Uncle Gret's Magic Violin

 Hello again, readers. Goodness, but time doesn't seem to flow normally these days. Almost like we're in some sort of fairy tale of our own. Here's hoping for a happily ever after quickly.

I had a bit of trouble coming up with a modern version of The Monkey's Fiddle, so I looked back at a story I wrote on this blog awhile back, Family Fun, and I decided that family could use another adventure. So, here we have a story about Uncle Gret. I changed the fairy tale around a bit for this story, but this family takes liberties with their fairy tales.

The everyday magical items are the ones to watch out for.

The Monkey's Fiddle

I knew music was magical.

Hello, reader. This week's story comes to us from South Africa. The Monkey's Fiddle is a story about how hard work gets you great things, but stealing doesn't. Click the link above to read the story and continue below to analyze it with me.

Memories Baked In

I've been struggling on how to write a modern version of The Little Red Hen without just writing a story about a mother baking some bread. This turned out better than I expected.

 

Lots of work went into that loaf of bread.

Momma always seemed to be baking on the weekends. Or when she could get time at night. We had a bowl in the fridge that she would take yeast out of, or put some flour in. I never realized it was unusual that all of my birthday cakes were homemade. Or that Momma made our bread. The first time I saw sliced bread at a friend's house, I was confused. Where did they get the bag? And what recipe did they use?

As I grew up, Momma taught me to bake as well. I liked the chemistry of it, experimenting with different proportions of ingredients. I had to write everything down, but Momma baked with her heart. She might use a measuring cup to put in ingredients, but she measured them with her intuition. Putting in just a dash more, or a pinch less on instinct.

It wasn't until years later that I realized that most of my memories with Momma were in the kitchen. We did other things, and we spent time with the rest of the family, but my best memories of her were when she had flour on her shirt and a smile on her face. Momma said feeding the people you love was the best thing you could do. So when we held her wake, it seemed only right that I bake. My brother bought everything that I didn't bake.

I took Momma's bowl of yeast home with me that night. Someone had to keep it going. Momma might have died, but her yeast was still there, and every bite of bread I made with it would remind me of her. Maybe she was right. Feeding the people you love was the best thing. Even if you had to do it with what you passed on to those who outlived you.

The day after Momma's wake, I made bread, putting all of my grief and anger into it when I kneaded the dough. Just like she taught me. I let the dough rise, then punched it back down. When it was baking, my whole apartment smelled like my childhood. When it was time, I took the bread out. I cut it and ate it, and it felt like Momma was with me. Her arm around me, telling me that my latest experiment had turned out well as we ate. I closed my eyes and savored it.

The Little Red Hen

Stay away from her bread.

Hello, readers. Today's story comes to us from the United States of America. The Little Red Hen is a story about not rewarding laziness, among other things. Click the link above to read the story, and continue below to think about it with me.

Listen When I Speak

Hello again, readers. This week, I wrote a modern version of Phikul Thong. I was having trouble coming up with this story until I realized that, like any good writer, I could make things metaphorical. Enjoy this story about family and curse words.

Now imagine this, metaphorically, coming out of your mouth.

Phikul Thong

I wonder what these flowers taste like.

Greetings, readers. Today's story comes from Thailand. Phikul Thong reminds me of a fairy tale we've already discussed, Diamonds and Toads, but there are some small but important differences. Click the link above to read this story, and continue below to analyze it with me.

Repercussions

Hello again, dear readers. This week, I wrote a modern version of The King and the Ju Ju Tree, which we looked at last time. This is a heavy one, readers. I wrote it taking place after the traumatic events of the fairy tale, from the point of view of the daughter. There is a panic attack in this story, so if that will upset you, maybe skip this one.

It sucks feeling that scared.