To read previous editions, go here.

With a belly full of pancakes and a heart full of joy, Flora strolled home from the diner beaming.  Sliding her fingers into her sewing apron pocket, she felt for the tiny jar Jackie had given her earlier that day.

“Isn’t it amazing, little one?” she whispered to the tiny butterfly egg.  “So many possibilities!  The coronation dress, your own little house in my gardens, helping Miss Tuttlesworth achieve her dream…”  She sighed.  “Can you imagine spending years working for a dreadful woman with no appreciation of your talent, only heaping abuse on you day after day and slowly sucking your talent and soul out with every vile word that drips from their lips?”

She glanced around and laughed.  “I guess I get dramatic at night,” she admitted to the tiny egg in the jar.  Lifting her shoulders in a shrug, she twirled under a street lamp.  “Who knows?  Maybe Astrid is right.  Maybe this coronation dress will help me get into the Fashion Institute of Technology!”  She didn’t bother to say out loud the practical reply in her brain: Only if they let me in for free.

She refused to let her money woes, or lack of money woes rather, ruin a beautiful evening.  As the last glimmers of summer sunshine dappled through the towering oak trees lining the sidewalk, she hummed as she strolled home, her fingertips brushing the tiny jar every few minutes as if it might disapear.

“Here we are!” she announced, ducking through a wooden gate and hurrying up a cobblestone sidewalk.  “Home sweet home!” At the end of a winding cobblestone path lay a tiny cottage, tucked away in a towering burst of blooms.  Around the small home, flowers of every shape and size were artfully scattered, lining the walls, spilling out from window boxes and tucked into pockets of green grass or under stately shade trees.  A fountain Jackie had installed last year gurgled merrily, a statue of a fairy standing impishly in the center.  Nestled amongst the blooms and bushes were tiny details: a small thatched house for toads, salt licks for deer, special grasses for nibbling bunnies and dozens of colorful birdhouses with plenty of nearby fountains for splashing and preening.

She took a deep breath and sighed.  “Smell the roses and honeysuckle?  Aren’t they grand?  Jackie outdid herself.”

“You act as if she did it alone!”

Flora gasped and whirled around.  When she spotted the crochety old man in a floppy hat and mud-stained overalls glaring at her with his own good eye, she laughed.  “Of course she couldn’t have done it without you, Mr. Grissom.”

“I taught that girl everything she knows,” the old caretaker boasted, sweeping out his arm at the lush landscape around them.  Shaking his finger at Flora, he narrowed his eyes.  “Speaking of which, you know I told you to quit coming around the back and go through the main gates of the estate.”

Flora winced.  “I know.  I just can’t seem to do it.”

“It’s not like you’re hired help,” the old caretaker pointed out.  “You own the cottage.”

“It just happens to be on the grand Nottingham estate.”  Flora toyed with the straps of her apron nervously.

“Just the back corner.”  Mr. Grissom waved his arm dismissively.  “You can’t even see the house from here.  It’s in it’s own little world.”

“Precisely why I bought it.”  Flora smiled.  “I doubt they even know I’m here!  I’m like a flea on the back of a Persian cat.”

“The Nottinghams can’t help their wealth,” Mr. Grissom said sternly, shaking his head.  “Not any more than we can help our own lack of fortune.  But for a bunch of rich folks, they’ve been very kind.  When you’ve tended someone’s land 50 years, you learn a lot about them.  And they’re good folks.”  He waggled his eyebrows.  “You know your grandmother was good friends with the old matron?”

“Nadine Nottingham and my grandmother?”  Flora snorted.  “Get real!  My grandmother was a seamstress!”

“And she created several gowns for Nottingham balls.  You know how it is with women–they gossip and such with their hair dressers and manicurists.  Why should a seamstress be any different?”

“True.”  Flora gazed at her tiny cottage.  It was small and old, the pipes creaked and the floorboards screeched, cold in the winter and sweltering int he summer, but it was hers.  And that made it perfect.  “You know, it was because of her I have this cottage.”  She turned to the old man.  “When she passed away, she left me just enough money to move out of my mother’s and buy it.”  She blushed.  “I know it’s silly, but the minute I saw it I knew she’d want me to have it.  ‘A piece of magic,’ she would have said.  ‘Like a fairy tale.”  She leaned forward and brushed her fingers against a large purple bloom.  “She liked flowers as much as I do.”

“Flowers are brief moments of beauty and goodness, gone too soon.”  The cantankerous old gardener shook his head.  “That’s why I like grass.  Pracical, green, sturdy.”

“But if all we had was grass, life would be quite dull.”  Flora snorted as the old man’s good eye bugged out in surprise.

“True.”  He tipped his hat and picked up his bucket of tools laying by his feet.  “Be careful coming in the back gate, Flora.  I worry about you back here, all alone.  I wish you’d get a roommate or something–or a husband!”

“There’s not much risk of that,” she said dryly as he tottered away.  Shaking her head, she sighed.  Romance was something she didn’t even want to consider.

Sliding her fingers into her pocket, she stroked the tiny jar.  “Let’s take you home, shall we?”

After unlocking her front door and setting her purse on the side table, she turned on a few lamps, instinctively moving through the tiny cottage.  In the glowing golden lamp light, what looked like a cramped and pathetic little space turned cozy and warm, with plush throw pillows and neat shelves boasting books and tiny knickknacks.  Moving across the polished dark wooden floorboards, she took a few steps into her bedroom and flung open the French doors.

“This is my own private little patio,” she confessed to the butterfly, stepping out onto the small space of cement.  “Every plant here is friendly for butterflies.  Jackie made sure of it.  And we’ll put your little house right here, next to the hummingbird feeder.”

Opening another door, she stepped into a small greenhouse.  Instead of flowers, tables dotted with bobbins, needles and swatches of fabric lined the small house.  Drawing the shades, she unzipped one of the bag fabric bags hanging from the wall.  “And she helped me convert this greenhouse into a little studio for my sewing–so I could be inspired, she said.”  She grinned at her apron pocket.  “Not that there was any room in my house, anyway.”  Carefully, she lifted the frothy golden dress from it’s bag.  “I made this the other day.  It’s not for anyone yet–but it might be.  It was just a dream I had.”  Pressing the dress to her front, she spun and twirled around.  Closing her eyes, she imagined bobbing and dipping across a dance floor, laughing and twirling int he arms of”–

Her eyes flew open and she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the greenhouse door.  Her large brown eyes stared back at her, framed in a puffy, plain face with far too many freckles and far too little prettiness.  Smoothing her stringy brown bob behind her ears, she hung up the dress and zipped it back up into it’s bag.

Then, one hand toying with the butterfly charm brushing against her collarbone and her other hand carefully touching the jar, she ducked back into her house, carefully ignoring her reflection.

She’d already had far too much reality.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new Comfort and Whimsy tomorrow!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

The Butterfly Dress 6

Do you want something sweet?

Do you want something with the creaminess of peanut butter and the richness of chocolate, yet the goodness of brown sugar?

Do you want something the cookie stealing bunny will drool over?

Do you want something easy and quick to make that’s going to taste like it took forever?

Then make these.

Peanut butter chocolate blondies, from this recipe from the Reece’s bag.

I really like making recipes from the back of packages.  I have no idea why.  It’s a weird thing.

You’re supposed to drizzle chocolate through these, but I didn’t have chocolate syrup, so I sprinkled chocolate and white chocolate chips on top.

I made these for the security guards at work, and they were thrilled.

Well, all except the middle.  These are hard to bake without over baking, and the middle was a little too squishy.  So beware.

But I’m also not the best at brownie making.

I’m much better at pie.  I’m the Queen of Pie.

Excuse me.  I have to go bake now.

Just beware of the cookie stealing bunny!

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new Butterfly Dress tomorrow and a new Comfort and Whimsy Saturday!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Peanut Butter Blondies

For previous editions, go here.

Not bothering to change out of her polka dotted pajama bottoms and old ratty t-shirt featuring a cartoon cat with a cursive Purrrfect underneath, Birdie jammed her feet into her tennis shoes, knotting the laces tightly.

“You up for a midnight stroll, girl?” Birdie asked.  “Or would you rather stay here?”

Stretching in the rumpled quilt, Sassy arched her back and kicked out her back legs, one by one.  Leaping off the bed, her tiny paws pattered up to Birdie and she licked her knee. Birdie leaned forward, touching her forehead to Sassy’s furry one.

“Oh Sassy,”she sighed.  “All I wanted to do was save the animals.  I never knew it would be this complicated.”

Sassy stuck her tongue up Birdie’s nose, making her giggle.  “You’re right,” she said, wiping her face and climbing to her feet.  “We’ve got way too much to do to sit around and sulk.”  Grabbing Sassy’s leash and clipping it to the harness, she started downstairs.  Suddenly, the slamming of a cabinet door made her jump.  Freezing on the step, she peered over the banister.

“Hello?” she called timidly.   “Is anyone there?”

The cabinet door slammed a second time.  Sassy growled and Birdie tensed.  “Hello?  Is anyone there?” Tentatively, she descended a few steps.  “I’ll call the cops,” she threatened.  “Show yourself!”

The kitchen door swung open, and Birdie’s mother’s head poked out.  “Oh, hello,” she said, arching her eyebrows.  “I didn’t mean to wake you, dear.”

“Mom, what are you doing here?”  A mixture of relief and annoyance flowed through her as she hurried down the steps.

“Well, we were having a midnight seance in one of the cabins, and I had this overwhelming urge to come home and make you come carob carrot cookies.”  Her yoga pants swirling around her thin knees, her mother stepped toward her and smoothed her hair back.  “Are you all right, dear?  Your aura is red and pulsing.”

Birdie didn’t know whether to laugh or roll her eyes.  “Mom, do you believe animals have a spirit?”

“Of course,” her mother said, her smooth face serene.  “All living things have a spirit.  The trees, the moon, the earth…”

“No, I mean…do you think animals and humans can ever truly understand each other?  Like do you think they can truly connect?”  Birdie took a deep breath.  “Like, almost in a magic sense?  Kind of like how the Native Americans communicated with animals, you know, took their spirits and power into them and everything.”

Leaning against the doorway, Birdie’s mother, the infamous Willow Lake, chewed on her lower lip.  “I believe every creature has a spirit, or soul, that gives them power.  How that power is used or manipulated is dependant on what that person or creature will allow or tolerate.  There are bad animals, just as there are bad people.  But I think animals and humans share a special connection that two humans and two animals can never share.  Look at you and your animals.  You heal them, save them.  In return, they make you smile and keep you company.”  Her lips stretched toward her ears in a sad smile.  “Your father and I never worried about not being able to give you a sibling because we knew you had more furry siblings than we could ever hope to compete with.”

“Really?” Birdie’s head swam.  “You never told me that.  I just assumed you never wanted kids and I was a accident.”

“Oh no, dear.”  Her mother reached out, her palm cradeling her chin.  “You were never an accident.  You were always wanted.”  A warm glow spread through Birdie, and she reached her hand up to touch her mother’s.  Sassy leaned against her leg and for a single moment, Birdie felt more at peace than she had in months.

“It’s funny, actually,” Birdie’s mother continued, her soft fingers stroking her daughter’s cheek.  “Right before I was pregnant with you, I came home and found this gray cat on our porch.  Your father never wanted much to do with animals; he’s always been into plants.  But I just couldn’t leave her–she was so thin and tiny.  So I fed her and talked to her and eventually, she began to come in the house occasionally and let me pet her.  The same time I realized I was pregnant, we realized she was pregnant as well.  She stayed with us to have her kittens, leaving soon after you were born and her kittens were old enough to be adopted by friends and family.”

Her mother paused, a single finger pulsing against Birdie’s warm cheek.  “But I never forgot looking in that cat’s eyes, knowing we were both going to be mother’s.  There was a strong connection there, one I’ve never felt since.”  She paused, her eyes boring into Birdies’.  “You have a magic with animals, Birdie.  A true gift.  Whether it’s a spirit or a connection of minds and hearts, I don’t know.  But I know when it comes to working with animals, you should never doubt yourself.  For you have a gift, a true, rare gift.”

Birdie gulped, fear clenching in her belly.  “Like Mr. Pemberely has a gift?”

Her mother shook her head.  “No.  Very different.  Mr. Pemberely is a brilliant, charming man.  But there’s such a disturbance in his aura, in his soul.  He needs a lot of yoga.  There’s a need in him that can’t be fixed, no matter how many animals he has in his shop.  You don’t have the same kind of hole.”

Letting out a sigh, Birdie’s shoulders sagged.  “I’m glad.”

Kissing her daughter’s forehead, her mother turned her by the shoulders and gently thrust her toward the stairs.  “Now why don’t you go back to bed?  I’ll make you the carob carrot cookies, and I’ll mix up some gingerbread pancake batter for the morning.”

“You’re going to stay?”  Birdie’s eyebrows shot up.  “You’re going to stay and make me breakfast?  Like, actually eat here with me?”

“If you want me to.”  Her thin, elegant mother, normally seen cooing to students as Willow Lake, yoga goddess, suddenly looked very shy and small.  “If that’s all right.”

Birdie smiled.  “That’s perfect.  Thanks, Mom.”  Running upstairs, she unclipped Sassy’s leash and kicked off her tennis shoes.  Hurrying to the window, she peered out at the black cat still sitting underneath, still as a statue.

“I’ll do it,” she whispered.  “I’ll do it.”

And then, wrapping herself in her quilt with Sassy burrowed in her back, she fell into the best sleep she’d had in weeks.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a delicious recipe tomorrow and a new Butterfly Dress story Friday!  Stay tuned!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

The Perilious Tales of the Pemberely Pet Shop 37

With you, I can go anywhere and be excited.  Even to the hardware store.

With you, I feel like a true lady instead of a little girl playing dress up in heels and her mother’s purse.

With you, I can face anything.

Except for the ostriches.  I don’t like the ostriches.

At all.

With you, it’s always time to twirl…

And with you, it’s always time to dance.

With you, I laugh so hard milk comes out of my nose and my cheeks hurt.

With you, every meal is a celebration.

With you, there’s always hot puppy breath and a warm belly to lay on.

With you, we’re a family with our Babies.

With you, I feel beautiful without makeup in old ratty shorts and pit-stained shirts.

With you, I’m always me.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new Pemberely Pet Shop manana and a new recipe Thursday, with a new Butterfly Dress Friday!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

With you…

Rosemary had a problem.

She was craving muffins.

Big, lush, pumpkin cream cheese muffins.

For most women, cravings weren’t a problem.  They could simply pop into their cars and drive wildly to the nearest bakery.  They could take a walk and chew some gum until it passed, or comfort themselves with a cookie instead.  Or if they were the industrious sort of woman, they could run to the store and rush back and bake the muffins themselves.

But unfortunately for Rosemary, on that blustery fall day, her cravings created a different reaction entirely.

It all started so innocently.

“You know what I want?”  Rosemary brushed a strand of red hair behind her ear, raising her coffee to her lips and turning to her friend Hazel.

“Chocolate.”  Hazel’s eyes glittered.  It was three o’clock on another dull work day, and time for the traditional food musing. The time when one could dream about what ever one’s heart and stomach desired, without having to worry if husbands or kids would eat it or if it would stick to their thighs for a week.

“Nope.”  Rosemary licked her lips, staring dreamily out the window.  “Guess again.”

“Pie.”  Hazel narrowed her eyes at Rosemary’s pleased expression.  “Cake.  Coffee cake.  Chocolate cake.  Chocolate pudding.  Chocolate ice cream.”

“It’s got nothing to do with chocolate, you addict!” Rosemary giggled, swatting at her friend.  “I swear, you always want chocolate.”

“What sane woman doesn’t?” Hazel countered.  “Especially on a fall afternoon like this.”

“It’s a perfect fall afternoon,” Rosemary said dreamily, staring out at the orange leaves dancing around the parking lot.  “A cool breeze, gorgeous blue sky, trees of gold and red, acorns scattering the sidewalks like little presents…”

“They’d be better presents if they were chocolate,” Hazel murmured, sipping her latte.   “So what is it?  What’s your craving?”

Rosemary paused dramatically, waiting just a fraction of a second.  “Pumpkin muffins.”

Hazel rolled her eyes.

“But not any pumpkin muffins.”  Rosemary sighed, hugging herself.  “Pumpkin cream cheese muffins, with just the right amount of spice and thickness.  So creamy, so lush, crumbling in your mouth….”  She ducked and laughed.  “You don’t have to hit me.  I know you’d prefer chocolate and cream cheese.  But I want pumpkin.  Big pumpkin, cream cheese muffins.  OW!”  She ducked away again.  “Stop!”

“I’m not doing anything!” Hazel raised her hands, bewildered.  They had been wrapped around her steaming cup, her palms still red.  “I was drinking my latte.”

“Something hit me in the head, twice.”  Rosemary frowned and turned to look behind her.  She and Hazel sucked in her breath simultaneously.

Two pumpkin muffins lay on the floor.

“Do you think…” Rosemary whispered.

Hazel shook her head.  “It can’t be.”  She glanced around the empty room, gulping.  “Someone heard us and is playing a joke.  A mean joke!”  She raised her voice, her eyes stern as they raked over the silent room.

Rosemary bent down and picked up a muffin.  Gingerly, she cracked it in half.  A large blob of white lay in the middle.  She looked up at Hazel, her eyes wide.  “I know it’s sad, but this really makes me want another one.  A whole pile of them.”  She held it up to her nose and inhaled.  “Ah, smell that!  Pure pumpkin goodness.”

Hazel started to laugh, then froze.  “Did you hear that?”

Rosemary licked her lips, a tiny bit of drool pooling at the corner of her mouth.  “I can smell it.  It smells like pumpkin cheesecake muffins!”  Laughing, she flung out her arms and spun around as pumpkin cream cheese muffins began to rain down over them.  Covering her head, Hazel glanced around her elbow.  “I can’t even tell where they’re coming from!”

“Who cares?” Rosemary crowed, grabbing fistfuls of muffins and shoving them into her mouth.  She moaned, stuffing muffin after muffin between her lips.  “Theses are so good!  Oh my God!  Have one!  Have two or three!”

“How come you get dozens of muffins and I don’t get a single thing of chocolate?” Hazel grumbled, picking up a muffin and biting into it.  She closed her eyes briefly, then inhaled the remaining muffin.  “I hate to admit it, but these are really good,” her mumbled voice said as she picked up two more muffins.

“They really are.”  Rosemary’s voice was even more garbled, her cheeks puffed out like a binging hamsters.  “Oh my God, do you know what we need with this?”

The two friends looked at each other and said in unison, “Ice cream.  Vanilla ice cream.”

Above them, the ceiling rumbled.   Glancing up tentatively through crossed arms, Hazel’s face went pale.  “Rosemary?”

“What?”  Rosemary was busy nibbling on her sixth muffin.

“Duck.”

Before Rosemary could even look up, perfect scoops of ice cream sprinkled from the ceiling, splattering against her back and crashing against the floor.   It pelted against her suit jacket, slid down her flat ironed hair and dribbled on her face.

As Hazel sputtered and went running for the nearest table, Rosemary shrieked with laugher, dipping the muffin in the ice cream dripping from her elbow.  “This is more delicious than I thought!” she cried, shoving the sopping pumpkin and cream cheese mass in her mouth.

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Hazel grumbled, glaring at the vanilla ice cream raining down around her.

As mountains of muffins, accompanied by a river of melting ice cream rose around them, Rosemary patted her bulging belly and grinned.  “I know it’s weird, but you know what would go great with this?”

Heather dove under a pile of muffins for protection, refusing to respond.

“Hamburgers,” Rosemary mused.  “With French Fries.  Or fried chicken.  Or spaghetti.”

The ceiling rumbled for a third time, and Rosemary licked her lips.

At that moment, she knew their three o’clock craving would never be the same again.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a week full of whimsical fun!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Magical Monday 8

Gasping, Carolina whirled around, her hand flying to her collarbone.  Once she recognized the stately figure in front of her, she sighed with relief.  “Grandmother, you scared me.  Oh, Grandmother!”  She flung her arms around her grandmother’s neck.  “You’re here!  You’re really here!”   She beamed.  “My birthday wish came true after all!”  Glancing around the cafe, she gave a silent thanks to the powers of Whimsy.

Standing stiffly in the circle of her granddaughter’s arms, her grandmother plucked at Carolina’s sleeve, as if to lift the offending hug away.  “Yes, dear, I am.  You, however, are not where you should be.  However did you wind up in Whimsy?” Her nose wrinkled and her voice grew nasal, as if the very word was so vile one could barely speak it without the pungent repulsiveness overcoming them.

Carolina laughed, impervious to her Grandmother’s disapproving expression.  “Well, I was sitting in the front lobby waiting for you with Evelyn and Josh, and I just got curious…”  She cocked her head.  “Where were you, anyway?  You’ve never been late to lunch.”

Her grandmother’s lips pressed into a thin line.  “I had an urgent business matter that could not be delayed.”

“Oh.”  Carolina lowered her eyes, her voice flat.  Disappointment lay heavy in her belly, like a cheap ice cream on a hot day.

“Ah, I see.”  Her grandmother shook her head.  “You thought I was off planning a surprise party or buying you a car or something for your birthday.”

Carolina flushed.  “Oh no!  Nothing that big or extravagant.  I just thought…”  She trailed off, embarrassed.  “I thought maybe, in some tiny way, you might be thinking about me,” she finished in a small voice.

Her grandmother’s eyes softened, but her voice remained stern.  “Carolina, you know my motto.  Work first, discipline second, play later.”  She patted Carolina’s cheek.  “Now, let’s get you out of this horrid place.”

“Horrid?”  Carolina glanced around, eying the crystal chandeliers, the jaunty pink wallpaper, the clear fountain where the frog band continued to play on, the unoccupied lilly pads bouncing in rhythm to the beat.    “But there’s nothing horrid about Whimsy.  Besides, we can’t leave.  We’re in the middle of my birthday party.”

“A birthday party?”  Carolina’s grandmother raised her eyebrows.  “But dear, your parents are throwing you a perfectly lovely party tonight.”

“A dinner party,” Carolina spat, her wrinkled nose looking very much like her grandmother’s had a few moments ago.  “A dinner party with people I don’t know and their stuck up kids and food I don’t like.  Do you want to know the real reason I came to Whimsy, Grandmother?”

She paused, her cheeks growing red and her eyes glittering.  “Because I realized for nearly 12 years, since I was six, I’ve been eating the same lunch every day.  I’ve been dressing in the same private school uniform and wearing my hair the way everyone says I should.  Everything has been safe and comfortable and well, dull.  And I wanted to do something grand, something special for my 18th birthday.”

She raised her chin definitely.   “And even though I’ll probably go back to my chicken tenders and macaroni and cheese and peanut butter cookies in Comfort tomorrow, at least for one day, one day I was brave enough to come to Whimsy.”  She crossed her arms and stared at her grandmother.

Carolina’s grandmother stood very still, as if she was afraid any sudden movement would send Carolina running.  Slowly she reached out and took her arm.  “It’s worse than I thought,” she whispered, her eyes wide as she glanced around.  “We must get you away from here, dear.  We must hurry, before it’s too late.”

“Leave Whimsy?”  Carolina’s voice rose.  “In the middle of my birthday party?”

“Please don’t argue with me, Carolina!” her grandmother snapped, her fingers closing around Carolina’s thin wrist like a vice. “We must hurry!  We must get you out of here before this dreadful Whimsy steals you forever!”

Carolina ripped her wrist away, rubbing the long red streaks where her grandmother’s fingers had been with her hand.  “What are you talking about?  Grandmother, you’re scaring me!”

“There you are!”  Bounding over like a half-crazed rabbit, Hibiscus Honeycutt beamed and flung her arm around Carolina’s shoulder.  “I’m amazed Josh couldn’t find you dear!  What a great spot for hide and seek!”  She looked up and her grin grew wider.  “Well, well, well.  You came back.  After you swore you never would.”

“It seems I had to,” Carolina’s grandmother snapped, her elegant face growing ugly with anger.  “You and this dreadful place lured Carolina inside, like a butterfly into a Venus flytrap!”

“Oh, please.”  Hibiscus Honeycutt snorted, her arm tightening around Carolina’s shoulders.  “She wanted to come. Unlike you, she has a sense of whimsy.”

“Don’t say that.”  Her grandmother’s gaze tightened.  “Carolina, we’re leaving.  Now.”

“But it’s her birthday party,” Hibiscus protested.  “Surely you wouldn’t make her leave her own party?  After her only birthday wish came true?”

Ignoring her, Carolina’s grandmother turned to her confused granddaughter.  “Carolina, did you eat anything here?”

“A bite of tuna salad,” Carolina replied.  “I forgot to eat the rest of my lunch…And we haven’t even tried the cake yet.  Oh the cake!  Hibiscus, we must cut the cake!”

“It’s delicious,” Hibiscus Honeycutt mumbled, brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth.  “So I hear,” she amended, glancing around guiltily.

“Then it’s not too late.”  Carolina’s grandmother’s shoulders fell, as though the relief at the news poured out through her fingertips.  “We must hurry.  Come on, Carolina!  We must leave now!”

“Grandmother, I don’t understand,” Carolina protested, twisting out of her Grandmother’s grasping fingertips.  “What scares you so much about Whimsy?  It’s the most wonderful place in the world.”

“You mean you didn’t tell her?”  Hibiscus whirled around, chortling.  “Oh that’s rich.  That’s too rich.”

“Tell me what?” Carolina demanded, as her grandmother hid her gaze.  “Grandmother, what? What’s going on?”

Carolina’s grandmother pressed her lips together, refusing to answer.  After a moment of tense silence, Hibiscus sighed.  “You see Carolina, your grandmother and I aren’t just friends.  Well, you could say we’re two halves of a whole.  Yin and yang.  Black and white.”

“I don’t understand.”  Carolina shook her head.

“I am she and she is me,” Hibiscus replied.  “In other words, we’re the same person.  Well, we were.  Once upon a time.”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a week full of whimsy coming up!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Comfort and Whimsy 13

For previous posts, go here.

Miss Tulip Tuttlesworth beamed at her student across the table at the 24 hour diner.  “I know it’s not appropriate, but I have to tell you Flora, I’m impressed by your talent.  You’re miles above the other students in Professor Skippy’s class.”

“Really?”  Flora blushed.  She wasn’t used to having two people compliment her work in one day.  “Professor Skippy is always going on about my poor finishing skills and crooked button holes…”

Miss Tuttlesworth scowled.  “Professor Skippy is the most vile person I’ve ever met in fashion.  How she got to be dean I’ll never understand.”

“She’s right, though.”  Flora sighed and played with her napkin.  “I am terrible with buttons and pockets.  I can do sequins and beading all day long, and lacework all night.  But those cargo pants from last semester….”  She shuddered.

Miss Tuttlesworth shook her head and waved her hand.  “You, my dear, are a gown designer.  You’re not made for button holes and droll things like shirt dresses and slacks.  If we needed more dresses and slacks, we can just go to a department store!”  She shook her head, her pleasantly plump face darkening.  “Don’t let her get you down.  Not like me….”  Her voice trailed off, her large brown eyes full of sorrow as she gazed at the plastic table top.

Flora’s plain face spread into a smile.  “That’s what I always thought.”  She smiled up at the waitress who came to take their order.  “I’ll have the pancakes, eggs, bacon and hashbrowns, please.  With orange juice.”

“Breakfast for dinner?  What a brilliant thought!”  Miss Tuttlesworth quickly glanced at her menu.  “Waffles please, with scrambled eggs and sausage.  And would you bring the bottle of syrup?  I’m afraid I have an incurable sweet tooth.”  She patted her large stomach and laughed.  “Obviously.  And I have no regrets about it.”  The waitress giggled, took their menus and disapeared into the back.  Flora watched as Miss Tuttlesworth added cream after cream to her coffee.

“You really don’t?”

“Really don’t what?”  Miss Tuttlesworth reached for her fourth cream.

“Feel bad about…”  Flora looked down at her own hips and blushed.

“Oh, my weight?”  Miss Tuttlesworth snorted.  “Dear, I realized a long time ago that I was born to create dresses for gorgeous creatures, not wear them.  And considering most of them live on celery and race their lives away on the treadmill, scared of even looking at a cupcake, I think I got the better end of the deal.”  She tore open three sugar packets and smiled.  “You and I are kindred souls, Flora dear.  We’re like the composers of a symphony.  We may not play it or direct it, but on opening night, we can hide behind the curtains and watch, knowing our fingers and thread created the beautiful gown everyone is staring at.”  She winked.  “And we get to eat whatever we want!”

Flora nodded, trying to ignore the aching feeling in her chest.  “Sometimes, I just wish I could wear my own creations though…”  She thought of Astrid and knit her chubby fingers together.  “I get to make the coronation dress for the princess.  She came into the shop today.”

Miss Tuttlesworth clapped her hands. “My dear, how wonderful!  That’s as exciting as the project I wanted to ask you about!”  She leaned forward, her brown eyes glowing as she glanced back and forth to make sure no one was eavesdropping.  “I know Professor Skippy will be furious, but I couldn’t resist.”  She reached into her back and pulled out a folded pink piece of paper, sliding it across the table.

Flora smoothed out the creases and skimmed it.   “The Cinderella Project?”

Miss Tuttlesworth bobbed her head.  “It’s a contest for up and coming designers to design prom dresses for girls that can’t afford them otherwise.  The girls have to write essays to win, and in return, they get a custom designed gown.  They only choose one new designer every year….”  She gripped Flora’s arm.  “I know I’m not a student and I’m hardly a spring chicken, but Flora, this is my chance!  My chance to do what I’ve always dreamed!”

She leaned back in the booth, a dreamy smile stretching across her cheeks. “Can you imagine?  No more errands for Professor Skippy, no more boring tailoring jobs to pay the bills, no more rude students…for the first time in years, I could do what I loved!”   Her eyes opened, boring into Flora’s.  “Does that make any sense at all?”

It made more sense than Flora wanted to admit.  She glanced down at the paper, thinking of her own belittling mother.  The hours she spent in the shop cutting and sewing gorgeous gowns while hiding from her mother’s sharp insults were nothing compared to the decades Miss Tuttlesworth had spent in Professor Skippy’s shadow.

“I know you’re terribly busy with the coronation gown and all your custom orders,” Miss Tuttlesworth was saying.  Flora returned her attention to the dowdy teacher, who was absently tapping her spoon against her mug.  “But if you could help me…it mean a lot.”

She didn’t hesitate.  “Of course.”

Miss Tuttlesworth sighed, her chest heaving as the waitress returned with their plates and set them down.  “Oh thank you.”  Picking up the bottle of syrup, she drowned her waffles and stabbed a steaming piece, lifting it to her lips.  “Now we can properly celebrate.”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new Comfort and Whimsy tomorrow!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

The Butterfly Dress 5

Ode to Pico de Gallo (and How I Love Thee)

Ode to pico de gallo,

And how I love thee,

For every week,

You make my life complete.

Like my buddy Jessica,

I’ve never been a big veggie fan.

Or a big spicy fan, to be frank.

Before, I was all about sweet and sugar,

Not chips and dip,

Unless it had spinach or artichokes with plenty of cheese,

refried beans or gobs or melted cheddar cheese,

Or oodles of ranch dressing,

But then, one day, I tried pico de gallo,

With my nose wrinkled and my mind set,

And was pleasantly surprised to discover,

I liked, no I loved it!

While salsa can be too runny, too hot or too boring,

Pico de gallo is always a delicious treat.

Fresh and crisp,

With just enough kick,

It’s no wonder I buy a case every week.

Oh, Pico de gallo,

I must admit it’s true.

I’m simply addicted,

Addicted to you.

One of the best things about pico de gallo,

Is how versatile its tastiness is,

On chips or tacos,

beans or fajitas,

With salsa or sour cream,

Or even better, a big ol’ helping of guacamole.

Did I mention my adoration for guacamole?

Well that’s another ode, for another day.

Ode to Pico de gallo,

And how I love thee,

For you have made all my Mexican dishes,

Even more tasty.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new Butterfly Dress tomorrow and a new Comfort and Whimsy!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Ode to Pico de Gallo and how I love thee

For previous editions, go here.

She was standing in the center of the zoo, swathed in a black cape Perry had insisted she buy.  “It’s ridiculous,” she protested.  “It’s mysterious,” he had said.  He had a point, she conceded.

The sun had long gone down, and the stars were too tired to twinkle against the heavy dark sky.  A cool wind swept across, flinging leaves like stones across the pond.  It was too cool for summer–too cool for the season.

She could hear the animals grumbling and snuffling in their sleep, turning in too small cages or pawing against plastic enclosures.  Her heart squeezed tightly and she squenced her eyes shut, wishing it didn’t hurt.  She wished she could do something more, do something faster.  When she opened her eyes, he was there.

This time, he made no effort to disguise his true face.  His yellow eyes gleamed in the light as he rushed down the corridor, Max racing by his side.  He too, wore a black cloak.  Ripping hers off and vowing to kill Perry later, Birdie went after them.

A hand grabbed her arm and she lunged forward, momentum egging her on.  Whirling around, she snarled at the old woman gripping her elbow.  “Can I help you?”

“You can help me.”  The old woman’s yellow eyes bore into her.  Birdie blinked.  Humans didn’t have yellow eyes.  Only cats did.  Black cats….

Gasping, she lurched out of the woman’s grip.  “You’re the cat that’s been following me!  The one from Pemberely’s shop.  The one the proffessor said…”  She trailed off, her words stuck in her throat.  It couldn’t be.  It couldn’t be true.  The woman would be hundreds of years old.  And while her wrinkled face and withered features spoke of ancient, no one could live for that long.

“They can.”  The woman’s eyes bore into Birdie.  “And they do.  Well, I should have.  Before Pemberely stole the spirit from my tribe.  He stole the spirit from me, Black Paw–straight out of my heart.  For years, I’ve been seeking it.”

“Is that why you’ve been following them?”  Birdie pursed her lips. “You’ve destroyed the lives of hundreds of innocent people!  Every time he went somewhere, you hurt the people he was with.”

The yellow eyes flashed.  “Did he not hurt my tribe, my people?  Did he not hurt me, my ancestors?  No one is innocent, Birdie.  Everyone has a price, everyone has desires.  Even you.”

Birdie jutted out her chin.  “Are you going to try to buy me off now?”

“No.”  Her grey braid swung back and forth.  “I want your help.”

“What can I do to help you?”

The old woman’s eyes flashed and her withered hands, twisted into claws, flashed out and grabbed Birdie’s fingers.  “You understand animals,” she whispered.  “You have the spirit within you.  The same spirit I had, the same spirit Pemberely stole from me.  I need you to help me get it back.”

“If you get it back, will you leave the other animals alone?” Birdie asked, narrowing her eyes.  “I came here to help them, not get mixed up in a revenge plot.”

Black Paw’s wrinkled face broke into a smile.  “Don’t you understand, Birdie?  The spirit is not just yours and mine.  It is in the true heart of everyone who truly loves animals–and animals themselves.  Once we take the spirit from Mr. Pemberely, the animals will be free.  He will be free.”  Her eyes flashed, defiant and proud.  “I will be free.”  Her gaze darkened and Birdie shuddered.  “And then he will pay.”

“What do you want me to do?” Birdie asked.

“Perform the ceremony with me.  The sacred bonding.  The joining of our hearts, our minds, our hands.  Or paws,” she allowed.

Birdie shook her head.  “No way.  That’s what got Mr. Pemberely in trouble.”

“Please,” the old woman begged.  “It’s the only way.  Otherwise, they win.  Pemberely, Max–they win.  The animals lose.”

The old woman glanced behind them and whirled back around, her voice urgent.  “You must tell me tomorrow!  You must tell me before it’s too late!”  She rushed away, vanishing between the monkey and parrot cages.

“Wait!” Birdie called.  “Wait!”

But the woman was gone.

Birdie sat up in a cold sweat, clutching her blanket.  Sassy raised her head in alarm as she slid out of her sheets and went to the window.  Peering down, she saw the black cat staring at her.

Shivering, she knew it wasn’t just a dream.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new recipe tomorrow and more whimsical fun!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

The Perilious Tales of the Pemberely Pet Shop 36

You might recall my adoration for the minions in Despicable Me.

How can you not like minions?  I think they’re adorable.

They’re cute, they squeak, they’re devoted, they’re funny, they cause hilarious chaos wherever they go….what more could you want?

They’ll even dance with you on the moon.

Minions are so wonderful, Queen Bitty demanded one.

And being Queen Bitty, she was obliged by her dutiful subjects.  AKA, my mother and sister.

Poor Mom is a sucker for Bitty.  She’s wrapped around her tiny little paw.  She bows down to her 4 lb. whims.

Meet Itty Bitty.

Queen Bittys’ minion.

She’s got her party bloomers on and everything.

Queen Bitty has grand plans for her minion.

World domination, Mars domination, taking over the moon….those are just a few of her plans.

Luckily, her minion does not dare question or argue with her.

For she is Queen Bitty.

Ruler of the Pond.  Ruler of Itty Bitty.

We all bow down to the Queen.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new Pemberely Pet Shop Story and a delectable recipe Thursday!  Stay tuned!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Bitty and her minion