In Defense of Girl Stuff

There’s been a ton of upset recently over “girl toys” and girl-focused marketing. From the little girl on youtube who sprouts suspiciously adult rhetoric about companies “tricking” girls into buying pink to the new Lego Friends, which are slimmer, taller, curvier Lego figures designed to be more relatable. Now Disney announces a chibi, sparkly princess, and all hell is breaking loose. The basic argument I’m hearing against pink, princesses, and curvy legos, is that it’s basically sexist and damaging to women to assume that little girls like pink and dolls and princesses. But to me, that sounds like the little girl version of “you can be anything you want to be except a stay-at-home mom.”

Here’s the thing. I’m a 23 year old woman. When I was little, I was equal parts tomboy and princess. My favorite things were science experiments, Polly Pocket, fishing, tutus, camping, and any kind of arts and crafts. I loved paper dolls, porcelain dolls, American Girl dolls, and Barbies. I loved sports, robotics, and rock climbing. I’ve always had more boy friends than girl friends. When I was five or six the boy next door was playing with my Polly Pocket set, and I asked my mom why he was playing with a “girl” toy. She pointed out that when I played with it, I was having conversations between the dolls, but when Andrew played with it, he was having fun figuring out how all the little mechanisms work, and trying to understand it. She said it didn’t matter whether it was a girl toy or a boy toy, because we both found it interesting for our own reasons.

My problem as a kid, and continuing into adulthood, is not that toymakers and film studios create princesses and pink stuff for girls. My problem is that there’s a stigma against girls who like girl stuff. Dozens of comments on blogs criticizing “girly” toys stated that “cool” girls played with Legos and transformers. “Cool” girls kick ass at video games. “Cool” girls are boys with tits.

I can easily keep up with my male friends in most of their interests. I play Battlefield 3, Skyrim, and the Arkham games. I participate in co-ed combat sports skillfully enough to get respect from my male peers. I work in a male-dominated field. I watch Top Gear. My bathroom reading alternates between Playboy (no seriously, the articles are great), Game Informer, and Batman comics.

And none of that saves me from the flack I get when I tell people I love pink, cooking, and sewing. It’s taken me a long time, as an adult, to grow into my confidence enough to admit that I’m into “girl stuff.” My bros won’t understand that the joy of sneaking up behind an enemy and stealing his dog tags is almost as great as walking out of the salon feeling like a million bucks. I can already hear the comments from some female readers who lost respect for me in the last sentence.

So let’s examine this.
A boy who plays with boy stuff is a red-blooded American male, and that’s ok
A boy who plays with girl stuff is strong and independent, with his own unique style, and that’s ok.
A girl who plays with boy stuff is cool and interesting, and that’s ok
A girl who plays with girls stuff is… girly.

And that’s not ok?

The National Institute for Play identifies no less than seven different types of play. While our societal values teach that males and females are equal, we are not the same. Boys and girls learn differently. They grow at different rates, physically and neurologically. Even in environments which don’t push a “girl” style of play and a “boy” style, boys are more likely to play competitively and girls are more likely to play cooperatively. Boys are more likely to be interested in mechanical concepts, and girls are more likely to be interested in social concepts. Rather than accusing toy companies of supporting gender stereotypes, why don’t we celebrate that we’ve got toys that appeal to all kinds of different play styles, and support girls and boys equally no matter what play style (and color scheme) appeals most to them?

NaNoWriMoInJa: Chapter Six

I have actually been writing the last few days, but I’ve been writing on paper, and I’m three chapters behind in typing things up.

Chapter Six
Escape

The first week I’d been aboard the Lionfish, one of my skirts had been stained with pitch as I used the sticky tar to maintain the waterproofing of the decks. Once dried, the pitch would protect the wood from rot. The same tar was soaked into linen and wrapped around staves to make torches, and the same tar was spread all over the ropes to waterproof them.

It would have been too difficult to access the cask of pitch clandestinely, so I waited until I needed to use some to caulk the hull, and secreted the stained skirt, torn to strips, into the bottom of my bucket. I stirred the strips around in the oily pitch as I worked, the crew none the wiser. The only problem was deciding what to do with the catalytic skirt until I was ready for it. I couldn’t very well put the oily mess back in Mary’s chest… she’d be sure to notice it. In the end I took a chance and left it in one of the longboats. When the time was right, I’d use the oil-soaked rags as tinder to set the Lionfish aflame. For now, it was ready, waiting.

Sailing into Les Îles at Marseille, my moment came. Just after sundown, I was on deck alone. I snuck into the galley and pinched a cleaver, the only way I’d get a weapon. Back on deck I carefully climbed the mast, cleaver in hand. I didn’t have to go far. The mainsail was tied down at the boom, and it was easy to hack through the canvas where it was secured to the rings holding the sheet to the mast. I freed the mast from the boom a little at a time, careful to let the massive sail slump to the deck slowly. A thunderous thump would surely give me away.

Climbing down, I paused. What I’d already done was enough to get me killed. There was no going back. I dragged one side of the sheet across the deck, covering the trapdoor that would allow my shipmates to come up and find me. I bunched the sail up over the trapdoor as much as I could, but there was canvas everywhere.

I couldn’t name nor use all the bizarre gunnery tools, but each had a long wooden handle, so I stacked them at the base of the mast, where they could act as kindling. I uncoiled loose ropes and scattered them around. It was time.

My pitch-soaked skirt I nestled among the staves of the gunners’ tools and took a lantern down with which to ignite the cleansing fire that would save David and I both from these murderers. Standing before the mainmast with the light in my hand, I prayed for the souls of my shipmates as I had prayed for the crew of Triomphe. I let the lantern drop to the deck, where it shattered, oil splashing onto rope and cloth. The flame, however, extinguished itself either in the wind of the drop or the splash of oil. I had to find another lantern to get the pile to ignite. The oil wouldn’t burn for long, but the pitch would help catch the hotter-burning ropes and sails, which would burn long enough to catch the timbers. Without a catalyst, oil would do little more than scorch the damp deck.

By the light of my little bonfire, I prepped one of the longboats for my getaway, and after a moment’s thought, decided to try to cripple the other, just in case. I hacked away at its hull with my cleaver, but the stout boat surrendered only little chips, and the knife made an awful thudding which might wake someone. I had to leave it.

When I turned back toward the mast, I was taken aback at how much the fire had grown in only a few minutes. Flames spread diligently across the canvas, already more than a man’s height away from the mainmast. I skirted the fire around to the opposite rail, where my boat was waiting to carry me to the shore. I stacked my cleaver, oars, and a little bundle of pilfered foods into the boat and began lowering the winches, a little at a time, one side and then the other.

It was a quick thing with two, but on my own it was too slow. The gathering heat at my back urged me to find a faster solution. When I peeked behind me, I found that the ropes leading upward had caught, and the fire was starting to spread to the higher sails. The deck was awash with light and the terrifying heat. Every part of me wanted to flee the growing inferno. In the end I had to let the boat fall the rest of the way to the water, but doing so meant letting the ropes pull free of their pulleys. With no ropes to climb down, I’d have to jump. I sat on the rail, letting the little boat drift away a bit so I wouldn’t land on it. I thought of my last leap into the sea, of the water burning in my lungs. Ollie wouldn’t be here to pull me out. The sea was calmer, though. I’d have to pull myself into the boat, or stay and burn.

I leapt, clenching my teeth to keep silent. The water hit me like a punch in the guts, but I struggled to keep calm and focused. I took small breaths as high as I could as I paddled lamely toward the longboat. I managed to pull myself into the boat, but either in the fall or the climb onboard, I had dumped an oar and my stash of food. With the clothes on my back and a single oar, I turned away from the Lionfish and began rowing toward Marsaille.

I was only a few yards away when the first screams rang out. I paddled as fast as I could toward land and peace, and forced myself to hear not Sam and Ollie and Mary and Reece, but the ghosts of their victims. The screams lasted an eternity, chasing me tirelessly as I paddled away. When all finally fell silent, I wept. Exhausted from climbing and rowing, I lay down in my little boat and slept.

NaNoWriMoInJa: Chapter Five

I wrote this a couple days ago but hadn’t typed it yet. I’m kind of behind in the typing-things-up department. Also in the having-things-to-type department. This chapter takes me up to 8,690 words, which is above par for the 5th, which is when I wrote this. However, I only have about 300 words written for yesterday, and today’s par is 11,669, which means I need to write another 2,700 words (give or take). Today. So… yeah.

Chapter Five
Subterfuge

Reece explained with great pride that Sam had swum from the little longboat under the hull of the French ship, where he’d drilled a hole through the thinnest part of the hull. The French naval galleon Triomphe would slowly fill with water. By morning she’d be doomed.

Reece’s unbridled glee at the sinking of hundreds of French souls made me physically ill. I imagined three, five, maybe seven hundred of my countrimen, any one of whom could be my David, drowning or worse–being torn apart by sharks. My mind flashed to a time weeks past, when one of our hens was bounced off the deck by a sudden harsh wave. Within seconds, sharks had torn her apart, blood and feathers erupting from the churning sea. Even over a hen, whom we would have killed anyway, the carnage had sickened me. To think of a human person being subjected to such a gruesome death…

I couldn’t speak to Reece. I put myself to bed, but could not sleep. My thoughts returned again and again to the dying screams of our hen. I wept, prayed, and wept again. I do not know how much time passed before I finally drifted off, but the morning found me bitter and tired, and so distracted that I nearly fell from the yard.

The men were in high spirits, and even Mary seemed extra cheerful. Their perverse joy threw me deeper into my anger, and seeing Sam clapped on the back for his disgusting murder made my blood boil. There had been other mornings when I’d noticed that the crew seemed strangely chipper, and I wondered how many slaughters I’d slept through. Sylvie’s mother had been right about the Reformers. These people were demons.

Behind the makeshift canvas walls of my corner of the ship, I considered my resources as I had the morning I’d found the cursed Lionfish and her vile crew. I wouldn’t be able to sneak food out as I had from home. I left my things aboard when I went out onto the docks, so any kind of parcel would be suspicious. I still had the clothes I’d brought with me, though one of the skirts had been stained with pitch. I’d foregone their wear except on shore since arriving, instead wearing the sailcloth breeches all the crew wore. Even Mary usually wore pants onboard. Climbing aloft in a skirt would have been both dangerous and immodest, and even hoisting line in a loose skirt could have gotten me tangled. The rags I’d brought from home had been replaced, and could be replaced again. What I had could be smuggled off as I’d smuggled my money on. They could be tied around my legs or stuffed into breeches under my skirts. I was down to one pair of stockings, too, the second having worn through.

When next we were in port, I could go aboard as if looking for David, and simply not return. With four months of sailing under my belt, I could surely find another ship which would carry me forward. A ship crewed by more respectable men, who wouldn’t ask me to help them murder my own kin.

As we guided the Lionfish toward the harbor at Cannes, I trembled with anticipation. It had been easy to escape from Hotel Bessette, a second-rate maison full of old women. But the Lionfish was different. It traveled all over the Mediterranean. I’d already been all across the south of France and Spain, and back across France again, nearly to the coast of Italy. If they wanted to, they could track me down. And no matter the size of the ship, for Sam’s devil drill could sink the greatest ship to the depths.

Would they really come after me? They were my friends… and yet, they’d wanted to protect their secret. They hadn’t shown me right away. Would they let me leave with their dark secret? Worse yet, could I leave knowing they’d continue dooming innocent sailors to terrible deaths? Could I stop them? I couldn’t swim like Sam, couldn’t sink the Lionfish like she had sunk the others. I was just a scrawny, untrained girl: I couldn’t fight them. Beside their muscles, they had pistols and swords.

The shore loomed as I considered my dark predicament. I couldn’t let them keep killing people. I couldn’t leave until I had a plan to stop them once and for all. Steeling my resolve, I declined to go ashore, feigning apathy and playing cards with the crew as usual. I forced myself to act as though nothing was the matter. They couldn’t learn of my intention to escape.

The days passed like years, and every port we visited was an agonizing test. To pass up an opportunity for easy freedom was excruciating, but the worst came when I was on watch duty one night. The captain suddenly appeared on deck in his unseasonable long cape, and ordered me to wake Sam and Ollie and two more. I froze, but I had to obey. I forced myself to descend into the hold to call the headsmen to the block, praying every step that David’s was not the ship they’d sink tonight.

Abovedecks, the lanterns were snuffed. Lights from our quarry ship danced ever closer as we slipped, hidden, through the waves. Sam and Ollie silently prepared their murderous tools, and the Captain whispered to me to go aloft with the match and a spyglass to wait. When I saw the longboat coming back, I’d light the match and drop it as a signal to the others. I swallowed hard and began the long, dark climb. Aloft, I felt on a planet apart from the men below. Their hidden lantern on the deck cast a sliver of light, by which I saw the men cross themselves, and the longboat start to sink into the shadow of the hull. A sudden wave hit the ship, and I nearly lost my grip. When the fear subsided and balance restored, I saw the salvation of the sailors at hand. I slipped away from the mast and out onto the yard until I hung out over the rail. I steeled myself, and when the next wave jolted the ship and flung me sideways, I let go.

Even if I’d meant to maintain my silence, I wouldn’t be able to. I was screaming the moment I was free of the ship, and I hit the water in utter panic. I kicked and clawed frantically to keep from sinking. My clothing weighed me down, and every rise of the sea threatened to push me under. I inhaled sharply and felt knives of cold salt in my lungs. Coughing and retching I fought for the surface. Light and sound erupted above me, and I fought harder. Finally, strong hands pulled me from the sea.

I had been yanked into the longboat. The bulk of the water flushed from my lungs and I breathed sharp, painful, welcome breaths. Panic and relief muddled in the opiatic haze of adrenaline. Sam wrapped me in his blanket and held me as I shivered with shock. The little boat was hoisted back up to the deck. Ollie lifted me over and carried me down to my bunk, carrying me as easily as I would a doll.

As we descended, I smiled to myself. The lights were all on, and the shouting of the men and my own screams would have alerted even the most negligent watchmen. There was no way they could continue tonight. As exhaustion carried me off to sleep, I was prouder than a queen. It had been terrifying, but I’d saved countless lives. If only I could invent such a distraction every night… but I couldn’t simply throw myself off the ship every night. They’d surely see through it, and in any case, I wasn’t sure I could make myself jump again. The sabotage lifted my spirits for days, and in the afterglow of my leap, I found inspiration for how I’d stop the Lionfish once and for all.

NaNoWriMoInJa: Chapters Three and Four

TWO chapters. Because that’s how it ended up. I did about 300 words of Chapter Three last night, but I didn’t want to post the first half-a-page of chapter. Chapter Four, however, is entirely finished, so you can have it now. My par word count for the day is 6668, and I’m at 7,342. Almost 700 words ahead of par.

Chapter Three
Home

The first weeks aboard the Lionfish were pleasant, if lonesome. Of the eighteen souls aboard, only Mary and a man called Henry spoke French. I followed Mary in the early mornings. First we’d round up the chickens that spent the night in the hold with us, and gather their eggs. Then we’d let them out onto the deck in calm seas. In rough weather, they’d stay below for fear of losing our egg-layers over the side. We had eight hens, giving us eight or ten eggs most mornings, though sometimes one would break before we found it, and sometimes we’d find old, rancid eggs. In the evenings Mary and I would prepare meals for the men, and except the captain, we’d all eat together. In good weather we sat on the forecastle to eat, but in rain we’d stay in the hold for dinner. The men sang in English, but I enjoyed the tunes, and sometimes I sang too.

Henry taught me about the ship most of the day. At first I was coiling ropes and stitching tears in the sails, but soon he had me climbing aloft. I was afraid to climb at first, but I found that I loved the feeling of being all alone, high above the world in the salt breeze. Sometimes they gave me a spyglass and had me shout down the banners I saw from my perch. Henry taught me the sailor’s jargon in French and English so I could follow orders from any of the men. Mary taught me the men’s names and temperaments, and told me what I should do to gain the captain’s favor and how to stay in the good graces of the men. The sailors treated Mary like she was their mother, and perhaps because she had so readily adopted me, they mostly left me alone.

Mary had her little chest and hammock behind a curtain in the hold, but most nights she let me sleep there while she slept elsewhere. I suspected it was with the Captain, by the way he looked at her sometimes, but I didn’t dare ask.

The weather was fine, although cooler on the sea than it would be at home in late spring. We sailed close to shore, and every few days we stopped in port. Every time, I ventured off the ship with Mary and Reece, the giant who had rowed Mary and I to the Lionfish when first we met in Montpellier. As they traded on the captain’s behalf, I questioned sailors about David. I kept a list of ships of whose crews David was not a part. It seemed endless, and yet at each port of call there were new ships to meet.

The journey grew less lonely as I began to understand and even speak a little of the crew’s native English. With Mary and Reece helping bridge the gaps, I could soon speak with everyone onboard. Most of the men weren’t very talkative, but just being able to understand the stories and songs at meals relieved my feeling of isolation a great deal.

They were godly folk, as Mary had promised, nothing like the many seamen who had visited Hotel Bessette. Each morning the Captain led prayers, and some of the men read from bibles in the evenings, especially in foul weather. It is common knowledge that sailors are all superstitious, but their piety extended beyond the fear of the sea which all sailors share.

Early in my time with them, I asked Mary why their prayers were read in English. She told me the bibles in England written in English, not Latin. I was shocked. She told me that the word of God must be written in the language of the people, so that each might understand and gain salvation through the teachings of the Lord. I said that in France the people learned of the teachings of God at church, and she made a rude noise. I said that a bible written in English would grant me no understanding, for I could not read it. She laughed, and promised to find me one in French. I doubted such a book had ever been published.

I would later learn that the reason their bibles were in English was that they (and indeed all of England) were Protestant. I was scandalized by the news. My mother had commented little about the rebels against the Catholic church, but Sylvie’s mother had railed openly against the “Protestant curse.” She’d spoken at length of the demon reformers, sent from Hell to corrupt and destroy. Repeating this caused Reece to neglect my company for several days, but Mary tolerated the offense. She explained that such fairy tales were falsehoods spun by a corrupt pope. She told me of the horrors of the papacy, of holy fathers whoring and stealing, murdering and blackmailing and even engaging in bestiality and incest. The sailors joined in her recounting of the many unthinkable sins committed by priests, cardinals, and popes. What I understood of their stories was appalling. Chief among the fathers’ sins was refusing to allow the enlightened reformers to worship according to their new tradition. I had not spent enough time in church to fully understand how the Protestants of England differed from the Catholics of France, but stories of abused refugees made me glad when Mary told me that part of our business in France was to rescue Protestant martyrs and victims of Catholic oppression. I imagined Sylvie’s mother hounding a poor Protestant refugee across the French countryside, and I was excited to help in a heroic rescue.

As our travels continued and my English improved, the men devotedly explained the tenants of their faith, and spoke of the challenges they’d endured. Pious though they were, the men were sailors still. They sang bawdy songs and drank, and to my great delight, they gambled at cards. They taught me All Fours and Put, and my cache of coins dwindled to a few sad centimes, but I taught them Faro and won my own back, and a few English and Spanish pieces to boot.

I was sometimes lonely for home, and the work was hard, but I still felt overwhelmingly lucky to have found Mary and the Lionfish. Without them, I’d have been stuck walking from port to port, or waiting in Montpellier for David’s ship to come in. I’d certainly have run out of money long ago. Far from the life of danger and poverty Sylvie warned against, I had more money, more freedom, and fewer troubles than I had at home.

In time I realized that I didn’t really need to find David at all. I didn’t need him to rescue me, because I had rescued myself. I’d been living happily, far from the Hotel Bessette for a quarter of a year. It was coming into high summer, and all the time since I’d left I’d been fed and safe, and my grand escape had cost me nothing but a few hours’ walk and the centime I’d spent on my lamb pie the morning I left. These months, I’d been desperately chasing my brother’s ghost, when I had already made a new home for myself.

For about a month after my epiphany I continued to search for David at every port, just in case, but when my list of not-his-ships was lost to a sudden gale, I decided it was time to put the fantasy to rest. The first time I stayed onboard while others went ashore, Captain Whitney invited me to join him for his tea.

Sitting at the same table where we’d first been introduced, we shared a rich meal of one of our hens and summer fruits brought onboard a few days before. Between his rudimentary French and my tentative English we cobbled together an awkward conversation. The captain told me he was pleased with my work aboard the Lionfish. I’d proved myself both diligent and virtuous, he said. I was pleased by his approval. I had applied myself whole-heartedly to learning the tasks of sailing and ship maintenance, but the learning had been difficult and at first I was often reprimanded by the men. The language barrier made it hard to understand orders, and I was still struggling to comprehend what seemed to be a complex rank structure. It seemed that everyone gave orders, and aside from the captain I was never sure whose word outranked whose. Toward the end of the meal the captain revealed the curiosity which had triggered the invitation.

“I am surprised to see you aboard while others are abroad,” he said leadingly.

I told him I had been looking for my brother. He nodded. I had told him that months ago, when I first came aboard. But I didn’t know what else to say.

“And you found him?”

“No. I… no.”

He waited for me to elaborate, but I faltered. How could I explain the realization that it was a childish dream to imagine I could find one man in such a big world, separated by years and who knows how many miles? That I didn’t need to find him, and that he might not want to be found? That I might find him and see that he had my mother’s cold heart?

Finally he nodded somberly. “I see.” He started to say something else, but stopped himself. A few moments later he steered the conversation in a more innocuous direction. He spoke of his home in Westminster, and his upbringing as a carpenter’s apprentice, before he sailed. I asked if he had a wife at home. He hesitated before telling me he didn’t.

 

Chapter Four
The Secret

In the dead of night, Mary woke me from a deep sleep. In the thin light, she looked concerned.

“Ce qui est faux?” I murmured groggily.

“Nothing, dear. The captain wants you to see something on deck. Be very quiet, and mind your step. The lanterns are out.”

The lanterns were never out. The lanterns which hung from the extremes of the deck showed other ships where we were. The ships hung them to prevent collisions in the night. But tonight they were dark. A single lamp sat directly on the deck, and the captain stood behind it in an unseasonably heavy, full-length cape which blocked the light from shining behind him. In the gloom behind the captain shone two lights from another ship, closer than I’d ever seen. I strained to make out the shape of the vessel, but it was too dark.

In addition to the captain and I, there were four others on deck. Mary joined us, putting an arm about my shoulders.

“Be very quiet, and stay out of the way,” she whispered.

Sam and Ollie, both among my favorite crewmates, moved easily through the darkness in a graceful, silent dance. Tall, wiry Sam crouched in a longboat as it hung beside the deck. Ollie, usually the first to jest, was grave as he passed Sam a pair of oars, a pair of pistols, and a hand drill. Each object he picked up from a cloth nest at his feet, and handed gingerly to Sam, who placed each object carefully before reaching for the next. Finally Ollie shook out the cloth, some kind of blanket, and folded it over the edge of the longboat between the boat and the larger ship. Then he climbed in beside Sam.

I was painfully confused, and longed to ask what was going on, but when I started to whisper to Mary, she covered my mouth with her fingers. There would be no questions.

The captain made the sign of the cross, and everyone on deck followed suit. The captain nodded to the remaining sailors, and they began to slowly lower the longboat off the side. As it slowly sank, Ollie and Sam pushed against the hull of the ship and adjusted the blanket to keep the boat from scraping the hull as the longboat swung in the breeze. I’d never seen them bother with such a precaution before.

Mary ushered me to the rail, where I could peer over and watch the boat disappearing into the shadow of the hull. I heard a tiny splash, and the sound of the boat being freed from its ropes. Then, nothing. The lantern on the deck was snuffed, plunging the crew into almost total darkness. When the lights from the neighboring ship flashed silver on the water, I sometimes saw the shadow of the longboat shrinking into the night, closer and closer to the mystery ship. When the boat continued beyond where I’d thought the ship sat, I realized it was further, and much larger, than I had estimated. I strained to make out the silhouettes of masts to get a better idea of the strange ship’s true dimensions, but the gloom masked her shape.

I lost sight of the longboat, but still we waited on deck. Why had Sam and Ollie rowed off in the midst of night? Why had they taken pistols? The men’s stories of marooning sprung to mind and I was stricken with terror for my friends. What could they have done to deserve abandonment?

But we weren’t abandoning them. We weren’t moving. We must be waiting for them to return.

Why were they rowing for the other ship? Why were the lanterns dimmed, all this sneaking about in the night like thieves?

That was it, I realized. It must be. The Lionfish was a pirate ship!

But we had been welcomed in ports all over southern France. Surely pirates would be arrested, not offered safe harbor. Certainly. And we’d passed many ships in the night without accosting them.

Or had we? I fell into bed and slept like the dead. How could I know if this strange, silent attack had not been repeated every night over the months I’d been onboard? Ollie and Sam did look practiced.

But what sort of battle could be so quiet? And what sort of piracy, at that? If it was an attack, why were so few sent? Two men could not hope to triumph against the crew of so great a ship. Again my chest tightened with fear for my companions, pirates or no.

My anxiety was interrupts by a fizzle from the rigging above. A bit of flaming slow match drifted onto the deck from above, and the captain snuffed it with his boot. I strained to see into the rigging, but could not tell who was aloft.

The sailors who had lowered the longboat resumed their positions at the rail and leaned over. Mary let me go back to the rail to look over, too, but I saw nothing in the shadow of the Lionfish’s hull.

The sailors saw something, though. They started slowly hoisting, and soon Sam and Ollie and the boat reappeared. San was wrapped in the blanket, drenched head to toe, but Ollie was barely damp, as from the spray of the water and the drips that ran up the oars. Once the boat was secured, Sam dropped the blanket and the four men set about raising the mainsail. To my amazement, they hoisted the sheet in the dark and silence nearly as fast as they drew it up by the bosun’s rhythm by day.

Under the power of the mainsail, we fled into the night, sailing until the light of the ship had twinkled into nothingness. Our lamps were relit, and I helped as they struck the mainsail. The captain, Mary, and the sailors went to their beds, and Reece climbed down from above.

“I thought I saw you down here,” he said cheerfully.

“Reece… I don’t understand,” I said, head reeling with exhaustion and suspicions. “Are we… pirates?”

He laughed. “No, little one. We’re crusaders.”

NaNoWriMoInJa: Chapter Two

Chapter Two
The Lionfish

The friendly voice belonged to Mary Bodley, an Englishwoman sailing with the Lionfish. She told me in a rough accent that she’d noticed me interrogating deckhands and admired my tenacity. Regrettably, she admitted that she didn’t know David, but she thought she could help me find him. She led me down the pier, asking where I’d come from and why I was so feverishly chasing him. She seemed so sympathetic that I told her the truth, more or less. Mary’s skin was as weathered as the men’s, but she walked with a distinct poise.

We came to a rowboat where the largest man I’d ever seen was waiting to ferry us into the deeper water. Before us, a small merchant ship floated serenely, sails furled. On the way, Mary explained that the Lionfish traversed the seas of Europe and met with many a ship of La Royale. If I was to find my beloved brother, she promised, I’d find him with her.

I could barely contain my amazement at the miracle of my progress. Mere hours ago I had been abed at Hotel Bessette, destined for a life of degradation and shame. A few miles’ walk and a penny’s cost later, I was floating in the salt breeze, destined for the Lionfish. The thought of the penny I’d spent on my breakfast reminded me of how few coins I had. It would never be enough to secure passage all across Europe.

“Madame,” I said, “your offer is so kind, but I have little money. I couldn’t hope to afford such a trip.”

She smiled and patted my knee. “Don’t worry about that, little one. I’ll speak with the Captain. I’m sure he’ll be moved by your story, and he’ll allow you to join us as long as you’re willing to make yourself useful.”

I flinched, suddenly fearful of the distance between us and the retreating shore. “I’m not… I won’t sell myself for passage.” She stiffened.

“Of course not. We’re godly folk, and we wouldn’t have such a woman aboard,” she said sharply. “You look strong enough to be useful with a sail, and there’s always cooking and mending to be done. But if you find that objectionable…”

“No, no, I’m sorry!” I was ashamed. She’d been so kind, and done nothing to deserve my distrust. “I will do whatever is necessary. Thank you so much for helping me, madame.”

The deck of the Lionfish was like nothing I’d seen. With every wave, the world tilted slightly. I felt uneasy on my feet, but taking small steps behind Mary allowed me to stumble only a little. Two masts rose forever from the deck, and high above a sailor called down and waved. Mary shouted her hello back to him.  A few other men roamed the deck, all strong and weathered.

Mary took me belowdecks, where a few more men were adjusting cargo. Toward the front of the ship, hammocks hung in the dim hold, some of which seemed to be occupied. She led me past them, to the very front, where a torn, repaired, and torn-again canvas roughly partitioned a section of hold just large enough for an empty hammock and below it, a small chest.

“My ‘cabin’,” Mary explained. “You’ll have to tuck your things in with mine or else they’ll roll all over.” She produced a key and unlocked the chest. I tried to peek at what she had, but she simply took my bundle and tucked it in before shutting the lid again. “There won’t be room for another hammock, but the boys are nice enough. They won’t bother you.”

With that, she shepherded me above again, and the afternoon sun was a shock after the darkness below. She took me by the elbow and steered me toward the back of the ship, where the Captain’s cabin sat like a palace above the deck. Mary knocked sharply and was admitted to the cabin. The room contained a proper bed, larger than mine and Sylvie’s at the Hotel, a little sofa, and a table and chairs. It was at the table that Captain Christopher Whitney sat. Captain Whitney was a man of at least forty, with mousy hair and a narrow build. He wore breeches and shirt, but wig and coat were discarded on the bed.

Mary and the Captain exchanged words in English, of which I understand not enough to have followed their debate. The Captain nodded several times, and at the end of a few minutes he bid me welcome in clumsy French. He spoke to Mary in English, and she explained that he required me to be attentive and accept whatever tasks his men should appoint to me, so I could learn their craft and be of use on his ship. I nodded eagerly, and he smiled. He asked Mary a few more questions, which she answered without translating. Finally she asked whether I was Catholic.  I hesitated. I had read the bible with Sylvie, but I had rarely attended mass.

“I… I suppose I must be.”

She responded to the Captain with a single word, and I thought to myself that the English word for yes sounds very much like the French word for no.

NaNoWriMoInJa: The Rest of Chapter One

I finished yesterday 300 words short of target and went “oh well, I’m at the end of the chapter so I’ll call it a night.” Yeah, no. I realize now that the first page and a half of “chapter two” is actually the missing words from yesterday. It would be poetic if it was another 300 words exactly, but it’s 800.

 

The smell of the sea brought me to the river Laz, where ferries loaded with goods brought raw materials in and out of Montpellier. But this was not the harbor I’d been promised. There were no great ships, nor great crowds of seamen. The little skiffs that carried goods up the Laz were manned by two or three men each, and they were met by local sellers and craftsmen. I cautiously approached one of the traders and asked how I could get to the sea.

He laughed, and told me to follow the flow of the Laz. I thanked him and hurried along my way, piously walking as close to the banks as I could. The Laz flowed lazily to my left while the road bustled with carts and people to my right. The Laz ran straight and true, and it was easy for me to plod along as we both made our way to the sea. As we went I scanned the faces of the men on the road and on the river, so I’d be sure not to miss David.

I quickly passed out of the city proper, but the road was lined with occasional stalls and carts from which local and foreign traders plied their wares. The river was thick with the small boats destined for market.  Soon the road curved away from the river to avoid the small hills over which my nimble feet passed more easily than would the traders’ heavy carts. I wondered whether I should follow the road, and worried that I might miss David on the road, but if I followed the road I might miss him on the river… and if the road deviated far from the Laz I might become lost. I stuck to the river, and soon lost sight of the road traffic.

With my only company the passing river boats, I was more alone than I’d ever been. Aside from the warmth of my extra layers, though, I felt wonderful. I was free among the wildflowers that dotted the Laz’s shores. The sailors smiled and called out to me as they passed. Birds sang in the olive trees… and at the very top of a hill, my heart skipped a beat as I caught sight of a wand, rising over the horizon for a moment.

I ran to the top of the next hill, standing on my toes to catch another glimpse. The wand reappeared, dancing behind the hills ahead. I chased the flirting hints of masts from hilltop to hilltop until one mast became many, distant wands growing into great towers of wood and cloth. The road turned back toward the river as I was chasing masts, but I was too captivated by the promise of the sea to check everyone on the road.

Suddenly, the bustle of the port was laid out before me. Lumbering giants dispatched their cargo into tiny rowboats that would carry goods up the Laz or to waiting wagons. Menacing warships with rows of guns kept vigil, and lithe galleys slipped between the behemoths like alley cats. It was dizzying to watch such a flurry of activity. A steady flow of wagons and skiffs provided mysterious crates, barrels, and bushels to the floating castles, even as they dispatched crates and barrels to be loaded onto carts and skiffs headed back to town. And the people. There were sailors and workers and traders, all rushing about or working. I feared I’d miss David in the rush.

I timidly approached a sailor between heavy loads, but he dismissed me in an alien tongue. Another and another spoke strange languages, but finally I heard a snippet of French and followed it to the source.

“Please, monsieur, do you know David Bessette? He’s a sailor with La Royale. I must find him.”

The sailor smiled at me. “I don’t know your sweetheart, jolie, but I’ll keep you company.”

“No merci. But monsieur, will you tell me what ship you sail with?”

“Eclair.”

“And you’re sure there’s no David Bessette onboard?”

He was sure. I made my way from one ship to the next, and sailors from Brutal, Marquis, and Soliel d’Afrique had never heard of David. A sailor who’d been on Aurore, Volontaire, and Courageuse knew a man called David Bessette who had died at sea when the Courageuse was lost. The first tears fell before I could ask when David died, he said it was in the Battle of Polermo, before I was born. I thanked the old sailor, and went to continue my search. The veteran sailor called after me to tell me that it was Daniel Bessette who was lost on the Courageuse. Or maybe Davet.

A moment later, a felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Merci, sir. I know, it was Dandre Bessette or Dalphin Bessette or Destin Bessette.”

“No,” said a woman with a smile in her voice. “I’m quite sure it was David.”

NaNoWriMoInJa: Chapter One

Chapter One
Montpellier

In Spring I told my mother I would leave Hotel Bessette rather than become a whore like her. She’d beaten me before, but nothing like that. Afterward Sylvie cradled me in her arms in our room, and scolded me gently for being obstinate.

“This is our lot, chouchou,” she told me. “And it’s really not so bad.”

I lay against her, feeling the heat of the raising bruises as blood rushed to the surface.

“We’re warm and clothed, and we have nice things. We never go hungry. That means something these days. We even have our treats on Sundays, hmm?”

I fidgeted. We didn’t talk about it.

“I’ll show you what to do,” she continued. “You needn’t be frightened of it.”

I wouldn’t hear any more of it. I wouldn’t let her show me what she did. I told her I’d leave. I begged her to come with me, an she begged me to stay. We were safe at Hotel Bessette, she argued. She repeated the rest of it. We were warm and clothed and we had nice things. Milk and bread and eggs and candles and warm socks. Out there, alone, we’d starve.

I was furious that she wouldn’t come, that she’d take their side. We argued for the first time since she’d come. In the heat of my fury I said the worst thing I’d ever said, worse than calling my mother a whore. I told her she had nothing to lose, that if she came and we went hungry she could go back to spreading her legs.

Then I was alone. My mother and Sylvie were ice to me. The others were distant, unsure of how to deal with me. Sarah was worse than she’d ever been.

A week later, I woke up early. The house was quiet, and I left. I put on two shifts, two skirts, and my bodice. It was uncomfortably warm, but I wasn’t sure how else to carry the extra. I gathered my meager Faro winnings, almost two Francs in small coin, and a few sundries. Walking into the weak, early-morning sunshine was like parading into heaven. All I’d ever seen of the world was within a stone’s throw of the Hotel Bessette, but today the whole of Montpellier was my own.

I walked down familiar avenues until they became foreign. I found a market district I’d never seen before and sat on a curb, nibbling at a loaf of bread I’d secreted out of the maison. I watched the merchants paint the row with a rainbow of cloth, spices, and edibles. Most were locals, but some of the fashions were exotic. I recognized outdated Parisian styles and thought of my sweet Sylvie, and I wished I’d apologized after the terrible thing I said. I thought of going back and making my escape another morning. It had been so easy. But would Sylvie stop me, if she knew I’d really go? What if she would change her mind and come with me? For a moment I longed to run back to her. But I knew it was a dream. I forced my thoughts away from her.

I wrapped the loaf in a clean rag and surveyed my holdings: precious few coins, most of a loaf of bread, three apples, a handful of rags, a bit of soap, and an extra pair of stockings, wrapped together in an old shawl. I’d hesitated about the shawl. It was my mother’s, not mine, and though not any special love of hers, the theft would not be forgiven.

After I’d stashed my treasures in the shawl again, I considered my situation. The women rarely strayed far from the maison, so I could sit here, barely a mile from home, and not be found for years and years. But my scrap of bread, three apples, and nearly-two Francs would run out in no time. There were also the patrons to consider. Many of the regular local men had seen me many times, and would know me. They might tell my mother where I can be found or worse, drag me home. I had no way of knowing what part of town the men might frequent, nor which might recall my face.

I could try to reach Paris alone, but it would take weeks on foot. If I stayed in Montpellier I might be noticed, and deep in my heart, I wondered if I’d be able to resist going back when my money or luck ran out. I had to leave Montpellier as soon as I could, and get as far away as possible, so if things went badly I couldn’t be tempted.

A man of the cloth hustled across the boulevard, and I wondered if the church would offer me refuge. Nobody would call Mother faithful, but I was baptized, and the church was supposed to grant anybody asylum. They wouldn’t send me home, but for what? They’d probably send me off to a convent, and I’d be stuck somewhere else. On the other hand, there wouldn’t be any men at a convent, or at least they’d be holy men. I wondered why Sylvie hadn’t thought to become a nun.

Then I thought of David. He had left. He would understand. If I could find him, he’d help me. He wouldn’t let his baby sister…

I wouldn’t say it, even to myself.

David would rescue me.

I was suddenly filled with energy. I thought hard about what I remembered of David. He looked like me, fair skin and dark hair. He was tall and lean. He sailed with the Marine nationale when I was six. I was twelve then, so he’d been gone six years. I realized I knew very little about the Navy. How many ships were there? Were they ever all in one place? I didn’t know. My enthusiasm ebbed, but I knew in my heart that somehow, I’d find my brother.

The sun was higher, and the warm spring morning had me hot and itchy under my layers. I clambered to my feet and took up my precious parcel. After thought, I untied the shawl and stuffed the coins into my stockings. I had to pull my skirts over my knees to reach the tops of my stockings, and a drew admonishing glances from passers-by. I realized I was getting too old for such things. It was lamentable. I was much cooler with my skirts up off my legs. Nevertheless I finished tucking all but a few of my coins into my socks and tied up my bundle again.

At one of the stalls, a woman was laying out meat pies for sale. They were only a centime a piece, and she had lamb, my favorite. I bought a pie and stood at the stall to eat it so I could ask how I could find sailors in town. After a bawdy joke, she directed me toward the harbor, and I thanked her. It wasn’t far, but it was back in the direction of home. I’d have to be cautious to avoid our street. Everyone would be up by now.

Tiptoeing around the maison seemed easy in the business of the morning, but my heart stopped when I heard my name. It was only Babette, another madame of the district.

“Where’s Sylvie?” she asked. “I never see you out on your own.”

“Sylvie is… she’s sick again,” I said. “She needed her rest.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Where are you off to?”

“I’m…” I didn’t have a story. “I’m going to meet my brother.”

“Is he in town? I haven’t seen Daniel in years!”

“David. I should go. I’ll be late.”

I was free again, but if she’d been nosier or smarter or meaner I might have been in real trouble. Every street between me and home let me relax a little more, until suddenly a breeze brought me the scent of salt and fish that promised the harbour, and my soul rejoiced.

Novel In a Month: Prologue

Prologue
At the Hotel Bessette

Before Sylvie, I was the only child at Hotel Bessette. My brother David left me when I was six to go to sea, and for two years I was alone with the hens for two whole years. Life was endless housework, cooking and laundry and mending stockings and cleaning rooms. The women were mostly kind, but they were busy and grown-ups besides, and they had little to say to a child of eight. Julie and Martine, cousins, were of an age with my mother, and like aunts to me. Kindly, but meddlesome. They’d been in the hotel as long as I could remember. Marie-Élise was younger, pretty and quiet. She’d come from another maison in a different part of the city when I was a baby. Everyone liked her, even  Sarah. Sarah didn’t like anything. I hated Sarah. She was plain and sour, and Julie and Martine used to whisper that it was a wonder she could pay her rent. Of course she must have, or my mother would have turned her out.

Sylvie came when I was almost nine. Two years my senior, she was tall and sweet and sophisticated, a real Parisian lady. She and her mother carried themselves like princesses, and I worshiped them. My mother accepted Sylvie and her mother on the condition of Sylvie’s employment. We were together every moment, working and sharing stories and jokes like sisters. Most nights I snuck into their room and Sylvie and I slept side by side, whispering deep into the night.

Sylvie taught me to sing and to play Faro. We gambled secretly with  Marie-Élise and the cousins, and with our winnings we bought pastries on Sundays, when we were permitted to venture out into the district together. She taught me all the letters, and read to me from her mother’s bible sometimes. When we went out to buy our ill-gotten pastries, she’d challenge me to read the signs on shops, and I when I learned them all, we walked down a different street and I read different ones. Those years were the best of my life.

When I was eleven, everything changed. One night, in the spring, Sylvie and I were playing cards with Marie-Élise in the parlor, and a man came in and commented to my mother how lovely Sylvie was. The man had come in before, but not for at least a year. Sylvie had changed enormously that year, growing even taller and more lovely than she’d always been. Lithe and graceful, Sylvie had perfectly delicate features and flowing honey-blonde hair which she kept expertly coifed. The man commented on all these qualities and others I would have been too shy to mention, but about which the older ladies had teased her for months. We pretended not to hear, and awkwardly continued our game.  Marie-Élise grinned conspiratorially at us, and Sylvie blushed. There was a look on her face which I didn’t then understand, but which I have since worn myself; a mixture of fear and resolve, duty and horror.

When the conversation ended, the man took Sylvie by the hand and she demurely set her cards aside, flush leaving a sad pallor in its wake. She silently followed as he led her upstairs, and I watched, frozen, as they disappeared. Marie-Élise laughed.

“Don’t be jealous, minette. You’re not far behind!”

I don’t remember the rest of the game. It was an eternity before the man left, and I bolted up the stairs and went to the room Sylvie shared with her mother. She was sitting on the bed in her shift, hands folded, staring absently ahead. I stood in the doorway, completely at a loss.

The spell was broken when her mother appeared behind me and shuffled me out. I heard her mother’s muffled talking and a flurry of activity, and in a few minutes, Sylvie’s mother threw open the door again and bustled out, arms laden with linens.

“She’ll be down in a moment, petit lapin,” she told me, closing the door behind her,  and she swept off downstairs.

Sylvie didn’t talk about that night but there was blood on her sheets and shift when I washed them in the morning. I had never thought much about the men who visited our little hotel in the evenings, but from that night onward, each was my mortal enemy. For the first time, I hated Hotel Bessette. Word spread quickly of a new girl at Hotel Bessette, and the nights were busier and busier for Sylvie. Rarely had I ever seen my mother in such high spirits, and the other women were jolly. They teased Sylvie, and I hated them.

We didn’t eat pastries anymore. Sylvie didn’t have time to gamble. Martine moved into Julie’s room and Sylvie into Martine’s, and I realized Sylvie had more visitors than Martine and Julie combined. I went to sleep beside her in her new room, and she sent me away. She still helped me with the chores, though she didn’t have to anymore. She was the star of the maison.

Over the next months, Sylvie slowly returned to her usual self. She seemed fine, and even asked me to sleep next to her again, to whisper together, although now she mostly listened. We didn’t talk about the men. Sometimes I’d walk upstairs and in my head I’d see her sitting numbly on the edge of the bed, and I’d remember my hate. I tried to avoid seeing them come for her. One night I went into the garden, but I heard them through the open windows, and I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Sarah found me out there and called me a baby. She made me come in and smile and sing for the guests.

It was in the fall, just after my twelfth name day, when Sylvie got sick. She wouldn’t wake one morning, and her mother went to wake her up, and came back and quietly asked my mother to call for a doctor. I wasn’t allowed to see Sylvie until the doctor left. My mother told me I would have to be Sylvie’s nursemaid until she was better, and she wasn’t to leave her room.  Nobody could see her.

When I was allowed into the room, I found Sylvie in bed, sweating with fever and covered with red bumps from head to toe. I cooled her face with a damp cloth, and she grinned weakly.

“Oh, chouchou,” she said, “The doctor says we’ll be stuck in here for days!”

Even with the sickness, they were the best days we’d had in ages. Sylvie was covered in red bumps for a month, and couldn’t entertain guests, so in the evenings we were cloistered in the bedroom with only each other for company. When the fever was bad, she slept, and couldn’t eat, and we worried. When the fever wasn’t as bad, we sat in bed together and played and talked and laughed like when she first came to the Hotel. She ate very little and became thinner by the day, but she lit up like she hadn’t done in most of a year. It seemed everything was back to normal. We’d been so merry those weeks that I lost my head and told Sylvie that I wished she’d be ill forever. There was suddenly a darkness to her, and I wished I could take it back.

“ Chérie,” she whispered, not meeting my eyes. “I will be ill forever.”

Sylvie’s spots faded and she started eating again. She gained back the weight she’d lost, although her cheeks never lost the hollowness they’d taken on. By All Saint’s Day there were visitors for her again.

Just after the new year, I had fallen asleep in Sylvie’s room and she shook me awake in the middle of the night. I mumbled my confusion.

“You must be quiet, mon cœur,” she whispered. She’d lit a candle, by which I saw that the sheets were awash in blood. I nearly cried out at the sight. “It’s all right. You’re a woman. We must get you cleaned up so nobody knows.”

She pulled me out of bed and stripped me from my soiled shift, corralling me toward the washbasin and setting about getting the bed in order. She showed me how to manage the blood, and she said that she’d claim the mess as her own when our mothers awoke. Clean and settled in a new shift, she tucked me back into bed and tiptoed out to dump the soiled sheets.

For months, Sylvie helped me conceal my maturity, but each month she became more weary. One night, as we lay together in the dark, she said what we’d devoutly ignored for more than a year.

“You can’t avoid it forever.”

I hesitated. I pushed away an image of myself sitting on the edge of the bed as a younger Sylvie had. I couldn’t be as cold as she’d been those first weeks. I couldn’t bear to consider what Sylvie had to do every night. I could never do it.

“Maybe they’ll never find out,” I said.

“It won’t matter.”

We lay quietly for a long time.

“We could escape,” I whispered.

“Oh, mon minette! Where would we go?”

“Let’s go to Paris! You miss it, don’t you?”

“I loved Paris. But minette, it snows in Paris. Where will we live?” I could hear the smile in her voice.

“We’ll become minstrels, and we’ll sing for our keep. Everyone will love us, and we’ll sing for the King and he’ll take us back to Versailles with him and we’ll live at the Château. Everything will be perfect.”

“Oh, minette. You know I can’t sing anymore.”

It was true. Her throat was ravaged by the illness, and while she still sang sometimes during chores, it was with a rougher, shyer voice.

“I’ll sing for the both of us, Sylvie!”

Sylvie put her arms around me and gave me a squeeze.

“What would I ever do without you?”

Gingerbread Crepes!

A couple people have already asked me for my recipe for gingerbread crepes I made a couple times over the holidays, so here it is! These are easy to make, and both people I cooked for had ALL the ingredients in their cupboards already. The first time, I did stuffed crepes with apples-and-cream filling. The second time I folded the crepes and served them with rum sauce:

Gingerbread Crepes (makes 8 crepes)

I recommend 2 crepes per serving for filled and 3 each with toppings.

Ingredients:

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup water
2 eggs
2 tablespoons melted butter
1 tsp molasses
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1/8 tsp grated nutmeg

Whisk all ingredients until smooth, and allow to sit in the fridge for at least 20 minutes. I used this time to make my fillings or toppings.

When you’re ready to go, heat up a buttered (or cooking-sprayed) crepe pan or flat cook surface. I used a griddle pan with great success. I used a medium heat. Spoon three tablespoons of batter onto the pan and smear batter in a circular pattern so there’s a thin, even layer of batter in about a 7″ circle. Cook for about 1 minute. Crepes should no longer be liquid, but the top side won’t be completely dry. Flip, and cook another minute on the other side.

Set aside and allow to cool a few minutes before handling.

 

Cream Filling

1 pkg cream cheese
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
2 cups water
2 apples, sliced and skinned
1 tsp cinnamon

Boil water in a small saucepan and add apples and cinnamon. Apples can also be baked with cinnamon, but I boiled them. I used honeycrisp apples, and they were wonderful. Simmer in saucepan until apples are soft, then drain.

Whip heavy cream: stir with whisk or mixer until thick and fluffy. Mix in sugar and cream cheese.

Spoon about a tablespoon of cream mixture into a crepe, creating a straight line across the crepe. Add several apple slices, sprinkle with cinnamon, and roll.

I served rolled crepes in pairs, with a spoonful of extra filling and more cinnamon sprinkled on top. I considered serving these as part of a complete breakfast, but they were PLENTY of food by themselves.

 

Rum Sauce

I used this rum sauce recipe from Allrecipes.com, pretty much as-is. I used Bacardi Reserve dark rum, and I used a little more than the recipe called for. I folded crepes in quarters, and served a plate of three with a pineapple ring, covered in rum sauce. It was much lighter than the filled crepes, but just as tasty.

Alyssa & David Tied the Knot!

I was lucky enough to join Alyssa & David after their Catalina wedding for some sweet portraits. Alyssa and David met as kids at summer camp, and have been working together as counselors at the same camp. When they were kids, David pushed Alyssa on the swings. It was one of her favorite memories from camp, so we had to get shots of them on the same swings where they fell in love as children.