Ziggy's Solstice Hat   We call the Solstice the longest day of the year although, let's be real, it's still only 24 hours.  But it is the most hours of daylight, which is worth celebrating.   I like to call it the Day the Sun Sticks Around.   My Lithuanian ancestors called it Rasa, The Day of Dews. 

    To celebrate, here's an excerpt from my novel, THE AMBER.  The set up is that my protaganist, Stacey Vitautis, is an ambitious young woman who thinks she's left both her ancestral past and her current artistic yearnings behind. Maybe so, but neither will leave her alone.  She's haunted by strange events and strange imaginings she feels compelled to turn into pictures.  The book itself moves between her past and her present.  In this chapter, she's woken up in the woods after apparently knocking herself out while walking the dogs.  She gets to work, gets through her day, then goes to a bar alone to regroup.
Luna loves summer
     Here, she meets Nick Vecchio, who asks odd questions about her soul.  Enjoy the excerpt!  It's mostly fun.     Also, of course, a recipe follows. 


From:  THE AMBER

she drove around downtown, looking for a bar where she could get a quick drink, alone.  She didn’t want to talk to anyone.  She just wanted to regroup before she went back to her sister’s house for a shower and bed, out in the country with only the innocent sound of peepers around her.   She cruised in that general direction until she spotted a seedy looking pub called RALPH’S, with the ‘L’ missing from its neon sign. 
    “What the hell,” she muttered.  She found a parking space, pulled herself out of the car and headed toward the door.
     She stopped for a moment after she’d entered to let her eyes adjust to the dim interior. Dusty venetian blinds were pulled down over the windows, and the panelling was dark. The place smelled of decades of cigarette smoke, embedded in the wood during the days when smoking was allowed.  An old TV played a Yankees game behind the bar, and men with gnarled hands and few teeth watched it.
   Perfect, she thought. No one would bother her here, and she could nurse her confusion in peace.  She grabbed a seat at the darkest end of the bar, far away from the other occupants.  The bartender, burly and bald, came over and mumbled at her. 
  “Jack and Coke,” she requested. “Light on the coke.”  This wasn’t a Martini kind of place, or day.
    When he brought it she drank it fast and let the warmth settle in before she lifted her glass for another.  As she did, she felt a hand touch hers briefly.  She turned quickly. 
    At her side was a tall, lean man in jeans and an impeccably tailored black silk shirt. She squinted at him.  He looked like a younger, dark haired version of David Bowie.  He had the same sharp nose and carved jawline, the same crooked grin.  And he had bi-colored eyes, one almost black and the other a greenish hazel.
    “I’ll be damned,”  she whispered.
    “Maybe you will,”  he replied.  He lifted his hand to the bartender.  “I’ll get this one,” he said, and she was relieved that he didn’t have a British accent.
     She segued back into reality.  “I can buy my own,”  she said crisply, turning away from him. 
     His face worked on this, then showed a grin.  “I was being chivalrous – and egotistical, I suppose.  I thought you’d prefer my attentions to old Jake, who wanted to come over.  I told him I saw you first.”  He nodded at the other end of the bar.  “Jake’s the one with the pork pie hat.”
     She looked, saw old Jake, wondered briefly about the stains on his denim shirt, and glanced back to the man at her side.  He was right.
    “He’s a friend of yours?”  she asked.
     “No.  Just temporary bar buddies, making man talk.”  He nodded at the bartender, who brought her a drink and went away.  She took a sip, ignoring the giver.
    “You’re welcome,”  he said.  Then, “My name is Nick.  Nick Vecchio.”
    “Italian,”  she noted.
    “The name is.  I’m not.  I took it on some time ago, because I liked the sound of it.  But I call all nations my own.”
    “And I’m a woman of the world,” she said a little grimly.
    He raised his glass, which was filled with something clear and had a lime slice in it.   She didn’t raise hers back.    
    “Obviously, you want to be alone,” he said.  “But if I leave you’ll be flooded with other contenders. You’re a rare sight in Ralph’s, and Jake has friends.”
    She supposed he was right.  Her skirt and suitjacket were forest green nubbed silk, and she wore designer heels, a good gold necklace and earrings. Ralph’s probably didn’t see that too often.  She glanced at the other end of the bar.  A man with many tattoos grinned at her. She was torn between being grateful for the protection, and resentful of the need for it.  She turned back to her drink and said nothing.
    “I won’t ask if you’ve been here before because I can guess the answer,” Nick said.  “But I’m curious about what brings you to Ralph’s instead of your regular haunts - I’d guess Janus, or maybe Parker’s on an off night.  Young executives mingling with minor political appointees and the occasional drunk senator?  Armani suits and Pradas?  Brittle smiles, Martinis and cagey pickup lines like ‘I don’t think authentic intimacy requires long-term commitment, do you?’”
    She thought about taking offense, then laughed instead.  He was right.  Janus was just like that.  And halfway through her second drink, she was relaxing.  What the hell, she thought.  She’d never seen him before, and would probably never see him again.  Most likely he was gay, cruising for a blue collar experience.  
    “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I got lost in the woods with a black dog last night.  Weird shit happened.  I needed someplace I didn’t have to worry about my smile.”
    “Well, then,”  he said, not questioning further.  “Don’t worry about it.  If you get sick of me, in about five minutes you can throw your drink in my face.  I’ll go back and tell them you’re a lesbian.  Or a nun, as you prefer.  Meantime, trust me, I wasn’t trying to pick you up with a three dollar drink.  Your time isn’t sold cheaply.  I can tell by your shoes.”
    She hoped he meant that in a good way.  Just to make sure she said, “I’m an account exec at Accent Marketing, and they bill me out at $200 an hour. My social time isn’t for sale.”
   “Of course not. Sell your work, but body and soul remain your own.”  He raised his glass again.  She once again deliberately failed to raise hers.
   “Though some people,”  he continued, “believe that selling your work is the same as selling your soul.  If they’re right, that pretty much screws the pooch on capitalism.”  
     She took a sip of her drink and said more nothing.  
    “Others,”  he said, “Would gladly sell their souls to get out of work, if they could find a buyer.”
     “Most people,”  she noted, “don’t really think they have a soul.”
     “Oh, really? What does our money say -  In God We Trust?”
     “Words.  Social glue.”
     “A cynic.  So you don’t believe in souls?”
     “I didn’t say that.”
     “Then you do?”
     “I didn’t say that, either.”
     “Hmm.  I’d guess you’re  a Gemini.  Moon in Capricorn, with a Sagittarius ascendant?”
     She frowned, about to ask him how he knew all that, but he laughed. 
     “Don’t worry.  I’m not here to cast your chart or make Jesus your personal savior.  Just talking to pass the time while Jake drowns his sorrows. So if you believed you had a soul, what would you sell it for?”
      She gulped down the rest of her drink.  “What?”  she asked.
     “What would you sell your soul for?”  He emphasized each word carefully.
      If he meant to get her attention, he had it. She turned her head a quarter inch and scanned him through narrowed eyes.  He made a deprecating gesture.  
     “This isn’t my usual hangout either.  I wandered in on a whim, to experience the ambience.  And here I find an attractive woman of substance and class, who turns out to be in some distress. What, I wondered, would amuse her? Lift her troubles from her?  No perfunctory conversation about weather would do.  Only substantial questions would suit her.  So I ask again – what price your soul?”
     Definitely gay, she thought.  And philosophical discussion about souls with a gay man was probably just what she needed.  She mulled his question. She was raised Catholic and believed in souls in a general way, though she wasn’t actually sure she had one.  She went to church for special occasions, and she was godmother to her niece and therefore technically responsible for her soul, but in fact she didn’t give it much thought. 
   “Is it the same as what you’d give your life for?  Or at least risk it by jumping in front of a moving vehicle?”  she asked.
   “Pretty close,”  he said,  “only more so.”
   “I suppose,”  she said,  “I’d do it to save my sister or her daughter.”
    He raised an eyebrow.  “Not her husband?”
    She shrugged. “He’s okay.  Good father.  Good husband.  But you’re talking about my soul.”
   “Family first.   But your sister doesn’t need saving.”
    “How do you know?”
    “One, she married a good man.  Two, your face is relaxed when you talk about her.  Three, your tone is speculative rather than urgent.”
    “Pretty good,”  she said.
    “I pay attention.  Any alternatives?”
     She quickly found a compelling and irritating specter rising within her.  She glowered into her drink, which was empty.
    “I can’t hear it if you just think it,”  he said.
    She muttered into her glass, tipped it back and chewed on ice.
    “What?”
    “My brother,”  she repeated, too loud this time.  She began to recognize she was at least mildly tipsy.    
    “That loser?”  he asked.
     She plunked her glass down hard on the bar.  “You don’t know him.”
    “I see your face,”  he said.
     “My face doesn’t say he’s a loser.  It says he’s – he’s complicated.  He’s a musician,”  she added defiantly, illogically, as if that explained everything else. 
     “Of course.”  He signaled the bartender for another round.
     “I shouldn’t,”  she said.
     “But you will,”  he replied.  “And I’ll get you home if you can’t drive.”
    “Don’t get any ideas,”  she said curtly.
    “None at all.  There are taxis and so on.”
    “I need my car.  I have to get to work tomorrow.”
    “Tomorrow,”  he said,  “is Saturday.”
    “Oh.  Right.”   Her drink arrived and she sipped it slowly, then eyed his glass.  “What are you drinking?”
     “Rum.  Good rum, undiluted.”
      She whistled softly.   “I’ll be calling a cab for you.”
     “Unfortunately not.  It’s one of the curses of my life.  I can drink anything in any amount and never get more than mildly buzzed.”
       She shook her head at this.  
       “It’s true,”  he insisted.  “A strange and expensive physiological anomaly.  By the way, what’s your name?”
       “Stacey,”  she said.
       “Just Stacey?  Nothing else?”
       She licked her lips to make sure they worked.  “Stacey Vitautis.”
      He gave a short intake of breath that made her turn to him sharply, showing him her full face.  
      “Did I say something wrong?”  she asked.
      For five seconds he just stared at her eyes, his lips pressed together and his forehead knit hard.  She would swear his pupils dilated.  Then he went still, relaxing into a broad grin.  
    “Not at all.  That’s a Lithuanian name, isn’t it?” he asked.
    “Like every cell in my body,”  she said, mildly impressed.  “Most people think it’s Russian.”
    “Which most Lithuanians would find insulting.”
     “How do you know that?”
      “I told you.  I’m a man of all nations.”  He waved it away.  “About your brother.  What’s his instrument?”
      “He’s a violinist.  Why?”
      “Just wondering.   And you’d sell your soul to save him?  Why?”
      “Because he’s family.  And – and he had a rough time.  And because I would.  Do I have to give the devil a reason?”
      “I think,” he mused, “selling your soul has to be for personal gain. Isn’t there something you want for yourself?  Or are you a womanly woman, always thinking of the needs of others?”
      She bridled.  “I earn a six figure income, have my own house, drive a BMW that’s paid for, and I like my work.  I don’t need a damn thing.”
      “Sad,”  he said.
      “What?”
      “There’s nothing you want enough to sell your soul for. That means there’s nothing you’d give your soul to.  And so you’re empty.  Except for your brother.” 
       “That’s – that’s a specious argument,”  she said, liking the word specious though she wasn’t sure if it applied.
       “How so?”  he asked.
       She opened her mouth, closed it again.  She found she couldn’t really explain.  “It’s been more than five minutes,”  she said.
    “Oh.  Well.  Are you going to?”
    She looked at her drink.  Her glass was half full, and not finishing it would probably be a good thing.  She never had before, and wondered what it would feel like.   
    “Yeah,”  she said.  
     He braced himself. “Ready when you are.”
     She stood. “Go to hell,”  she proclaimed, then tossed the drink at his face.  
     She turned and stalked out of the bar without looking back.



Pretty in Pink!   LITHUANIAN COLD CHERRY SOUP

    You can make this with blueberries instead of cherries, or I suppose you could do one of each, then carefully pour side by side in the bowl for a red white and blue kind of moment.  I mention below that you can sub out the cinnamon for other experimental herbs.   Rosemary?  Cilantro?  Basil?  Experiment, because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!  

1 lb. pitted cherries (Either morello or Bing will do)
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cinnamon stick (Or if you like, substitute a large sprig of rosemary.  This will make it more savory, but it's an interesting combination of flavors, and you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD)
1 slice lemon
8 oz. sour cream (Yes, yogurt will work well if you prefer)
1-2 cups water (depending on the thickness of soup you prefer)

Put the cherries, water, cinnamon stick (or herb of your choosing.  Really.   Do PLAY With this) in a saucepan.  Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer and let it get all mingly for about 15 minutes.

While it's mingling, whisk the sour cream (or yogurt) with some of the juice from the saucepan. 

Remove about half the contents of the saucepan and puree.  Put it BACK in the pot, take off the heat, and add the sour cream mixture.

That's it.  Enjoy!   
    
      Yes, you can buy The Amber on-line, or order it through your local bookstore.  And you should.