It was an enjoyable process, which she details in her blog quite thoroughly.

This is a prime example of why I enjoy sharing my life with someone who is also creative: we can have fun together building something that we each can enjoy. While it is nice for each member of a relationship to have “their own thing”, it is also nice to be able to bond over a shared project.

First is that I prefer writing to drawing overall.

Second is that I’m not very good at it. Yes, I’m close to competent, but I’m no where near as good as I’d like to be. That said, practice is my best recourse. While I’ll never be a Nick Prymak, I like to try. That said, let’s get on to today’s specimen (warning, naked Elder God ahead):

It is our good friend Cthulhu, awake and walking about as nature intended. Yes, he has squiddly diddlies; no, I couldn’t help myself. If you are of a sensitive nature, you can think of it either as a patch of seaweed, or perhaps a stylish merkin.

I also decided to play around with my cursive writing. I hadn’t written in straight-up cursive since eighth or ninth grade, then suddenly, I find myself writing in cursive once in a while. My handwriting has improved greatly from what it was, but I think it still looks kind of childish.Since cursive has fallen into near-disuse, I like to think that in 30 years, it will be like some secret language that only old people can read and write in.

Heck, even now I think of it as secret writing.

The can boasts that it contains dark chocolate, chiles, and cinnamon. When I cracked open the canister, I was skeptical at best: I smelled cocoa powder, but where were the spicy notes? I poked around at the mix and was surprised to find whole chocolate chips. I raised an eyebrow, shrugged my shoulders, and followed the directions on the can, adding slightly less than what the instructions called for.

Whisking the powder into the steaming, hot milk, I was delighted with the chocolate aroma. I poured it into a mug, snapped the above picture, and took a sip.

Warm and delightful.

A smooth, chocolate taste, followed by a warm spice in the back of the throat. To me, that is where pleasant spicy foods reside. When spicy food burns off your tongue, I find it less enjoyable. This was a mild, yet assertive spice. Perfect for the seven-degree (F) winter night. The cinnamon resided in the aftertaste. It hung around in my mouth like that friend that asks you if you need help cleaning up after everyone else left the party.

It was a delightful cup of adventure, and particularly enjoyable with ginger snaps. I’d love to have some with a few Ultimate Ginger Cookies, but with my wife ill, I wasn’t about to bake-up a batch by myself for myself.

I would heartily recommend a cup of Xocalatl Drinking Chocolate to anyone that enjoys a slightly different cup of hot chocolate, but doesn’t want to make up a mix by themselves.

Additionally, for those that were wondering, this was my favorite of the spicy chocolate bars my Mother-In-Law spoiled me with.

The Garden was a small bistro tucked away on a side street off of a side street and obscured by a sprawling decorative garden. At night, it was a favourite of would-be Bohemians that were born about five decades too late. August walked in, wearing grey trousers and a black corduroy jacket. He took off his driving cap and ran his fingers through his tangled curls. Even though it wasn’t a very fancy place, August felt uncomfortable. He was supposed to meet Prabha; he checked his pocket watch and saw that she was running ten minutes late.

August noticed a girl with a forced smile staring at him. She was the hostess and she stood behind a black podium with a menu in her hand.

“Just one?” she asked.

August felt anxious. He wondered if Prabha was going to show up and wished that he brought his cell phone with him. As much as he hated the blasted thing, he certainly could use it.

“I’m waiting for someone.” admitted August.

“Would you like to sit at a table?” asked the hostess.

“No, I’ll wait.” said August. He didn’t want to go sit at a table just to find that Prabha wasn’t coming. Everyone in the bistro would know that he had been jilted. Just as his imagination started to run away with him, he felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Prabha.

She was wearing a sundress with a silk shawl blazoned with a bold, geometric print. Her dark hair was arranged in a long braid; August studied her sweet smile for a moment and realized he was smiling too.

“Day dreaming Mr. Rivers?” joked Prabha, coaxing August into a hug.

“A little.” said August. He didn’t want to tell Prabha that he was wondering if she had been kidnapped by Russians that were still fighting the Cold War in secret.

August and Prabha were seated by a window that looked over the street. The décor reminded August of an amalgam of the brasseries he had visited while in Paris, but there was a definite artificiality to it that he decided he wouldn’t mention. He didn’t want to seem like a world-weary traveler that looked down his nose at pedestrian establishments. Then, he considered what he should say.

“You look nice.” he offered. It seemed like a good place to start. “I like the shawl. The geometry reminds me of an inferior Elder Sign repeated. It is strikingly similar to the weaving pattern made by fisher folk of Jorvik during the fifteenth century. Some anthropologists think that it is evidence of resistance to a Deep One incursion.”

“Thanks.” said Prabha smiling. “You remind me so much of my father. It is scary.”

“I’m sorry,” said August, sinking into his seat, “I didn’t mean to.”

“No, no.” said Prabha, waving her hand. “It’s not a bad thing. It shows that you are serious about what you do. It is the same with my Father; he knows so much about so many things.”

“He’s still teaching, yes?” asked August, stretching out the conversation. Prabha’s father was an anthropologist and deeply steeped in folklore, and August was happy he hadn’t met him yet; he sounded like a very imposing man.

“Yes; he’s also taken a position at the Center For Spiritual Healing in Connecticut. Right now it is just as an advisor, but he’s planning on becoming more involved when he retires.”

The idea of retirement frightened August: paranormal investigation didn’t pay very well. While he was able to live comfortably between his freelance work and consultations, he seldom had much money left to invest in his future. He also wondered if he should bother, since his work was tending towards more and more danger.

“What are your plans?” asked Pranha. August felt like he had been clobbered with a ten pound club. He wasn’t prepared for such a serious question.

“Well, I am still trying to figure that out,” he admitted haltingly. He didn‘t want to lie or hide behind vague statements. “I never really intended to do this work. I was supposed to be a fine artist.

“I was a freshman in photography when I stumbled across my first case. I had heard about vampires and werewolves; my uncle was one of the leading journalists when the Supernaturals’ Right and Responsibilities Act was passed, so the occult had always been part of my life. When I came across real Supernaturals, I knew that I wanted to protect normal humans from their predations, and to protect the Supernaturals from unlawful persecution.”

Prabha listened intently, occasionally fidgeting with the ruby-encrusted earrings that dangled from her ears. August didn’t normally pay much attention to ears, but it occurred to him that hers were exceptionally perfect. They didn’t have any weird bumps, nor were their lobes too small or too large.

“I always knew what my path would be,” said Prabha. “as a vessel of the gods, you don’t get many choices.” She smiled awkwardly and glanced out at the street. Was she avoiding eye contact?

“What does being a vessel entail? I know that your body is essentially a channel for divine power, but what are the expectations? Do you have to,”

Remain a virgin kept trying to pull its way out of August’s mouth, but instead he said:

“make any special observances?”

“Nothing much beyond staying healthy and meditating daily.”

August restrained himself from leaping out of his chair with joy.

“However, there is something bad.,” said Prabha. Her eyes ceased wandering and she looked straight into August, who immediately felt his heart sink and rest uncomfortably in his diaphragm.

“Being what I am,” she started, “may limit my time here. No body can withstand being a vessel for very long. The longest-lived vessel grew to be sixty. The life-expectancy is only around forty.”

August’s felt like he was on the verge of tears. He didn’t know how short Prabha’s life could be; suddenly, he felt silly for wasting his morning watching cartoons, for all the mornings he wasted watching cartoons. Life was short, and not meant for wasting. The conversation was reminding August how mortal he was.

“It’s okay August.” said Prabha. She reached out with her slender hand and touched August’s softly. He felt a flitting, ticklish bolt shoot up his arm. Her touch was thrilling; it made August smile.

“None of us have much time here,” said Prabha, “and we all have choices about how we spend it. Mine has been made, and I’m happy with it.” She looked content when she said it, and August was in awe of her serene demeanor. He wished he could be as comfortable with himself as Prabha was with herself. She knew who she was and where she was going. August knew what he could do, but he had no great plan. He resolved that he would make one, and that if Prabha was in his life, she could help him make something of himself.

August felt that Prabha could bring out the best in him.

Ah, lunch. That delightful meal between early, early breakfast and late, late dinner. On Thursday, I decided to make some Buffalo Pierogi. I found the recipe in a book called Sober Celebrations and had first made it for a group of friends on a game night. By-the-by, game night for me translates to “We got together and pretended to fight dragons.”

Anyhoo, I intended to make these for a friend’s New Year’s Eve party, but my wife already made something and I started thinking we shouldn’t bring two dishes. That would be like showing off.

“Look, it’s the Thompsons and their TWO dishes. Let’s all be terribly impressed that they did so much when they didn’t have to. Show-offs.”

So, instead I decided to make them for myself and devour them while watching season five of Peep Show on Netflix. I like Mitchell and Webb, and I’d be a filthy liar if I said that David’s character Mark didn’t remind me of myself more than a bit. I had considered eating them while reading Katsuhiro Otomo’s Akira (pictured), but I didn’t want to get the pages all saucy.

So yeah, I should probably toss the recipe in here, eh?

Buffalo Pierogi with Chunky Blue Cheese Dip
From Sober Celebrations
Prep Time: 10 Minutes    Cook Time: 20 Minutes    Servings: 8

Ingredients
4 Tbs. hot sauce
2 Tbs. canola oil
2 tsp. chili powder
24 frozen pierogi

For the Dip:
2 parts blue cheese dressing
1 part sour cream
1 part crumbled blue cheese

Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Spray a baking sheet with cooking spray

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the hot sauce, oil, and chili powder. Add the pierogi and toss to coat. Place the pierogi onto the baking sheet in a single layer and bake until puffed and golden, about 20 minutes, turning them once after the first 10 minutes. Blot with paper towels, then serve on a platter along with the dip

3. For the dip, whisk together the ingredients. Chill, covered, in the fridge if not using immediately.

I made the recipe with only 12 frozen pierogi and found that the amount of sauce was ample for 12 rather than 24. When I had made it for 24 pierogi, I thought there wasn’t enough sauce. Of course, that’s all a matter of taste.

Additionally, I ate all of these by myself. It wasn’t the best decision of the day.

As you might imagine, this means 1 haiku a week for the entire year. I hope to encapsulate an event that occurred during the week in a hand-crafted haiku. As such, when I look back on Haiku 52, I’ll have a complete record of moments from 2012. So, just to get you up to speed and make sure that we’re all on the same page:

What is a haiku? Well, since you’re on the internet, it is easy enough to look up. However, I will entertain you with my own definition: a haiku is a form of poem that originated in Japan. The haiku follows a rigid structure composed of seventeen syllables (actually, phonetic units, but this complicates things) arranged in three lines. Haiku are typically about nature; similar short poems that are not about nature are called either zappai or senryū.

That said, I’ll give you a list of what you can expect to find as I go through Haiku 52:

• I’ll be following a 5-7-5 structure.
• I’m using the term haiku even though some of my poems may be zappai or senryū. I’ll address this difference as we go on.
• Occasionally, I’ll post what I’ve come to call a Mega-Haiku, which is a series of haiku about the same subject intended as a series of impressions about the same subject. While the individual haiku are enjoyable by themselves, taken as a whole, they provide a fuller experience.

Got it? Excellent. Moving on. Here’s this week’s haiku, which happens to be a Mega-Haiku:

New Year’s 2012

The old year is gone
Taking with it withered days;
Lengthening the past.

The new year has come,
bringing newly blossomed days,
The promised future.

Persephone used her faerie gifts to swindle the house out of the hands of a wealthy British couple that never realized that they actually sold the farm until they received a letter in the mail from the bank wondering why they were still sending mortgage payments when they no longer owned the property. Persephone was confident that the paperwork was tidy; she was pretty happy with herself and felt that she deserved a rest.

She busied herself in the kitchen, stirring a vegetable stew on the range of a blue enameled stove. As she paced the tiled floor, she paused to admire the beauty of her home. She had gotten used to living like a hobo; having a place to call home was still novel to her.

Kane stepped into the room and Persephone wondered how she could actually be related to the man. He was old, graying, and hard. She was young, vibrant, and willowy. He was the mountains in winter, and she was the fields in spring. Persephone figured most of the difference was that she was half-faerie. Her mother had been the Autumn Princess; she fell in love with Kane, seeing something in him that Persephone didn’t care to dwell on. Her mother left Persephone with Kane without reason. While faeries were notoriously capricious, Persephone had a hard time believing that her mother would simply abandon her, but she knew that it was the truth. It hurt Persephone and it hurt Kane more than he would ever say.

“Where did you get that shirt?” asked Kane brusquely. He objected to how easily things fell into Persephone’s little hands. Persephone grabbed at the hem of the over-sized, lace trimmed chemise and thought about the shop keep she charmed. She just had to smile and anything in the store was hers.

“I made it,” she lied with a gentle smile.

“Oh,” said Kane, smelling the pot of simmering vegetables. He stalked around the kitchen like a panther and sat restlessly at the table for five minutes before he left the sit in the living room where he stared at his flint-lock pistols that hung over the mantle.

Persephone knew that her father wasn’t happy, but there was precious little she could do. She couldn’t conjure werewolves for him to fight. Even if she could, it would draw unwanted attention. She considered using her magic to send him home, but she didn’t want to. While it was a little hollow, she wanted this time with her father. There was so much she wanted to ask and say, but she had no idea of how to say any of it. Instead, they went about their days in near silence.

6

Evan sat in the lunch room, separate from the crowd, a pariah. He watched the cliques and gangs as they plotted their melodramas and shook his head. A new werewolf was in custody and the packs were all trying to get the measure of the new blood. Shane, an elderly mage joked with a semi-circle of Neo-Nazis, waving his bound hands excitedly. None of it mattered. Evan knew what was really going on. Simeon was in charge, and nothing happened that Simeon didn’t will.

“Hey! Fish!” yelled a voice that sounded like it was dragged a thousand miles along a desert road. Evan looked up and acknowledged Pete Black, a self-styled prison Evangelist that never actually bothered to read the Bible. He was wearing the yellow coveralls which meant he was a biter and would have to be hooded if he was to be handled by guards.

“Yeah?” responded Evan, leaning his head on his hand.

Pete sat across from Evan and furrowed his bushy brow at the Deep One.

“You still believe in those gods of yours? After seeing all of this?” asked Pete.

“Do you still believe in your one God?” asked Evan.

The pleasantries were over. Evan knew Pete wanted something, and it wasn’t a convert.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about Simeon. I’m with you.” said Pete. “I heard you when they took you away, and I think you’re right.”

Weeks ago, Evan had been dragged to solitary. He had tried to start a fight with the red-headed guy that always got to work in the kitchen; since his talk with Simeon, none of the prisoners would acknowledge Evan. Even bashing someone’s head with a tray was enough to get noticed. The red-headed guy just kept working as the guards pulled Evan away. Evan screamed about how Simeon was controlling everyone, but no one seemed to care.

“That’s great, but what does it matter?” asked Evan.

“I know what Simeon is. I know how to beat him. That’s what you want, right? To teach him a lesson?”

Evan wanted that and more. He wanted to get control of the prison and lead an army against humanity. He wanted to bring Dagon back so he could avenge Mother Hyrda. Evan wanted to sink humanity below the waves, but he couldn’t do it alone.

“What do you want in return?” asked Evan. He glanced around, just to make sure no one was watching.

“I want his heart.’ said Pete, licking his lips.

Evan was very interested.