Digestion

The moon turned to blood, and then we sat down to dine. No savoury, sinewy hare stewed in port and cinnamon. No starchy goodness, no citrus-and-currant mess soaked in the perinephritic fat of swine who fortuitously looked the other way at the very last moment.

No. It was pie for us. Pie pie. The rancid steaming flesh of dung-eating prairie magpie in a pastry crust of the most exquisite delicacy and flakiness. The contrast very nearly made me faint.

Then the dancing. The antic postures by La Ghoone. The striking athletic poses by Master B. Followed by Delicate's sombre morality play on the desperate lunacy of the Contemporary Arts Scene.

We went to bed well after the light broke, late on the first day of the Sun's return.

I've only just got up. HA!

Delicate's Brechtian Masterpiece: Rehearsals begin ...

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Two more days until Halibut's Solsticial Feast.

Sealed with seven seals

This morning I found a scroll of rolled-up parchment pushed through the grate of my cave. It was addressed to "Flétan en papillote" in pencil, in handwriting that looked suspiciously like Delicate's.

I must say that my black heart leapt skywards when I saw this. Éditions Flétan has not been giving me the comfortable extra income I expected. Although I had hoped for more work from the inestimable M. Jean au Visage-Poilu, that librettist of extraordinary sensitivity and exquisite dolorousness, I admit I would settle at the moment for some comic verse penned by an overweight, semi-alchoholic Moggie.

But the parchment had nothing on it. Not even a limerick about dust bunnies. (Do you still have that somewhere, D?) It is a mystery, or another bad joke.

Countdown to the Solstice: Casserole's On

My hare -- or a replacement -- is alive and dancing in the Park. I saw him dart from a denser, safer spruce than Badger can boast of, bounding along the surface of the snow, ending his dance on two springy hindquarters. Lovechild of lady meerkat and a boomer.

He was looking right at me, damn his eyes! It is hard to be a secret black puma in the snow. (The sun was going down. At 3:15 pm or so. But the long shadows are blue, not black.)

And damn those springy stringy quivering thighs! I'll have to marinate them for days.

No clerk to this St Nick

Today is the Feast of Saint Nicholas around the world. On the wintry prairies, however, we have an impostor materializing through doors and windows.

The real St Nick rescued little boys chopped up and pickled in brine. He saved them from the lunch table of a wicked innkeeper and restored them to unchopped boyhood, with presents. He saved little girls from dubious careers as insurance brokers by throwing coins through their father's window. He is even kind to thieves.

Above all, he gives the righteous good stuff. Usually in their shoes.

Since business has been bad, I thought I would put out the biggest clodhopper I could find. This morning, did I discover almonds, apples, spicy cake? Was there a shiny gold coin, left just for Halibut?

Had I a coal-burning stove in my cave, I might be willing to think generously about this.

Adventures in cooking

The days grow ever darker, but the arctic hares are at their brightest. From now on, they will lose steadily the acquired succulence of late fall. One has been seen near Ye Olde Badger's Cave, under the spruce. (Although adjacent pawprints of a large dog, coyote, or possibly PUMA suggest that this one may already be taken.)

I have therefore been rifling my file of recipes, with thoughts of a new sensation for my annual Solsticial Feast. Polarhasenpfeffer? Saddle of Blanched Hare Vigneronne? Jugged Puss?

Hmm. Therein lies the rub. Everytime I catch a glimpse of the witless stare of Lepus arcticus, I think of G & B and how awful they would taste.

I am fine with that but have no brain.

I have no brain but am fine with that.