Dutch Pancake – Flash Fiction

Updated 4/26/15, for Sunday breakfast

Updated 4/26/15, for Sunday breakfast

“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water, beer….” Phil trailed off as he watched Emma inspect his bookshelf.

“You drink tea?” she asked as she looked back at him over her shoulder.

He shrugged.  “Sometimes.”

“I’d love some coffee,” Emma answered and pulled out a book with a red spine.  “Do you happen to have eggs, milk, flour, and a skillet?” she asked as if inspired by something.

“Uh…. What?” Phil stared at her dumbfounded as he pulled coffee from the freezer.

“Do you have all of those things?” Emma asked again, enunciating each word carefully as if he was a child.

“Yeah. I do. Why?”

“Excellent.  How long does your coffee take to make?”  Then she noticed he had set out a stove-top percolator.  “Oh, at least fifteen minutes, yes?”

“Um. Yes.”  She was worrying him a bit with her cavalier manner and random questions.

“Good. Pull out the skillet and let me work.”  She seemed all business as she pushed up her sleeves, metaphorically since she was wearing a sleeveless top over tan chinos.

He fixed the coffee, putting it on his gas range to perk while he watched her rummage in his fridge pulling out eggs, milk and butter. Then she was pulling out bowls, a whisk and mixing flour and sugar while beating eggs and milk in another bowl. The butter went into the skillet which in turn ended up in the oven turned up high.

She found his small bottle of vanilla hiding amongst the salt and pepper in his ‘spice’ cabinet.  He ignored her muttered comment about ‘men and their lack of proper cooking spices’.  He was rather mystified by her mixing.

When everything was combined, she yanked the skillet out of the oven and poured the batter into the pan, popped it back into the oven and set a timer.

“That’ll be ready in no time. Do you have jam or powdered sugar?” at his negative shake she frowned.  “Maple syrup?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll do.”  She rinsed everything then wandered back to his bookshelves.

She was rather a conundrum in his mind.  She worked outside most of her day in dirt and soil, but she wore diamond drop earrings.

“Just rhinestones,” she corrected.

She wore sturdy pants and a chambray sleeveless top; riding boots.  But he caught a hint of lace hiding beneath the shirt.  Why would someone getting dirty outside wear lacy lingerie underneath?

She was prim and proper with her attitude and spoke without cursing, though she did let a swear word out as she commented about something she hated.  She read naughty books but liked to write clean and elegant poetry.  She admired his Varga paintings, and liked some of his more ‘risque’ books, but she looked like she stepped out of a Norman Rockwell.  Or something that would be considered ladylike.  A study in contradiction.

She was gleeful when the timer rang and she opened the door to the oven, shielding the contents from him.  Then he was utterly surprised at the giant puffed up pastry, or whatever she had made, that was practically escaping from the pan.

“It’s a Dutch pancake,” she answered his minor shock.  She directed him to get plates and forks while she cut the pastry and the whole thing collapsed.  The doused their halves of the pancake with the fake syrup in his cupboard and carried their plates and cups of coffee out to the deck, sitting in the mid-afternoon sun overlooking the mountain lake.

His first mouthful was pure decadence. Not too rich or sweet, but oh so satisfying.  He caught her grin as she bit into a dainty bite of hers.

“I moaned, didn’t I?” he asked.

She giggled.  “You did, but I’m glad you like it.  It’s my specialty.”

“Well you do a damn fine job of it.”

“Thank you.”

“I may have to keep you around,” he said as he devoured his piece.

“I may let you,” she teased.

The thing was, he wasn’t teasing……………

Ah, flash fiction…. sometimes it comes out perfectly.  This was inspired by a recent thought and my new love of Dutch pancakes that I make almost daily for my family. There is something so magical about eggs, milk, flour, sugar and butter that puff up to something so ooey gooey yumminess.  For those interested, I highly recommend King Arthur Flour’s recipe but up the sugar. I don’t use lemon, but it’s a personal thing. I really suggest you try it.

Lemon Puff Pancake with Fresh Berries

Or try this one that I think might be better.

Dutch Baby Recipe

As of 4/26/15, I have modified the recipe using both of the links I shared and so, play around with it. You want it to climb and not sink, like my image above.  So much goodness in such a simple thing.(I should add, I do gluten free, so even better)

Kate

Hidden Green Lace – Flash Fiction

Hint of lace‘What are you doing?’ she asked as he reached out towards her. Then, ‘Ow! Why’d you pinch me?’

‘Cause you aren’t wearing green,’ he answered.

‘I am too. See?’ and she pointed at her Kelly green eyeshadow.

‘Doesn’t count,’ he said smugly.

‘Well I’m still wearing green,’ she replied with a superior look on her face.

‘Right… Sure you are.’

‘Fine. If you don’t believe me. Turn around,’ she ordered.

‘What?’

‘Turn around.’ She motioned with her hand.

He groaned but did as she ordered.

She giggled, but then she shimmied and gave a wiggle then picked up the bright green scrap of lace.

‘Okay, you can turn around.’ When he did, she held the lace in her hands. ‘See?’

His eyes were wide and he took stock of her black dress and put together appearance. ‘Where the heck was that?’

She gave him a mystifying smile. ‘Oh if only you knew,’ she teased. ‘Now turn back around.’

When he did, a quick shimmy and tug and everything was back as it should be.

‘You can turn back now.’

He did and she giggled as he eyed her up and down trying to figure out where the lace was.

‘Now don’t pinch me again.’

He grinned. ‘Yes ma’am.’

Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone. It was a gorgeous day here but not warm enough for my “Irish Princess” t-shirt. I so wanted to wear it, even if an Irishman holds more Irish in his little pinky than I have in my whole person. I actually do have a touch of Irish in me. Some great-great-great-great-great grandfather or something.  Who knows.

Enjoy the bit of flash fiction. And you can decide where the lace came from. I have my own idea, but it’s a bit naughty….

Kate

Unrequited Letters – Flash Fiction

He poured his heart and passion into the letters he wrote her. Long, romantic missives. Short, tiny notes folded into secret notes. He told her of his hopes and dreams. Of his delight in her newest dress or the remark she made as she conversed with the grocer. 

He had mounts of letters. Piled so high a slight breeze might disturb and send the snowy sheets into a cascade of drifts and eddies around his small study.

For he never sent her the letters. Always afraid of how she would respond to his devotion, he wrote letters till he died, always pining for her.

 

Letters, and specifically love letters, have been in my mind lately. I have been thinking about writing letters to lovers

Bright Star (film)

Bright Star (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

(not that I have any at this moment… and note the use of the plural. I’m laughing at that) Writing letters to friends and families. I love how John Keats and Fanny Brawne wrote letters, though that whole thing is rather tragic. We won’t go there.

 

I love letters. Have I mentioned that a time or two? *said with tongue in cheek* I’m sure you could search my posts for just letters and find all kinds.

 

I long to write a lover a love letter. Pull out my red wine ink and pen something that is romantic. And this bit of flash fiction made me think of that and unrequited love, which has hit me a time or two.

 

A World Of Worlds – Flash Fiction

She fell down through the sunshine sea. Down through the
Paradisiac Picture
bubbling water. The waves,waves,waves, down, down, down. Until

she fell through the snow lit sky of Paris. Till she landed

feet first on the frosted rooftops. Till she stood in her

bathing costume. In another world below. She looked up and saw

the sun through the ocean. So far away. Just a little pinprick

in the wintry sky. She was far away now. And to go home was

much further than just up.

This picture just grabbed me and there you have it. I feel I could run with this thought, but not sure. Who knows. Sometimes the little things are much better.

Kate

Duke du Gare and Captain Awesome – Flash Fiction

via Bing © Frans Lanting/Mint

“Mwuaahhh haa ha!” The evil villain gave a maniacal laugh as his plane soared over the jagged looking rocks.  “You will never make it out of this alive, Captain Awesome,” Duke du Gare said evilly. He glared at Captain Awesome who was tied up in a neat package near the open hatch of the plane.  

Down below were the needle-like formations of rock that could pierce a man through and through.  Duke du Gare was certain his nemesis would finally be out of his way. The do-gooder that he was.  How was the Duke to take over the world with Captain Awesome always getting in his way and stopping him?

The Duke gave Captain Awesome a little shove with his boot and the gagged Captain made a muffled cry. The Duke loved toying with his victims.  

“Die, Captain Awesome!” he shouted and shoved the Captain out of the hatch…

Dum dum dum…..  What will happen to Captain Awesome? Has the Duke won this time? Tune in next week as we continue the Amazing Adventures of Captain Awesome….

 

Ah, sometimes the best image sparks a marvelous piece of flash fiction. I was looking at the Bing picture of the day, which is Tsingy de Bemaraha, and my first thought was how a villain in all the James Bond-y type films has to tell his evil plan then do something drastic…. like throw the hero out of a plane over nasty rocks… Of course the hero always survives…. But I always love how the villain has to tell his evil plan. Mwuuaaahh ha ha!

Kate

 

 

The Waiting Game

The ticking as time moves on.

The ticking as time moves on.

The agony of waiting. Writers are always waiting on something. From plots to be figured out, to having the time to write, waiting is a big part of our lives. We wait while our story percolates for a couple months after the first draft, then we have people read it…. so another wait. then the wait for an agent or publisher to accept the manuscript. Always waiting.

I just sent off a piece of flash fiction to two literary magazines. I have one more magazine to submit to before February.

Now comes the agonizing wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Not one of my strong suits. I don’t do waiting well, and I might have a wait of four months! How does anyone deal with the wait?  I will probably be fine in a weeks as I continue to write other things and it just goes on the back burner of my mind.

When I finally got my first rejection letter, it came out of nowhere. I hadn’t been thinking about it. Needless to say, I burst into tears. It was rather embarrassing at the time. But you forget what you have done and when you have sent it in.

Which reminds me. Write down when you have sent something in ant to whom you sent your work to. Date books are really good for this. That way you won’t totally forget when you sent something in. Plus, you’ll know time frame so you know when to throw in the towel and hunt for a new place to submit your work.

So, it’s good I’ve taken the steps to send in work. I’ve been holding off because it requires research about who’s accepting and what the requirements are. And don’t get me started on each submission having different requirements. It’s enough to make you go batty. Trust me when I say to keep track of submission guidelines for each place. Because they are all different.

Kate

He Carried Her Shoes – Flash Fiction

tumblr_n9c28myQXb1rj31pmo1_500He carried her shoes. Like a true gentleman, he had slid them off her feet when she had sat down and mentioned she was tired. She hadn’t said the  no-no of the female world; “my feet hurt,” but he had still known what the problem was. Down on bended knee, like the prince in Cinderella, he had unbuckled the strap and slid the shoes off. Well, then he had been the devil himself when he had kissed her calf and skated his fingers up under her skirt.  She had giggled and tugged his hand back out. The naughty man.

Now they walked to his car, her feet padding while he carried her shoes.

Ah, men, sometimes when they are gallant…(stop, just stop, I can’t help myself tonight, because Galavant is on right now! And the words are too similar…Never mind, I’m stopping)

Whew, got to get a hold of myself. Anyways, I love this image. And flash fiction! Finally!

Kate

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas deariesMerry Christmas, readers one and all. My dearies who have held up under my very random, but Christmas inspired 25 Days of Christmas.

I hope you all have a wonderful day. I’ll be taking a few days off through the weekend to just relax a bit and hopefully write some posts for future dates. I’ve been doing these blog challenges and I love ’em, but man, they require a bit more foresight that I don’t seem to always have. Especially towards the end. I still have a Toolbox post in the works. A Writer’s Path (Ryan, I think)  knows what I mean since I commented about his blog and his toolbox… I’m rambling. Anyways, I have ideas in the works. I still need to attempt more flash fiction, but it seems to have escaped me this month. Ironically since I want to write Christmas flash fiction! I had this thought about being snowbound at Christmas, a la Hallmark-y film with the Bing wallpaper that was the other day’s…..SJMountainCabin_EN-US11195673674_1920x1080 I just have ideas I need to work on!  Now that I don’t have sewing projects, I might be able to finish or start some writing things.

So, I hope you all are having a great Christmas wherever you are. North, south, east and west.

Kate

Her Reading Room – Flash Fiction

LQ4d15U-9780She had a reading room all her own, filled with books she collected over the years. Dusty old tombs from the library book sales. Discarded books that she wanted to give a home to. Unloved books that needed the warmth of a loving soul that would give them new life.

She had new books. Crisp pages and unmarked paper. Stiff spines and smelling of glue and wood pulp.  The old books smelled of time and dust and people. The new held the smell of adventure.

She had picture books and encyclopedias. Fiction, non fiction, how to books. She had books on gardening and sewing. Books on Asian culture and mythology; Greek and Nordic mythology. Fairytales ruled a top shelf that was colorful and arranged like a child would.

Some of her shelves held neat rows of books from a series, while others were arranged by her favorites. One shelf was devoted to books she had plans to read. That shelf was getting more and more full as time went on and she visited more book sales. This book thing was an affliction in some ways.

She had her big open windows to let the gorgeous sun in with a comfortable chairs set so that whatever her mood, the light was just right for reading. The shelves themselves were big and filled one whole wall. In the back corner she had her writing desk and a big bulletin board she frequently had filled with thumbtacked pages of some idea she was writing. The cork board was always cluttered with notes and ideas.  However having the books around her and the dark corner, made writing so much more simple since she couldn’t get distracted.

An up to date sound system, with speakers that were tucked away, filled the room with music from Debussy to One Republic. It all depended on the mood. Sometimes you need a bit of pop music to read by.

And since there was nothing like having tea or coffee while reading, she always kept an electric kettle filled on a small table with cups and tea and instant coffee. Granted, most of the time her drink of choice was cold by the time she actually finished it. When one met the man of their dreams on page 150, tea became unimportant.

Yes, this room was magical, opening worlds she could only dream, or read, about visiting. Her room became the 10351141_814052365327874_232371573355012167_nTardis.

 

Okay, I was inspired by the image of the personal library, to write a bit of flash fiction about it. And as for the last line, I saw this marvelous picture and it has stuck with me. I get shivers looking at this picture.

Enjoy my rambles, dearies.

Kate