As you notice, I tend to ramble occasionally about whatever happens to come to mind. Sundays are usually kind of slow, so it gives me plenty of time to write or surf the web or bake...I do love to bake. We've got some great brownies in the back - don't forget to ask your waitress for one. And remember to request the whipped cream on top - yummy!
Anyway, I was sitting back here in my booth and I noticed some shadows crawling across the outer wall near the front window. When they noticed me, one or two took shape and I realized they were former denizens of this land on which the diner was built. One, a narrow shade named Eliza, waited on this very spot for her lover to return from the Revolutionary War. She waited and waited, refusing to eat or drink, and wasted away for love. The letter telling her of his death never reached her, and I can only guess she's still searching for him, yearning to be reunited with the lonely soldier who won her heart.
The other one, a portly gentleman by the name of Henri', the French pronunciation, traveled here from far away, to be a chef to the wealthy and famous. He became known for his pastries and cookies, and tender, moist turkeys and roasts, but most of all for his liquers. He made his own from local fruits and flowers, but it was his magic that made them special. Raspberry liquor to bring back a lost love, citrus to strengthen an ailing body and pansy wine to counter ill wishes from others, all these potions huddled on his iron shelves. All disappeared the day he died, and no one knows where they went. I recently found some of his recipes, even the words uttered as the pot is being stirred. We'll see what happens.
In the meantime, be writing down your magic. It's what the world needs today.