Booze; a recurring thought when languishing in the doldrums. Not so much to deaden my senses. More to inhale... deeply, greedily, feel it vaporise the darkness inside.
Languidly spiralling fumes from the narrow neck. A formless, vaporous genie. Warming. Comforting. Evoking long imprinted memories of my grandmother, of Christmases long ago. Wizened lips on the brandy glass. Wrinkled hand stirring pickle spices, conjuring fumes impossibly acrid, from something so delicious.
The brandied butter scent of sugee cake, from the tin, opened to pinch off corners. Stolen nibbles. Crumbs, oozing molten butter, forever marking the bodice of my new nightdress. Vanilla and brandy vapours clouding my drifting consciousness; was that Santa?! Through the mosquito net... and my narrowing, drooping eyelids? Denizens of my memory, or of every brandy bottle I open? Both?!
No matter. I call, they come. Never failing me. Always consoling, inspiring. Born of melancholia and indecision, my ginger roasted pear crusted cake. Dankly, deeply dark with chocolate. Seared pears, weeping spiced, honeyed juices, into liquor sodden crumb. Just the thing, for a sad... sad, cook.