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Ris Puddic forto Svellan Gudrun

by Joan E Thurman


When some single working women of the 21st-century come home at the end of the day, they come to an empty space. She never was the type to take whatever she could get, so now she makes whatever she gets for herself.

Presently she takes comfort. A bowl of rice pudding ringed with cherries waits for her in the coolest place she knows. She does not gobble it down. Instead, she licks each dip of pudding from the spoon, first back and then front, languorously, until the metal shines.

Joan E knows a secret ingredient that you may want to add--to cure your loneliness. If you figure it out, use it carefully.


Ris Puddic forto Svella Gudrun

This may be as good as it gets, she reflects. Pudding and a long week-end stretch out before her. It's all good, her coworkers might say. Yet even at its best, it is a world apart from what she once had in mind: coming home to the warmth of a faithful mate, and the affections of their children, all waiting at the door--for her.



These are blessings reserved for other women, she has begun lately to think--many of them lesser women too. Maybe she was too picky, or too prudish. Maybe she was wicked Jezebel in a former life. Maybe God is punishing her. 

She's been alone for so long that she forgets what she truly was, a virgin of integrity saving herself for the one man who could meet her high standards.

She never was the type to take whatever she could get, but she could have--and gotten pregnant, then married the conceited jerk who by now is alcoholic, abusive, and begrudging even of his own children. Lord Jerkamer.

She wasn't cursed by God. She was blessed. Still, she aches for a family. 


Yonee Thouroughmann, 1256
This recipe may restore hearts like hers. It might even bring the life of which she dreams. Don't be put off by its strange name. Ris puddic is Old English for rice pudding. I keep it unchanged--in its original, 13th century form--because it evokes magical practices of the 13th century, copied in secret by another woman named Joan--my long-ago Aunt Joan, a young woman and wife of the small English town of Shadenfielt. ". . . forto Svellan Gudrun

The Joan who first transcribed this recipe from a grimoire (book of magic used by sorcerers or witches) preceded me by thirty-five generation.

The Book of the Angel Raziel
was the grimoire of a man named Manodeus, the sorcerer of Shadenfielt--whose cloaks Joan brushed, whose linens she laundered, and whose household rats she killed. The man was a miser posing as a worker of miracles.

He cared nothing for magic, and even less for sorcery. He knew a few sleight-of-hand tricks, and it was only his impressive appearance that compelled ignorant people to pay him for his services. Real sorcerers of the times were inseparable from their grimoire, but Manodeus kept The Book of the Angel Raziel locked in darkness under a removable floor-plank for months on end.

The grimoire's magic cried out into the mind of the sorcerer's servant Joan, silent echoes from its dungeon under the floor, bemoaning household rats are destroying me, gnawing my binding and shredding my pages for nests. Obliging Joan promptly wiped out the rats' nest. Unlike Manodeus, her affinity with the spirited domain created a bonding unlike that of she and her dullard husband. She wanted to know more.
She risked much to learn it all. She would enter into Manodeus' house while he was away working his art upon the sick children of London nobles. She knew he would spend as much time as possible in their great houses, to make himself look like a long-incanting sorcerer worthy of much gold.

Yet Joan could spend no more than an hour or two with the Angel Raziel, knowing that her husband, a suspicious man, would interrogate her about what types of household work she had performed for the miserly man away from home.

On several occasions, both Manodeus and her husband were called away overnight on the same night. Joan would spend these long, fascinated hours working by the light of a single taper, copying the secrets of Angel Raziel onto parchment of her own.

She didn't dwell on what might befall a women found reading and writing in the home of a sorcerer, with his open grimoire laid out before her. She just kept copying. Fragments of her 800-year old copies are in possession of my family. From among these come Ris Puddic forto Svellan Gudrun.


I am no witch, but an ordinary female like yourself. Still, I have seen with my own eyes the power of this recipe to control men and increase a woman's fertility. The recipe is yours to use as you see fit.

To young, 21st-century working women disinclined to fantastical thinking, I give this recipe, but with a warning: don't guess at the controversial magical ingredient omitted here for decency's sake. If loneliness at some point compels you to search it out, let it be done in earnest.

Any chef must be extremely careful to whom she feeds this love-binding puddic.

Ris Puddic forto Svellan Gudrun

Ingredients
  1. Two eggs
  2. 4 oz. sugar
  3. 1/2 tbsp salt
  4. 20 oz. sweet milk
  5. 1 tsp vanilla
  6. 2 cups cooked rice
  7. dash of nutmeg
  8. Optional: 13 drops of unsullied menstrual blood
Preparation



Preheat your over to 350 degrees.  
  1. Separate eggs and beat the yokes
  2. Add sugar, salt, milk and vanilla to the yokes, and blend
  3. Add the cooked rice into the mixture, and blend evenly.
  4. Add 5 - 8 drops, depending on the desired degree of obsessive love.
  5. Beat the egg whites until stiff, and fold them into the mixture
  6. Transfer the combined ingredients into a buttered backing dish
  7. sprinkle nutmeg over top
  8. bake for 30 minutes at 350 degrees.

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