Making rum balls

One of my favourite songs for 2017 would have to be 'Making Pies' by Patty Griffin. There's something about the simplicity of making pies, rolling out the pastry, choosing the filling... and then everyone coming together to share a big pie. You can't have a song about pies! - a certain little person said to me. To be fair, I had been playing it a lot. It's not difficult to tell from my blog that I like Patty Griffin. She has a beautiful voice but it's often the lyrics that drawn me in. This song particularly resonates with me and what it's really about -  families.

So if I was to write a song about my own family, it would have to be called 'Making Rum Balls'. It's the first thing I can really recall making - the one thing my Mum would always let me do. Even when very small I couldn't get it wrong: crush the arrowroot biscuits with a rolling pin, throw in a cup of desiccated coconut, a tin of sweetened condensed milk, cocoa powder and sultanas. And of course the dash of rum. Then a bit more for extra measure. The mix would always stick to my hands when I rolled the balls and I'd like to eat it off my fingers. I can still see the recipe book, the one with the pages that fall out. It's well used, just one recipe book out of many, but it's the one we often go back to. But I don't need it to make rum balls - I know the recipe by heart.

I don't eat them so often any more. Really only at Christmas time. My niece made them this year; we're on our second batch. We have to use a different brand of biscuits, which aren't quite the same. And it's raisins rather than sultanas. But that's okay. My nephew came up with his own twist - soaking the sultanas in rum first - which we quickly adopted. They're still our rum balls, just improved upon. After all, the best family traditions need to evolve...

And over to Patty Griffin - tonight we shall be eating Viennese Apple Pie. If I'm permitted, I might even play the song.

The Mandolin Player

Botero, 'Dancing in Columbia', 1980

Seven musicians, an overcrowded room.

A jukebox, silent in the corner. The cellist holds the rhythm

for the dancers, while the girl strums her guitar.

The mandolin player plays for her alone - though she doesn't know.

In the background a horn, clarinet, a flute and a piccolo.

Another night, another gig, another seedy cafe,
another broken heart.

Underneath exposed light bulbs and shabby red curtains,
a couple flirts. He asks her to dance and they take to the floor, 
kicking aside the cigarettes butts that litter the ground.

The cafe has the scent of oranges. Of sweat, tobacco and liquor 

and cheap perfume. He holds her close. Thinks she smells good.

Her legs graceful, his arms strong. They glide effortlessly,
fingers entwined.

The horn player blows out of key while she sings,
caressing strings with calloused fingertips,

reminding her of his touch. Her heart aches.

She envies the dancers and their wild abandon,

how their bodies move to a private tempo.

Another night, another gig, another seedy cafe,
another broken string.

Lay with me tonight, says the mandolin player
you are not alone.

 © the dishonest woman

The evil woman

The concept of the evil woman has existed... well, for a very long time. There is, of course, the garden of Eden...

Odysseus and the Sirens,
Athenian red-figure stamnos C5th B.C.,  
British Museum

Greek and Roman mythology have their share of evil women - supernatural females using their charm and beauty to lead men astray. Adding to the complexity and intrigue,  they are also hideous monsters that must be defeated. Take for example the Gorgons - three daughters born of Typhon and Echidna - Sthena, Euryale, and Medusa. With snakes for hair, they can turn men to stone simply by looking at them. And then there are the Sirens, evil women luring sailors with their beautiful song, to crash their ships on a rocky island shore.

Pandora’s Box story:
The Greek god Hephaistos creates Pandora

Pandora, the first mortal woman, was entrusted with a jar of all the world's evils and warned never to open it. This doesn't end well.

As Hesiod elaborates (590–93):

From her is the race of women and female kind:

of her is the deadly race and tribe of women who

live amongst mortal men to their great trouble,

no helpmates in hateful poverty, but only in wealth.

We are all voyeurs

Botero 'Card Players' 1991

At the bordello the game begins. Two men, one woman.

Four of hearts, five of spades, 
she places down on the table.
Tonight she will win. She has no doubt.

The men are uneasy. Captivated by her beauty,
yet bewildered by her charm.

The room stinks of stale booze and tobacco.

Cigarettes burn in an ashtray, now forgotten.
The man under the brown hat watches her,
nervous. Aware of the card, concealed away.

The other man places a card face down.

Each know the rules.

A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling, naked.
The woman has nothing to hide.
 Her hand, with blood red fingernails, holds her cards.

 Her whiskey remains untouched, her head clear.

While the men are thirsty. Desiring more.
They all look the same, she is thinking.

From across the table, she holds his stare. 
Although silent, her eyes reveal all. She knows.
He feels the edge of the card, underneath his rear.
This evening has not gone as he'd hoped.
By the doorway, another watches. Ready.
The men await her next move.

We are all voyeurs.

 © the dishonest woman

In search of a peacock

By Antoine Helbert from 'Hybrides'

I have a character who appears in a peacock costume at a pivotal scene in my novel. A grand entry to capture the attention of the gathered crowd - a masked figure at a masquerade ball to draw gasps from all around. A tall order given the room is full of guests who also want to make an impression. Sounded like a great idea when it was suggested at my writers group. But how do you bring the concept of such a costume to life without it seeming kitsch, brash or just plain tacky? 

I needed inspiration so set about finding the perfect man peacock. It took time and a lot of searching through 'sexy' peacock lingerie and comical onesies but thanks for Antoine Helbert, I found him. The idea of paint gave it another dimension, blending the costume into skin so that they almost become one. And the colour, a shade of blue that glistens and shimmers. 

At 12 weeks

You have:

shredded paper towel all over the kitchen floor,

chewed a hole in a sock,

swallowed my biscuit - whole,

gobbled down a sausage when no one was looking,

taken a bite from my sandwich,

pulled the stuffing out from your bedding,

gnawed at the bottom of trousers,

nibbled cables and nipped at ankles.

You have:

brought out a smile when you

ran through the autumn leaves,

made us laugh as you tripped over 
your oversized feet,
let us dress you in a
cute Christmas jumper,

and stole our hearts

when you fell asleep on our laps.

We couldn't love you more.

For Chimay - 5th Dec 2017

© the dishonest woman