This blogpost is dedicated to The Cake Girl, just because.
The Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival falls on 30th September this year: Pat’s Chung Ying on Leith Walk is selling gorgeous boxes of mooncakes. (I didn’t check to see if they also sell the ingredients, but if they do, here’s how to make your own.) There are multiple variations on the basic mooncake, the general theme being a cake to be divided and shared among family while viewing the full moon of autumn. But look: this is an actual thing. Mooncakes that look like mobile phones (via):
- A Friday 13th Ghost Story
It’s not widely discussed. Those who have witnessed it firsthand are, for obvious reasons, reluctant to talk about it. You’ll never see them publicly recounting their tales in front of the cameras and the microphones. These aren’t stories they are eager to tell.
But one hears whispers, rumors, stories told by the friends of friends. And those whispers, rumors and stories are too numerous and too eerily similar to be dismissed.
Something is happening. Something, it seems, happens every Friday the 13th, just before midnight.
- Urban Legends: Friday the 13th (TGIF13)
Still other sources speculate that the number 13 may have been purposely vilified by the founders of patriarchal religions in the early days of western civilization because it represented femininity. Thirteen had been revered in prehistoric goddess-worshiping cultures, we are told, because it corresponded to the number of lunar (menstrual) cycles in a year (13 x 28 = 364 days). The “Earth Mother of Laussel,” for example — a 27,000-year-old carving found near the Lascaux caves in France often cited as an icon of matriarchal spirituality — depicts a female figure holding a crescent-shaped horn bearing 13 notches. As the solar calendar triumphed over the lunar with the rise of male-dominated civilization, it is surmised, so did the “perfect” number 12 over the “imperfect” number 13, thereafter considered anathema.
Years ago, if you were coming home after midnight and the chip shops had shut, there was an all-night bakery lurking behind where Scayles Music Shop is now. The door might be standing open to let the cool air in, or you could just knock: the room you saw was stacked full of baked goods and the ovens were still running – the air was full of the wonderful smell of freshly-baked bread and cake – and they’d sell you literally anything you could think to ask for, brown-bagged, though most people were looking for something to eat right now.
The paving stones outside the all-night bakery on St Patrick’s Square had been pigeon-pecked for the dropped crumbs – there were holes worn in the stone by the pigeon-beaks.
Though I no longer live on the south side of Edinburgh, and so would never likely be walking home late at night past that bakery, I still regret its going.