Two Women and Some Books
The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…
I am old, and the young think me rude
For I laugh really loud and throw food
I am never PC
And I never drink tea
But I do like to swim in the nude
Tater Ham Chowder
You can use any kind of potatoes you like here. Another nice variation is to use sweet potatoes, or a combination of white and sweet. This is definitely a hobbity soup, so I used the Middle-earth word for potato (see Westron, or the Common Speech…).
1 tablespoon salted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
4 ounces cooked ham, diced
2 cups carrot, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 cups celery, coarsely chopped
2 cups red onion, coarsely chopped
1½ pounds potatoes, cut into ½ʺ cubes (peeled or not; it depends on the variety of potato you use)
3 cups cabbage, coarsely chopped
1 quart low-sodium chicken broth
1¼ teaspoons salt
1¼ teaspoons marjoram (2-3 tablespoons fresh, minced)
1 teaspoon black pepper
Optional Garnish:
Minced fresh chives
Cooked and crumbled bacon
Sour cream or crème fraîche
Coat a 4-quart saucepan with cooking spray. Melt the butter and olive oil over rather high heat. Add the ham, carrot, celery, and onion and sauté 10 minutes, stirring often. Add the remaining ingredients and bring to a boil. Cook on low heat 20-25 minutes, covered, until vegetables are tender. Stir a couple times. Puree 3 cups of the soup, then add it back to the pot. Season, if desired. Garnish, as desired. Cover and chill leftovers; don’t freeze. Serves 4-6.
Vegetarian Options—Change the broth to vegetable and substitute about a quarter-pound of diced turnip, rutabaga, or parsnip (all should be peeled) for the ham. Or you could simply increase each of the already-required vegetables.
Spicy Options—Green Chile? Of course (I live in New Mexico!). I’d recommend about 4 ounces. Your favorite variety of salsa would also be delicious.
A Bite of… Astrid Tuttle Winegar
My first cookbook, Cooking for Halflings & Monsters: 111 Comfy, Cozy recipes for Fantasy-Loving Souls, grew out of an undergraduate course on Tolkien. I’ve always been cooking and baking, so using Middle-earth as an inspiration was a no-brainer. But other worlds, such as Narnia, Westeros, and the Final Frontier often inspire me as well.
The hardest bit of recipe development happens when I get an idea to pursue that doesn’t pan out. Sometimes it’s hard to abandon something that should have worked. But once abandoned, I resign myself to the loss and move on. The best bit? We eat LOTS of delicious food around my house!
Well, if I hosted a dinner party with real/fictional people, I would invite J. R. R. Tolkien for learned conversation and anecdotes. I would also invite Brian May, the guitarist from Queen, because I’ve had a crush on him since my teenage years. Since he is Dr. May now, he and J. R. R. would get along well, though Tolkien’s astronomical references might need some tweaking. Finally, I would invite Lisbeth Salander, the heroine of the Millennium series, to make everyone just a bit uncomfortable.
From my latest cookbook, A Year of Comfy, Cozy Soups, Stews, and Chilis: Cooking for Halflings & Monsters, Volume 2, I would cook up this comforting hobbity soup recipe, bake a gorgeous loaf of bread from the aforementioned cookbook, and have some beer, whisky, and water available. Everyone would get along great and my husband would go to bed early. All good!
Astrid Tuttle Winegar is the author of Cooking for Halflings & Monsters: 111 Comfy, Cozy Recipes for Fantasy-Loving Souls, which was a finalist in the 2018 New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards. Astrid has been cooking, baking, and reading fantasy (and plenty of other literature!) for over 40 years. She has a bachelor’s degree in English and Latin and a master’s degree in Comparative Literature and Cultural Studies from the University of New Mexico. She has loved C. S. Lewis since childhood and J. R. R. Tolkien since middle and high school. She also loves all Star things, both Trek and Wars, all things Whedon, and many other things besides… She lives in the enchanted city of Albuquerque, New Mexico, with her husband; she is also a mother and a grandmother. For more information, go to astridwinegar.com. You can follow her on, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.
Aunt Artemisia had long been the repository for family secrets. Telling her something, was as safe as talking in your own head. A visit to her house. A nice cup of tea. Sharing the burden.
It even continued when she moved into residential care. Until one day, while sharing marital issues, Jack got a shock.
“Yes dear. Marianne hates you shouting at the telly.”
Secrets were no longer sacrosanct it seemed.
This changed the family, who started talking to each other.
“Such a shame. Her mind’s gone,” they said.
Artemisia smiled inwardly. She had wanted to do this for years.
Maybe by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook . Sometimes we walk the edges of realty…
She sensed this was indeed a ritual, though not one of any religious kind. Things were passing hand to hand, bottles of water and white cider. It was a scene she had witnessed a few too many times in her career. In her previous career, she mentally corrected and felt the small inner lurch of loss that always left in its wake.
Then someone moved right behind her and a pair of hands gripped her shoulders.
“Hey bros, look what I just found.”
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
No. It doesn’t.
It really doesn’t.
Not when it breaks you inside.
That was all Jess could think, standing, paralised by her past. There was not even a conscious sense of fear, though she could feel her heart rate slam up and the floor drop away. It was as if her conscious mind had shot out of her body and hung suspended, mid-air, above it. There was nothing she could do. It was going to happen again.
The yelp seemed to come from a great distance away not from right behind, but the moment the grip was gone from her shoulders, it was as if she were restored. Restored to a body in panic. She would have run blindly, but there was a gentle touch on her arm and a girl’s face, looking at her. They ran together.
Jess had no idea where they were going, past half demolished buildings, and broken metal structures that reared like scaffold dinosaurs, against the moon-lit sky. The ‘bros’ were either more worried about what had happened to their companion or already too out of it to be able to give chase, because after a few shouts and some sounds of running feet, the night closed behind the two of them into quiet.
They went past the barrier with an old height restriction sign on it and cartoon-like pictures of stick men standing up in cars on a roller coaster, or leaning out, circled in red with a bar through the image.Then they were clambering over a heap of twisted metal beyond. It was not a hard scramble the way her guide was going, or a long one, which was as well because the shooting pains had started up in her legs as they reached what looked a bit like a metal box, buried in the middle of the debris.
The girl touched her hand again, then opened the door making some kind of sounds, as if reassuring an animal. Then a small glow of light came from inside and Jess went in.
She was not really sure what she had expected. But not this. It was almost obsessively neat and very clean. For a moment, Jess was thinking of paisley furniture and over-polished wooden floors, then chastised herself for assuming that the homeless could not also be house proud. For that was clearly what this was, a homeless person’s private shelter. There was a counter top along two sides and a closed fire on the third wall opposite a comfortable bed. It was more of a sleeping platform really, covered in an odd variety of multicoloured fleece picnic blankets. Two very large cats were curled in the middle and watched her with wary feline eyes.
Jess took it in then looked at her rescuer. The girl looked to be in her mid-teens, a runaway maybe. That realisation pushed Jess out of her bubble of self-concern and she mustered a smile.
“Thank you, I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there,” she said. The girl said nothing, just glancing briefly to the cats and then back to Jess. So she tried again:
“My name is Jessica Monday, what’s yours?”
The girl kept looking at her, but the silence went on.
Part 5 of Maybe will be here next week…
If rough and tough rhyme with blind man’s buff
How come that bough rhymes with now?
And if you amble through the morning dew
Why is it more thorough to stride across the borough?
If you cough at a toff it will put him right off
And it’s nice to be slow when kneading dough
This is stupid stuff and I have had enough
English can rhyme on its own bloody time…
The opening of Gribble’s Geek, the new fantasy from Jane Jago
The door of the staff dining room banged open and the handsome figure of Launcelot Gribble stood in the doorway with his romantically tousled head held high.
“I think I’ve just broken my geek,” he announced.
The Bursar sighed and looked up from the column of figures she was conning. “Again? And what makes you think this one is broken?”
“He’s just sitting staring into the middle distance and making strange sheep-like noises.”
Matron gave the dramatic figure in the doorway a look of deep dislike before grinding out her evil-smelling cheroot and heaving herself to her feet. She headed for the door, and as she passed Gribble she smacked him solidly across the back of the head with one large red hand.
“Ouch. That hurt.”
She didn’t even bother to answer him, just stalked along the dusty corridor like a vengeful leviathan.
Gribble dropped his pose of romantic ennui and ruefully rubbed his head.
“Why’d old iron tits decide to smack me around the head?”
Democratic Runes looked up from the volume of arcane verse he was studying and regarded his colleague in disbelief.
“Why wouldn’t she? You break geeks and she gets to fix them. How many is it this year?”
Gribble studied his feet and muttered something unintelligible.
“Come again?”
“This one is number thirteen.”
“Who else is egotistical enough to break geeks at that rate. Thirteen down and it’s only the ninth moon. You are a fucking liability, my friend.”
Gribble hunched a shoulder and turned his startlingly green gaze on the sturdy figure of the Bursar.
“I’ll just go choose another geek then, shall I?”
“No. Indeed you will not. There have been complaints. The University has generated a memo. Allow me to read it to you. ‘It has come to our attention that the Chair of Ancient Scrolls is somewhat careless of the technicians who assist him in his work. This is unsatisfactory. Should any more instances occur, the choice of assistant is to be removed from his remit’.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you don’t get to choose. You will be assigned a geek. And proper contracts will be signed.”
Gribble bridled. “I don’t sign contracts. It’s an honour to be chosen to help me.”
“As of now you do sign contracts. Because if you don’t, you don’t get a geek. And shut your mouth – you look stupid with it half open.” The Bursar got up and jerked a thumb at the gaping professor. “My office. Now.”
In the skinny, cluttered office, Gribble looked around for a seat. He found no surface that wasn’t covered with paper.
“Why do you have so much paperwork? Surely most of your accounts and stuff could be done on the computer.”
“It could, if the University was not averse to The Motherboard knowing all our business. But we aren’t here to discuss my conditions of employment, it’s the conditions under which you employ your geeks that are in dispute.”
“Dispute?” Gribble pushed out his lip in a show of boyish petulance, before he remembered that the Bursar was not of an ilk to be cajoled or seduced by the likes of him. Instead he hunched a shoulder. “Where do I sign?”
“I thought you might see sense,” her smile was just on the acceptable side of smug. But only just.
Scrabbling about in the teetering pile of paper on the windowsill, she dragged out a sizeable parchment and unfolded it.
“You sign here, here, here and here.”
Gribble pulled a pen out of his pocket and signed as indicated. The Bursar inserted the signed document in a slot in the wall and after a few seconds a disembodied voice filled the air.
“Contract duly witnessed.”
The unwieldy parchment slowly reversed out of the slot to fall unnoticed to the floor.
Gribble eyed the Bursar.
“Right. When do I get my geek?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then his face caught up with his brain and he snapped his teeth together.
“Good thinking. Now cut along. I’ve got work to do.” The Bursar waved a wrinkled hand in dismissal.
Even an ego as colossal as Gribble’s recognised the pointlessness of arguing with a tetchy female colleague who was not only senior to him in the University hierarchy, but who also disliked him quite a lot. He left the dusty confines of the office, shutting the door behind him with exaggerated care before stomping along the disorienting curve of the corridor cursing and kicking random pieces of furniture.
Behind him, the Bursar listened to muffled swearing and assorted crashes. The smile that spread across her face made her look like a crocodile that smells fresh meat.
“You, my temperamental young colleague, ain’t seen nothing yet.”
She returned to her figures, obscurely comforted by the hard lesson Gribble was about to be taught.
Click here to keep reading this unusual fantasy story from Jane Jago
She’d take it back if she could
The words were out
Then she saw his face.
The cut so deep that blood shed.
But it was done.
Spoken.
Said.
Nothing could be changed
The words were out
Their wounding complete.
No tears can wash out that pain
The hurt ricochets
Inflicting
Silence.
The one most on her side
Then words come out
Tearing them apart
The one she trusts, knows her best
Knows just where to strike
To hurt.
Snarls.
Now, as intimate strangers
The words come out
Weaponised by choice
Lovers become enemies
Each no longer hears
Pain filled
Cries.
Welcome to the Hotseat of Truth, a device in which your protagonist is trapped. The only way to escape is to answer five searching questions completely honestly or the Hotseat will consume them to ashes! Today’s victim is singer Selena Morisot, also known as Selena M. Heroine of Aliens Crashed in My Back Yard and the upcoming My Spaceship Calls Out to Me, and Space Girl Yearning by Mike Van Horn.
Hah! I wish. When I was in college, my big brother got drafted into major league
baseball. He taunted me, “See, guys can leave school and make big money like this, but girls can’t.” I took that as a dare. I recorded this song we’d played around with, “Cotton Candy Lovin’,” and it became a hit. That launched my singing career. It’s still my most requested song, even though I’m sick of it.
My brother never did make it in the big show, but I’ve made enough money to buy my dream house up along the coast. So no, I didn’t go into singing as a passion.
But things changed. This funny looking alien crashed on my hillside, and we learned to communicate by singing. I called her Breadbox. She left her home world because she was not allowed to sing the songs most meaningful to her. She kept urging me to do the same—to sing from my heart. It took me a long time to get this. One night I dreamed of my namesake, the painter Berthe Morisot, and she said she only paints from her heart, all else is empty. This had a big impact on me. So, singing is my passion now—I always sing my heart song. And I miss Breadbox more than I can say.
Hey, I just got a proposal for marriage! *giggle* Don’t know if I’ll say yes; that must unfold in another story. Seriously, my singing career with all the touring got in the way of romance—at least with a man. Ever since Doug, my one true love, got tired of waiting for me and married somebody else. I don’t even remember her name. And zipping around other worlds in a spaceship also makes it tough for romance.
My life is full of romance—the romance of adventure. I know, it’s not the same.
On the other hand, I have great men in my life—men who aren’t looking at me for
romance. We’re just friends and collaborators, and they’re always there for me.
Do you mean the time I got drunk and fell into the swamp where all the Fofonoloy were swimming, and in their rush to get away from me they brushed past me like a bunch of miniature hippos?
Or the night when I was awakened by what looked like a giant spider the size of an orangutan, and I screamed? Then I found out it had been sent to clean my room and do my laundry.
I still laugh about these, but I was terrified at the time. Squeamish and screamish. No, most of the time I was very comfortable around them, even when touching or embracing them. After all, they were busy saving my life. They are now some of my best friends. I’m hoping the people of Earth can accept them as I have.
Ah, this is so hard for me to answer. I don’t think I can choose. Look, I chose more than once to follow my passion for singing on Earth, but every time I got pulled into some other adventure in outer space. But when I was invited to come to Everbright and do a concert, I thought, wow, I can do both!
When I returned from my last adventure I had a quiet realization: I have been touched by the Infinite. I can never be happy staying put. And I can never give up my singing.
I never saw myself as one who would die for a principle. But when my best buddy Clay had terminal cancer while I was orbiting the Moon, I risked my life to pick him up from Earth because only the instruments on my spaceship Star Choice had a chance to eliminate his cancer. With Star Choice, I made a perilous dash down to Earth where I knew the Air Force was gunning for me. I got him and the cancer doc from the Stanford Med Center before zipping back into orbit. We saved his life!
So I guess you’d say I’d risk my life for my friends. That may not count as an abstract principle, but it’s a real life principle. I also did this for my alien friends. When I was on Sfofong, their world, I argued their case before their Elders who had threatened to kill me. They tried but I eluded them.
His angelic glory lit the small room as he spoke.
“Be not afraid. You have been chosen to bear a divine child,” Gabriel hoped he didn’t sound too weary.
“Afraid? You’re kidding, right?” She stood arms akimbo by the laundry bucket. “No. I’m not having anyone’s baby. Go away!”
Gabriel left. Her words, “Creepy weirdo!” following him out. The fourth sulky teen he’d asked and so far no joy. Literally.
“Be not afraid, Hannah…”
“Go away!”
“Be not afraid, Rachael…”
“Stuff off!”
Gabriel checked the list. The next one was engaged already. This was so not going to go well…
Leo made another coffee and put it on the table. It wasn’t too many minutes before Frank appeared with two boxes of groceries looking like child’s toys in his huge hands. He put them down on the worktop and turned in time to receive an enormous cat in his arms.
‘Hello you soppy old bastard’ he said conversationally before giving the cat a perfunctory stroke and dropping it onto a cushion on the floor. ‘Sorry about him. But nobody wanted.’
‘That’s all right’ Leo laughed. ‘It’s a him is it?’
‘Neutered but still most definitely a him.’
Leo looked at what appeared to be a sack of fur and fat. ‘Maybe just as well he can’t procreate, although I do have a certain amount of fellow feeling.’
Mike grinned, Ro studied her shoes, and Frank looked just plain puzzled. Leo took pity on him.
‘Ten years ago I was diagnosed with testicular cancer. They caught it in time, but I lost one of the boys. It took some getting my head around, but it’s OK now. And I find I can even talk about it.’
Frank looked shrewdly at him for a long moment.
‘How much did it cost you to say that?’
‘Not a lot. But it’s taken a lot of time and patience on other people’s part to get me to that point.’
‘Mostly Mike’ Ro said quietly. ‘And I never thought I’d see this day.’
Leo smiled at her. ‘Not mostly Mike. All Mike. Without her I don’t know if I’d have ever.’
Mike shifted uneasily in her chair. ‘OK. Enough now. I don’t think I can do emotional about this. I’m still getting my own head around the new improved Leo.’
‘Fair enough’ Frank was his usual calm self which helped.
They drunk their coffee quietly and nobody could really think what to say next. They were saved by a creeping cat, who appeared halfway up the leg of the table. Mike pointed a finger.
‘What did I say about no animals at the table.’
The fat feline slid to the floor and began ostentatiously washing himself.
‘I think he’s going to take some house-training. How much has he stolen so far?’
Ro grinned. ‘Not much. But you do got to watch him. He’s as untrustworthy as Bogg and Scrat, but a good deal more agile.’
Mike laughed until until she could scarcely breathe. ‘It’s good to be home.’
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