Cinnamon Gardens Quotes

I could live there all alone, she thought, slowing the car to look down the winding garden path to the small blue front door with, perfectly, a white cat on the step. No one would ever find me there, either, behind all those roses, and just to make sure I would plant oleanders by the road. I will light a fire in the cool evenings and toast apples at my own hearth. I will raise white cats and sew white curtains for the windows and sometimes come out of my door to go to the store to buy cinnamon and tea and thread. People will come to me to have their fortunes told, and I will brew love potions for sad maidens; I will have a robin...

The stories we tell each other, and the stories we tell ourselves. The stories we reveal, and those we hide. The stories we tell our children. These are the temples we build, they must not be erased.

I still dream in pictures and color, always the world of my childhood. I see the purple Judas trees at Easter lighting up the roadsides and terraces of the town. Ochre cliffs made of cinnamon powder. Autumn clouds rolling along the ground of the hills, and the patchwork of wet oak leaves on the grass. The shape of a rose petal. And my parents' faces, which will never grow any older. "But it is strange how scent brings it all back too. I only have to smell certain aromas, and I am back in a certain place with a certain feeling." The comforting past smelled of heliotrope and cherry and sweet almond biscuits: close-up smells, flowers you had to put your nose to as the sight faded from your eyes. The scents of that childhood past had already begun to slip away: Maman's apron with blotches of game stew; linen pressed with faded lavender; the sheep in the barn. The present, or what had so very recently been the present, was orange blossom infused with hope.

According to the Buddha's doctrine that they believed in, it was not the caste that defined a person high or low. It was one's deeds that mattered.

Even though we are supposed to be low caste and poor our vote also has the same value and validity as that of great people.

She nearly stopped forever just outside Ashton, because she came to a tiny cottage buried in a garden. I could live there all alone, she thought, slowing the car to look down the winding garden path to the small blue front door with, perfectly, a white cat on the step. No one would ever find me there, either, behind all those roses, and just to make sure I would plant oleanders by the road. I will light a fire in the cool evenings and toast apples at my own hearth. I will raise white cats and sew white curtains for the windows and sometimes come out of my door to go to the store to buy cinnamon and tea and thread. People will come to me to have their fortunes told, and I will brew love potions for sad maidens; I will have a robin.

Huge tureens of puréed chestnut soup with truffles were carried in and served to each guest, filling the air with a rich earthy small. Then the servants brought in ballotine of pheasant, served with cold lobster in aspic and deep-sea oysters brought up the river by boat that morning. Our own foie gras on tiny rounds of bread was followed by 'margret de canard,' the breast meat of force-fed ducks, roasted with small home-grown pears and Armagnac. There was a white-bean cassoulet with wild hare, a haunch of venison cooked in cinnamon and wine, eel pie, and a salad of leaves and flowers from the garden, dressed in olive oil and lemon.

And can we get a tarte normande, the kind you used to love as a little girl?" The mere mention has my mouth watering and my heart aching. I can almost taste the tarts my mother used to make, with apples from the trees in our garden, loads of freshly grated cinnamon, and a dollop of whipped cream on top. "And can we look for treasure on the beach?" "Yes, sweet child." "And can we throw rocks in the water and look for starfish in the tide pools?

Should a lady desire fresh air and exercise, she is perfectly safe in taking a turn around her garden. I speak merely of walking into public areas. In such locales, there is the possibility of encountering unsavory characters, wild animals, and even uneven surfaces. I

If the woman has the physical fitness and the meritorious luck to bear his children, the family was a fortunate one. Villagers always looked at sterility with a squinted eye, and its fault and the misfortune lay solely on the woman's part. As such, a childless woman often became culprit for her entire life.

She nearly stopped forever just outside Ashton, because she came to a tiny cottage buried in a garden. I could live there all alone, she thought, slowing the car to look down the winding garden path to the small blue front door with, perfectly, a white cat on the step. No one would ever find me there, either, behind all those roses, and just to make sure I would plant oleanders by the road. I will light a fire in the cool evenings and toast apples at my own hearth. I will raise white cats and sew white curtains for the windows and sometimes come out of my door to go to the store to buy cinnamon and tea and thread. People will come to me to have their fortunes told, and I will brew love potions for sad maidens; I will have a robin. . . .

Her heart filled with boundless love that surged anew for her father. She felt like rushing to him and planting a quick kiss on his cheek the way she used to when she was a small girl. However, these villagers are not in the habit of kissing their offspring after they grow up. They show their love and affection by stroking their heads, addressing them in endearing words and blessing them.

Her Instagram feed filled up with gorgeous photos of her creations displayed alongside books, some of their links tenuous at best. Double chocolate cookies made with huge chunks of Valrhona chocolate found their American-Parisian mash-up reference in Alcott's Little Women. Currant cinnamon rolls as big as a baby's head were paired with The Secret Garden. Her lemon-blueberry muffins posed alongside a favorite childhood picture book, Blueberries For Sal.

Sugar-cube houses spilled down the last slope toward the sea. A full moon floated above the inky water; the air from the gardens they passed smelled of gardenias and jasmine. She slept as soon as she put her head on the pillow of the small white hotel room. When she opened the creaky blue shutters the following morning, brilliant sunlight fell in through the window and the hum of the bees on the vines below filled the room. The sea was every color of delphinium and larkspur. The smell of food drifted up from the small restaurant below her balcony. Bacon, fresh bread, coffee, cinnamon.

I could live there all alone, she thought, slowing the car to look down the winding garden path to the small blue front door with, perfectly, a white cat on the step. No one would ever find me there, either, behind all those roses, and just to make sure I would plant oleanders by the road. I will light a fire in the cool evenings and toast apples at my own hearth. I will raise white cats and sew white curtains for the windows and sometimes come out of my door to go to the store to buy cinnamon and tea and thread. People will come to me to have their fortunes told, and I will brew love potions for sad maidens; I will have a robin....

Night by night, he led her through Saturnus's gardens, describing the dishes that might come from each one. 'Poached collops of venison,' he whispered in her ear. 'A quaking pudding with raisins, honey and saffron. Custards flavored with conserve of roses and a paste of quinces. Beef wrapped about a mash of artichoke and pistachio, then hollowed manchet rolls filled with minced eggs, sweet herbs and cinnamon...' He described the foaming forcemeat of fowls then set before her a dish. He watched her scoop up a little of the pale orange mash. 'I confess that to this poor palate your forcemeats taste strongly of turnips.' 'Ah, but I have not yet described the seasonings of cumin and saffron, the beaten egg whites and the folding of the forcemeats into the pipkin.' He scooped more of the turnip mash and held out the spoon. 'Taste again, your ladyship. Imagine the spices...

With orchards and gardens bursting with delicious Kentish apples, now is the time to fetch out those favourite recipes. Spiced Apple Cake is simple to make and a nice change from a pie. It works well served warm with custard, or cold with a cup of tea in place of a traditional fruit cake. 3 apples, peeled, cored and sliced 2 tsp golden syrup 1 tbsp butter 1 tsp ground cinnamon Sponge mix: 4 oz butter 2 tbsp golden syrup 4 oz caster sugar 2 eggs 4 oz self-raising flour 1 tbsp milk Simmer the apples with the syrup, butter and cinnamon for a few minutes until tender but not mushy. To prepare the topping, soften the butter and golden syrup in a bowl over a basin of hot water. Remove from the heat and beat in the sugar and eggs. Fold in the flour, adding milk to give the consistency of lightly whipped cream. Place the apple chunks in a greased tin or ovenproof dish and pour over the topping. Bake at Gas Mark 4 for 25 to 30 minutes until the sponge is golden brown and springy to touch.

I'd give me two eyes for a slice of apple pie." She was brain-cracked, but spoke for them all. Then Tabby Jones joined in, holding forth on the making of the best apple pie: the particular apples, whether reinettes or pippins, the bettermost flavorings: cinnamon, cloves, or a syrup made from the peelings. Slowly, groans of vexation turned to appreciative mumblings. Someone else favored quince, another lemon. Apples, they all agreed, though the most commonplace of fruit, did produce an uncommon variety of delights: pies and puddings, creams and custards, jellies and junkets, ciders and syllabubs. The time passed a deal quicker and merrier than before. Janey, the whore who had once been famed in Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies, told them, in her child's voice, that the best dish she ever tasted was a Desert Island of Flummery, at a mansion in Grosvenor Square. "It was all over jellies and candies and dainty figures, and a hut of real gold-leaf. Like eating money, it were. I fancied meself a proper duchess." She knew what Janey meant. When she had first met Aunt Charlotte she had gorged herself until her fingers were gummy with syrup and cream. There was one cake she never forgot; a puffed conceit of cream, pastry, and pink sugar comfits.

Pots hung from the ceiling beams, between the festoons of braided garlic, the hams, the salsicce, bunches of mountain herbs for medicine, strings of dried porcini, necklaces of dried apple rings in winter, chains of dried figs. The smell of onions, of hot lard and smoldering oak wood, of cinnamon and pepper, always seemed to hang in the air. The larder was full of meat at all times, needless to say: not small pieces, but huge joints and sides of beef and lamb, which Mamma and Carenza could never hope to use just for our household, and which were quietly passed on to the monks of Santa Croce so that they could feed the poor. Carenza made salami with fennel seeds and garlic, prosciutto, pancetta. Sometimes the air in the larder was so salty that it stung your nostrils, and sometimes it reeked of spoiled blood from the garlands of hares, rabbits, quail, thrushes and countless other creatures that would arrive, bloody and limp, from Papa's personal game dealer. Next to the larder, a door led out to our courtyard, which Mamma had kept filled with herbs. An ancient rosemary bush took up most of one side, and the air in summer was always full of bees. Sage, thyme, various kinds of mint, oregano, rocket, hyssop, lovage and basil grew in Mamma's collection of old terra-cotta pots. A fig tree was slowly pulling down the wall, and a tenacious, knotted olive tree had been struggling for years in the sunniest corner.

It was a gorgeous evening, with a breeze shimmering through the trees, people strolling hand in hand through the quaint streets and the plaza. The shops, bistros and restaurants were abuzz with patrons. She showed him where the farmer's market took place every Saturday, and pointed out her favorite spots- the town library, a tasting room co-op run by the area vintners, the Brew Ha-Ha and the Rose, a vintage community theater. On a night like this, she took a special pride in Archangel, with its cheerful spirit and colorful sights. She refused to let the Calvin sighting drag her down. He had ruined many things for her, but he was not going to ruin the way she felt about her hometown. After some deliberation, she chose Andaluz, her favorite spot for Spanish-style wines and tapas. The bar spilled out onto the sidewalk, brightened by twinkling lights strung under the big canvas umbrellas. The tables were small, encouraging quiet intimacy and insuring that their knees would bump as they scooted their chairs close. She ordered a carafe of local Mataro, a deep, strong red from some of the oldest vines in the county, and a plancha of tapas- deviled dates, warm, marinated olives, a spicy seared tuna with smoked paprika. Across the way in the plaza garden, the musician strummed a few chords on his guitar. The food was delicious, the wine even better, as elemental and earthy as the wild hills where the grapes grew. They finished with sips of chocolate-infused port and cinnamon churros. The guitar player was singing "The Keeper," his gentle voice seeming to float with the breeze.

In the 1930's Yanik brought blinis and apple charlottes, beef stroganoff and kulich to Tehran, opening the first confectionary with a garden café. He came with his wife, Nina, who spooned cinnamon-scented ground beef and onions into delicate piroshkies and learned to cook Persian food by trial and error, nourishing her family and customers with a generous spirit, mingling delicately with neighbors, and learning to speak Farsi. To steady their leap across borders, Yanik changed his surname from Yedemsky to Yadegar, and planted a small orchard of pomegranate, almond, and mulberry trees that would shade the terrace tables.

Emma fussed with the cinnamon-rose starts she had planted all over the backyard. She was as tender with the roses as if they were her children, and every hour or two she watered them.

We were as hungry as hunters after a day of stalking prey. The word for Belinda's chicken, we agreed, was also epic, the meat deeply flavored, the rice flecked with tiny sour-sweet jewel-red barberries, and mined with woody spices you had to pluck out---cinnamon sticks, cloves, and black cardamom pods as big and wrinkled as prunes. "This could be the best thing I have ever eaten," said Jennie. "It's right up there," I said. "The food writer agrees!" Jennie said. "Did you hear that, Belinda?" "I just followed the recipe," said Belinda. "Anybody could make it." Not true. Not everybody used quality organic chicken, high-grade extra-long basmati rice, hard-to-find black cardamom pods. The parsley and cilantro from Belinda's own garden were more flavorful than supermarket varieties. And Belinda had the great cook's touch; her onions were expertly caramelized, her chicken well browned, her rice cooked to the right tooth... No, not everyone could make this.

As Dina walked down the hall, the floorboards seamlessly transformed into blue and white tiles beneath her feet. She found herself standing in the heart of the house: a riad with a bubbling mosaic fountain, vines twisting up the walls and, above her, fuchsias blooming in terra-cotta pots and miniature date trees coiling around the pillars. It was more of a garden than a room, really. The ceiling was open to the night sky, burnished stars in an inky darkness. It wasn't the real sky of course, but the house's magic was powerful. Dina could even hear crickets chirping in the distance and the cinnamon scent of the earth in Khemisset, where her mother had grown up. She exhaled deeply, the feeling of being home sinking into her bones.

If their horoscopes are not compatible, this marriage is out of the question.

Killing life in whatever way, will drag you along the hell's way.

Families could often trace their lineage back several centuries. Their livelihood was earned from drum playing, a service considered to be dis-respectable. As members of a low caste, the drummers were forbidden to build decent houses. There were allowed to build wattle and daub huts, and to live rent-free on their patrons' properties. The right to own the country's land was restricted in this manner, a vicious condition that arose through tradition and was reinforced by law. Patterns of financial power and political hierarchy existed hand in hand.

Physical beauty or sexual attraction in a woman was not a criterion in deciding, strengthening, or the survival of such relationships of these villagers.

Maggie was ten years younger than him. Being cross-cousins, they lived in the same compound, in the same two houses that still existed. When their parents told him to take her for his wife, there was nothing for him to think deep into the matter. They simply obeyed their parents. Accordingly, she came over to sleep in his house. In this, manner they remained as man and wife for a period of over thirty years.

Generally, that humble piece of furniture placed on the front veranda of the house officially belonged to the man of the household; the women never slept on it.

In a front of each home garden the villagers fixed a triangular wooden lamp-house on the top of a pole planted on the ground to hold a small statue of Lord Buddha and some deities. They used to offer flowers at this small shrine and light a tiny clay oil lamp.

Master Salamon usually set off a little later as neither he nor other male members of their community were in the habit of walking on the road alongside their wives.

The villagers considered it lucky to make the New Year's first money transaction with her because she was a prosperous person.

When he had accompanied his father on drumming errands he noticed how high caste men and women treated them as inferior. They had to enter from the back door and wait near the kitchen or at a side veranda and sit on low benches or reed mats. They were never offered a decent seat. At meals times they were never invited to eat at the main table with the family or other guests. Instead, they had to eat the food served to them on the reed mat. This they ate in silence while the patrons sat at a lavishly laid table and enjoyed their food amidst chat and cheer.

Our innocent kids undergo much trouble. Not only do the children of high caste families look down upon our children calling them low caste brats, but even some teachers ridicule them. They beat our children for no reason.

She believed that people born to low caste families were meant to suffer. That was their karma. She had learnt that those who indulge in sinful activities in their previous birth, especially those who humiliated others, would be reborn to low caste families. She firmly believed also that one has to suffer until the sin was paid for through suffering and good deeds.

A new movement reinforced by activists such as Buddhist monks, physicians who practised traditional medicine, teachers, farmers, and laborers brought Prime Minister Bandaranaike into the political helm. The leaders of the Davulawatta community considered this election a personal achievement. They saw this as a people's government and appreciated its genuine interest in fulfilling the needs of the common people. They trusted that the present government would eradicate poverty and the caste discrimination, and work to promote self-esteem.

Carolina protected her so that Suneetha should remain a virgin until her wedding night. The worth of such purity in character was immeasurable in this society and culture. Therefore, she never even allowed Suneetha to go with other village girls when they went to the desolate cinnamon gardens to gather firewood.

Cherry Cream Cheese Surprise Recipe   Ingredients: From Scratch Pie Crust: (8 or 9 inch pie crust) 1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon shortening (Crisco) OR 1/3 cup lard 1 cup all-purpose flour ½ teaspoon salt 2 to 3 tablespoons cold water Steps: Cut shortening into flour and salt until particles are the size of small peas.  Sprinkle in water, 1 tablespoon at a time, tossing with a fork until all flour is moistened and pastry almost cleans side of bowl (1 to 2 tablespoons water can be added, if needed.) Gather pastry into a ball.  Flatten the ball on a lightly floured cloth-covered board. (A hard, floured surface will also work.) Roll pastry 2 inches larger than inverted pie plate using floured rolling pin.  (Note: I use a lightly floured spatula to loosen the piecrust from the surface.) Fold pastry into quarters, unfold and ease into lightly greased pie plate, pressing firmly against bottom and sides of plate.  Trim overhang excess and then press fork tines along rim of pie plate.  Cream Cheese Layer: 8 ounces whipped cream cheese ½ cup white sugar ½ tsp. vanilla extract Mix ingredients and spread on the bottom and sides of the piecrust. Mix 1 tablespoon brown sugar and ½ teaspoon cinnamon together and sprinkle over top of cream cheese mixture.   PREHEAT OVEN TO 375 DEGREES. Cherry Pie Filling: 4 cups fresh or frozen cherries, thawed (if frozen, make sure to drain juice after thawing) ¾ cup sugar 3 tbsp cornstarch or Mix ingredients and pour on top of cream cheese/brown sugar and cinnamon mixture. Topping: 2/3 cup packed brown sugar ½ cup all-purpose flour ½ cup oats ¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon ¾ teaspoon ground nutmeg ½ cup margarine or butter, softened Mix ingredients and sprinkle over top of cherry mixture.   Bake 30 minutes at 375 degrees.  *For a quicker, easier version, substitute with a refrigerated (ready-to-bake) pie crust and 2 cans of cherry pie filling. *Serve warm with ice cream…or eat a piece for breakfast with a fresh cup of coffee .

Briar waved a hand and gave a tinkling happy laugh. He flinched. This was unbearable. The lass was as fresh and pretty as a daisy and seemed just as oblivious to her own charms as a garden flower was, too. She smelled much better than a daisy, however. Daisies were highly overrated flowers. When you got up close to one, they smelled disappointingly like manure. No, Briar Blakeley smelled like something delicious. Like something you wouldn’t mind popping straight into your mouth. Like cake baked with vanilla and cinnamon. Or a confectionary’s shop. She was sweet as honey, probably twice as naive, and something about her was making his blood pound and his loins tighten. The sooner he could get rid of her the better.

I don’t mean English. I mean in their language, through their eyes. They only see their stories as valid. Give them that. Give them their stories but write them better. You’ve studied English literature; you know how it works.’ He

Whipped or ice cream on your dumplings?" she asked them, once the crust browned and the filling bubbled. She sprinkled additional cinnamon sugar on top. Grace and Cade responded as one, "Ice cream." Cade leaned his elbows on the table, cut her a curious look. "I didn't think we had a thing in common." She gave him a repressive look. "Ice cream doesn't make us friends." Amelia scooped vanilla bean into the bowls with the dumplings. Her smile was small, secret, when she served their dessert, and she commented, "Friendships are born of likes and dislikes. Ice cream is binding." Not as far as Grace was concerned. Cade dug into his dessert. Amelia kept the conversation going. "I bet you're more alike than you realize." Why would that matter? Grace thought. She had no interest in this man. A simultaneous "doubtful" surprised them both. Amelia kept after them, Grace noted, pointing out, "You were both born, grew up, and never left Moonbright." "It's a great town," Cade said. "Family and friends are here." "You're here," Grace emphasized. Amelia patted her arm. "I'm very glad you've stayed. Cade, too. You're equally civic-minded." Grace blinked. We are? "The city council initiated Beautify Moonbright this spring, and you both volunteered." We did? Grace was surprised. Cade scratched his stubbled chin, said, "Mondays, I transport trees and mulch from Wholesale Gardens to grassy medians between roadways. Flower beds were planted along the nature trails to the public park." Grace hadn't realized he was part of the community effort. "I help with the planting. Most Wednesdays." Amelia was thoughtful. "You're both active at the senior center." Cade acknowledged, "I've thrown evening horseshoes against the Benson brothers. Lost. Turned around and beat them at cards." "I've never seen you there," Grace puzzled. "I stop by in the afternoons, drop off large-print library books and set up audio cassettes for those unable to read because of poor eyesight." "There's also Build a Future," Amelia went on to say. "Cade recently hauled scaffolding and worked on the roof at the latest home for single parents. Grace painted the bedrooms in record time." "The Sutter House," they said together. Once again. "Like minds," Amelia mused, as she sipped her sparkling water.

Violence should not be met with the silence of the oppressed.

The beauty of a stone is not in its strengths but in the uniqueness of its failings.

Pariva was a small village, unimportant enough that it rarely appeared on any maps of Esperia. Bordered by mountains and sea, it seemed untouched by time. The school looked the same as she remembered; so did the market and Mangia Road---a block of eating establishments that included the locally famous Belmagio bakery---and cypress and laurel and pine trees still surrounded the local square, where the villagers came out to gossip or play chess or even sing together. Had it really been forty years since she had returned? It seemed like only yesterday that she'd strolled down Pariva's narrow streets, carrying a sack of pine nuts to her parents' bakery or stopping by the docks to watch the fishing boats sail across the glittering sea. Back then, she'd been a daughter, a sister, a friend. A mere slip of a young woman. Home had been a humble two-storied house on Constanza Street, with a door as yellow as daffodils and cobblestoned stairs that led into a small courtyard in the back. Her father had kept a garden of herbs; he was always frustrated by how the mint grew wild when what he truly wanted to grow was basil. The herbs went into the bread that her parents sold at their bakery. Papa crafted the savory loaves and Mamma the sweet ones, along with almond cakes drizzled with lemon glaze, chocolate biscuits with hazelnut pralines, and her famous cinnamon cookies. The magic the Blue Fairy had grown up with was sugar shimmering on her fingertips and flour dusting her hair like snow. It was her older brother, Niccolo, coaxing their finicky oven into working again, and Mamma listening for the crackle of a golden-brown crust just before her bread sang. It was her little sister Ilaria's tongue turning green after she ate too many pistachio cakes. Most of all, magic was the smile on Mamma's, Papa's, Niccolo's, and Ilaria's faces when they brought home the bakery's leftover chocolate cake and sank their forks into a sumptuous, moist slice. After dinner, the Blue Fairy and her siblings made music together in the Blue Room. Its walls were bluer than the midsummer sky, and the windows arched like rainbows. It'd been her favorite room in the house.

Forty-five minutes later, Troy and Hannah returned with a speeding ticket, a pan of fresh salmon, one black truffle, three tins of caviar, a covered box of mushrooms, and twelve filet mignons that had originally been intended to be served with a spicy Gorgonzola sauce of shiitake mushrooms and chipotle chilies. That sauce now coated a good portion of the highway. "Start slicing the beef," ordered Carmen, "and make it paper thin. We're going to wrap it around the green onions we already have here, and God help me, we're going to make it stretch." The salmon was quickly thrown into the Aga to bake, then drizzled with a vanilla-infused vegetable oil and sprinkled with roe. "We're going to run out of plates," said Oliver. "Good thing I saw more potatoes in the pantry," said Carmen. "We'll make smaller galettes, and use them as though they were plates." "What do you want me to do with the mushrooms?" Troy was rubbing each mushroom with a clean soft cloth, as Oliver had instructed him. "Get them started in a pan with a little olive oil, and we'll brown them with some of our fresh garlic and the thyme from Gus's garden," said Carmen. "We'll finish them with a few drops of sherry. Hannah!" Hannah waited for her marching orders. "Find those oranges I saw you pigging out on earlier, and bring them to the stovetop." "And then what?" said Hannah. "Then it's time for you to cook," said Carmen. "You're going to create a syrup from red wine, a little zest, cinnamon, and sugar, and let it simmer for a half hour. We'll cool it in an ice bath and drench the oranges.

As Corcoran's Bake Shop boasted no back garden, and had no need for parking space thanks to its owner's preference for wheelbarrow delivery, the arrangement was a sound one for both parties. Benny Corcoran never minded having to share his alley space, encouraged it even, as the sharing allowed him proximity to his primary source of inspiration, Layla Aminpour's rosewater and cinnamon scent. Ever since the Babylon Café's opening, that first day when Benny crossed paths with Layla on his way from Fadden's Mini-Mart, the baker had been on a steady chrysalis-like course of transformation. Not only had he tripled his hot cross bun production and experimented with a black yeast and soda water ferment that pumped his sugar loaves to near Blarney Stone proportions, but he had dedicated himself to the rigors of an exercise regime that found him running up and down Croagh Patrick's stony path once a week, showers notwithstanding. Metamorphosis would have been an exaggeration had it been anyone but Benny Corcoran; the once puffy baker had turned his body and libido into a sinewy machine of redheaded virility- a development that did not bode well for his wife Assumpta's version of the marriage sacrament.

Sprinkle cinnamon on the soil, a light coating.

Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! how much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices! Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon. A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard, Spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices: A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon. Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits. Song of Solomon 4:9-16