sweet, silky and smooth firm and crunchy or soft and juicy
eat it with cheese or salad or maybe cook a pie or a tart
try an upside-down cake or poaching them in wine
making some dried in the oven (very low – don’t burn it)
but the best way is to gently pull it from a tree and eat
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Image credit: Kateryna Hliznitsova @ Unsplash
For the visually challenged reader, this image shows a wooden table placed under a tree. On the table, there is an open book, a cutting board, and a knife. There is a plate with a sliced pear on it and some pears are on another plate on the table.
That’s right it’s me – not the red-headed writer (aka the Raconteuse) nor the fictional woman (also a red-head person too) – this time… it’s just me: so why?
Hold a pen hold a mouse different?
Type on the laptop sooo sloow oh dear.
The problem is my right hand is not working very well and it is very difficult to write (not good) and it is more than irritation – it’s a bad blow; but still I am sure it well get better soon (I hope).
But even if I was going to write the next episode in the SSS about the Hemingway House it would not be the proper thing to do, since Florida is right in the middle of the path of Hurricane Milton at the moment.
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, had enjoyed Miami, although she had know that she should not venture into certain districts, since both the tall, thin man and the Bartender had warned her not to go there; but in any case, she was already going to Key West now.
However, she was still annoyed since she had been using her smartphone as she’d been reading and answering on Jetpack – they’re too many spam stuck under the radar, she muttered – see look, here’s D. and Reena, both in the SSS each week, and also two of my good friends, Aladin and Gary from WP (grrr).
Next she’d opened Facebook where she always looked at some lovely cats – there’s Misty with Dave Astor and Luna with Chris Hall (both of them are also WP people); she’d wondered whether the two cats might like each other (probably not), it was more likely at least one of them (meaning Luna) would open their claws… not good (moving quickly on).
But now it was time for the red-headed writer to grab her big bag and get off the bus; she was suddenly feeling famished but there was a nice café, and a few minutes later she was eating a hunk of bread and dunking it into her chunky soup.
She looked up… and then around… all these guys have beards, and all of them looked like Ernest Hemingway – really!
All she needed now was the Gatekeeper – was that him? she could smell the cigar just then.
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, was on a lovely train; she had her big bag, which was bulging, and she had lots of things to do.
She had been reading and writing, and then looking and looking again, as she watched the miles clock up; she had gone from NYC to NJ, Pennsylvania and then to Virginia; she stood up – it must be time for dinner, as she went into the dining car.
It was late as the red-headed writer opened her secret lining in her bag, this was what she’d taken in the Six-Sentence-Cafe-and-Bistro under the bar; the tall, thin man had given a nod as she quickly pocket it: it had been there for ages – and now she had been looking at this again – would it be time to use it?
It had been a long trip, even though it was so pleasant, but she felt a bit wrecked as she sat up; she went into the tiny bathroom to comb her hair, then made it spiky again, next she squirted some toothpaste onto her toothbrush and begin to clean her teeth, brushing with her incisors, canines and molars, as the train went clickety-click, clickety-click.
There were only a few miles left now and she packed her things back, carefully.
She was now feeling good as she got off the train; it was so busy with people rushing around, but after all, it was Miami; she could almost see Crockett and Tubbs holding up their guns.
On the ground floor, where the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro were busy getting things done, the red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, had been up in the flat roof were she was sitting writing – it was going pretty well, although she could do better; she needed more inspiration…
She had been really pleased with her new hairstyle, it had been cut and coloured again, not just the usual bright red, but also three foils on the front of her hair, which were almost white; she had another look in her tiny mirror, as she smiled happily, then she settled down to write again.
But then she heard something wonderful – she had raised her head and then stood up, and looked down, and then she laughed out loud; it was the Gatekeeper who was crouching next to Hūnga as they both howled together.
She picked up everything as she descended quickly, running down the fire exit to the bottom; she almost bumped into the tall, thin man, ‘gosh, sorry about that,’ she said, ‘well, it looks like almost all of us are here,’ – ‘shall we go together?’
They were back in the bar, sitting around the long table and chatting, it was lovely to see them, but now she needed something else and suddenly she thought; she had her big bag and and things stowed into it.
The Raconteuse decided to get into a taxi, then she will alight and then descend to find a train, but where she will go she’s not certain… yet.
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, had a spring in her step as she went down a couple of stairs and into the Six-Sentence-Café-&-Bistro; it was a lovely day and Tom had already made a whole load of bagels, while the Bartender was pouring a large cup of newly-brewed coffee.
‘No big bag today then?’ asked Mimi, while the Bartender lent over the bar, and said, ‘that’s very posh, going somewhere?’
‘I am indeed,’ said the Raconteuse as she smiled, ‘there’s a new gallery which has only just opened and it’s not far from here, in fact, I can even walk there; and you know, I might even buy something,’ and at that, she winked and walked out, leaving a nice tip on the bar.
She entered the new gallery, it was bright and light, and the colours danced around the room, she looked everywhere, pondering and lingering on several pieces, and then she was entranced with that particular item, she noticed the name ‘inSPIRAtion’, and it was familiar… she pulled out her phone… it is him!
She put her phone back into her pocket and walked to the desk; a little conversation, getting her card out and then seeing the little red dot, to show that it was sold; she would have it when the exhibition closed.
She held up her fist making a little punch in the air just outside, while she said quietly, ‘I’ve got a beautiful sculpture, it’s almost mine and even better I know who’s made it.’
She could hear that Tom was singing loudly in the kitchen, were he was making bread as the tiny bubbles began to rise and foam; then one of the double doors opened as Tom said, ‘it will be ready in a couple of hours,’ and he stopped – ‘you’re here, how lovely,’ as he waved across to the Raconteuse, ‘I don’t see you enough,’ he said, ‘but come this way, I can see that you need to have a word in the office down there; Tom then winked, as she pushed the other side of the door.
The tall, thin man stood in the Manager’s office, and leaned out, ‘come in, my dear,’ as he gestured to the two cozy chairs, ‘tell me.’
‘Last week I saw someone who looked like me; I was sitting in my usual alcove, and I saw her skirting around the room, and then she quickly ran out again – she was pretending to be me!’
The red-head woman was walking around the Montmartre Cemetery, wondering what she could do, since she was running out of cash – although of course she could sell, or maybe pawn, her lovely ruby ring, as she fiddled with her finger.
She had turned left when suddenly she spotted the two gargoyles who were standing next to one of the dead poets graves, as they were busy working on two large easels, wearing artists’ smocks and berets, and both of them were scoffing and bickering (as usual); but then stopped and said, ‘ah, there you are,’ as they grinned back at the red-head woman.
Meanwhile the old vampire appeared, opening his arms and smiling: ‘to you like my outfit,’ as he whirled around; ‘yes, I know, I’m doing my best, although, I know I’m a relic, but I suit and boot quite well, don’t you think.’
‘Now, down to business and stuff,’ said the old vampire, as Joan, Francis and Scatty popped up and join them, ‘okay, we all know about the old building just around the corner,’ as he pointed, ‘and now I can reveal,’ he paused like a drum roll, and winked.
‘It began with the lovely red-head woman who opened that old safe, and then later the two gargoyles managed to read those antique deeds, and then they sent it via courier to me – and that’s where I got it.’
‘You see, it seems I own it out right – and we can do whatever we want!’
The full moon leaked across the balcony as the red-head woman looked out into the sky; suddenly she saw Joan, Francis and Scatty, who were hovering on broomsticks: ‘one for you too,’ said Scatty, ‘they are all made with hardwood and jute, and strong and light,’ – ‘come on, hurry,’ said Joan, ‘time to party – we are going around the moon – you’ll see,’ and off they go.
They were flying down the Seine and then the ocean appeared, ‘let’s go to New York,’ shouted Francis, ‘you can see the Café and Bistro, and I think you’ve been there haven’t you?’ – ‘well, kind of,’ muttered the red-head.
They crossed the water keeping with the moon, and then they landed: ‘well,’ said the red-head, ‘I’m going in and quickly skirted around the room,’ – at that moment, the Bartender was wiping a cloth on the sparkling table, as she looked up and smiled, and Mimi also waved happily as she when back to the kitchen; ‘I think I got away with that,’ muttered the red-head.
‘Come on let’s fly to the West Coast; here’s the bridge now, and let’s sit,’ – then the red-head woman hugged her warm fabric as she watched the moon rising again.
But now it’s time to go – and this is the clever bit… ‘widdershins, widdershins, widdershins’ shouted Scatty.
***
Did she fall asleep? thought the red-head… did she dream all of this? but no; she looked in her pocket – it was a napkin from SSC&B!
The red-head woman had woken up, had thrown off her quilt, stood up, walked across and opened the handle into the little kitchen where she spooned some strong coffee into the jug, as it percolated; she stared out into the grey and dank morning, it was wet, very wet, completely different from yesterday.
She got dressed quickly, drinking her coffee, and as she sat down with the three new and ancient books that she had only just bought from the bookseller, she opened all of them.
The first thing she realised was that all of them were in English (phew), and the second thing she realised was that she had known right from the start, these were written about Joan of Arc, Comte de Saint-Germain, and Scáthach: her three friends (and vampires) Joan, Francis and Scatty.
She delved down, looking around all of them, piecing and putting markers everywhere, what seemed particularly interesting was that the two historical tomes were similar, but the folklore one was poles apart; but everything was good.
Then she remembered about the little book which she’d found – the one in the safe; she would get that now.
Meanwhile, it was all very well to read these old books but the red-head woman still needed to hatch a plan (and soon, and then stick to it) since she had little dosh left after doing everything else, but it was raining so hard, like cats and dogs, it was better to stay at home, just for now.
