
I’ve watched diners at their ease, the fire colourful through the grate, the rich hue of the glass raised to the lips. And my own face, peering back at me as I look in, reflecting like a ghost’s shadow from the window.
And the very next night, I have been on the inside, looking out – seated at the very table I had previously observed.
The fireplace at my back, its warmth more than welcome. And I glanced out at the harbour, its fog higher than the previous evening, but not yet obscuring the lights of the ships. Their portholes wavering.
And, as I brought the red liquid to my lips, I saw my own face dimly doing the same in the window, imposed and distant between me and the fog. And I felt as alone as I did the night before.
Whether I was sitting or standing; whether in the warmth, or in the fog – I was still me.
Always K.
Always observing.
~ Oh – my God – Mr. President. Thank You!
~ I take credit for everything.
~ Thank you. Thank You!
~ You’re welcome.
~ Let me shake your hand.
~ Of course.
~ I suppose a hug is too much?
~ Not at all.
~ Oh. Oh. You are Death’s dream.
~ Any chance you can take out Biden?
~ Oh, I am but a foot soldier. Anyway – he wears a mask.
~ Coward.
~ I love it when you talk like that.
~ He’s keeping his distance.
~ But you don’t.
~ I got guards. No one will get closer than six feet.
~ Of course.
~ I like that – six feet.
~ Why?
~ That’s how deep they bury you. Ground Zero.
~ But aren’t you worried about your followers?
~ Why?
~ Well – you’ll lose their votes.
~ Nah – that doesn’t matter.
~ But you’ll need every vote.
~ Oh, we just get them from the graveyard, too.
One of the major characters in my first published novel, A Lost Tale, came from Regensburg. He was a member of this choir.
Pope emeritus Benedict XVI is making a private visit to Germany to see his ailing brother Msgr. Georg Ratzinger.
An Excerpt from my Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of his missing diary entries. Perhaps because the summer heat is getting to him, his patience is thin with those whose hope outstrip the realities of life and – particularly – death.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
17 June 1917
I am told that you can’t lose people, that “…they will always be with you in memory.” Max is heavy with this type of comment – as if the hand of sentimentality brushed off his coat before he set out on each day.
Both the intelligent and the slow of wit seem to be struck dumb by this nonsense. Emotion, I suppose – hope, I suppose – has no place for reason among its folds. But, if you can not touch, or have expectation of being touched, then the people and places are as gone as yesterday.
There is no way to travel back, and the future beckons with only an empty gesture and a hollow laugh. Bowing low at the open doorway to usher you in, but the room is empty. And will remain ever so.
When they are no longer there to hold their hand out to you – well, then they are no longer there.
I returned to a pile of mail after being COVID19 – trapped across the border. My pile of mail was much larger than ever expected. That was due to the number of charities encouraging my contributions.
I have noted of late that charities are obviously using a third party to encourage donations. However, it seems that this third party is using the same devices for all charities. And that if a person gives to one or two (or more) charities, their name is going to be on the mailing lists of many clients of this third party (let’s call it the Mail Out King).
Upon my return, not only did I have reminders from the charities I do support, but a host of other requests from those I have not considered. Thus, I am awash in the enticements the Mail Out King supplies as inducements.
I now have twelve (12) pens at my disposal. Six (6) are black with gold trim; four (4) are garishly multi-coloured; one (1) is light blue; one (1) is tartan. Only five (5) have the name of a charity upon them.
More numerous than the pens, I have notepads of various sizes. These I actually use.
I have five (5) zippered pen&pencil cases to hold them.
I have three (3) large (and garishly-coloured) shoulder bags.
I have dozens of Christmas cards and envelopes.
I have hundreds of stickers containing my name and address to put upon these envelopes.
I have no idea what all this material is worth, nor what it must cost to send them.
PLEASE STOP
(image) thirdforcenews.org.uk/images/uploads/articles/229302/web_fundraising_image.jpg
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