Thalia bashed around the kitchen without a care. She pulled out a stack of glass mixing bowls, the handheld mixer, spoons, spatulas, flour, vanilla, and sugar in all forms of sweetness — brown, crystal, and powdered. She tied her apron strings and flipped through Typist’s recipe binder. “We’ll start with pecan balls, then cut-outs followed by melting camels into the middle of pretzel rings. Where is the spritz cookie press?”
Urania sat at the island sipping coffee. Thalia dropped a bag of chocolate chips that split open and sent tiny candy mountains underneath the stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher. Calliope ran to get the broom. Henny can’t eat chocolate!
Thalia’s enthusiasm and excitement had her sipping air as if it’d soon be going out of style. “So… Let’s get baking!”
Chewing a corner of buttered toast, Urania swallowed before asking, “Have you checked to see how many eggs are in the carton? How many sticks of butter?”
“Uh… no. Isn’t that Typist’s job?” Tal asked.
“Yes… Typist does the shopping, but she didn’t know we’d be baking cookies today. Is she still asleep?” asked the Muse of Many Questions.
Typist’s voice wafted down the stairs. “I’m staying up here. I don’t even want to know what’s going on down there.”
Urania opened the refrigerator door. “As I suspected… one stick of butter and two eggs. Clean it up Thalia. We can’t bake this morning.”
“But… but… I want to. Remember when we used to frost cookies with the boy? Sprinkles, colored sugar — joy.” Tears pricked the corners of Thalia’s eyes.
Calliope intervened. “What recipe calls for one stick of butter and two eggs? Can we get started with one batch this morning? And make more when Typist has restocked the butter and eggs? C’mon… it’ll be fun.”
“Well… There is that brownie recipe,” said Nia who scanned the counter top. “… it appears we have everything we need for that.”
“And then we can eat them!” said Tal. “To energize us for more baking this afternoon?”
Somewhere between right and wrong, yes and no, lies possibility.
The Box by Lascelles Abercrombie
Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,
Around about the wondrous days of yore,
They came across a kind of box
Bound up with chains and locked with locks
And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war."
A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout
And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before.
Don't fiddle with this deadly box,Or break the chains, or pick the locks.
And please don't ever play about with war.
The children understood. Children happen to be good
And they were just as good around the time of yore.
They didn't try to pick the locksOr break into that deadly box.
They never tried to play about with war.
Mommies didn't either; sisters, aunts, grannies neither
'Cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty
In those wondrous days of yore.
Well, very much the same as now,
And not the ones to blame somehow
For opening up that deadly box of war.
But someone did. Someone battered in the lid
And spilled the insides out across the floor.
A kind of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of guns and flags
And all the tears, and horror, and death that comes with war.
It bounced right out and went bashing all about,
Bumping into everything in store.And what was sad and most unfair
Was that it didn't really seem to care
Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for.
It bumped the children mainly. And I'll tell you this quite plainly,
It bumps them every day and more, and more,
And leaves them dead, and burned, and dying
Thousands of them sick and crying.
'Cause when it bumps, it's really very sore.
Now there's a way to stop the ball. It isn't difficult at all.
All it takes is wisdom, and I'm absolutely sure
That we can get it back into the box,And bind the chains, and lock the locks.
But no one seems to want to save the children anymore.
Well, that's the way it all appears, 'cause it's been bouncing round
for years and years
In spite of all the wisdom wizzed since those wondrous days of yore
And the time they came across the box,
Bound up with chains and locked with locks,
And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war."
>> “We’ll start with pecan balls, then cut-outs followed by melting camels into the middle of pretzel rings. Where is the spritz cookie press?”
So… low on eggs and butter, but plenty of camels in the pantry? 😉😁
A seemingly dichotomous newsletter today! After further review (NFL ref) the call on the field is overruled. The answer is contained in the drawing. It’s importance underscored in “The Box.”
“Oh Death, Be Not Proud” John Donne, Holy Sonnet 10.