Through Smoke

[French parfum, from Old Italian parfumo, from parfumare, to fill with smoke : par-, intensive pref. (from Latin per-, per-) + fumare, to smoke (from Latin f m re, from f mus, smoke).]

Each day as part of my ablutions, my favorite thing is to choose the scent that will make up my day. Before I choose my clothes, before I poke my head out the window to see what Mother Nature has in store for me, I choose the perfume that will be the pleasure of my olfactory senses for the day.

Coco Chanel once said, “A woman who doesn’t ear perfume has no future.”

Chanel was one of the first perfumes that I had the privilege of knowing. I smell it and think of the expensive little square bottle, and my mother running the glass stopper across her elegant collarbone and behind her ears. It was femininity to me-what it meant to be a woman. So, of course, I wanted to wear it-NOW-at seven years old. Of course, it was inappropriate for a child. For that matter, if what some of the fashionista’s and those in the know seem to believe, I’ve another 20 years before it will be appropriate for me to wear the sultry scent. Just thinking of this makes me recall Holly Golightly standing at the diamond counter at Tiffany's saying "I simply adore diamonds darling, they're wonderful on older women, but not right for me, you understand."

If you think about it, I’m sure you can conjure a few people in your life, maybe someone long past, maybe someone you only met for a second, with the memory of their perfume. If you want to be irreplaceable-be unforgettable. There are few memories that can be locked away deeper than those we associate with a distinct scent.

There are three or four perfumes in my arsenal. I sometimes layer them, but I like the purity of one complex perfume. I’m sad to say that my taste in perfume is much like most of the things in my life-terribly expensive. Earlier this year I was in a famous department store in New York City and a lovely girl waved a scented piece of cardstock near my nose and I was trapped, like a deer in headlights. “I’ll take it!” I huskily replied. She was taken aback at my instant response, though I doubt I’m the first or last who will have it. Sadly-I left the store without anything other than the little piece of scented cardstock and a deep yearning in my heart. My picky little olfactory sense had betrayed me again. I had fallen rock hard in love with the most expensive perfume LITERALLY made- Clive Christians’ No. 1. The bloody stuff comes in a hand-cut Baccarat beaker with a carat diamond in the 18K gold collar of the bottle. Priced at a modest $2,150.00 an ounce I figure when I win the lottery I’ll just fill a bucket with the stuff and slosh around in it till I get pruney.

Meanwhile, I’ll have to be pleased (which I most certainly am) with my few favorites. My scents of choice are as follows; Angelique Encens by Creed, George Sand by Perfumiers Historique, Voleur de Roses by L’Artisian Parfumeur and Mitsouko by Guerlain. As I said while walking down Park Avenue in New York after buying my first bottle of George Sand, “I smell like money”. No 50 Cent-I will NOT give you the credit for that quote!

It may sound utterly conceited to anyone who finds no value in the art form of scent. My perfumes remind me that each day a little grace must fall into your life to keep you truly alive. It assures me that if nothing else, while some people think that "luxury is the opposite of poverty. It is not. It is the opposite of vulgarity.”

Small Things Can Have Big Histories

A few years ago I stumbled upon a little book in my local library that captured my imagination from beginning to end. I’d been to the British Museum a year or so earlier and seen the vase, but it didn’t stick in my mind as a thing of astonishing beauty or rarity. Like many of the items in that colossal building, their majesty is usually marked only with a small, discrete card with little or any background. You could be looking at the hand of God himself, and unless some docent or passer-by happened to point it out, you’d as likely as not pass it by unnoticed.

The fact that it is a beautiful piece of work aside it is the history of the Portland Vase that intrigues me. It has “survived” (a term that must be used loosely here) a deranged vandal in 1845, and the bombing of the British Museum by the Germans. It has been literally smashed to bits and rebuilt from the ground up twice. Lord knows how many times it has avoided complete destruction.

The 9 ¾-inch glass vase is a deep opaque violet blue-nearly black, and is overlaid with white glass in which scenes of mythological figures are cut. Notice the resemblance to Wedgwood? Yeah-there’s a reason for that—we’ll get there. While renowned for its beauty, the meaning of the decorative scenes carved into its sides have never been fully ascertained (though highly speculated and written about), and its origins remain utterly mysterious.

Scholars do not agree on who owned the vase in ancient Rome, and even its emergence during the Renaissance period is shrouded in mystery. It was said to have been discovered in a sarcophagus outside Rome in the early 1580’s, but there seems to be no documentation of its unearthing at this time. By the early 17th century it was owned by Cardinal Francesco Maria Borbone del Monte, who died in 1626, and whose heir Alessandro, promptly sold the family heirloom to Cardinal Antonio Barberini. The vase remained in their palace in Italy, along with the rest of the Barberini’s fantastic collection of paintings and sculptures for 150 years. Much to the chagrin of Italians everywhere, the vase was next acquired by a Scottish architect living in Italy named James Byres. Byres had a reputation-not all of it good. Most of the time he made his gelt by giving rich Americans and British subjects tours of the region, serving as docent, guide and expert. Not being a man of settled financial means, it is not surprising that Byres sold it to a Sir William Hamilton.

Hamilton was WILD about Roman vases. Sent them home by fairly the crate-load. Literally. When he made the hugely expensive purchase (basically on a whim) he quickly realized that getting his acquisition home would be a bit of a challenge. Byres of course had the solution, and went about getting the false documents and provenance that Hamilton would need to ship home the piece without having to pay a kings-ransom in duties, and of course-that would keep the Italian government from ceasing its exit from their shores.

So far, the vase was just called a vase, sometimes the Barberini vase. It was not until 1784, when Margaret, the duchess of Portland, saw the vase. She was instantly in love, and sought the piece for her collection. Sadly, she was unable to enjoy her new vase for long. She died on July 17, 1785 less than a year after she first saw the work. This is when the breaking begins. In 1810 a friend of Margaret’s son, the duke of Portland, broke off the base of the vase. He decided not to take any other chances with it and lent it to the British Museum, where it presumably would be safe and cold be enjoyed by a wide audience.

No such luck.

In 1845, a young man named William Mulcahy who had been drinking for several days before stumbling into the British Museum for a tour, grabbed an object, shattered the case holding the vase and then smashed the vase. The onlookers were astonished, and frankly baffled as to his motive. Its never been ascertained as to what was going through his mind when he wreaked this destruction, and because British Law did not provide penalties for destroying items of high value, he was soon released after an anonymous person posted his bail. Needless to say the British Museum was a bit embarrassed, but rather than send a personal representative, they chose to send the Duke and his family a note about the smashing in which it pronounced the culprit mad. The vase has been restored three times in its known existence. After Mulcahy broke it into some 200 pieces, it was repaired by the museum’s John Doubleday, who was left with a little box of extra shards. Over time, the color of the glue that he used to piece the vase together changed colors and the Museum decided to have a restoration attempt made again. This time they hired James H.W. Axtell, who carefully broke it apart and repaired it again using transparent glue. He too had over a dozen chips left at the end of his restoration. Lastly, in 1986 Nigel Williams, the chief conservator of ceramics at the British Museum broke the vase and restored it with modern epoxy and other materials.

From the standpoint of art history, the vase is interesting as it has twice served as a major source of artistic inspiration. One, a copy created by Wedgwood, and the second a copy commissioned by Benjamin Richardson who offered 1000 pound prize for anyone who could duplicate the cameo work in glass. It took glass maker Philip Pargeter three years with the assistance of John Northwood (who did the engraving), to win the prize. This copy stands today in the Corning Glass Museum in New York.

This lovely piece remains in the Museum today, apart from three years (1929-32) when The Duke of Portland put the vase up for sale at Christies. The vase failed to make its reserve price, but was purchased in 1945 by the British Museum with the aid of a bequest from James Rose Vallentin.

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose

Some people believe that John Singer Sargent’s paintings are too perfect, too sweet, and too beautiful. I am not one of those people. I simply adore his work. If I had a month left of this life, and could choose, I think one of those days would be spent standing stock still on the creaky floors of the Tate Museum in London whiling away the precious minutes staring at his work.

One of the first you encounter-or that simply snatches out at you in that wonderful old place is Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, the title of which was lifted from the light-hearted lyrics of a popular song of the time.

The story of its birth is a lovely little one, first conceived in the magnificent garden of the Lavington Rectory in 1884 when Sargent was staying with the Vickers family. The idea (a purely fanciful one to be sure) was to capture, not the most perfect sunset, but the affect of the most perfect sunset has, in terms of color, shadows and light on a scene. But it was more than that. How about the artificial light of Chinese lanterns at the precise moment of twilight when lanterns and sun are at perfect equilibrium? Sargent was a strict follower of Impressionism-he painted exactly what he saw-not what his imagination wanted him to see. So, he painted for only minutes each day. Minutes.

He began by using a friend’s young daughter who was only 5 at the time as a model. They put a wig on her to lighten her hair and then propped the darling thing up as if she were lighting a Chinese lantern.

He worked on the picture, from September to early November 1885, and again at the Millets's new home, Russell House, Broadway, during the summer of 1886, completing it some time in October of that year. Each chance he could get; he would dress the children in white sweaters which came down to their ankles, over which he pulled the dresses which appeared in the picture. Even in the cold, he painted. When the roses in the garden gradually faded and died, he requisitioned artificial substitutes, which were affixed to the withered bushes.

The picture was bought for the Tate Gallery in 1887, under the terms of the Chantrey bequest, largely at the insistence of the Royal Academy President, Sir Frederic Leighton. A portrait by Sargent of Mrs. Barnard (1885), made at the same time as Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, is also in the Tate.

His work is beauty itself. If you have ever the chance to see it-please, do yourself the favor and do.

A Few Words from the Bard

I seem to be falling behind on content for this little blog of mine. Maybe I'm still recovering from Andrew Bird last week. Maybe its that fall is coming and unlike most who see it as a season of dying, its always been like spring to me. It shakes open something alseep in me that hibernates all hot summer long. So, I thought a little Shakespeare would do for the day. I've read nearly everything the great bard has written. I won't say I can recite much of it, but for some reason these verses have always had a place in my mind and heart. Maybe it's the "ever-fixed mark" which is pronounced with the "fixed" as two syllables. Frankly-the whole thing is absolutely woo-making.

My favorite sonnet..from me to you.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of two minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken,
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Andrew Bird- A Delicious Heretic

I don't actually have much to say today. It's entirely too lovely to be sitting inside the house pecking away at this wee keyboard. I've been puttering around the house cleaning like a madwoman in expectation of a dear friend coming to visit this coming weekend. One wouldn't want a house guest (no matter how dear) to discover a cobweb in the hallway or a pair of knickers hiding behind the armoire. Whilst doing all this corner probing house cleaning I've been listening to Andrew Bird-whom if you haven't discovered yet is one of my most favorite performers of this and the last century (which is saying a hell of a lot).

I had the distinct pleasure of FINALLY seeing him live this week at the Variety Playhouse in Atlanta. It seems a bit like destiny that I should see him exactly one year and seven months after the accident that kept me from seeing him when last he performed in town. He was at Eyedrum then, which would have given me closer proximity to his tasty physical presence, so its probably better that I missed it. I'm pretty sure I'd have simply swooned at his feet once he set into whistling or plucking pizzicato on his violin. Lord, I'm getting the vapors just thinking of it.

Anywhoo-I'm off to find the smelling salts. I wish I could attach a file here and I'd give you lots of free MP3's-but I suppose Blogger.com is probably onto us.

Just go buy it. NOW. You'll thank me.

The Perfect Blue Martini

While I'm not actually a martini drinker, there has always been something truly alluring about the simple drink. Had I not taken my first plunge into the pool with a combination of a friend's father's best bottle of Beefeater's spiked with of all things- grape Kool-Aide, I might feel quite different. But, as it is-gin tastes like a Christmas tree to me-though I am trying hard to learn to love it. I feel that like caviar it is a taste for which one should acquire.

I hate tchotski's on the whole, but I might just have to invest in a pair of these little blue glasses. If it worked for Benchley-it should as well work for me.

As Ms. Parker was known to have said:

"I like a good martini,
One or two at the most.
After one I'm under the table,
After two, I'm under the host."

Should you feel the need to toss aside the concept of this simple drink for something well...more girly but still quite potent, I suggest the following.

Algonquin Bar Punch Recipe

Ingredients
1 oz Pineapple
1 oz Dry Vermouth
2 oz Canadian Whiskey (smuggled past the Mounties & the FEDs)

Directions

Shake and strain into an old-fashioned glass three-quarters filled with cracked ice.
Add an orange slice or a cherry.
Drink to excess.

Hiccup. If you need me I'll be under the host.

Not To Sound Like Alice, but "Eat This"..Trust Me

Sherried Brie and Mushroom Soup
Makes 8 cups

1 pound Marin French Cheese Co Rouge et Noir Brie
2 cups dry sherry
1 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 pound crimini mushrooms, sliced
1/2 cup minced shallots
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 tablespoons flour
4 cups low-sodium beef broth
1 3/4 cups half and half
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup roughly chopped fresh chives, for garnish
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Trim the rind from the brie and then roughly tear it into 2-inch pieces. (It is easy to trim if you first place the cheese in the freezer for 30 minutes or until it is sufficiently hard.)
Set aside.

In a small saucepan, reduce the sherry over medium-high heat to 1 cup.
Set aside.

In a medium stockpot over medium-high heat, melt the butter. Add the mushrooms, shallots, and lemon juice and cook for 4 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from the heat, add the flour, and stir until the flour is fully incorporated.

Return the mixture to heat and add the beef broth and reserved sherry. Raise the heat to high and bring the mixture to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 15 minutes.

Add the trimmed Brie, stirring until the cheese has melted. Add the half and half and pepper and continue to simmer without boiling for 5 minutes. Taste for salt and pepper.

To serve, ladle the soup into separate bowls and garnish each with 1 to 2 tablespoons of the chives.

To Grow Old in Paris

I found a delicious little essay while out scouting the Internet today and while I realize I should write the author and ask her for permission to duplicate it here, I hope if she ever finds this blog she will find enough affinities between us that she won't sue the pants off me. It just spoke to me today. And, I hope it will speak to you.

Coming of Age

Madame Vincent is ninety-two. She takes the stairs to the second floor, because once she was caught in an elevator for an entire day alone. She uses a cane and takes each step with caution. At the first-floor landing, she pauses and seems to lose her bearings. I think for a moment that she is almost blind, as she reaches for the wall, searching for a clue to her whereabouts.
"Ah," she says to no one in particular, "C’est le premier."

I have just locked my door and am ready to go out. It is now that she notices me.

"Bonjour, Madame." She greets me with a nod of her head.

"Bonjour, Madame," I reply. "Vous allez bien?"

"I have just returned from mass at Salpetriere," she declares in French as she leans onto her cane. Madame Vincent does not speak English. My own has been left behind. But my French has not yet purged itself of its abrupt American style.

"How did you get there?" I ask. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but Salpetriere is a fair distance.

"The bus," she answers, as if it’s of no concern. "They know me there."

Her delicate body is wrapped in a shabby tweed coat. Nylon stockings droop on tiny legs and twist around her ankles. She has pulled her thin, silver hair into a smooth bun, and finished it off with a black velvet hat that appears to have lived as long as Madame Vincent.

"After mass the priest asked a nice young man to accompany me to the bus." Her pale blue eyes become alive as she shares this act of friendship.

"Mais c’est bien." I smile. I’m relieved that this woman is not alone in the world. She shuffles past me in the dark hallway. "Au revoir, Madame," I say to her small, hunched back. I’m off to find a cafe for lunch where I can write in my journal.

I try to imagine Madame Vincent getting on and off the bus. "What must it be like?" I ask myself. I don’t even use the bus at home in Portland. This is Paris. Everything goes fast, and the steps of a bus are high above the ground. People getting off are in the way of people getting on. Does she know immediately where to descend, or does she ask? I must give her credit.
I first met Madame Vincent a few days ago. She was ahead of me on the sidewalk. I watched her put all of her weight against the solid oak door to enter the building. I slowed my pace. It had been a long weekend—too many people and too little sleep. So I passed behind her and stood at the corner to wait a few minutes. I did not want to deal with this old woman.

Old woman.

"I, too, shall be an old woman one day," hissed the good woman of my conscience. "Relax," replied my demon, "you’re allowed to be less than compassionate from time to time." But impatience joined forces with fatigue. I pushed my own weary body against the door and caught a glimpse of Madame Vincent’s sleeve as she rounded the hall corner.

"Me voici," she said, as though to warn me of her presence.

"Bonjour, Madame." My voice seemed thin in the cool, stale air of the vestibule.

Madame Vincent had stopped at the foot of the stairs. I wasn’t sure if she was resting or waiting for me.

"I have been to the Boulevard Arago for some bread," she offered. The corner boulangerie is not open on Thursdays.

"I understand they have to take a day off," she added, "but it makes it difficult to buy my bread." I nodded in sympathy.

She motioned for me to go ahead. "Unless," she suggested, "you will be taking the elevator." I reassured her that I could certainly use the stairs to get to the first floor. Climbing stairs was a novelty, actually. I wondered if she could even imagine my single-story ranch-style house in Oregon.

Up we went, in single file, my steps slower than usual. Madame Vincent spoke to me from behind, and told me of her harrowing experience with the lift.

"The door would not open. I knew that someone would arrive eventually," she said, "but it was a long wait. I was very tired. No place to sit down, you know."

"And such a tiny box," I thought. I remembered the day I tried to squeeze in with my suitcases. It was then that she cautioned me.

"Don’t get old," she began, then added before I could reply, "particularly if you must get old alone. Toute seule," she affirmed with a shake of her head. We arrived at the door to my flat. As I turned the key, I asked Madame Vincent if she would like to come in for a rest.

"No, thank you," she responded. "I’m going to make myself a good, hot cup of tea. You’re most gracious to ask."

My door stood open. I watched Madame Vincent as she rounded the bend and turned her back to continue to the second floor. She planted what seemed like enormous, heavy shoes firmly on each step, first one, then the other. I thought about my impending birthday and wondered how fifty had arrived so quickly. I felt the weight of my bags and watched a wisp of a woman climb alone to her flat, as she had done a thousand times.

Tastiest Little Piece of Fiction I’ve Gulped Down in Some Time

Okay-it’s a snack, maybe an hors d’oeuvre, or even more appropriate…tapis-as it does come from South America. When last in Seattle I stumbled upon Luis Fernando Verissimo’s yummy little piece of fiction called Borges and the Eternal Orangutans. The mention of Borges made me shudder like a dog on point, and the cover art by Fernando Botero pretty much sealed the deal that this one was coming home with me.

I can’t tell you how pleased I was to discover this gem. The story is based upon the life of a mouse of a man named Vogelstein, who decides to attend the annual meeting of the Israfel Society (named after a poem of E.A. Poe’s just in case you missed the reference) which is in fact devoted to the study of Edgar Allen Poe in hopes of meeting his hero, Jorge Luis Borges who he had accidentally insulted decades before.

See-it’s already sounding complicated and he’s not even left his dreary little apartment or his recently deceased cat yet. There is a wonderful moment (actually a few) when one character is toppled over at the opening reception because of his twitchy and introverted character that seems to make him nearly invisible to those around him. He of course becomes a key suspect later in the story.

The crux of the story is that of a “locked door” murder which Vogtelstein discovers. The seriously unlikable Rotkopf (another conference attendee) is stabbed to death in front of a mirror in his hotel room. Does his body make the shape of an I? An M? an X? Can the woman with the seductive mole on her breast be trusted? Along with the assistance of the local constabulary, it somehow falls to Vogelstein and his literary inspiration, the aged, and dying George Borges to solve the case.

Above all it’s a whip-clever little book. Literary references—not just to Poe and Borges, but also to the Bible and to the titular monkeys who might produce a Shakespeare play if sat for an eternity before a typewriter—abound. Verissimo blends mystery, highbrow literary commentary, and philosophical speculation while spinning a suspenseful, believable plot that keeps the reader completely enthralled throughout. The characters are equally ingenious; I found myself aching to be there in Vogelstein’s stead listening to the gravelly voice of Borges.

My only compunction to issuing this raving review is this…sadly I am not able to track down any of Verissimo’s other work which has been translated into English. So, it would appear that should I decide to continue my romance with this brilliant writer I’m going to have to learn to read Spanish. I think that would have pleased Borges.

Constantly Risking Absurdity

By: Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravityto start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence

Management Has Received No Complaints

I'm under the weather, but there's no need to neglect my blog. It's just brief today-like this wicked little poem.

INTERVIEW

By Dorothy Parker

The ladies men admire,
I've heard,
Would shudder at a wicked word.
Their candle gives a single light;
They'd rather stay at home at night.
They do not keep awake till three,
Nor read erotic poetry.
They never sanction the impure,
Nor recognize an overture.
They shrink from powders and from paints...
So far, I've had no complaints.

Can Procrastination Make You Infamous? Just Ask Alice B.

Procrastination is as much a part of human nature as is say…breathing. We’ve all done it. Don’t deny it-you have too. But, as we all know, it can spawn some serious trouble if you’re not paying attention. For example, the infamous Alice B. Toklas “Haschich Fudge”-quite possibly the first printed version of the pot brownie.

Approached by Harpers in 1954, just a few years after her famous life-companion Gertrude Stein had passed away, Alice signed a contract to deliver a cook book by the end of the year. With the deadline looking just a few months away, the aging Toklas began soliciting recipes from her artsy friends. Her wiseacre painter friend named Brion Gysin, presented her with the recipe. She stuck it in with the rest of the manuscript and thought no more of it. It’s said that Alice, unfamiliar with "canibus" (at least as spelled by Gysin) and lacking the time to test the recipes, stuck her friend's contribution into her manuscript and sent it off to the publisher. The editors at Harper's spotted the suspicious ingredient and held the recipe out, but the publisher of the British edition didn't.

The press promptly went nuts. Tittered Time: "The late Poetess Gertrude (Tender Buttons) Stein and her constant companion and autobiographer, Alice B. Toklas, used to have gay old times together in the kitchen. Some of the unique delicacies that were whipped up will soon be cataloged ... in a wildly epicurean tome ... which is already causing excited talk on both sides of the Atlantic. Perhaps the most gone concoction (and also possibly a clue to some of Gertrude's less earthly lines) was her hashish fudge."

Alice, a believer to the end in her friend's genius, was absolutely incensed that anyone should think it was artificially fueled! Still, as friend Thorton Wilder told her, the recipe was the publicity stunt of the year and the expurgated American version of the cookbook received wide and generally respectful notice. Just so you can see what all the fuss was about, here's the original recipe entry:

Haschich Fudge (which anyone could whip up on a rainy day)
This is the food of paradise - of Baudelaire's Artificial Paradises: it might provide an entertaining refreshment for a Ladies' Bridge Club or a chapter meeting of the DAR.

In Morocco it is thought to be good for warding off the common cold in damp winter weather and is, indeed, more effective if taken with large quantities of hot mint tea.

Euphoria and brilliant storms of laughter; ecstatic reveries and extensions of one's personality on several simultaneous planes are to be complacently expected.

Almost anything Saint Theresa did, you can do better if you can bear to the ravished by "un évanouissement reveillé".

Take 1 teaspoon black peppercorns
1 whole nutmeg
4 average sticks of cinnamon
1 teaspoon coriander
These should all be pulverised in a mortar.

About a handful each of stoned dates, dried figs, shelled almonds and peanuts: chop these and mix them together.

A bunch of Cannabis sativa can be pulverised. This along with the spices should be dusted over the mixed fruit and nuts, kneaded together.

About a cup of sugar dissolved in a big pat of butter. Rolled into a cake and cut into pieces or made into balls about the size of a walnut, it should be eaten with care. Two pieces are quite sufficient.

Obtaining the Cannabis may present certain difficulties, but the variety known as Cannabis sativa grows as a common weed, often unrecognised, everywhere in Europe, Asia and part of Africa; besides being cultivated as a crop for the manufacture of rope.

In the Americas, while often discouraged, its cousin, called Cannabis indica, has been observed even in city window boxes. It should be picked and dried as soon as it has gone to seed and while the plant is still green.