Rest day.
La Rochelle, in la Charente-Maritime.
A formal park, near the water.
A young woman spreads a picnic rug on the grass.
And lays out a picnic.
Oysters cooked with maritime pine needles, Jonchée cheese, glasswort in vinegar, coucougnettes de Vert Galant (almond chocolates), vins de Jurençon....
Is it a dream? No. Belle is here.
She's called Team Philosophe and arranged to meet them in Parc Charruyer.
Darling! cries Vello.
Papa! cries Belle. I've brought you a wonderful picnic! Hi David. Hi Sweezie. What's that you've got there?
A spit cake, says Sweezus. All the way from Loudevielle.
Everyone looks at the spit cake, which has seen better days.
Isn't it meant to have spikes? asks David.
Yes, says Vello. But this one doesn't. Can it be called a true spit cake?
If it was cooked on a spit, it can, says Belle. I suppose it was hard to transport.
Heaps hard, says Sweezus. It got soggy when it rained yesterday. Arthur said to use a hair drier.
But you didn't, says Vello.
Didn't have one, says Sweezus.
I don't have one either, says Belle. Sit it in the sun here, and see if it perks up a little. Meanwhile try an oyster. Try a dozen! And let me pour you a large glass of Jurençon.....
How ineffably delightful.
The sun filters down through the trees. Flowers bloom in peripheral flower beds.
People in masks stroll though the park in a genteel fashion.
The spit cake, in full sun, dries out nicely, and its spikes (which are formed when cake batter is spooned directly onto a spit that is slowly revolving) grow erect, soon becoming tumescent.
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