D8 // Aggie Blyton

D8 // Aggie Blyton Jan 14, 2013 5:15:35 GMT -5

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Post by clover ❁ on Jan 14, 2013 5:15:35 GMT -5

"AGGIE BLYTON.

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★ ★ ★ /5

Makes: Agatha Isadora Blyton.
Serves: My family and I.
Preparation: Eighteen years.
Origin: District Eight.

INGREDIENTS. [/color][/size][/font]

A smile; forced.
A handful of golden hair; straight; not too long.
Nails, roughly bitten.
One disposition: cheery.
Murky eyes; blue is preferable.
An excess of concern and worry.
A reasonable amount of emotional distance.
Pale skin; slightly yellow.
A dose of compassion.
Soft features - use sparingly.
A dash of perfectionism or over-obsessive tidiness.
One slim frame (specifics noted by Ruthie.)
An immense lack of sleep.
To compliment the above, add dark shadows beneath eyes.
An unflattering bluntness.
A sprinkle of scorn and criticism.
Guarded emotion and fleeting sarcasm to taste.
(Confidence is optional.)

METHOD. [/color][/size][/font]

1.

Take one child. Pretty, with long blonde hair and a smile that shone even when nobody was looking. Take parental unit - separate father from mother and add the latter to the mix. Stir until not quite combined. Add two perfect twins with golden curls and chestnut eyes. (Don't pay too much attention to them, despite all their beauty.)
2.

Mix until smooth. Add another child - a baby boy this time, and then in the following year add another. Be sure to forget the first little girl, tumbled up in the mixture. Don't worry about the father of any of these babies - Mama's pretty enough to find herself something to do when she gets bored. Make sure everything is nicely combined.
3.

Now, remove one of the twins. Not the fierce one with the wide smile and endless determination - the other one. Quiet and reserved and pretty as a picture. Take her out. Go on. It's not so easy, is it, snatching an ingredient back from the mix? You'll manage it, don't worry. If you take a part of the very first little girl with you, then you're doing it right.
4.

Toss in another sister that doesn't begin to make up for the one that is lost. Stir again. Cook until the Mama has boiled away to almost nothing at all, and then return to the preparation bench. You didn't need her, anyhow. She just helped to make the base. That leaves the eldest, spread thinly over the rest of the ingredients.
5.

Take that little girl with a piece missing - force her to ~~grow up too fast~~ return to the boil at once. Call her Agatha, because she obviously needs a dreadful name to match. Take the dough out and work it hard - remember that it cannot possibly be overworked. (A clothing factory pays very little money, you see.)
6.

Throw in a sprinkle of worry - but make sure your hand slips and saturates everything you've made in a layer of dread and caution. By now, the ~~life~~ mixture should be weak and rough - resembling and tangled mess. (You knit even though you hate it, just to try and keep the wool from knotting up. You want to prove you can keep some lines straight.)
6.

Make sure that the flavours fit together nicely - simply a job and a frantic obsession with yarn hardly constitute a life. (You cook out of necessity and out of joy. You can create something far better than your Mama ever did. You do the jigsaws because putting the pieces together and smoothing your fingers over the cracks calms you. Broken things can be fixed.)
8.

Add dry wit to taste and continue to knead. After sixteen years, begin to cook the dough. Wait until it peaks - rising breasts and hips from the previously stick-thin exterior. Inside, as it bakes, the softness will fade away just a little. (Still ever so kind and gentle, but more straightforward, you see.) Remove from the over before it browns. It should remain pale and slightly translucent.
9.

Serve wearing slightly scruffy clothes that are destined to be handed down. Garnish with a smile that doesn't sit there naturally - skip the warmth of blood that usually colours cheeks and gives life to skin. Don't leave out too long - if left to go cold, Agatha Blyton will collapse.