The traditions
within the city
continue throughout the ages
old sits comfortably
alongside new

Heather Blakey - March 2008

You are Cordially Invited To

The first Meeting

Of

The Soul Food Café’s

Blue Stocking Society

At

The Taverna di Muse

Please bring your views about

Who the Blue Stocking Society was in the Past

And who we are today.

Share your Writing, Art and Your Voice

About this amazing society

With us

This Friday January 19, 2007

(Meeting to run all weekend)

If you are not a Taverna Member please contact

 Lori

At

soulfoodcafe@yahoo.com

Thank you to Ninjacat for suggesting this week’s agenda

Who was the

Bluestocking Soceity?

In mid-18th-century England, any of a group of women who met to discuss literature. Attempting to replace the playing of cards and such social activities with more intellectual pursuits, they held “conversations” to which they invited men of letters and members of the aristocracy with literary interests. The term probably originated when Mrs. Elizabeth Vesey invited the learned Benjamin Stillingfleet to one of her parties; he declined, saying he lacked appropriate dress, until she told him to come “in his blue stockings” — the ordinary worsted stockings he was wearing at the time. The word bluestocking came to be applied derisively to a woman who affects literary or learned interests.

I was fascinated to read your comments re: Jean Rhys whose novels are somewhere in this house but I never felt a need to put them at the front of my reading queue. The whole concept of taking Bertha’s character and developing it into a novel in its own right intrigues me. Your comments regarding Mr Rochester make me breathe huge sighs of relief!

Jane Eyre is a good yarn - as indeed the same can be said of Wuthering Heights - but for the love of God in what way are these men in any way likable? Heathcliffe in particular is as mad as a box of March hares and Rochester is surly and arrogant. Oddly enough I can live with this, I know many women who would have hurled themselves at their feet. I cannot handle a perfectly intelligent young woman not sussing out that she shared the big house with a nutcase in the attic who had a fancy for arson! I mean come on Jane, get a grip here love, go and take a look when the screeching stops you sleeping and the flames are licking round the drapes.

Incredibly I think I could even cope with the mystery woman who could not be named, but the marriage fiasco - ‘I object, the man is married and I have nipped over from the Windies to proclaim this news’ - no.  No, no, no, no and no - but oh so convenient. I could possibly make myself get over that but no…. worse is to come. Jane ups and offs in a carriage going nowhere in particular with money that requires her to be bundled out on a dark and rainy moor and who should find her - yes, her long lost and only relative in the world who popped up in the nick of time to provide genteel comforts and hot soup!!! Bobby Ewing walking back into the cast of Dallas, through a wardrobe or a shower having spent 3 years dreaming whilst half the western world had him for dead was completely derided as the ultimate in pot-boiling garbage. Janey’s rellies are more or less on a par - the writer did not, could not devise a plot so she threw in ludicrous twists and figured her readers would think,’ Gosh! Lucky Jane.’

As for Heathcliffe and the evil that pervades his character as he frantically digs his way into Cathy’s grave so he can lie beside her - he should have married Rochester’s wife and hung out in the attic!

Just a thought, well, a diatribe really, after reading your post. Jean Rhys - wheel her in!

Jan

Several days ago I was looking for inspiration for an entry. I found it in the question: What does love smell like? Intrigued because I’ve never thought of love in such a way before, I took a poll to see what other people thought.

Gwen said: “Moonlight and roses. The fresh scent of sea spray as you walk hand-in-hand with your loved one.”

Valerie said, enthusiastically and spontaneously: “Dark chocolate!”

I told her she was a girl after my own heart. *laughs*

Heather said: “New babies!”

She obviously just became an aunt. For the first time.

Julie of Soul Food said love smells like her husband, after he comes home from work. He’s an Earth scientist, so he comes home hot and sweaty from being out in the field.

We uh, won’t get into the end results of this turn on. *Mona Lisa smile*

For Emma and a few others from Soul Food who answered my question the answer was pretty much the same: Love smells like their loved ones. Whether it be a baby nephew–baby formula, baby lotion or baby powder, you know, that baby scent–or a husband–his cologne or natural musk–or whether it’s simply just the cherished memories of past times or traditions made with family.

Fran of Soul Food said: It’s “the memory of prairie roses, or the wet of peppermint leaves on a wet Australian morning, or ripened wheat in [the] heat of August.”

Dove of Soul Food said, and I like the poetic feel of her response: “Love smells safe, like blue grass. Love is the smell of roses, the scent of home, hugging loved ones after a weary day. Love is the perfume of angels an evocative scent that drifts by when we least expect.”

And Gail of Soul Food said: “Love smells like fresh, warm biscuits (cookies in the U.S.)”

What does love smell like to me? I guess it’s Esteé Lauder’s Beautiful. It’s the perfume I first associate with Mom.

I guess love has many different scents or aromas or smells. For every person on this planet, there is a smell for Love.

~Shiloh

Crone was running short of things to say
so she had the little monkey take her once more
to the top of the palm tree, near to the shore
where she took her binoculars
found in her sights:
a pirate ship pirating
a miners minering
a lazy lady sleeping in a hammock on Owl Island
a boss lady wielding a whip
a doll maker making a magic doll
two other old crones, was that a brawl?
photographers photographing all of the sights
and an old man with a lantern lighting the lights
by day
What are they doing? remains to be seen
she thinks they planning the dread
hallowe’en
Her note pad is full so she waits to be taken
back to her computer to get it all down
before the ink fades
and she’s driven from town

The kitchen witches , Crone is glad to say
have done so much work they need a holiday
so the dear ladies found their very best hats
and cleaned all the brooms and found
the old red canoe, they are on their way
to the city of ladies to spend and to talk
to the waiter who serves them so well.
So don’t be surprised if you find a canoe
parked beside your convertible or a wandering witch
shopping for new straw or a few
little black bats and a stray cat or two
If you would like a chat please join the big table
and try the very best brew if you’re brave from their jug

(They might even offer you a ride )

The little boy across the street was quite horrible to me when I was in kindergarten, and his older brother would stand and laugh as he kicked and hit me. Prompted by my father one day to say what was bothering me I spurted out “the boy across the street hits me”. Dad asked me to point out the boy next time he came by.

A few weeks later, there he was, walking by with a sneer on his face. He was quite the mature bully for one no more than 6 years of age. He was walking along the dyke road, alone but as was often the case carrying a whipping stick. It must have been something he used on other children and quite probably the neighbourhood cats and dogs. I know that hat my dog didn’t like him one bit and would growl as he came near.

“That’s the boy” I told my father.

“Hey”, said my father in one of his most commanding tones, which was rare and I was quite taken aback by it. The boy reeled round, and his mouth was falling open with that look of not knowing whether to stay frozen or turn and run. He stayed frozen on the spot. For what seemed like a very long time as my father slowly came toward him.

The rest of the story at www.sparrows.wordpress.com

Seniors day at our Cafe
The elders meet and greet
talk of the day,the weather, the news or when Old Seventy
sold her shoes for a pair of red gumboots
or the time that Fifty-Seven met Sixty-two
or the grandchild that swallowed the cherries
from Grandma’s hat
and had to be pumped–now that
reminds me,  “Do you recall that time you painted
Gran’s   Cadilac  firy red with the can we found
by Gramp’s old barn?”
Square dance meetings in Poplar School
or teacher Black who broke her rule
over Bill’s hard head?  Wasn’t she the one
we caught kissing Jim’s brother?  And how we teased
her next day ’till she blushed?

Finally back, with the greeting for our lady, Heather,

Happy Birthday Heather from all of the hoi poloi,

Crone has  taken her  cronies to tea
at  the inn where the chef makes the  best
steaming oysters
and scallops
and things in their shells
all served by himself with a most haughty style
ignoring their hats
and their smiles  
He serves out the fishes and each gets a dollop
of cream
or some pepper to taste
A tall jug of magic brew
will be enough for one or two   
Will you join them?