Monday, February 11, 2008

Bloor Line, work-related.

Caucasian woman, early 30s, with short, wavy brown hair, wearing glasses, all black clothing, and carrying an over-sized leather bag. A bruised banana peeks from the outer pocket.

Hunted, Christopher Russell (HarperCollins)

Early in:

The glutinous mix glugged and sucked at the spoon as Milda stirred it. A little more ale, perhaps. The cooking fire was ready and waiting. She had worked hard to make it perfect. No flaring flames, just glowing, settled heat. The metal bowl hissed as she tipped the contents of the bowl into it. The smell of hot, waxy honeycomb and marigold was strong but not unpleasant.
Her eight-year-old was told she could cook anything she wanted provided it didn't involve the stove or sharp knives. And while she couldn't call it "pudding," the mixture did have an exuberant texture and piquant fragrance. "Not for the timid," her mock review concluded, a selection she lifted from a recent horoscope, unable herself to find the right words to describe the creation she would no doubt pay for later.

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