Alice’s Charlotte Russe

Alice in Wonderland - If I had a World of my o...
Alice in Wonderland – If I had a World of my own… (Photo credit: Brandon Christopher Warren)

Hello, DarlingsIt’s, Alice, shining down to deliver a weekly “delight” to your in box.  The view through Heaven’s soft as gossamer clouds is a glorious one!  Today’s weekly delight offers wisdom (from myself, Alice) and a lovely, French dessert recipe, dedicated to the young and the young at heart. First, an Alice Rule~ The young wife learns that it is impossible to live on Love, so I have chosen an economical yet lavish recipe to sustain life (and perhaps, Love). Charlotte was one of my husband Charles’ favourites ~(dessert, that is).

Charlotte Russe*

Alice’s Charlotte Russe

Soak two tablespoons of gelatin in a little cold water for fifteen minutes; dissolve with a cup of boiling water; add four tablespoons of powdered sugar; when cool strain slowly into a pint of rich cream which has been chilled and whipped to a stiff froth, stirring all the while the gelatin is being poured in.  Pat between layers and on the top of sponge cake, or turn into individual moulds. Line with lady fingers or sponge cake cut to fit the moulds.  Leave in a cold place until serving time.

Ta- dah! Enjoy and until next time, Cheerio my dears!

Alice

x

Word Press Challenge- I Remember… The Sister

Word Press~ DP Challenge

My Earliest Memory~ The SisterThe Sisters

My earliest memory is of myself as a three-year-old child awaiting the arrival of another, the sister.  Throughout the lead up to the sister’s arrival, there were comings and goings, blurred images.  There were the preparations, piles of snow-white diapers, the rosebud flannelette bedding, soft as bunny ear sleepers, and the wooden crib.  There was, the kindly German speaking housekeeper hired to manage the home, when my mother went to the hospital, the one who served the bright pink borscht soup and encouraged me to “eat up, eat up.” There was my father flitting in and out to attend to work and visit with my mother, my uncle’s cheerful, teasing presence and Grandfather Boomba’s, quiet, watchful eyes from afar.  Colouring pictures for my mother, waiting patiently for her return, watching the cherry tree from the kitchen window, its limbs bare, stalwart, anticipating winter’s coming storms.  Finally, my father arriving home, flushed and excited to share the news, Marge had a baby girl!  You have a sister, Grace. Let’s have a cigar, James! A sister.  I cannot remember much emotion surrounding the news on my part, rather I believe that I hoped that the sister would play school with me, and allow me to cart her around in a baby doll buggy. A sister.  This sister, a fragile, teensy little bit wrapped in a white knit blanket, arrived home on a cold, late fall afternoon, a winter fairy.  A sister tucked so snug, her little pink face barely visible from beneath the blanket tightly swaddled around the wee body.  The sister with such dark eyes, almost black, centered in a teensy pink face, grub like, she was so fresh to the world, a fascinating fairy child for entertainment. Immediately, I would discover that the sister, fairy child could be quite stormy, heartily screeching out, and dependent of the safety found in my mother’s arms.  The sister was establishing and asserting her unfairy like ways into our lives with amazing speed and tenacity.  In my young mind, there wasn’t anything magical about this one.

I recall a memory, a moment.  Hearing some sounds from the hatchling, I tiptoed into my parent’s bedroom to view the little sprite wriggling in the crib, her little pink fists tightly clenched into balls, limbs jerking, poking up and out from under the blanket that loosely swaddled her limbs.  The sister sounded like a restless kitten, mewing and peeping as she struggled to unwind.  My mind wondering, what if I just picked her up and carried her to the kitchen, to my mother?  I carry Betsy, the plastic wetting doll, I can carry this one.  The sister was wiggly so I quickly grasped the writhing body by the legs plucking it from the crib.  Upside down, quickly becoming agitated, hysterically frantic by the time I walked the short distance to the kitchen, the sister’s face the colour of beets. Here’s your baby, stated in a rather disgusted tone of voice.  My mother leaping from her chair, grabbing the sister and righting her body; the eyes back up toward the ceiling.

This story would resurface in conversations over the years, my mother adding in the part, she held you by the legs upside down almost damn near dropping you on your head! Luckily she didn’t! 

The sister would be fine and forgiving with this fact as she quickly learned that had she been dropped on her head, it would pale in comparison to the bumps and crashes she would later experience. The sister is a brave one, far stronger than me. I am grateful for her presence and love. My earliest memory is of a three year old awaiting the arrival of another, the sister.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/08/05/writing-challenge-remember/

A Beautiful Children’s Book

One of my favourite, serious Children’s Books is from, The New York Review Children’s Collection~ The MOUSEWIFE by RUMER GODDEN, Pictures by William Pene du Bois, published in 1951.  Pene du Bois’ whimsical pen and ink illustrations compliment the beautiful text of friendship and bittersweet love between a Mousewife and a Dove.

This is the hauntingly beautiful tale of a little Mousewife who spends her days gathering crumbs and scampering about her little world attempting to please a rather cranky and unappreciative husband.

“What more do you want?” asked her husband.  She did not know what it is she wanted, but she wanted more.”

“I think about cheese,” said her husband.

“Why don’t you think about cheese?”

That is, until an unexpected guest, a Dove arrives.  The Dove held captive in a birdcage, wishes to be free to fly once more.  While in captivity the Dove captivates the Mousewife with tales of the world outside the window, how it felt free to fly, encouraging her to dream of more, questioning the familiar life she has become accustomed to.

Reluctantly, the brave and compassionate Mousewife finally makes the decision to set her new, dear friend, free from the prison of the birdcage. In doing so she will lose the Dove’s company. Sadly, the Mousewife realizes that they travel in different worlds, and she returns to the everyday, predictable life of a mousewife, with only memories to sustain.

“The mousewife is a very old lady mouse now.  Her whiskers are gray and she cannot scamper anymore, even her running is slow.  But her great- great –grandchildren, the children of Flannelette and Flannelette’s brothers and sisters, treat her with the utmost respect.”

This is the hauntingly beautiful tale of friendship and bittersweet love between a mousewife and a dove.
This is the hauntingly beautiful tale of friendship and bittersweet love between a mousewife and a dove.

“She is a little different from them, though she looks the same.  I think she knows something they do not.”

This is a beautiful tale of love and if you haven’t read the story, you must.

A note from R.G.~

“This story is taken from one written down in her journal by Dorothy Wordsworth for her brother William, the poet.  It was quite true, but her mouse I am sorry to say, did not let the dove out of its cage.  I thought mine should, and she did.”