Oh, Germany.  I do so love the way you make new words by jamming existing ones together.  How else would we end up with a word like kummerspeck?  In case you hadn’t heard it before, kummerspeck translates to “grief bacon,” meaning the weight you gain from emotional overeating.  How do we not have this word in English?

Grief bacon is the theme for this month’s Let’s Lunch.  Being as the holidays are just over, I could take this as an opportunity to post a healthy recipe to address the results of the seasonally traditional overeating, emotional and otherwise, but what fun would that be?  Bacon, frankly, makes pretty great cause for grief bacon, but if I am feeling really down, I prefer to be beaten soundly about the head and shoulders with the Stick of Chocolate.  (And Scharffen Berger makes some really great chocolate chunks for just that purpose.  They are SO my favorite.)

After the jump, the brownies I want when I am In A Mood, preferably a trifle undercooked, and always chocolated to the teeth.

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It’s time for our holiday edition of Let’s Lunch!  This month’s theme is things that are both edible and decorative, and, wow, doesn’t that cover a lot of ground at this time of year?  Maybe I’m biased by my gigantic sweet tooth, but I feel like there’s nothing more decorative than a lovely plate of Christmas cookies and treats.  Or at least, it’s decorative for the ten seconds between the time that it comes out of the kitchen and the moment when all that’s left is that weird thing your crazy neighbor brought by yesterday and the painfully overbaked M&M cookies from that batch that was in the oven when your mom called.

In recent years, I’ve taken to doing caramels as a festive way to greet friends and family at this time of year.  I know that may sound intimidating for those who haven’t made candy before, but it is crazy easy if you a) do not ever walk away from the pan, and b) have an accurate candy thermometer.  I admit, this last item can be a challenge – I bought two thermometers and found that they sometimes gave me readings as much as 30 degrees apart – but assuming you get a good digital thermometer and pass that hurdle, you’re golden.

Because I continue to be obsessed with pecans around the holidays, I put together the little gems above.  Recipe after the jump!

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“The tea tray for Herself.”  The tray slid onto the table.  Marthe picked it up and sailed down the hallway to the Headmaster’s office.

“Lise.”  The Dean was struggling not to laugh.  “Thank you, Marthe.”  The Head, in full dragon mode, gave her an irritated flap of the hand.

“You want to take the students out to try their skills at an actual stone circle?”  The Head picked up a cup.  “Have you seen what Celia produced with a simple conjuration just yesterday?”

Marthe shook her head and set out a plate of cakes.  That had been ugly.

The Head, catching the movement, gestured with her cup.  “See?  A disaster in the making.”  She narrowed her eyes at the Dean in an expression meant to be terrifying.

Marthe hid a smile.  The Head might bluster, but the staff knew what sort of woman she was.  She never failed to remember their service.  Not with money or words.  It was the Dean whose easy smile accompanied their Christmas envelopes, while the Head glowered conspicuously at the students’ holly boughs and stopped just short of saying “Bah, humbug.”  But the servants’ quarters were always warm, even when ten-foot snowdrifts buried the castle doors.  A nice piece of magic, that.  And food in the servants’ kitchen stayed fresh far longer than it should have, so that no matter how late a worker dragged in, there was always a hot meal waiting.  There was never anything she’d have to stop and be thanked for, but the staff knew.

Marthe cleared away a collection of old cups onto the tray.  Was it the same in the privacy of their bedroom?  Did the Head ever say those words to him?  Or did he just know it all the same?

“I can reverse anything they do wrong, you know that.”  His voice was full of patient affection.

“Fine, then.”  Marthe heard the softened voice behind her as she closed the door.  “If you like.”

This week I’m combining prompts; Trifecta Writing Challenge asked for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word REMEMBER (verb):

The girl sat in the stone window-ledge.  She was graceful, beautiful, talented, all the gifts given to her at her birth.  She’d had plenty of time to wonder if they had been worth the cost.

Below her, the castle spread in silent grandeur.  In every room, sleepers, hardly seeming to breathe, left where they had fallen.  In the slanting autumn light, the air sparkled with dust that drifted and turned, but never hit the ground.  Not here.

She hadn’t understood at first.  Alone in the stillness, the unwaking bodies of two handmaids on the floor next to her bed, she had finally realized.  The prince hadn’t come.

At the thought, her eyes fell to the brambles surrounding the castle walls.  She saw no bleached skull, but she thought she knew what had happened all the same.  She imagined she could see the spot — just there, where the roses bloomed in dusky glory every summer.

He had died.  And then the funny thing had happened; the angry fairy’s power at last had broken.  The girl had no idea how many years had passed until then, or how many since. The cruelest joke was that it was the “kindness” of the fairy who had saved her that had kept them all trapped.  The fairy had caught the castle out of time until the prince should arrive.  And then he never did.

So here she was, still sixteen, a phantom of longing drifting through the halls, promise eternally unfulfilled.  Outside, the seasons turned.  Inside, she waited for the last spell to break.  She closed her eyes and wished that her parents had not been so eager for magical gifts, that they had let her birth go unremarked and let her take her chances with an ordinary life.   When the distant geese flew by, obedient to the dictates of time, ordinary seemed like the most extraordinary thing she could imagine.

In the courtyard below, a yellow leaf ceased its eternal circling and slipped down to touch the pavement.

This week I’m combining the Write at the Merge prompt from Write On Edge and the weekly Trifecta Writing Challenge.  Write at the Merge gave us the word “pine” and a photo of leaves falling on a deck, and Trifecta gave us the third definition of the word “phantom” (noun):

Best. Breakfast. Ever.

Welcome to the October round of Let’s Lunch!  This month’s theme is guilty pleasures.  Since around here are in the painfully, painfully brief season when fresh figs are available, I thought I’d share one of my favorite indulgences: starting the day with an opulent breakfast of fresh figs and ricotta.

I love a fancy breakfast.  Let’s be honest: despite the fact that nutritionists are constantly telling us that it’s important to eat breakfast, it’s hard to make time to actually have a real meal at that hour.  Life gets in the way.  So there’s something especially indulgent-feeling about sitting down with a real treat instead of a bowl of cereal or a breakfast bar.

I do try to eat something for breakfast.  I also try not to start my day with a big bowl of full-fat cheese.  But hey, fresh figs are worth it, don’t you think?

Figs and Ricotta with Honey

1/2 cup whole-milk ricotta
A pinch of salt
2-3 fresh figs
Freshly ground black pepper
Honey (I used orange blossom)
Fresh mint or rosemary, finely chopped

Stir a pinch of salt into the ricotta and place in a bowl.  Quarter the figs and arrange them on top of the ricotta.  Give a few grinds of pepper on top, drizzle with honey, and sprinkle with your herb of choice.  If you use rosemary, as I did, be sparing and make sure to give the leaves a light chopping first.  Mint you can use more freely.

Still hungry?  Check out the other offerings on Twitter, hashtag #LetsLunch, or below:

The Breakfast Club at Sandwich Surprise.
Shoulder Pork and Ham deconstructed at Insatiable Munchies.
Nutella Cookies at The Little Good Ride.
Halayang Ube at Asian in America.
Mars Bar Slice at Monday Morning Cooking Club.
Japanese Crisp Choco Bites at A Tiger in the Kitchen.
Homemade Biscuits and Sausage Gravy at Dreaming of Pots and Pans.
Dark Chocolate Whoopie Pies with Raspberries and Lemon-Scented Cream at Spicebox Travels.

It’s time for this month’s Let’s Lunch round!  This month’s theme is pie.  You might say that this is the perfect time of year for an apple pie recipe, headed as we are here in the Northeast straight into apple-picking season.  I have to admit, though, I never think of fruit pies when someone says “pie”; my mind immediately goes to pecan, buttermilk, fudge, and all the other delicious, nutritionally irredeemable confections of my youth.  That being so, I thought I’d bring you a straightforward favorite my grandmother used to make: chocolate pie.  This is a simple recipe — so simple it might well have come off a can label sixty years ago — but I promise, it’s 100% delicious.  There’s a reason my family keeps coming back to it decade after decade.

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The queen sat by the fire and hummed softly to her son, rocking his cradle softly.  The king, delighted by a boy, had yet disapproved of her choice.  A ridiculous name, he’d said.  Not fit for the heir to a kingdom.

And yet she’d had her way.  She always did, now.  Her father had sold her, and the king had locked her in a room full of straw and threatened to kill her, but that was over, all over.  She was the queen who had spun straw into gold, and if there had been another in that tower room, if there had been promises made, that had been before.  She was the golden queen and could do no wrong.

They burst into the room, an angry swarm of king and advisors and guards, and the imp.  The imp stood alone with uncanny grace, skin dusky, eyes only for her.  He raised his hand, and a hush fell, the kingdom’s great men choked to silence on their own choler.

“It is the third day, and your last chance.”  His voice was like smoke and forest honey.  “Can you guess my name?”

She met his eyes for a long moment, the months of waiting and knowing and powerlessness all boiling to the surface, plain on both their faces.  Then she smiled, and reached down a hand to touch her sleeping son.  “Rumleskaft.”  The king reared back as if bitten.  She could see the imp smiling out of the corner of her eye.

“You have me.”  He made a half bow.  “What is your wish?”  His golden eyes were knowing.

She gathered up the baby in her arms.  He opened his eyes sleepily, and a flash of gold showed through the brown before he gurgled happily and closed his eyes again.  “I wish to leave this place.”

A deep bow, then she was in his arms.  “As you desire.”  Rumleskaft touched the baby’s cheek, then wrapped the darkness around them and swept them silently away.

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge called for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word GRACE (noun):

Ailea stared at the door.  She knew about his vanished wives when they married, but his smile had been so sweet.  She’d trusted him and been happy.  He’d asked her to leave that one room alone; she’d agreed.

But — there was a smell coming from it.  An acrid, organic smell drifting faintly into the hallway.  And there was something seeping under the door, a thick red-black substance she was afraid to touch.  She couldn’t help wondering — what had happened to them, anyway?

She put the key in the lock and turned.

When he found her, hours later, she was still flat on her back.  There was a heart-shaped bruise on her forehead like a brand where an ornamental paperweight had hit her on the way down.

“Your mother insisted I take it all.”  He was apologetic.  “I would have trashed it, except I think her best friend is a witch, and she had a manic look at the wedding.  I’m not sure it’s safe.”  He started pulling crocheted blankets and wobbly hand-thrown urns off the pile.  “It’s the jams that get me.  At least, I think they’re jams.”

Her ankle was sticky with the horrifying ooze that turned out to have come from an overturned jar.  “Let’s not find out,” she croaked.

He made a devoutly affirmative noise and dug.  The stench was terrible.  She recognized it, now — her mother’s attempt at making handbags from home-tanned leather.  She’d tried to forget that phase.

“I’m not sure this is enough room.  We could get rid of the stuff Lakshmi left when she ran off to Ishendi.  She seems to be enjoying being a belly-dancer too much to bother sending for it.”

She sat up, finally.  “It’s fine.  We’ll shove it all back in and brick it up.”

He gave her that sweet, unassuming smile.  “Whatever you like.”

She reached out one dusty hand to touch his cheek, caress the ridiculous beard.  “I love you.”

His face was like the sunrise.  “I love you too.”

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge called for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word BRAND (noun):

3a (1) : a mark made by burning with a hot iron to attest manufacture or quality or to designate ownership 
     (2) : a printed mark made for similar purposes : trademark
b (1) : a mark put on criminals with a hot iron 
     (2) : a mark of disgrace : stigma <the brand of poverty>

So here’s another reimagined fairy tale for you.  (For the full list, click on the Fairy Tale category on the sidebar or check the Fiction page.)  Thanks for reading! 

Evadne stood behind the hulking armoire and stared as the middle-aged queen thrust something under the lowest mattress and tiptoed triumphantly out.  Evadne sighed.  What the hell kind of place was this?  The house was beautiful, a vision of architectural details without and sumptuous within, but if it hadn’t been raining, she would have gone off to sleep in a haystack.

She probably should have known from the way they’d reacted to finding out she was a princess.  The prince, it transpired, was having trouble finding a wife.  Evadne had opinions on why that was, but her attempts to indicate that it was really none of her business had gone completely unnoticed.  Neither of them seemed to grasp the fact that Evadne wouldn’t have taken the man as a gift, much less competed for him.

Evadne dropped down next to the bed and shoved an arm in to fish for whatever the queen had left.  A hard, grainy lump rolled under her fingers, and she pulled it out.  A pea.  “Seriously?”  She dropped her forehead against the preposterous tower of mattresses, where it sank in with a squish.

God, she was glad she was going home.  The weirdness out here never ended.  But her father hadn’t been born a king; he was an old campaigner, and when he’d sent her on this trip, it wasn’t to end up with an heir incapable of dealing with a lumpy mattress.  Just a few more days.  Evadne reached up, yanked the covers off into a nest on the rug, and slept like a log.

“How did you sleep?”  The queen smirked.

“Beautifully!” Evadne said, cheerily shoveling down as much breakfast as she could manage.  “Thanks for the pea, by the way.  Such a practical gift; flowers and food all at once.” She stood up and walked to the door.  “I think I’ll take it with me, if you don’t mind.”

She waved, stepped out into the sun, and smiled.  Dad always did like a garden.

This week, a return to my fairy tale retellings as inspired by the gorgeous photos of The Breakers for the Write at the Merge prompt this week.  I also worked in this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge, which called for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the work GRASP (verb):

Welcome to this month’s Let’s Lunch!  This month’s theme is vegetables, in honor of Let’s Lunch-er Joe Yonan‘s brand new cookbook, Eat Your Vegetables.  This is the perfect time of year for a cookbook celebrating produce, as farmer’s markets in this part of the country really hit their stride.  Joe’s cookbook focuses on recipes for those of us who frequently cook for one, and includes handy recommendations for reusing leftover ingredients.  Anyone who’s interested in making the most of their veggies as we head into fall should definitely check it out.

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