Okay, so technically that’s tomorrow, and it’s Friday, so this post is supposed to be all about the Flash. I’ll get there, really. But I just have to say this: December 1 is World Condom Day.
Actually, it’s World AIDS Day—but, really, what better day to celebrate the rubber? Go make interesting water balloons! See if you really can fit one over a watermelon. Protect your local obelisk.
Buy a sampler pack or a condom you haven’t tried before and do some consumer testing! (The French company King of the Condom is offering a lifetime discount for customers who make condom purchases on 1 Dec. I’m sure other condom companies are observing the day, too.) Give condoms to people who may not be buying them for themselves. Decorate a Safe Solstice Tree.
Buy an e-book that includes safe sex. (Ahem. Reach Out and Touch Someone, happily, includes safe hot sex.
Share your positive condom memories. And if you don’t have any, go make some, then come back and share!
My Flash today is, appropriately, a condom scene. It won’t appear in precisely this form in the Valentine’s Day piece (AMP, para romance, details later, I’m racing the clock for NaNo!), but I had fun writing this bit, so someone should get a chance to read it, right? As usual, after the jump. And this one gets an adult content warning, I think.
Sam strained to reach the bedside table, unwilling to leave Val’s embrace even for so short a time. Damn, but the man knew what to do with his hands! His mouth, too. But she wanted more of him than that, which meant—
“Hmm?” His lips buzzed around her nipple with the sound, scattering her thoughts; she could not have answered if he’d held his gun to her head. But after a moment, he figured it out on his own, snapping his fingers to semaphore oh-I-forgot like some post-modern mime.
She mimed a pout in her turn and propped herself up on her elbows to watch his retreat. The soft sounds of rummaging reached her ears, and she called out, “Bring it in.”
He stuck his head through the doorway, hands so deep in his pant pockets he looked like he was trying to wear them for a shirt. “Say that again?”
“I want to put the condom on you. If that’s all right.”
His face went all circles: eyes, mouth, even nostrils wide. His cock bumped his belly, the soft slapping sound loud in the stillness. Was he even breathing? Damn, but the man could focus! After a long moment’s staring, he nodded and ducked out of view again, returning with his hands full of bright foil rectangles that he scattered over her body like rose petals. A dozen of them, at least.
“Ambitious much?”
Val shrugged. “Prepared. Once a Boy Scout and all that...what are you smiling at?”
“Just imagining you in one of those cute Scout uniforms.” She giggled as he looked down at his own naked form. “Don’t worry, Boy Scout, I like you this way, too. In fact,” reaching out, she wrapped her hand around his shaft and tugged, gently, until he stepped forward, “why don’t we see if I can earn a badge?”
“Yes, please.” He arranged himself at her direction, head on the pillow, hands beneath his head, legs wide enough for her to kneel between.
She simply looked awhile, anticipating.
Cool packaging soothed Sam’s fingertips as she ran the squares through her hands, sorting, shuffling, finally choosing one. It had red lettering she couldn’t be bothered to read and a deep tear-here notch at one corner. The condom, when she freed it, gleamed pearl-white in its coil.
It reminded her of her dream. “I love the smell of latex in the morning,” she muttered.
“Really?” Val purred. “That’s good to know.”
Sam bit her tongue. Surely she hadn’t always spoken every single thought out loud?!
“I like it.”
Which meant that last thought had been audible, too. Oh, well. “Maybe if I don’t think?”
“Darlin’, you just do...whatever you want to do.”
Sam wasn’t going to ask him how far that offer went. She wasn’t going to think about it, even. Not now, at least. No, now she was going to do what she’d been wishing to do since she’d seen him. She leaned forward to taste him, just a quick lick. Just like her dream, that sound, the taste, the feel. And the way he jumped when she blew her breath across his glistening skin... He arched up toward her caress, offering himself, and she took full advantage of his position to place the condom properly. Stretching the latex circle, she eased the circle into place.
The reservoir tip pointed upward, a cap; the condom’s ring rested just below the flare of Val’s cock, cloud-white top on a red-gold shaft. She licked a long, slow line down from the latex to the man, then wrapped her hand around him at the base.
His breath hissed out in a shaky sigh, and she could feel his pulse hammering. “Mine,” she said again. He didn’t argue this time. Slowly—so slowly—she moved her hand up the length of his cock to the latex, then down again, rolling the condom down about an inch with the downward stroke. And again, and again, until he was fully sheathed.
No excess material to rest in a thick roll, no uncovered skin. A perfect fit! And, oh, how he gleamed. What had been white was now a translucent glow, like some Hollywood special effect.
“And I’ll bet it is.”
“What it is—” he moved almost too quickly to be seen, flipped her onto the bed so fast her head spun, “is my turn.”
Friday, November 30, 2007
Friday (News) Flash: It’s World Condom Day
Friday, November 23, 2007
Friday Flash: Graham's Coffin
Day after Thanksgiving, I figured I had to have a holiday-themed piece. So I checked, and...I do, but then again, I don’t. Here’s a thousand or so words from a piece I daren’t submit—it’s borderline horror, and I have strange luck when it comes to horror fic. While it sells, it never, never, NEVER appears in digital or print. Editors leave before contracts can be signed, venues fold, sites go dark...
It’s enough to make a sea lily superstitious!
Still, submitting isn’t the whole of writing, and I thought the 10,000 calorie dinner deserved to have some horror written about it. You’re probably full, so here’s just a taste of “Graham’s Coffin”
pxj
Pierre’s mind wandered, though his hands were busy freeing pomegranate jewels from their botanical wrapping. He thought as he worked of his love: of her slow soft smile, the curves she hid so often beneath fabric like a shroud, tender flesh in hues only Nature herself could paint. Ruby gleamed beneath his gaze, revealed only after his long effort. One perfect jewel he slipped between his teeth, firm careful bite releasing a sharp burst of pleasure so different from the everyday.
Fitting, for this was not just any day.
He’d plotted this so carefully. A myriad of foods lay waiting, soft blushing apricots approved and readied; walnuts all shelled, nutmeats holding their promises deep within their wrinkles; gold-skinned shallots, their shape oddly evocative of his love’s breasts, ready to be denuded by quick flicks of his blade.
Washing crimson from his hands, he checked the time.
A cup of tea, then; give the body time to lose its chill. He made tea properly; loose leaves, scalded-out pot, the works. Memories of her: “Wait! You just boiled that water, and you’re throwing it out?” But she’d changed her tune when she tasted the brew. Her first time, that. And theirs.
Pierre’s hands were steady as he sipped his tea, but he felt that they should shake. No man should be so happy and still calm. Shaking should be the least of it! Better, though, that his hands not quiver; his knives were sharp, and there was much yet to do.
The goose had been blanched and buttered two days before, resting since. He’d thought of her as he’d bathed the bird and trimmed it, slipped his hands beneath its skin. Would he ever be so close to her as this? And now it was time, time to see if he could free its promise—if it would become all it could be, in his hands.
He rinsed the cup, turned to the bird. To his tools and ingredients, his accomplices in this.
Ribs firm and distinct to his fingers? Yes: the celery was fresh and crisp. He chopped it, machine-gun sound an echo of his speeding heart. Brilliant green apples wept easily as he cut out their hearts with a twist, then made artistic shapes of what was left. Blood oranges lived up to their sanguine name when he quartered them, sweet-tart scented blood staining the air. The shallots yielded last, their flimsy wrappers falling away to reveal creamy flesh.
He bathed them all in Madiera, tossed them gently, let them slip through his fingers once—twice, again—all languorous, lingering. Tenderly, then, he spooned the filling into its destined home; no pie-coffin this, but a richer bed by far. A bouquet of lemon verbena and thyme and flat-leafed parsley became a brush with which he painted shallot-butter over the body.
(Brief flash of him using such a bouquet to stroke the skin in the fold of her elbow, the crook of her knee, the nape of her neck. “Am I to be cooked, then?” she’d asked him. “No, just eaten,” he’d replied.)
The goose lay cushioned on a bed of herbs, a sacrifice waiting for the fire. Gently, he slid the pan home, glorying in the untender embrace of the oven’s heat. So his love’s body could sometimes be, hot as a furnace beneath the satin skin. Hot enough to cook on, and he’d gladly lie atop her until he was well done.
A nice line—he’d need to share it. Over their meal.
Recalled to the moment, he surveyed the wreck his kitchen had become. There were sides yet to prepare, but he needed room to work. He swept the counter clear of vegetable detritus, thinking all the while of the last time she’d been seated there. “Why aren’t you a chef? You’re good enough to be.”
“I don’t like to cook for strangers. My passion is in my dishes, you see.”
She’d looked him up and down and laughed, low, satisfied. “I do indeed. A man of taste.” It was the first time she’d opened herself to him. Tart and sweet and salty, a perfect taste. He’d nibbled as much as he’d licked, as had she. On the foods he offered, and on him. Late that night, on the two at once.
He scrubbed his hands clean of every speck of dirt, then gently washed tiny potatoes with their baby-pink skins—and, laughing, indulged himself in whimsy, and cut them into stars and crosses, imagining her giggles as he worked. Would she shed her layers for him, let him see her as she was?
Would she, could she, see him beneath his? Back to the cleaning. Counters. Vegetables. Himself. (Don’t forget behind the ears! She liked to nuzzle there. And other places, too...)
Tender baby spinach, washed and patted dry. He wondered if it was, perhaps, too much. But his love was a woman with no fear of calories, and he wanted to give her the full experience. And she had, once, said something about iron. So a few handfuls of spinach went toward the salad, a few more to sauté.
He made biscuits, to while away the time while the goose cooked, dividing his dough in two and setting one half aside. The other he mixed with fine-chopped herbs, the same ones he’d used in the goose, lemon verbena and thyme and flat-leafed parsley. Some of the remaining shallot butter, too, he stirred in. The goose was far enough along to have begun to shed its fat; he drew some off and rendered it, using that to grease his biscuit tin, and smiling at her prophesied reaction.
They do say that the smell of fresh-baked bread is an aphrodisiac. And never more so than to her!
Minutes before she was due to arrive, he put the finishing touches on his dishes, draining those things set to crisp, mixing his gravy, dressing the salad with which they’d begin. Opening a bottle of wine. His breath was shallow, nerves, excitement. His ears pricked for the sound of the door.
She came in, all smiles, eyes bright and eager. Moved into his arms with flattering haste. “You smell delicious,” she whispered, and kissed him.
Her mouth tasted of wheat and wine. At first.
...
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving. Also known as “Turkey Day,” though my own celebrations tend not to feature that particular food. I prefer the more formal name, not just because I’m not much for that native fowl, but because I do have things to be thankful for, and it’s sometimes nice to be reminded of that.
I’m thankful for e-books, that let me indulge my fiction addiction without giving myself hernias. I’m thankful for the publishers that offer me so much variety; for the authors who spin such delightful worlds; for the readers who appreciate my own odd fantasies.
I’m thankful to Gutenberg, Edison, Tesla, and a host of other inventors known and unknown for making this world and this time such a technologically awesome place to be. I’m thankful for friends and family (yes, even the ones I’m avoiding long enough to write this).
I’m thankful to Nature for creating diverse wonders like pecans, cranberries, and Ethiopian Sidamo coffee. And, I guess, even turkey. I’m extremely grateful for the sunshine currently beaming down upon me. For my e-Garret, whence I shall soon return, and for NaNo, that provides me with an excuse to escape the surfeit of congeniality.
Most of all, I’m thankful for a life filled with choices and chances and freedoms. And fantasies that can sometimes become reality. And can sometimes become books that others can read.
Happy Thanksgiving!
pxj
Friday, November 16, 2007
Friday Flash: House of Cries
Friday Flash Fiction time. Not sure this needs any explanation, but in case you were wondering, The House of Pies (Houston, TX) used to be a notorious late-night pick-up joint for men seeking men. Still might be, for all I know; I haven't been there in years. And, yes, the pies were pretty good.
Story after the jump.
"House of Cries"
I am not gay. Let's just get that straight. Have a girlfriend and everything. Sure, the House of Pies caters to a swishy late-night crowd, but I go there for the food. Fact I'm there in the middle of the night with all the cruisers is just 'cause that's when I get cravings for sweets.
I'm not gay. Just hungry. And happy as a lark now, mouth full of berries. But then there's this commotion from over in one of the booths. A bunch of gays, all prettified and whatnot. Regulars; I see them here a lot. There's this one guy, dark hair and incredible blue eyes, really attractive--I mean, I guess women would like his looks, and fags. He's kind of on display, everyone else leaned in around him as he talks. Can't hear every word from here, but I catch enough. Blue Eyes is talking about what he did last night. Seems he got spanked.
Man, I knew they were sick!
But he can talk. "The bear pulled me over his leg and went to town. Slapped so fast the echoes crashed together, but I felt each and every one. I shouted and cursed and even cried a little, but he didn't react at all, just bam-bam-bam until he was done. Didn't matter how I struggled or kicked, he was a rock. When he finished..." His voice goes soft and I lean over my plate trying to hear. "--when he was done, he rolled me off his leg. And the second my hot ass hit the cold floor, I spurted. All over everything."
"What was it like? What did it feel like?" I don't know if that's one voice or more. Hell, it almost might have been me, because I really do want to ask. Not that I'm excited by the idea, but... No need to go down that road; I'm just listening to a story.
Blue Eyes is thinking, his eyes and his mouth all soft, post-orgasmic. "It was incredible. You know how it is when you're taking a really firm top, and he's slamming into you, and you feel all those muscles pressing down on your own, molding you..." His sigh calls echoes from his crew. "It was like that, sort of, only more. His body held me in place, all hot and solid like a lover, and when he spanked me...my whole body shook. Hell, you know there aren't any words! Describe cumming to a virgin."
Laughter and chatter meld into noise, clattering utensils and calls for the waiter obscuring what else might be said. But I've heard enough to wonder. Spanking. That's even weirder than two guys.
I order another piece of pie. Try not to think about what I've heard, wonder what that cute (to women, I mean) guy got out of it, being spanked. And questions spool in my head: were they naked? Was his cock rubbing between his stomach and the big man's thigh? It must have been Blue Eyes' first time, the way he talked. So how did he find this spanker? Was it for fun, had money changed hands, how do people go about setting up such a thing?
"Are you going back?"
"Three days," Blue Eyes sighs. "It's their rules."
"What?" "I don't get it." "Why?" "Spill!" I almost choke on my coffee myself, so I understand why his crew's gotten so loud. "Pax," he says, "let me get a refill and then I. Will. Tell. All." He could be an actor with that face, that voice. Girls would go mad over him.
Not just girls.
My plate's empty, but I'm not going anywhere. When the waiter comes by, I accept a refill I don't want, just so I can sit here. Wait. Listen.
"It's a very...disciplined...set-up," he says, and there's something in his voice in that one word that makes my skin crawl. "Lots of ritual. Once you step through that door, you're committed. And once you've left, you don't get in again until they say. The door-keeper told me the rules, and one of them is that you don't so much as knock until the appointed time. And if you forfeit your invitation, you're out. No second chances."
"Invitation?" the chorus comes.
That intimate low laugh again. "Invitation," he confirms, "and, oh!, very mysterious it was. A card with an address and the offer. I almost didn't go--it's a dangerous world, you know--but there are details to be had if you know who to ask. And how."
"On your knees?"
"With your mouth full!"
My head's spinning. Think I ate too much, my stomach's in knots. And my bladder's shouting to be emptied. Time to get out of here; my girlfriend's probably wondering where I am. Or worse, she knows I'm here at "The House of Guys." I don't have the strength for another round of that argument. She knows I'm not gay!
They're leaving, Blue Eyes and his fans. I hear a high, squeaky voice: "What are we going to do tonight?" He answers, "Same thing we do every night." Everyone chuckles, even the waiter standing there. Together, they recite what's obviously some sort of slogan: "Try to take the world."
Flaming much? Disgusting!
But at least the story's done, so now I can go. I flag the waiter, mime signing an invisible check. He winks at me. Just what this night needed to be perfect--not. The bathroom's in back, but I can't brave it, not tonight; there's usually some perv waiting to proposition any man who goes for a piss. Sometimes I think that's funny, but not right now.
The waiter slides the check into place and sashays away. God, why do I come here at night? If only my girlfriend could bake. My head's killing me, shooting pains behind my eyes. I can hardly see. The pie's about to make a reappearance. Fumbling some cash out of my wallet, I push back my chair.
"Your receipt," the waiter coos, pressing it into my hand. It feels thick. Another "Call Me" card, no doubt. I can't deal with it now, can't do anything but run. Outside, it's cooler, dark, and the migraine fades. I duck back into the alley to pee. That and a burp makes me feel better. Enough that I realize I've still got that stupid paper in my hand.
Why do I look at it? Why the Hell don't I just drop it to the ground? Because...because I'm curious. It's a card, all right, but it doesn't say "Call Me." It says "Come to the House of Cries." And there's a time written on it.
An hour from now.
I really should go home. My girlfriend's waiting for me...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Campaign to Save the Book...Thong?
Alternet recently included an article titled "Will Digital Books Replace Paper and Ink?"
While it was nice to see, the article itself wasn't nearly so interesting to me as the comments. Alternet readers are a diverse bunch, and commenters...well. It requires a fairly sensitive sarcasm meter and a love of the absurd--or a strong streak of intellectual masochism--to sort through the chaff of a particularly lively discussion.
Being rather passionately interested in knowing what people think of e-books, I (gasp!) braved the comment section. The expected intelligent remarks about e-reader cost and DRM cropped up, and the undeniable sensory factor, i.e., people like the way hardcopy books feel. (And smell. Giles, anyone?) As did the anticipated "when civilization collapses..." observation. Less expected, to me, were "but what will I do with all my bookmarks?" and a welcome rare query about library lending in a world of e-. (You know I had something to say about that!)
On the pro-electronic side, someone pointed out an advantage I blush to admit had never occurred to me: that a borrowed/circulating copy e-book, unlike its hardcopy equivalent, is always new. Free from underlines and coffee stains, without torn or dogeared pages, etc.
And one poster offered, following from a remark about library catalogues being largely digitized already:
The entire Library of Congress is estimated at 10 terabytes, which is $3000 worth of terabyte hard drives at Costco today.
Which makes me lust after much more storage than is currently practical in my life, because, oh! I want a whole digital library! How many terabytes would it take to download all of Fictionwise?
But I will admit the bookmark-lover had a point. I've begun to replace worn-out paperbacks with electronic copies (P.G. Hodgell most recently). And I intend to continue doing this. It might some day be possible for me to see the top of my desk, my dresser, the hall table! There's no way all my hardcopies could be replaced, but I imagine, in some dim distant future, culling the collection until it actually fits in my multitude of bookshelves.
And any spare bookmarks, book thongs, book "earrings," and the like? Maybe I'll pin them to my wall. Or donate them to a museum. Or hang them on a Solstice Tree. Hmm. Most innovative alternative uses for no-longer-needed page-markers?
I smell a contest...
pxj
Friday, November 9, 2007
Shall the Undead Rise?
Lady Aibell is closing its doors, so the psi-vamp chef Marc and his full-figured nibble are soon to be homeless once again.
Happy Friday!
***
{Sasha, a food writer for the daily paper, is at a party, on assignment.}
Tracking a waiter with a tray of divine-smelling hot mushrooms, Sasha made it to the far end of the hall, but when he disappeared into the kitchen, she had to admit defeat. At least temporarily. No other food was on offer in this part of the party, but something odd seemed to be happening. People tip-toed close to a knot of potted shrubbery, ducked through, then came away from there a few minutes later looking…enraptured. What on earth?
Excuse me while I check this out.
Sasha laughed at herself a little. Food writer, remember? When did you get the investigative reporter bug? But it was a puzzle, and she wanted to know. She wound her way very carefully around the edge of the crowd--a woman of her size quickly learned not to try to barge her way through a collection of people holding spillable things--and when she reached that plant-festooned knot, she went forward and found An angel.
A young man who might have stepped whole from a Renaissance painting: golden hair, pale wheat skin, eyes the color once reserved for Mary's cowl. The overhead lights, so bright elsewhere, seemed gentler here, caressing him. Haloing.
But hard on the heels of Sasha's first awed impression came another: Devil. They do say Lucifer was the handsomest. She blinked, looked at the blond, blinked again, and had to resist the urge to rub her eyes or curse aloud. Where the rest of the crowd looked the same from glimpse to glimpse, all polished and primped and display-model perfect, the blond changed. One moment, he was movie-star handsome, a golden boy in truth with his hair and his skin and his perfectly white teeth, eyes bluer than a summer sky and lips so deeply pink they might have been grown on a rose-bush in Heaven.
And the next, he was-- Oh, Hell and damnation. The man she'd seen at that food-show taping. The one who'd given her chills.
He smiled at her with those pink, pink lips; she looked away. From the corner of her eye, she could see him still, blond but wholly different, paler than the...mask? But no, that implied a cover and she could see through it. Veil? Cowl? Something unnatural, anyway. Horrible.
So, how, then? What? A spell? I don't believe in magic! Whatever the answer, she could see his other face so long as she didn't look straight at him, an oblique view offering the paler, uncharming face with eyes like frozen swamps, murky blue and capable of hiding anything. Swallowing her. God, I need to get out of here.
She backed away, not willing to show that man her back. Predictably, she knocked into someone. Unexpectedly, that someone didn't fall, but caught her easily. She knew the feel of those hands, even here, where he had no reason to be.
Marc.
For a moment, she was so relieved that her mind seemed to have stopped--he was there, her lovely, oddly dangerous lover, and he would protect her from the blond with the changing face. But that lasted only a moment before fury chased it away. "We talked about this. You following me." She turned her head to be able to see him and the blond both, one from each eye, shivering at the odd symmetry. But anger melted through fear, melded with it to become a cold ire like nothing she had ever known. Half surprised her breath didn't fog with the chill of her words, she went on. Softly, ever-so-seriously. "You promised you'd stop doing it!"
"I did."
"Then you lied." She wanted to shrug free of his grip, but that would mean admitting she felt his touch, the stroking caress that thrilled her even now. "Or broke your word."
"I. Did. Not."
She would have bruises, she knew, from the force of his sudden grasp, though he looked calm enough, his gaze direct, unflinching.
"Was this a test, then?" His accent thickened with every word. "My apologies for not understanding; I had not thought you that sort. If you would have me go, you need only speak the word. But," he loosed his hands, smoothed her sleeves as though trying to erase the wrinkled evidence of his touch, "there is one thing I would say to you, if you would hear it."
She could not speak, all her anger sidetracked somehow, drained away by his constant tiny caresses, by the waxing and wane of his voice. Even fear seemed muted, soothed. What did he want to say, want her to hear?
"I am not whichever man did such to you."
Ouch. "Sorry. Let's start over. Marc, hello, what a surprise. Not that it isn't always lovely to see you, but," she ground out the last words: "why are you here?"
"Not a test, then. You did not send the invitation. Merde. I am sorry, cher amie, I had thought the message from you. Someone called the restaurant." His gaze swept the room, seeking whomever had arranged this--and Sasha had an odd impression of more than eyes looking.
Her own gaze followed his when it locked; she was unsurprised to find he was staring at the potted greenery, but shocked to realize the blond was gone. Had he vanished in a puff of smoke?
If I did believe in magic... She wrapped her arm around Marc's waist, leaned into him, grateful for more than his warmth. If I did, but I don't, nor fairy tales, either. No fairy godperson sent him here. He did not appear to rescue me from the evil wizard, I am not some damsel locked in a tower, and falling into his arms is so not in the plan.
I'd crush him. There was no humor in the thought--there never was--but this time, it wasn't as certain as usual. She remembered the ease with which he'd caught her moments earlier. And that odd feel she'd had, once or twice, that he was hiding his strength. The way he'd pulled her onto his body, that night... Yeah, he's built well, but he's still just a man. And I'm two women, as far as size goes. Two and a half, maybe.
"You're perfect," he murmured.
She looked up to find him smiling down at her.
I don't believe in magic. Or mind-reading.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Holiday Food Torment
Looks like it's that time of year again--when ostensibly sensible people do perfectly senseless things to harmless harvest-fruits and sundries, and other people pay for the results. Wreaths made of hangers and cut-up empty laundry bottles shall soon battle for shelf-space with "decorative" hollow logs framing jelly-bean Nativities, tissue-box cozies that turn Kleenex boxes into Santa Clauses, and even less defensible things.
Okay, so I admit to having created the odd Popsicle-stick reindeer when too young to know better, but is there any justification in this world for trapping perfectly innocent corn and beans in this not-a-candle thing? It's not the kitschiness I object to so much as the worse-than-uselessness, the corruption of what once was a perfectly reasonable way to store food. In the old days, when food was often stored decoratively, in pretty jars or whatever, it was still edible. Unlike this.
I have a chile ristra in my kitchen--it's pretty, and useful. Jars of loose tea invite the eye as well as the caffeine-addiction. And I have, once or twice, even given attractively packaged pantry-staples as gifts, when I've been confident such would be well received. It's tradition. Blue popcorn on the cob is always a popular holiday-party hostess gift. It's eye-catching, different. And it's food.
Not something you can say about this. This is...anti-food or something. (The not-a-candle/not-a-lamp doesn't even burn corn oil!) A fiberglass wick and some sort of porous stone, plus heat-activated fragrance oil. The glass jar is purely a base, filled with something to look pretty. What a thing to do to perfectly innocent, venerable staples. Makes my foodie heart hurt.
Of course, this is also the season when sweetened bricks are mailed to unsuspecting, undeserving recipients, and the once-noble name of fruitcake is universally maligned. May I be the first to say Bah, Humbug, everyone!?
Or, maybe not. It's also pumpkin season. And fresh cranberries and new-pressed cider are on hand, too...
Just, if you have any corn dried on the cob, could you please not destroy it? Pretty please, for me? Popcorn's a whole lot of fun cooked a cob a time! Really. And, honestly...what did those poor little steam-demons trapped in the kernels ever do to you anyway? Put them out of their misery--and reap the yummy, puffy, results. Don't keep them embalmed like this.
Christmas is supposed to be a happy time for food. Well, depending on how the gingerbread men feel about decapitation, I guess.
pxj
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