This is such a shock to me. Buddy was so delightfully irreverent, witty and wise. And he concocted some most marvellous meals in his ‘house in the woods’. His exit leaves an empty stage.
Doucette, Ronald Lionel
Source: Ronald Lionel ‘Buddy’ Doucette – C.L.Curry Funeral Home
Earlier this week, The Queen hosted senior members of her staff at the Goring Hotel where she was seen leaving the luncheon. The Palace also revealed that Her Majesty had gifted all of her 1,500 strong staff with Christmas puddings. This tradition was started by her grandfather, King George V. Specifically, these are puddings from…
via The Queen’s staff gifted with 1500 Christmas puddings — Royal Central
The Queen held her annual staff Christmas party at Windsor Castle earlier this week, although this year it turned out to be extra exciting as the newest soon-to-be addition to the Royal Family surprised guests. Hosted by the Lord Chamberlain at Windsor Castle this past Monday, The Queen’s Royal Household Christmas party broke with tradition…
via Meghan Markle makes surprise apperance at The Queen’s staff Christmas party — Royal Central
When I wrote my novel, Kafka In The Castle, where I was filling in all of Kafka’s missing diary entries, after a few months of writing, I found something very interesting. The day/month/year I was writing about, mirrored the day/month/year in which I was writing.
For example, if the 03 of July was a Friday in my writing year, it was also Friday, 03 July in 1917.
It was an exciting surprise, and made (I think) for more immediate writing.
When Kafka became so ill he he took leave from his employment, he stayed with his sister Ottla in a village, hours from Prague. The following recounts the visit of his fiance,Felice.
Here is 23 &24 September from Kafka In The Castle.
23 September 1917
The trials of Felice. The trials of Franz. As they are put together in this obscure little village – with animals and harvest and the clatter of waggons without.
Because of the war, her train journey an ordeal of thirty hours. Only to reach this destination. This lover who doesn’t … “even have the grace to love another.”
That is something F. can understand.
24 September 1917
The two days Felice spent here a trial of misery. A trail of misery. Even – I suspect – when she slept.
It is fortunate that I am ill, for it lets her see me in life, the way I am in spirit. The`me’ she would have to fight against. The `me’ which is always opposed to her.
We shared quiet meals, grateful and annoyed by Ottla’s constant chatter. As good a hostess as possible to this strange, sullen couple.
Ottla must have been thankful that her chores took her away as often as they did. I had no such excuses, yet could offer nothing in their place.
F. and I were truly left to each other, and any thoughts she might still have about us getting married must surely be removed.
When we did talk, it was about the change in seasons, the harvest (she took an interest), her work in Berlin. About my health when I seemed to tire (my weariness not all caused by being sick).
We rarely held hands on our walks – just briefly, in the minutes as we returned.
The few kisses were perfunctory.
Not even for memories of things past.
It was not my intent to piss off Margaret Atwood.
The opposite, in fact. I wanted her to know she was an inspiration.
She was giving a reading at the University of New Brunswick in my student days. I attended, but there was quite the gathering and she was whisked away at the end. However, I overheard there was a ‘gathering’ in her honour. Invitation only, of course. Academia and literati.
I crashed the party (that was the term used by the professor who clapped his sturdy hand upon my shoulder but – happily – did not thrust me into the night).
But Ms. Atwood was kept deep in many a learned conversation and I had no opportunity to converse. I did, however, overhear where she would be spending next afternoon – the historic University Observatory.
Next day I knocked upon the Observatory door.
It was not a cheerful Margaret Atwood who answered, and answered with alacrity.
She asked my name.
She asked my business.
And she asked how the hell I knew where she was. She had stolen the day to do some writing. Some ‘real’ writing, in this window-of-opportunity grudgingly offered on the book tour.
At least I was there to praise Atwood and not to bury her with some essay question.
Nor had I a manuscript to hand to her.
I might not have garnered a smile, but her curt thank you was reward enough.
For me, at least.
DE
This almond crusted sole is covered in almonds, sesame seeds, and coriander, adding texture and flavor to the delicate fish. More at PBS Food.
The result is a filet that has a variety of crunchy and crispy textures with rich nutty flavors that accentuate the umami in the fish
Source: Almond Crusted Sole
The cremation of Thai King Bhumibol Adulyadej or Rama IX is due to take place on 26 October. The King died almost a year ago on 13 October 2016 at the age of 86, having spent seven decades on the throne and was deeply loved throughout Thailand. It is common practice in Thailand’s Royal Family…
via World’s greatest crematorium to be completed soon for funeral of Thai King — Royal Central
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in all the lost diary entries he either ignored or destroyed. This is what he pondered 100 years ago.
Excerpt From Kafka in The Castle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
29 August 1917
I strolled the Charles Bridge a long time tonight, before coming on to the castle. I have the feeling that the river air helps my lungs.
I also like the city lights reflecting from the racing water. And the occasional boat, lanterns stern and bow.
I have once or twice steered my own boat through the dark, the flickering light dripping through the gloom before me. If I could have reached the sea while it was still dark, I would have tried to do so. But I was younger then. And could breathe deeply.
Fantasy fuelled this escape, from my Moldau island and then along the Elbe, through Dresden, Magdeburg and Hamburg, to the freedom of Helgoland Bay. Further into the North Sea, if I wanted. Perhaps to Iceland, where I could become lost in the snow and white.
All this, from my perch upon the Charles Bridge, as I strolled from side to side, and one end to the other. My last smile reserved for the statues staring down on me.
Their stony expressions etched upon their faces, as are mine to me.
DE
(image)https://s3-eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/originaltravel.assets.d3r.com/images/gallery/270120-iceland-5.jpg
Variations of these can be used in any Hot hot hot city. For those of us who start getting uncomfortable at anything above 25C, well, I’ll happily close my shutters and have iced coffee.
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