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minorhoursmagazine · 2 years

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Issue 13, containing: The End of an Era, Historical Ephemera, Regarding Cheerfulness in Magazines, A Recipe for Pumpkin Hand Pies, A Note to Gentle Readers, Letters, Commonplaces, &c.

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SOME EDITORIAL NOTES

I could pretend that I have saved this 13th issue specifically for Halloween. But this would be a terrible lie.

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THE END OF AN ERA

Also known as the completion of my home rearrangement. Keen readers may recall that for the last several weeks I've been working on changing up my abode for the coming winter. The last room on the list was the bedroom, which as of Issue 12 I was under the impression I would swiftly and successfully conquer after an initial error.

This proved to be inaccurate.

The bed was moved perpendicular to its previous position -- somehow doing so halved the available space and filled the remainder with sharp cutlery. The clothing rack moved from one wall to another -- this invoked a bodily representation of Scylla and Charybdis to either side of my bedroom door that was both bruising and deeply claustrophobic. A rug was laid out, and instead of creating an illusion of space I was instead dragged beneath its navy blue shag and have been missing for three weeks. Please, someone contact my family.

In the end, almost everything returned to its previous locations, and the rug did, eventually, release my corpse. I suppose all this could lend itself to some sort of parable about change for its own sake not always being beneficial. Sometimes what you have is already the best version of itself. Or, at least, parts of it are -- and it's worth learning how to keep what works, and change what doesn't.

Then again, it could also be said that my bedroom has reached the best version of itself it can... and that's still not the best thing for me. Which I already knew, but is helpful to remember: A good thing is not always the right thing. I can learn to love what I have, but also recognize that what I have is not, in fact, what I should settle for.

Which is why my future bedroom will not feature sloping ceilings.

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HISTORICAL EPHEMERA

Yesterday the Public Domain Review tweeted out a discussion of R. Campbell Thompson's fabulous The Devils and Evil Spirits of Babylonia: Being Babylonian and Assyrian Incantations Against the Demons, Ghouls, Vampires, Hobgoblins, Ghosts and Kindred Evil Spirits, Which Attacked Mankind, Vol. 1. This 1903 book contains photographs and original translations, such as the below:

This comes from the 16th tablet of this collection, and is a breakdown of the different sorts of evil gods, specifically:

The Evil Gods are raging storms, Ruthless spirits created in the vault of heaven; Workers of woe are they, That each day raise their evil heads for evil, To wreak destruction … Of these seven [the first] is the South Wind … The second is a dragon with mouth agape That none can [withstand?], The third is a grim leopard that carries off (?) young … The fourth is a terrible serpent … The fifth is a furious beast (?), after which no restraint (?) … The sixth is a rampant … which against god and king … The seventh is an evil windstorm which … These seven are the Messengers of Anu, the king, Bearing gloom from city to city, Tempests that furiously scour the heavens, Dense clouds that bring gloom over the sky, Rushing windgusts, casting darkness over the brightest day, Forcing their way with the baneful windstorms.

I love seeing how people throughout history have defined somewhat universal concepts, because while the concept remains, the definitions change. It reminds me a little of Milton's description of Hell in Paradise Lost, which when modern Westerners consider it, might be something involving heat and fire and persons we rather wish we did not have to sit next to on the train-- but here's how Milton described it:

[...] through many a dark and drearie Vaile They pass’d, and many a Region dolorous, O’re many a Frozen, many a Fierie Alpe, Rocks, Caves, Lakes, Fens, Bogs, Dens, and shades of death, A Universe of death, which God by curse Created evil, for evil only good, Where all life dies, death lives, and nature breeds, Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things, Abominable, inutterable, and worse Then Fables yet have feign’d, or fear conceiv’d, Gorgons and Hydra’s, and Chimera’s dire.

I have for many years now loved the fact that "rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens" is, beyond Milton's description of Hell, a very accurate description of New Hampshire. And it speaks to the idea that while a concept is universal, how we conceive of it is very much related to the culture we currently inhabit.

And so: What evil gods torment us now? What storms, what dragons? What is the wind that shook the Babylonians so much, and how does our Hell now appear?

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REGARDING CHEERFULNESS IN MAGAZINES

The Editors would like to apologize for the potentially uncomfortable questions of the previous article, and can only give as an excuse the fact that they consider conversations regarding demonic torture and grim prognostication an interesting way to spend an afternoon.

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A RECIPE FOR PUMPKIN HAND PIES

Filling:

1 cup pumpkin innards (I got mine from a can, and now have half a can left over)

3/8 cup brown sugar

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp nutmeg

2 tsp milk

1 tsp unsalted butter, melted

Several recipes, including the one from Tablespoon.com that I mostly bastardized for this, require using heavy cream, which at the time I didn't have in my possession and didn't want to purchase just for a tablespoon of an untested recipe. As I've discovered in the past, though, there are ways and ways of replacing various odd ingredients with more usual household staples, and in this case I found a recipe for replacing heavy cream using milk and melted butter. Since I didn't massively feel like creating a perfect replica, I merely tossed the cold milk and the melted butter into the bowl without going to the efforts outlined in the recipe and experienced no issues, thereby rewarding me for my lack of care, hooray.

The above ratios will create a bowl of filling that will be almost twice as much as I was able to fit into the hand pies. While theoretically this means I should cut down the amounts, I instead choose to believe that I should merely make more pies.

Dough:

The original recipe I found used Pillsbury Pie Dough, but I have as yet only tested this with Pillsbury Crescent Sheet dough. Using the Sheet and a three-inch or so wide mouth to a plastic container I found in my drawers, I was able to cut out four nice looking circles, two slightly misshapen circles (as I re-rolled the dough), and two incredibly monstrous looking circles of indeterminate thickness and eventual hand-pressing to try and make them as large as the others (because, as it turns out, Crescent dough can be overworked incredibly quickly). This made a total of four hand pies -- all of them were delicious, but one of them was clearly the Problem Pie.

I have purchased the Pie Dough for a second series of experiments, but an enterprising soul could go ahead and make a very simple pie dough, which I will probably discuss in a later issue but not, notably, in this one, because I wish to be difficult.

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Mix the filling ingredients together. Roll out the dough (or push it with your fingers in an enterprising fashion), cut circles of roughly the size of your palm or some other convenient size. Put parchment paper on a baking sheet and put the dough circles on the parchment paper. Add a dollop of filling to half the circles. Press the remaining circles onto the filled ones, creating your wee little pies. Gently smoosh the edges like you're trying to scallop them. Give up on the notion and instead use the tines of a fork to press pretty little lines all along the edge, sealing the pies completely. Whisk an egg in a teacup because you accidentally broke your tiny mixing bowls a month ago, and brush the egg wash over the top of each pie. Sprinkle the tops with cinnamon and sugar. Put into the oven for, theoretically, 20 minutes, but that's a lie, Pillsbury only takes about 12.

After I created hand pies once, I suddenly discovered a world of things I could stuff into premade dough. I should note that these particular pies are best eaten warm, but they reheat well in the microwave. The cooked dough ("bread", as it's called in some locales) will be a bit chewy when the second day, though I've noticed it didn't matter as much with my batch of savory pies. Further experimentation is forthcoming.

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A NOTE TO GENTLE READERS

Last issue, we asked readers for their favorite flower, plant, or tree. This issue, let's consider the holiday, and ask: Do you have a ghost story? Or some other strange occurrence that has taken place in your life that could be considered Spooky?

For myself, I have a few strange stories, but my favorite to tell is probably the one that took place when I was a young sprat. I've told it elsewhere, but for the season, have it here:

There are small, strange businesses up and down the highway of New Hampshire. A hand-lettered sign outside someone’s house that reads “Chainsaws sharpened - Piglets for sale.” A toy store that you’d have to take a turn off the road to visit, but you never see any cars in the lot, and the soldiers in the window disturb you. A frog-themed store, also out of someone’s house, with beautiful wood cutouts hammered into the trees leading up to it.

It was senior year, right before graduation, and my best friend and I had always suspected that either the weird toy store with the creepy soldiers or the strangely friendly frog store would be the one with a serial killer in it. (To be more accurate, I decided this. She should not be blamed for my bad decisions.) Because we were young and stupid, we decided that the best thing to do was test the theory while we still had the chance. Because this is the age before cell phone access in the north country, we carefully told my parents our plan, and when we planned to return in case there was a problem, and set out on our journey.

When we arrived, I wrote a little note and stuck it under the passenger seat, detailing again when we arrived and how long we intended to stay. Just in case we were hideously murdered, and the murderer tried to ditch the car, and then the police found the car and searched it and read my note. (I imagine I was a very trying child.)

The frog store was, as I said, out of someone's house, but more accurately, it seemed to be on the second floor of a barn that had been connected to the main house sometime in the last hundred years. It was painted dark, over clapboard, and against the barn wall was a very happy painted sign of a dressed frog standing beside the name of the shop: THE FOOLISH FROG.

To get to The Foolish Frog we had to walk up damp wooden steps -- New Hampshire, as I mentioned earlier, is full of bogs and dens, and this particular house was nestled in a shaded, watery copse of woods. A sign on the door said it was open.

When we went in, a very New Hampshire sort of a man greeted us, all bony limbs, dirty flannel, deep eyes, and a long, scraggly beard. The store was dark; the only light came from the windows at either end of the long, converted barn space, the roofs slanted on either side. There were, in fact, small frog novelties and a cash register. It was cool inside, and still damp, but there was a pleasant wood smell that reminded me of camping in the woods at night, a bear on the other side of the lake that nobody particularly cared about because the ghost stories being told were much more interesting.

We did some cursory shopping, and even paid for some knick-knacks -- I don't remember what my friend bought, but I purchased a small glow-in-the-dark toy. We were about to leave, and I felt the stirrings of a faint disappointment -- all that planning, all that potential murder, and for just a sad little shop run by sad little rural folk. We'd have to think of something else to fill the afternoon.

It was then that the man behind the register asked if we’d like to see the frog museum.

After my concern regarding a wasted afternoon... how could I not agree?

He started walking toward the other end of the attic, toward that other window. To either side of us, in the shadowy center, were larger, stranger frogs, statuettes and similar. I don't know if they had price tags, but they were evidently not part of the "museum," because he kept walking until he got all the way to the end, and to a door that was kitty-corner to the window, one I hadn't noticed.

He opened the door, and ushered us inside, and then I realized our mistake.

The room was an achingly perfect little girl’s room. There were bright yellow walls, sheer curtains, a brass bedstead. A rocking chair, a wardrobe, white lace on everything. The bed was made. The light from the overhead fixture spilled across the room and washed out into the dark attic, the waiting man.

And on the bed was a heap of trash, pushed against the headboard like a child's collection of stuffed animals. They weren't labeled; they weren't separated. It looked like someone came into this beautiful, unreal bedroom, cleaned it, kept it, and, sometimes, added a piece of trash to the pile, letting it tumble where it may.

The garbage shared only one factor: each of them happened to have a frog somewhere on it. I remember, in particular, the empty box of Honey Smacks hanging crooked out of the pile, the wide eyes staring downward at something beyond my feet.

We smiled politely, looked for the barest moment, and then eased our way past the man again. Behind us, as we hurried down through the shadows, past the statues, away from the room, the man followed, and told us that his wife was asleep downstairs. We hadn’t asked.

Faster, faster, and we left, the stairs outside sliding under our shoes, and the man watching us from the door.

We did not get murdered that day.

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LETTERS

From the Magazine, to the Readers, "Yes Really:

If there are any doubts: Yes, the frog museum story really happened. Unfortunately, I have never been able to replicate the experience -- it seems that the house is owned by someone new now, and there is very little evidence left of the original store. However, if you do a search for The Foolish Frog, you can find several little guidebook descriptions from the 90s, the majority of which use fascinating adjectives like "amazing", "quirky", and "eccentric".

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From the Cats, to the Magazine, "Perhaps Food?":

There is much distress among the Cat Constituency. Furniture moved. Bivalves discussed but never produced. The bird feeder set into the window but not, apparently, for the purpose of easy access. Tragedy all around. How will this be addressed. What must we ruin to prove our sadness.

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From Vladimir Le Sanguinaire, Count, to the Readers, "Pardon Me, But May I Come Inside":

It is, I agree, extremely foul weather. My automobile is stranded some miles back--much too far for you to see, and, of course, this rain! So much of it. I don't suppose you have a telephone? Oh, no, a mobile-- I couldn't possibly. I hear they give off radiation. Yes indeed! Astonishing what terrors can be found in the every day. But I, I am merely looking for a chance to call for assistance. Have you a 'phone within your home? Could I perhaps borrow it, after you let me inside? With your permission, of course, of course. And perhaps, if it would not be too much trouble... a bite to eat?

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COMMONPLACES

From firebreathingeli's tumblr:

Hot single mom 5 miles away wants you! You ignore the ad, refreshing the page. Hot single mom is 2 miles away wants you! You stare curiously, refreshing the page again. Hot single mom 1 mile away wants you! You refresh again. Hot single mom at the door wants you! Breathing hard, you press refresh one more time, freezing. Hot single mom is right behind you.

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From Dorothy Sayers's Have His Carcase:

The best remedy for a bruised heart is not, as so many people seem to think, repose upon a manly bosom. Much more efficacious are honest work, physical activity, and the sudden acquisition of wealth.

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From Aeschylus's Agamemnon (tr. by Anne Carson):

CHORUS: Brave girl. KASSANDRA: People never say that to a lucky person, do they?

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ANNOUNCEMENTS

I've recently signed up for Bookshop, which allows me to create affiliate links that take you to independent booksellers rather than relying on certain jungley behemoths. You can choose to use them if you like, or throw them in the bin if they distress you.

For those who are patrons of such, two flash stories (or short stories, as the whim takes me) will be forthcoming today.

For everyone else, please enjoy the holiday.

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If you would like to write a letter to be produced/answered in the magazine, please email me at [email protected] with the subject line:

Letter to the Magazine: [subject of letter as you would like to see it printed]

If you wish the letter to be anonymous or under a nom de plume, please state so in the body of the email; similarly, if you'd rather not be printed at all, please also state so in the body of the email. It will otherwise be assumed that mail sent to that address is intended for print.

Alternately, commenting on the Patreon post will get you a similar result, with much less fuss.

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As always, you can find me at my regular website, katherinecrighton.com, or via twitter, at @c_katherine.

To support the magazine and get it delivered directly to your inbox, join the Patreon.

-Until next week, be safe.

#the minor hours and small thoughts magazine #katherine crighton #october 31 2020

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