Those refreshments I thought I had to prepare for the Viking Age Society last week? Tonight’s the proper night. I just put together a concoction which will doubtless go down in song and story as one of the great tragedies of our time.
The thing is, May 17 is coming up. That’s Syttende Mai, Norwegian Constitution Day. Syttende Mai is the really big national holiday in Norway. Much bigger than their Independence Day, for historical reasons I won’t bore you with now (I’ll bore you with them later).
Anyway, last month when I got roped into providing refreshments, people made it known that they’d really like to have a bløtkake for the May meeting. The bløtkake (cream cake) is a wonderful Norwegian dessert made of sponge cake, cream and fruit.
I did some research and discovered that there doesn’t seem to be anyplace in this area (Tell it not in Gath!) that sells bløtkaker. I looked up recipes, and decided the real thing is beyond my baking skills.
So I’m faking it. No deception is involved. I’ll announce it as “Mock Bløtkake.”
I’m using a (store-bought) angel food cake and Cool Whip. The fruit, at least, is real (strawberries and blueberries). I assembled the thing and now have it keeping cool in a cooler. No doubt the cream will have slid down the sides by the time it’s time to serve it, and I’ll go home covered with shame.
In other news, my former agent, now defunct, e-mailed me the other day to ask if I was all set up with the new agent to whom he’d referred me a few months back.
I replied that I’d gotten no reply at all from the new agent.
He says I should e-mail them again, and then call them.
I think I can work up the nerve to send a second e-mail. The call, I think, is not on.
I’ve heard recordings of me on the phone. It’s not a euphonious phenomenon.
Which is odd, because I’m a good actor, and I can read copy for radio with the best of them. But when I get on the phone, talking to someone whose body language I can’t read, I go all paranoid defensive, and it shows in my voice.
I’ll keep you posted as further milestones are marked on the downward slide of my writing career.