Recipes

Ok, for those of you who have not been exposed to Askaninja.com, I am pleased to include one of their videos in my post today. For those of you who have been exposed. . . I'm still pleased to include one of their videos in my post today.

Cruel to be Kind

Reed was not a cruel person. His enemies might call him foolish, irritating, encourageable—even incorrigible. But even his worst enemy could not, in good conscience, label the man as cruel. Yet here he was, not only doing something that would be universally defined as unspeakably cruel, but also doing it to someone who was most likely certifiably insane. Someone he quite liked, even, despite everything.

"So, how've you been Duncan?" he asked, still trying to make the situation seem casual, his request reasonable. The two men sat across from each other in Reed's kitchen; Reed had wanted this conference to be comfortable, yet private. Duncan was unpredictable, and what Reed wanted from him was unusual and, as previously mentioned, unspeakably cruel. It wouldn't do to have witnesses.

"She left me, Joe," Duncan said. His left hand was raised to his forehead and he was tapping his eyebrow contemplatively with two fingers. He squinted at Reed as if imploring an answer. He let his head slide down into the palm of his large, bony hand and shook his head sadly. "A right princess, she was, that woman. Don't know what I'll do without her. Kept that old fiddle fiddling, if you know what I mean? That fiddle of mine, have you seen it lately? It needs a good polishing, I'll tell you one thing. Can't get anyone to put coins in my case if that fiddle don't shine the way it should. D'you know fiddle's just another name for the violin? Always thought t'was something different, but turns out they're exactly the same. Don't sound quite as good to say violin as it does to say fiddle, though, do it Reed?" Duncan sat straight up abruptly then, his long, skeletal arms dropping down to his sides, his shoulders stretched back and his eyebrows raised. "Reed!" he sounded a bit alarmed. "Don't let me go on like that. Thought you was Joe for a second, you gotta set me right."

He sat back then and smiled at Reed, somewhat expectantly, as if he had actually just answered Reed's question with a "Fine thanks, and yourself?" and was now waiting for the customary reply.

Reed ought to have been used to Duncan's erratic, yet harmless, behavior, but still every time he met with Duncan he had to remind himself that the challenges the man was facing were more than enough to make someone seem a little bit addled. And here he was about to add to that significant struggle—but how to bring it up? He needed to get Duncan to concentrate for a bit, needed him to remember where and when he was so that he could broach this rather difficult subject of an extremely significant favor. He tried to think of a conversation topic that was a little more relevant to Duncan's present situation than his former days as street performer, a topic that could be brought around quickly to the real subject at hand.

"So," he cleared his throat. "How long is it now that you've been a vampire?"

Duncan frowned a bit. "Have to think about that one, Reed. You know how things get all mixed up for me sometimes." He held up both hands and pushed each finger down one by one, counting. "Got to be about seven years since she turned me. A right princess, she was, that woman."

Reed inhaled sharply. He was afraid Duncan might start looping, and the thought made him feel a bit desperate. He needed Duncan to concentrate, needed him to be present. He couldn't handle hours of typical Duncan-style conversation. Not tonight. He opened his mouth to interrupt, but it seemed Duncan had caught on to Reed's agitated state.

"That woman—wait! Is this about that woman? Listen Reed, it means a lot that you haven't killed me as of yet. I know that woman wants you to. But you know I'm not like the rest. You've got to convince her and those other slayer friends of yours. I don't drink blood!" He looked as genuine as a three year old, his head tilted and his eyes wide with sparkling sincerity, as if to say Don't you know it?

Reed sighed, a mixture of relief and very heavy guilt. Duncan knew who and what he was, and he knew who Reed was as well. At least getting him to concentrate had been easy. Getting him to agree, though, that was another story.

"Would you ever consider making an exception to that policy?" he asked slowly, his voice very serious. Duncan looked as if he was about to protest, when Reed added soberly, "For a friend?"

"Now, what do you mean?" Duncan's eyes were suddenly very lucid, perhaps more lucid than Reed had ever seen him. He didn't know if that would make this easier or more difficult. He took a deep breath and launched into the meat of the issue, so to speak.

"Ok, Duncan. You remember Helen?" He looked at his friend a little uncertainly, sure he would have to prod a little to get Duncan's mind to clear enough that he could remember past conversations about Helen.

"Helen, yes, your wife," Duncan responded crisply, then rattled off several facts he knew about Helen. "Turned into a vampire; can't handle the moral implications of feasting upon the flesh of the living in order to survive; indescribably beautiful, if maddeningly frustrating; feels herself to be dead and therefore no longer bound to you by marriage; certainly still loves you, but feels herself unworthy of your devotion; usually a very funny person." He nodded severely to indicate he was quite finished with his list, thank you.

Reed had to laugh at the remarkably accurate description of the person Helen had become. But Duncan was not laughing: he was staring at Reed, wide-eyed and tight-faced. They both started talking at once—

"Now Duncan, be reasonable—"
"—I won't do it, I won't, I wo—"
"You're the only one I can ask—"
"—Will not do it! I have told you about my particul—"
"If there was any other way, you know I'd never—"
"—particular diet, and you know how I do stick to things once I've made up my—"
"It's not as bad as you think, just one little bite!"
"—mind. One little, excuse me?! Do you know how long I've gone without one little bite!"


Reed did know. Duncan had not bitten a human in all the years he had been a vampire. Not one, single time. A vampire could not starve to death, but that's not to say lack of food does not have its effects. His voluntary starvation had made him a pariah among his fellow vampires and had quite effectively alienated him from reality. But his desire to prove that one could be both a vampire and, simultaneously, a human being was more important to him than avoiding madness. He had been a vegetarian in his previous life, but at least in his previous life there had been vegetables to eat. For a vampire, there was no alternative to blood.

The outrage in Duncan's face was enough to cow Reed. He looked down, ashamed. But what he had said was true. He was desperate, and he didn't know who else he could ask.

"Duncan, please," he said quietly. "Helen won't have me as I am. She's got this idea that she's dead, so I have to be dead too. Don't you see? She thinks 'til death do us part.' I have to show her that death hasn't parted us. I need you to turn me."

"This," Duncan said very deliberately, "is unspeakably cruel."

To be continued…

The Story of My Life

It's been longer than I intended since I made a blog entry. I was planning on writing at least something every day, but the week got away from me. I can't even say I've done anything all that interesting. I am currently reading a book (surprise!) that was recommended to me by a friend and the entirety of the novel consists of journal entries penned by British gentlemen (or some semblance of gentlemen anyway). It has, obviously, made me think of the importance and inherent interest involved in journal writing. Who knows, all the tiny details of my life may seem insignificant, but what if someday they are all part of some subdued intrigue of magnificent proportions? It has also infected me with the starched, reserved tone of nineteenth century Britain. Hence, this strange voice in which I am writing.

In all seriousness, though- a few things to report:

1. The book is pretty good, it's called "The Prestige" and while it is in fact the book upon which the movie (film, should I say?) was based, it has marked differences. Because of these differences, it is still a mysterious book, though many of its secrets were exposed by the movie. I'd recommend it. I loved the movie, too, so of course I recommend that.

2. I redecorated the house—we've got new curtains in the bedroom and the living room, and I rearranged the furniture. Ah, what passes for news in the West home.

3. Real news- James's sister Elizabeth had her third baby, and we are happy to welcome Eleanor George Bunton into the world.

4. James has moved from picking the lock on the front door (which was excessively easy to defeat) to picking a smaller, and hence more difficult padlock. Again, ah what passes for news in the West home.

5. I should have another short piece up for your critique by tomorrow, and I'd like to know what you all think. Anyone have any requests or suggestions of something I might write?

Writing Exercise

This Sunday in Relief Society, the teacher asked us to write down one of our goals in life. Not like the eternal kind, but more like an ambition we've had. She then asked us what we're doing to make that goal a reality. I had written down that I would like to someday write a book and I realized I'm really not doing much to develop myself as a writer. I always have big plans for a huge novel, but I haven't done much to improve my skills. I just want to be good NOW and write a book NOW and be done with it. But that lesson helped me see I need to change some things so today I decided to start some writing exercises. The following is a response to a prompt I found on a creative writing website. The prompt was basically, What would have happened if the Ugly Stepsister got the shoe instead of dear Cinderella? The following is my take on it. Please, I would love any feedback you have, positive or negative. I'd love to hear from everyone.

*

He was a prince among men but, if I'm honest, not the smartest man I'd ever met. Handsome? Of course, as well as princely, dashing, and charming. But clever, he was not. That shoe plan was beyond ridiculous. That any man could think that the woman he'd "fallen in love with" was so unique that there was not a part of her even remotely similar to another woman (down to her shoe size!) was sweet but misguided. How that girl ever could have fallen in love with him makes me question her sanity. But his lack of common sense gave me my chance, so I shouldn't complain.

We hatched the plan together, my sister and I; even as Mother hatched hers. We were clever and conniving. She was only conniving. She was certain the prince would fall for one of us, but we knew which sister that would be. And we could not let that happen. I wanted to take care of my sister, and she wanted to take care of me. Our intention was never to hurt our other sister, not really—we knew she could never be with the prince. It wasn't her station in life and she'd never have been able to take advantage of it. I know she hates us for what we've done, but I think she'll forgive us in time. I hope so. She is dear to us, whatever she may think.

The night of the ball, it was really more of a game for us than anything else. Mother spent so much time getting me ready, making me eye-catchingly, dazzlingly beautiful. She barely left us to ourselves. But when she did, we giggled and teased about what would happen if our plan actually worked. We had no idea things would go so smoothly. The shoe dropped on the stairs, just as we'd planned: a little clue left behind that could easily lead to a different sister. He had called out just a moment before, "Your name please, good lady! Grace me with your name!" But when the shoe fell, the name was forgotten, and the prince triumphantly hatched his plan—our plan, so recklessly laid that we had never dreamed it would truly happen. But it did.

He came to our home the very next day. Perhaps the prince was not so guileless as we had previously presumed. I worried that whole night that he would not pursue the shoe, or if he did that he would too soon find a woman that matched its shape. Surely there were dozens whose foot it would fit. I wonder now whether he didn't follow the carriage, he found us so quickly. The knock came and the royal announcer shouted his decree. Mother was so overwhelmed, the poor woman nearly fainted and had to be led to a chair. The prince kindly bowed to her, and in that hurried moment, I looked into my sister's eyes. Could we really go through with this? I reached out and gripped her hand in mine, my uncertainty causing me to tremble. But she squeezed back firmly and sat resolutely on the stool the page proffered. She looked in my eyes as if to say, We have done what is right. Don't change your mind now.

Soon all of us were seated primly on the stools, three maidens in a row. The prince bowed before our ignorant sister, taking her ankle softly in his hand to slide the graceful slipper on. Her face was so eager, I felt terrible she did not know of our plan. The shoe would not fit her, we had made sure of that, and I could see in her face that her heart was breaking as he wrenched the shoe quickly from her foot. She had danced with him that night, had looked into his eyes and seen her future. But in this she was no different from the other naïve women at the ball. She did not see what fate she escaped.

He knelt before me then, and I bit my lip apprehensively. What if it didn't work? What if the prince was not fooled? Would he look into my face? But he did not. He was intent upon my foot. I trembled as his hands gripped my ankle; they were firmer than I had expected. There was so much foolish confidence in his grasp, a surety that his plan could not fail. He will know, I worried desperately, though there was nothing to do about it now. He will know, he will look into my face and he will see me, recognize me. Surely he will know me?

He slipped the shoe quickly from my foot when he saw the space it afforded my ankle. I was not to be his princess. I sighed, relieved, but he did not notice as he quickly moved on to the last sister.

My dear, beloved sister who though only a stepsister was closer to me than my own heart, smiled almost imperceptibly as the prince reached out to try the shoe. She was certain it would fit; it was her shoe after all. The prince's eyes lit up, thinking he had found the one for whom he had sought. I did not pity him, though we had deceived him. He didn't know how lucky he was. Instead of a bride whose heart belonged to another, he would have a bride whose heart beat singularly for him. I smiled in triumph at the way we had worked out our fates, my sister and I, despite all the forces that fought against us, not the least of which had been Mother.

From the day she married my father, my step-mother saw not my beauty but how she could use it to suit her ends. I do not know if she loved me; I doubt she loved even her own daughters. She overlooked their loveliness, belittled them and ridiculed them constantly. She called them ugly, but they were not. They were beautiful and graceful creatures with hearts so pure and kind, they could have all the happiness the world offers, but Mother could not allow it. I believe now that she saw her own failures in them: They were her daughters, and so they carried with them the taint of her broken dreams. But I was my father's daughter, as yet pure of the pollution of her many disappointments. In her eyes, I was her best chance at satisfying the wishes of her heart. She did not see that those wishes were mirrored in the heart of my sister, and it never came to her mind that I might have my own dreams to pursue, my own heart to satisfy.

At Mother's behest, I had danced with the prince. She had trained me for it nearly my whole life, had saddled me with her own ambitions. Obediently, I charmed and flattered him in the way that Mother had taught me to trap and beguile every would-be suitor. And he had fallen for me. I knew he had, for when I turned to leave the dance floor his arm around my waist tightened and his eyes begged me not to go. And when my feet defied his eyes, he used his lips—begging me aloud not to leave him. I ran, he pursued. The too-big shoe I had borrowed from my sister slipped from my foot onto the steps as I ignored his beseeching for my name. I smiled to myself as I dashed into the carriage. He would not have it, he would never have my name—nor my heart.

Our mother called me 'Ella, short for Bella, the beautiful one. But I called myself Cinderella, a girl whose dreams had been in ashes. Until my sister saved me.

*

Ok, now that you've read it, I want you to know that if you felt confused--that was actually intentional. Sorry I know that's disconcerting, but the idea was to make the story sound as if it were actually the two stepsisters plotting to steal the shoe from Cinderella. As the course of the narrative unfolds, especially near the end, you see that it is actually Cinderella herself talking, and that she and one of her sisters have planned a way for Cinderella to escape the fate of marrying a prince she does not love. So I played with the relationships in the typical story we all know, though the stepmother is still a bit wicked. On the other hand, Cinderella loves her sisters and even her stepmother to some extent. The next-to-last paragraph should give you more of a clue about the family relationships that breaks the stereotype a bit. Does it work? Is what I really want to know.

Edit: Ok, I've changed a few things and hopefully it is a little less confusing. At least the reveal should answer some of the questions you have all been asking.

Easter Fun with Beck and Ainsley

Jennifer and the kids were in town this week, as Jennifer had to be here for a Dentrix conference. We had the express pleasure on Tuesday evening of babysitting the munchkins and corrupting them in our own special West way. Beck has apparently been looking forward to playing games with Uncle James ever since we handed him the controller for the wii and let him watch the demo for Metroid. So, we pretty much repeated the experience, except this time with Mario Galaxy and Rogue Squadron. Both kids plopped on the couch, eyes immediately glassed over (sorry Jen!) as they watched the shapes and lights on the screen. It's amazing how enthralled they can get when they have no idea what's going on. So after a while, I thought it was time to end the games and have some real fun. :) We set out the eggs and started dyeing! I was actually really surprised: the kids did a great job, didn't make a mess, and seemed to enjoy the entire process. We had a lot of fun watching and supervising the activity. Here's a scrapbook I made of the event:

Make a scrapbook - it's easy!

Afterwards we put in Atlantis and Beck fell immediately to sleep. Ainsley, however, was interested neither in sleep nor in the movie, so we got to play and giggle all night long while James worked on programming. At one point Ainsley pretended to sleep, with big dramatic Honk Shoo's to boot! But, alas for Jennifer, we handed back one very cranky Beck and one very alert Ainsley. We had a blast though, and hope we get to play with them soon.

Weird Song Day

I love this band, but this is probably one of the weirdest songs I have ever heard.



And speaking of weird songs:

Houston, we have a problem

So, for the longest time, James has been yelling like a maniac at the radio stations (ok, we all know James and he doesn't yell like a maniac, but he was certainly grumbling with abandon) demanding that they play Major Tom. I already knew my husband's taste in music was somewhat bizarre, but this was weird I thought even for him. You see, when he said he wanted to listen to Major Tom, this is what I was thinking: (Please listen to at least the first couple of lines to this song so you can understand the full extent of my confusion).



Turned out (as we found this weekend) what he really wanted to listen to was this:




Which to me, fit James's tastes a little better. It was pretty funny though as I had planned as a birthday surprise to buy him the first song, the one I thought of as "Major Tom" (the impostor). We had a laugh picturing just what he might have said when I gave it to him... "Uh ... thanks honey, I ... love it" >chuck< "Hey honey, how come you never listen to Major Tom? I thought you loved that song?" "I, uh, I do, of course I do, I was just listening to it... really quietly..."

Book Recommendation – Audio Style

A coworker lent me the audio book of "World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War," and I have to pass along this deliciously amazing story of absolute absurdity. It's told in a series of interviews with "survivors" of an apocalyptic zombie virus plague. Each story comes from a unique perspective on the war—international political leaders, civilian survivors, army personnel, doctors with intimate knowledge of the virus, etc. It's told absolutely seriously, with no indication that the author is being facetious or satirical, and the issues that come up really make you think about international relations, the importance of survival, and the various gray areas as far as means of survival. Ultimately it makes you think about that ever-looming question: Am I ready for the zombie apocalypse?

Warning: Several of the characters are quite polite and restrained in their commentary on the zombie crisis, others are not so poised—be warned, there are recurring instances of harsh expletives.

Babysitting at Leeann's Wedding

Make a scrapbook - it's easy!

We had such a great time babysitting Beck and Ainsley at temple square while everyone was in the wedding. Here is a scrapbook of these goofy kids--and a few pictures of goofy us.

A Dream Fulfilled

When I was maybe 15 years old, for whatever inexplicable reason, I got grounded. Now, this didn't happen all that often (lest you think me some sort of teenage miscreant), but it did happen and this instance of groundation was particularly painful. Warped Tour was coming to town and Matchbox 20 was one of the highlighted bands. As a semi-angsty teenager, I was drawn to their music and felt a kinship with the spirit of the songs—I often wished the real world would just stop bothering me, I had several long days, my sisters definitely wanted to push me around, and all I really wanted was to get it back to good. So, when my loving and all-wise mother absolutely refused to revoke my punishment to allow me to go to Warped Tour, I was devastated, embittered, and most likely forever scarred. But, last night, that old wound finally healed when my friends Brad and Shelly took me along to see Matchbox 20 –with Alanis Morisette. What more could I possibly have asked for? All the angsty music from my teenhood, with several of their newer songs speaking to the adult in me.

Best part of the night? Singing along at the top of my lungs to good music with good friends, and realizing that I don't feel all that angsty anymore—not even semi.