This is sooo oddly tempting.
~ This roasted squash crème brûlée perfectly embodies the warmth and taste of Thanksgiving. Watch a video and get the recipe from PBS Food.
Source: Roasted Squash Crème Brûlée
~ What’s your poison, Joe?
~ I think it’s a rum night.
~ Any reason?
~ It’ll encourage me to give him a rum for his money.
~ Joe. You know you’ve got to stop.
~ Yeh, Boss. In January.
~ Messing with his head isn’t going to do any good.
~ It can’t do any harm.
~ True – we’re past that.
~ Gotta have a bit of fun.
~ Hillary could use a bit of fun.
~ I’m not a magician, Boss.
~ True.
~ Though I have a few riffs on The Glass Ceiling surviving Kristallnacht.
~ Joe!
~ Too soon?
~ Not even this time next year.
~ OK.
~ I’ll pretend it’s the rum talking, Joe.
~ OK. I’ll stick to dealing with the 45th.
~ My successor.
~ The old Pussy-Grabber-in-Chief.
~ Joe.
~ I’ve put a few “For a good time, call – ” notes in the washrooms.
~ Joe.
~ I left Melina’s phone number.
~ Joe!
~ Gotta have fun, Barack. There’s only so much rum.
~ True.
~ And I haven’t even started on Pence.
~ Joe!
DE
~
Franz Kafka was a government employee who looked after the welfare of workers. Among other things, he invented the hard hat.
In my novel about him, he has an encounter with a worker who needs assistance. In his real life, this is how he would react.
Excerpt from Kafka In The Castle:
16 February 1917
There was a commotion at the office today. It was late morning, and from far below, coming up the stairwell, I could hear a voice bellowing: “Doktor Kafka. Doktor Kafka.”
It was a terrible voice, full of blood and darkness. I got from my desk and went to the door. There were other voices, trying to calm, saying: “He can’t be disturbed.” But the voice was louder, more horrible, close in the corridor. “Doktor Kafka – for the love of God.”
My secretary wanted me to stay inside, hoped the man would just move along the corridor until the police were summoned. But – I was curious; the man had my name, and his voice was … terrified.
I opened the door and stood in front of it. “I’m Kafka,” I said. The man lunged at me, and went to his knees. “Doktor Kafka?” he said. “Yes, I’m Kafka.” He reached out, grabbing for my hand. “Jesus, Jesus, for the love of Jesus – they say that you’ll help me.”
He was a heavy man, and looked as if he had the strength to pull off doors, yet the tears burst from his eyes. “I can get no work. I fell from a bridge, and my back is twisted and in pain.” He slumped against the wall, looking at my eyes. “I have a family, Doktor Kafka. A baby not a year old.” “You were working on this bridge?” I asked. “Yes.” His voice slid down his throat. “I was helping repair the surface.” “Then you deserve your insurance. Why can’t you get it?”
He straightened up, and tried to stand. “I have to fill in papers; the doctor can see no wounds; the foreman said I drank; because my brother is a thief, I am not to be trusted.” I held out my hand, and he slowly stood. “I’m telling you the truth, Doktor Kafka.” “If that is so,” I said, “you’ll get the money due you.” “I’m so tired,” he said.
I gave instructions to those standing around – no other work was to be done until this man’s case was decided.
I took him to my office, where he sat.
He sat – practically without a word – for five hours.
I summoned a prominent doctor to look at him. The doctor prodded, and the man screamed. Officials from his village were telephoned. I helped him with the details on the forms. His truth was in his pain. He left our stony building with money in his hand, and his worth restored.
The people who assisted me had smiles on their faces.
A man had needed their help.
DE
(image)http://mentalfloss.com/sites/default/legacy/blogs/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/86185783.jpg
~ What’s your poison, Madam Secretary?
~ The same as yours, Mister President.
~ Well, we’ve taken care of him. Perhaps some champagne.
~ From California.
~ Of course.
~ And something a little stronger, a little later?
~ I’ll let you choose, Mr. President, at my first formal dinner at The White House.
~ Hardly your first, Hillary.
~ No. But this time “Hail To The Chief” will be for me.
~ True. But Bill and I might hum along.
~ Boys will be boys.
~ And girls will be president.
~ What is precedence, Mr. President. Do I invite the loser?
~ Not such a sore loser. I think it unwise.
~ You don’t think The Donald will behave himself?
~ That’s one thing you will need for the office, Hillary.
~ What?
~ That great sense of humor.
~ You can’t imagine him with his mouth shut?
~ Wrong!
~ OK – I see what you mean by a sense of humor.
~ It always helps to smile when you’re fixing the problems.
~ I’m going to have a lot to smile about.
~ You can handle it, Madam President.
~ Thank you, Mr.President.
~ Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.
DE
(image)http://carlitoswaycocktails.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/cropped-Purple-bar.jpg
~ What’s to be your poison, Donald?
~Something to help with the pussy, Bill. You tell me.
~Well, you’re going to start having trouble there. The ladies aren’t liking you much.
~ They got you into a lot of trouble, too.
~ Yes, that they did.
~ Impeached your ass.
~Gotta admit that, Donald – yes. Though I was declared innocent.
~ Innocent as shit.
~ Eye of the beholder, Donald. Something you don’t understand.
~ What do you mean?
~ You’re a mess, my friend. You are one hoot-and-holler train wreck.
~ I’m clearing the track, Slick Willy – straight to the White House. Believe me.
~ No – that isn’t the station where you’re getting off.
~ You think Hillz is going to stop me?
~ And that’s one more of the many things you don’t understand.
~ Wrong.
~ Hillary – bless her – might be pointing the gun.
~ Wrong
~ But guess who’s pulling the trigger.
~ I’ve got the best security.
~ It’s the people, Donald.
~ I’ve even got the Secret Service.
~ You can’t fool all the people.
~ Wrong.
~ Even the ones who follow you don’t believe you.
~ Wrong.
~They might not trust my little filly.
~ Should be in prison.
~But there is one thing the people don’t fear about her.
~ What?
~ They don’t think she’s going to lead them over the cliff.
DE
Into the breach, once more.
[It is the countdown, folks – so count along.]
~ What’s your poison, Donald?
~ I know what your poison is, Hillary.
~ What’s that?
~ You drink the Kool-Aid.
~ You’re the one who mixes it, Donald. I don’t touch the stuff.
~ It makes you nasty.
~ I’m starting to think you have a fixation on nasty women.
~ I like women.
~ You like to do things to women, Donald. It’s a big difference.
~ They love it.
~ They’d love to let you know how much they love it – I’ll grant you that.
~ So, you get all the women beating up on me, you think it will make you win?
~ A lot more than that is going to make me win.
~ What’s that?
~ You, Donald. You being you. Really, all I have to do is stand there and be superior.
~…
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With the countdown counting down …
~ What’s your poison, Donald?
~ The USA is poison – believe me.
~ Not to worry. I’m lancing that for you.
~ You use a sword and you stab in the back.
~ Sword of Justice.
~ And you like to twist it.
~ Look at the Statue of Justice.
~ Isn’t she blindfolded?
~ Yeh – so keep your hands to yourself.
~ A man gets certain thoughts, sometimes.
~ A man keeps them as thoughts, Donald.
~ We gotta put our hands somewhere.
~ Try your pockets.
~ Oh – that shit’s for other people. I get what I want.
~ Not this time.
~ You don’t think I’ll be the 45th president?
~ That slot is reserved for a woman.
~ Ugh – such a nasty woman.
~ Hillary cleaned your clock, Donald.
~ You think so?
~ Wiped the numbers right off your face.
~…
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What sights indeed are these, that cause the racing clocks to pant their minutes in counterpoint to a life still learning the difference between wretchedness and love?
The swing goes up and the swing goes down, and then goes up again. If you are on that race, with childish yells, and up-down-mess-it-around feelings in the pit of your stomach, they haven’t lowered that coffin lid yet.
No, not yet.
****
What sights indeed are these, that make a heart argue the worth of dying, and ring the bells across the hill when there is no hand upon the rope?
There are happy tunes on the breeze and, yes, even the unicorn lifts its head with twitching ears and mouth agape.
And even (so it has been recorded, in long-ago books) our Lord Jesus God would pause in His ministrations at the wonder of it all.
****
What sights indeed are these, that ease the night’s passage and sow the fields full of restful dawn?
A race against the end is run by all of us; when the kitten kicks and purrs through her ball of string, or when the ancient’s cane tap-taps across the room. Eyes, whether young; or dim; or blind; can still open in amazement, and still marvel at the ever-changing newness.
Marvel and rejoice.
****
What sights indeed are these, that turn all tunes into rhapsodies of joy, and make the moon do gypsy dances through the night sky?
A sky of stars that shower and shake and stream across the galaxies to cram unto the ends of the distant universe. Grains of sand upon the shore would take sensitive fingers, and a lifetime of counting, yet still could never fill this distant space where even numbers stand in awe.
Zeros with mouths agape.
DE
(image)http://chadstjames.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/clocks.gif
Samhain/Halloween is a night of death and ghosts. Ghosts to fear and ghosts to help along their way to the Otherworld. But not all ghosts are troubled and fearful. There is nothing wrong with being dead if one is content.
This excerpt is from a non-spooky novel, where a man goes looking for a new place to live. He comes across many houses on his quest. Many.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From: He Lives In The City/He Drives To The Country
It had been a house of dreams, it was now a house of ghosts.
Ghosts tranquil and benign peered through the dusty upper windows, stood in wait behind the boarded doors. The dreams of long ago, which had tumbled down the stairs, and frolicked through the rooms, were now memories in the minds of ghosts.
The ghosts were themselves memories, destined to further fade with each new birth. But there would be no births in this house, as it slid inexorably toward decay. The lackluster brown shingles would be more smudged, the remaining panes of old glass would break, the floors would warp and collapse, the unkept roof would succumb to the years of harsh weather.
Even the `No Trespass’ sign was barely legible. Then where would the ghosts go?
Blaine left his car and walked toward the house.
If he had eyes to see, who would be there to greet him? Would children’s dreams, fair-haired and boisterous, burst through the front door and surround him in games of tag and laughter? Would he get caught by their enthusiasm (would he become a child himself), and race behind the trees, burrow into the hay, hide between the bins of potato and turnip, intent not to be `it’.
Or would he meet the ghosts, quiet and tentative at the top of the steps, moving slowly with their uncertain smiles. Would they greet him with a wave, invite him into their warm-smelling kitchens, offer him fresh tea, and squares right out of the pan? Would he sit in the stream of fall sunlight flowing across the well-oiled floor, and talk about childhood?
Blaine walked part way up the drive before he stopped.
He knew what lay beyond the boarded windows, and the sagging door upon its rusty hinges. Wallpaper would be water-stained, and curling off the plaster walls. There would be lumps of refuse in the corners of the rooms, with one inevitable rusty bedframe lying on its side. There would be gaps in the ceiling, where beams of sunlight shimmered through motes of dust. There would be holes in the baseboards, where earnest rodents made comfortable homes.
There would be musty smells offering a hint of long-ago meals, and something gone bad in the pantry. There would be one upper window (at the back) which still had a tattered lace curtain, half obscuring what had once been totally private. At night he would hear bats.
It was not this house he had come to see, of course. Of course, not this derelict house, which he knew could never be restored, and which was so beyond help even death slept while visiting.
DE
(image)http://i.huffpost.com/gen/833600/thumbs/o-HAUNTED-HOUSES-TOWNS-facebook.jpg
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