More liberties, with Langston Hughes.

Dear Rennie,

Notting Hill Old Boy

Big Sur is where I’d go mad, if that was how it had to be. Big Sur is almost like a madness, in and of itself. These were the two things that I was thinking, listening to the boom of the surf through a hole in a wall of rock, surrounded by the arthritic gnarls of a wind-bent evergreen, cold sand between my toes, the sense that I was being watched by something somewhere putting little cold hands between my shoulder blades as I sat on a sea-thigh of driftwood. Fog and spice. Sea-sharpness and deep green breath. Full-bladdered tangles of kelp, spelling things out in the sand in a language only for the natives to know and understand. Big Sur, I thought, was…

In addition to the longer-format essays, here at the FG we have been collecting recipes from our favorite literary works to be featured as companions to the Edible Fellowship series.

Bond returns, has doubts about the nature of proper attire for meeting arms manufacturers, caloric weight of cigars, booze.

The illustrated partial companion to Ms. Webb’s Cocktailarium.

There are sandwiches, and then, oh friends, there are sandwiches. This is one of the latter. The Farmer General recommends having one’s significant other throw one a surprise party with at least ten guests in order to do justice to this feat of bread engineering.

Dear Diary,

Moneypenny’s been kind enough to allow me to keep this document in that strange pop-up vanity of hers (I’m fairly certain that she thinks I’m not aware of it, however, where is a gentleman to turn when he’s in need of fresh pancake, if not his secretary’s makeup drawer? I ask you). M has demanded that I keep a food diary for Staff Health Initiative Two. Bother. I tried to interest him in my black book instead, but, he muttered something about sciatica and turned to his bank of multi-colored phones for comfort.

Dear Rennie,

As wedding season rapidly approaches, I find myself performing as a bridesmaid at no fewer than five events this summer. I have no desire to have my Aunt Lorna point out, again, that whole ‘always a bridesmaid’ business because frankly, I’d rather be sampling the delights of the field than allying myself with one single bull, as it were. So. If I’m doing the seating chart, how can I arrange things to suit my needs? Isn’t there some sort of hierarchy I could rely on to sort the swains? I’m sick of jordan almonds. I’m ready for filet.

Yours truly,

Bridesmaid In Northern Grand Oaks

I am a word person.  As far back as I can remember I have derived an immense amount of enjoyment and amusement from taking a word, bending it and folding it, and then trying to stick it somewhere interesting.