THE FURRY PICNIC

With great interest she observed him filling his pipe. Deftly his fingers stroked the shaggy shreds of tobacco into the deep recess of the object, gently pressing down and massaging the surface to ensure an even pack.  Not too firm, but nevertheless with a sensitive attention to the springiness of the soft material.  When it was done, he brought the polished wooden object up to his mouth and, eyes half closed, awoke the opening with a flame. 
Clouds issued forth, and he appeared blissful.

A remarkable performance.  She was surprised at the sensuality of the process.  How odd, she never thought that men could be so ......   physical.
She brushed away some hair to get a better view, confident that he would not notice her observing him with such curiosity. 
He seemed entirely absorbed in the moment.
And in the smoke.

A wisp of resinous fragrance drifted past.
Like an old-fashioned perfume.
Or ancient incense.

Men were, in their own way, remarkable creatures.
Though many were boringly normal.
Unimaginative, and loud.


This one might be different.  Rather than a plain fascination for the physical exertions of large sweaty athletes, he looked like he'd be far more interested in watching a movie with a twisted plot and a well-written script.  No baseball cinema, no action films, no ridiculous fantasies involving superheroes with shiny form-fitting leotards and overly busty love-interests.  Instead, something that both stimulated, and spoke to the psyche.
Either that or a nature special about the Wildebeest.

Not so much intellectual, as quirky and inquisitive.
Very much like an intelligent forest animal.
Definitely the whiskers, and the pipe.
International badger of mystery.


NAPOLEON

I've always wondered why a decadent confection should be named after a short man with issues and an affection for silly hats.  Possibly the name is an attempt to give it a cachet it otherwise might lack, maybe it is even an appeal to the Francophiles and partisans of the Bonapartist regime.
A bottom layer of flaky sheet pastry, on which the custard cream is generously heaped, a top layer of more flaky pastry, and an application of a sweet pink glaze.
In the Netherlands it is not called a Napoleon, but a 'Tom Poes'.
Which means tomcat. 

That latter name makes a lot more sense.  Cats sheerly love creamy things.  They are nature's little orgiasts.  And tomcats are utterly degenerate.

My mother hated Napoleons, and considered them to be little more than malnourishment and potential food-poisoning combined. Based, I will admit, on my having turned green after eating one.
Several.
At least three.
That's all I remember.
Or at least, all I will admit to.

I can very well imagine a brazen feline (of which over the years we had several) attempting to finish off the entire box from the luxury 'banket bakkerij' ("banquet bakery"), before the lady of the house discovers that the evil beast has spoiled her tea party for the members of the 'Ladies Moral Instruction Guild'.
There is nothing to serve with the fine tea imported from England!
And the little saucers with paper doilies looked so darling!

Woe!

It is, if you think about it, a distinctly small-town disaster.
A tom poes is quite the done thing in some circles.
Nothing else will do. What a horrid failure!
Cause for bourgeois despondency.

Meanwhile, in a room upstairs, her daughter is cheerfully reading about all the good things that were brought along on the picnic.  Cold chicken, cold tongue, cold ham, cold beef, pickled gherkins, salad, French rolls, cress sandwiches, potted meat, ginger beer, lemonade, soda water........
Plus naturally several sweet things to eat!
What's a picnic without pastries?

If you're a cat or a forest creature, that's what you really anticipate.
Burying your snout into a thick clot of custard cream.
Snarfle snarfle snarfle.
Delicious.

After which you lick the crumbs off your whiskers, and look around bright eyed for more.
Before tackling the other yummy things in the hamper.
Oh, such fun! 


I discovered after my bath today that eating cookies while naked is NOT a good idea.  The crumbs get stuck in your belly button, and beyond. 
Pepperidge Farm Sausalito, which are milk chocolate macadamia cookies.
What I really craved was a Napoleon.  Creamy, smooth, indulgent.
Just imagine where the globs of custard would have fallen.
It would necessitate going back into the shower.

There's a bakery in Chinatown called the Napoleon Bakery.
Haven't been there in a while.  I don't think they actually have Napoleons, but they do have lovely scallion rolls and other delicious stuff. 
Egg tarts, cream rolls, custard buns.

I didn't leave the house in time, though, and they were long closed by the time I got down to Stockton Street. 

So instead I had a bite at a favourite restaurant.

After which I filled and lit my pipe.

I don't think anyone was watching.




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