Posts tagged ‘DPChallenge’

A pinch of you

This week’s writing challenge is absolutely gorgeous. It asks for ‘your best recipes’ .. all the bits and pieces and quirks and foibles and loves that make you you. And while I am not writing out a recipe about me (not yet, not yet, anyway), here’s what I made up about my niece, who I totally gush over as can be seen. And I loved writing this so much, I figure there are going to be a lot more posts on this recipe theme. A lot more.

Good things come in small packages. Here’s the littlest one. This is a work in progress, so the recipe and ingredients will change over time and places and reactants and scenarios.

This small package is currently all knees and elbows, which seem about a hundred. Count multiple times until you get the figure down to two of each. Once that’s settled, look for the 2 really lovely large eyes. What these hint towards I can’t tell you, but it has been known to range from mischief, tears, smiles, wonder, absolute happiness to coyness as well. Make no mistake, there is a lot more, and, you can’t choose. You take what you get.

Next, voice. Figures, right? After the sight comes the sound. Varies from the happyish head over heels babble to the soft slop of the sucked thumb to the rare angry rageful shout. Oh and sometimes an excited scream, when objects of affection like mama and baba and mango pulp are nearby.

These major things when you mix together, you get a sweet armful of baby to cootchie coo with. No wait, you don’t get that armful of baby, ‘coz that armful pulls your hair and pushes out legs and demands to be set down, at which point those hundred knees and elbows are promptly put into motion and used to scarper away at a speed of 100 times light to act out another mischief.

The family picture

Written for the daily post challenge ( . A bit longish.

I always end up writing for it after the week’s ended. Oh well, it was fun anyway.



I remember that day with brilliant clarity. Like people remember what they were doing on the day of John F Kennedy’s murder.

There was nothing in the day itself to say how it would turn out. An uncertain sort of day it was, would lend itself to either happiness or drudgery it seemed without being too choosy about it. Bright and sunshiny it was that time, the sort that made people want to sit in the shade and sip cool drinks and do nothing else. Not for me, however. I was up and about, wanting to make the most of the sun and soak it up in my bones before the snow started.

 I was walking around to the next block but one, and there they were. Getting ready for the shot. Their first time, I thought. Heck, no one in that area ever invited the picture man over to take a picture. I had only ever seen him set up his equipment far away in the city block for the office type people. These were probably the first family pictures he was taking. I looked at them all dolled up, the little girl as pretty as a princess. She flashed a chubby smile at me most mornings, and asked me nicely how de’do? Her brother, he was the silent one. Never greeted me, or anyone, just stood by as his sister made friends with and charmed the whole world. Took on his dad I think, who mostly had a grunt or a hi for people. His wife; now that lady she passed on her charm to her daughter.

 Today she smiled at me while readying her daughter, while the little miss chattered away on how they were going to ‘make a pikkchur’ and ‘show it to eberybone in sshkool’ and how all her friends ‘aregonna wantto make a pikkchur also and aregonna askme bout my pink dress that nana gimme on krishtmash’.

 Finally the miss was ready. Her dad called her over and she skipped to him, clutched his hand, pulled her little black purse higher with the other, and gave one of those sunny smiles to her mother. The brother looked on impassively for one so young. No joy in him. He was a bit older than the girl, I’d think, but not so much so to be left joyless by the world. The mama stood up and came to my side. When I see’d her, she said the first one was just for them three, and she would go in the next one for a family picture. There is no occasion she says, they were just always wanting to get pictures made and the daddy had finally agreed.

 Well, then what else is there you are wanting to know? The picture man lined them up while the mama stood near me. He ducked behind his machine and called out to smile. Not that he needed to have bothered for who listened? The miss was already smiling, and no amount of ‘Smile Please’ would make the other two do so. Then his light bulb went off with the sound.

 Before he even straightened his posture, there was another flash and a sound like another bulb going off, only much louder. Then there were two more.

Before we could reach them, they were all down. The mama next to me keened very high and crumpled down where she was. The picture man ran for a neighbour, I ran to the little miss. She was still smiling chubbily and her pretty pink dress had a red red spot. Guess the day finally made up its mind not to go well.

 I finally git why the boy was always unhappy, why he stood away from his father in the picture. What I never git was why the daddy excluded the mama, why he wanted her to see and not be part of it. We all guessed a lot after that, but who knows a dead man’s mind?

 And that is why I can never forget that day. I can remember it as clearly as other people remember what they were doing on the day of John Kennedy’s murder.

Wodehouse on the brain

Reading Wodehouse for long continuous stretches results in the following. Beware, it is a very very long post.


A discreet cough announced the reappearance of Jeeves.

B.W.: “Pretty frightful looking coves those, eh Jeeves? They looked all broken over in tweeds and glasses. And sported hefty books. Not quite the fashion.”

J.:”Yes sir.”

I folded a meditative paper. Read more…

The life and death of a chocolate bar

Do you ever wonder about how the chocolate bar comes into existence? Its birth is a revelation for the adorers, the transformation of an obscure bean in some remote forest of the world to a smooth – or chunky, depending on which side you follow – slab of deliciousness in your hands. Bar upon bar of lovely temptingness on the shelves of the supermarket all clamouring aloud to the worshipper within you. You hover, you wait, you pick, you choose. 

You take it home, handling it carefully lest it melt, its virtue fading away without having blessed you. When the need hits you, when you want to turn to a force with the power to wipe out your blues, when you want the world and its dog to drift away into oblivion, you find a quiet corner, unwrap the shiny coverings and bite into the oozy goodness, never mind the sticky fingers and the messy prints on your face – what God after all would not want to leave His trace on you? You see someone coming and you hide; they can pray and do penance on their own time, for this piece of heaven is too personal to share.

And then you return, regularly, unerringly, to the fold of the God you have chosen. Converts made in a day, after all, need more than just a fiery speech. They have to be wooed and wheedled each time.

The naysayers and the nonbelievers will scoff at your imagery.  They see only an edible product going into a whizzing, shining, steel machine and coming out a liquid mess, brown or white or any shade in between, to be molded and shaped and eaten at will.

Let them scoff. If you had a life so short, wouldn’t you want it to be as sweet?


P.S. Inspired by

Thinking about the Bourneville tagline and the Dairy Milk adverts helped this along.