#brass walnut nutcracker

[runswith]

Travel diary:  Pamplona.  Entry 5 – March 13, 2002

The dessert course appeared as soon as Curtis ditched the joint. Two courses: a big basket of walnuts and a plate holding alternating slices of cheese and something Marco and Jim thought might be conserve or preserve of quince, which grows wild in the mountains locally. The walnuts: not the large, perfect specimens one sees in a supermarket -- Marco thought they might have been grown at this farm. As we dug into them (the management thoughtfully provided a nutcracker, Jim and I immediately struggled over it), I discovered that the more I ate, the more delicious they became. We hoovered them up, leaving the table strewn with mounds of broken shells.

Between the four of us, we’d gone through a pile of food. The bill amounted to 100 euros, dirt cheap considering all the entertainment that came with the package. Coffee didn’t seem to be available, however --- astonishing, that, considering the way Spaniards normally toss down espresso. We decided to find another site for after-dinner caffeine, Jim saying it needed to be a place that also had cigars (called “puros” here).

We paid up, had a few last words with the proprietor. When we stepped outside the day had become, if anything, grayer, damper, the air more cool and tangy.

Jim pulled the Fiat into the parking lot of a restaurant by the highway, we wandered inside to the small bar area where coffee and Jim’s cigar awaited. As we stood around, sipping espresso, Marco noticed a wooden display case positioned atop a refrigerator that sat by the wall to one side of the bar. Containing arty postcards, all shots of local, rustic scenes, including a particular one that caught his eye, a picture of a hefty guy lifting a large, heavy, square object, apparently as part of a traditional competition, the way Scots fairs have the log throwing thingy. He reached to pick that card out, and with his touch the display shelf fell behind the refrigerator, producing jarringly loud clatter. All action in the bar stopped, all eyes turned to Marco. Curtis and I quietly disassociated ourselves from anything but innocent, unobtrusive coffee sipping. Marco and Jim got the display shelf back up on top of the refrigerator, collected the postcards, put them all back in the display. Except for the one card Marco wanted --- there had only been one of its kind --- which had slipped under the refrigerator, out of reach.

Back in Pamplona, Marco and Jim dropped me and Curtis off where they’d picked us up, way the hell across town from where I was staying, though not far from Curtis’ place. Great for him, as he wanted to take a nap. I wanted to hit an internet joint I’d found the night before, so grabbed a taxi.

A local quirk: for some reason, you can’t hail a taxi on the street in Pamplona. You have to go to a taxi stand, which means you have to know where they’re located, information a furriner might not have. Curtis pointed out a stand, in a driveway in front of a hospital. Without that help, I might have been up the proverbial creek.

I spent a good long time at the internet joint, during which a loud, insistent political demonstration started up, began making its slow way through the local streets. Curtis and I had come across another one the night before, that one looking like a large squad of cheerleaders, done cheerfully up in clown wigs, doing moves to something they chanted I couldn’t understand. The kids were high school age, so the cheerleader thing seemed like a possibility. Curtis disagreed, looking a bit intense, we let it go at that.

The Saturday night demonstration: larger, very different, consisting of two long columns of kids -- again, high-school age -- done up in traditional folk outfits of some kind including, for many of them, two long bells tied around them so that the bells hung out from their backs, like long, rigid, brass breasts. The kids moved in a slow, trotting cadence that rang the bells loudly in a pronounced rhythm, punctuated by chanting I couldn’t make out and horns that other kids blew. This was all done by teenagers, no grown-ups involved. In fact, the grown-ups I saw seemed to purposely keep their distance, mostly looking anything but amused. There was something oddly aggressive about the demonstration, and I made my way quickly by, glad to be past it and off into other, quieter streets.

The point of these demonstrations, I was later told, was support of ETA, and in particular the pushing of a particular cause: the return of imprisoned members of ETA to Navarra, so that they could serve out their sentences there. It’s apparently being promoted as a humanitarian idea -- i.e., so families could visit more easily -- that would also be a blow against the Spanish government’s “repression” of ETA “freedom fighters.” (Why the quotation marks? Because the whole thing has the distinct feel of what I can only describe as extremely partisan propaganda.) The members of ETA who are in prison are generally there for assassinations or bombings, or for activities in support of same, and the atmosphere that I encountered in Pamplona around all this felt intensely charged and unsafe. Apparently, it’s not considered wise there to express one’s sentiments if one does not support ETA as it can result in violence and intimidation. Or so I’m told.

Pro-ETA graffiti/posters/handbills were ubiquitous in the old part of the city, some bars had pro-ETA literature and posters prominently displayed. In talking with Curtis about all this, he clearly seemed to tap into deep emotions of anger and frustration. The same seems true of most Spaniards I’ve heard talk about it. I can only listen and watch, thinking of the long years of IRA/UDA violence in Northern Ireland (my father’s side of the family all having come from the south of that green island) and the pointlessness of it all.

I don’t know what I expected to find in Pamplona, but it wasn’t such a sharp sense of danger and paranoia. The juxtaposition of that over a beautiful, lively city, abundant with blossom-covered cherry and almond trees, felt a little unreal.

[eclecticembrace-blog]

Brass Walnut Shaped Nutcracker Vintage Kitchen Tool Large Nut Shelling Box Mid Century Decor Gold Pecan Sheller Unique Metal Collectible

[mychicsister]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage 60s Solid Brass Walnut Nutcracker Hinged Serving Dish Interpur Taiwan MC.

[jessicaallyndesign]

Objects de jour! (Aka weekend antiquin’ finds) Jumbo brass walnut (working nutcracker!) and vintage stone ashtray (turned jewelry dish for me?! I don’t know! 😂... why are vintage ashtrays so cool lookin??) #HappyMonday (at Weston, Connecticut) https://www.instagram.com/p/CERinIKpVyP/?igshid=1tmi7bzxu6ai0

[luzza-lighting]

Once upon a time in Alsace,France, there was a walnut tree with a special nut, hand chosen to become the mold of the nutcracker Nukso (see here: https://joom.ag/wRHe/p64).

Hand-picked by the designer, this walnut in brass challenges you to crack nuts with your hands.

[fanfic-reliquary]

The Thorns of Time

Chapter 1

Honestly, I can't imagine my grandmother dying could have led to the situation I was in right now.

So let me explain the situation we're in right now, and how I got there.

My name is Sherri Garcia. I'm 19 years old, single, and my mother is verbally abusive. She had just gotten done with one of her bouts and sent me to my room for so much as humming.

Joy wasn't allowed in this household. It's why I locked myself away in my room all day. Dad, god rest his soul, was too wishy washy to stand up to her anymore, and my brother was just a dick.

My grandmother, my last scrap of sanity in the summers, had just passed away last month. We fulfilled her will and divided up her possessions. I didn't want much, but I was specifically entrusted with a music box. Other than being extremely ornate and beautiful as well as having a button on its bottom that didn't seem to do anything and a rotating dial display for a date and time, and having the option to exchange its tracks, it didn't seem like much of anything. But she wanted me to have it, so it was mine to be treasured.

I was supremely pissed off when I entered my room. Can't have anything joyous in this godforsaken hell can we?

I picked the music box up from my cluttered nightstand and examined it. It was small, and could fit in my hands if I cupped them. It was themed after the nutcracker, and it was supposedly very old despite the dial driven clock. It's cherry red and walnut finish was decorated by swoops of brass and fake diamonds. Inside the lid was a porcelain painting of the Christmas in the play, and a small ballerina, most likely Claire, stood, leg outstretched and waiting to traverse the circular track.

All my life I had been fascinated with music boxes. I loved how they worked, how they sounded, and even collected tracks to play in them. You know, back when I was allowed to.

I opened up the track compartment to see what was inside. Instead of a track, I found a little piece of paper. It was a note from my grandmother.

"Dear Sherri,

I know that you hate your mother, and her shouting will only get worse with my death. I picked up this music box at a small pawn shop on the edge of London's Chinatown. The owner said that it was one of a kind, and very special. I had a hell of a time buying it. I know you love music boxes, so I'm leaving this to you and only to you. It has a clock on the top. Don't forget to set the date and time.

Be strong, and know that I love you.

Thank you for all the wonderful times,

Pastora Gabriella Garcia"

I was in tears. Grandma... I can't believe you left this for me... I love it. And I'll never let mother get her grubby little hands on it.

I was never delivered dinner, but that was to be expected. I didn't care. I just had a granola bar from my stash.

When I was sure everybody was asleep, I fished out my favorite track, Song of the Lark, and stuck it in the track player. Suddenly remembering my grandmother's instructions, I set the clock on the top to today's date. July 20, 2078. 23:45. I wound up the box and let the somber tones of Tchaikovsky fill the room. As the song played on, I drifted off to sleep.

(So yeah, kind of a shitty start. You get your basic information about Sherri, but that’s about it.

Also something to keep in mind: For those who don’t know, Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure has a penchant to not making sense. So for any plot holes you find, don’t be afraid to criticize. I’m not perfect, after all. But remember: There are bigger plot holes to be found in the canon story.

I picked the first part of Jojo to write the story in because it has the least plot holes by comparison. Also because Jonathan is bae and for some reason I can’t even let him get with Erina, his canon love interest.)

[irinaalek]

I Rather Coffee by deesweetnostalgia featuring princess cupcake toppers ❤ liked on Polyvore

Princess cupcake topper / White serveware / Coat of arms plaque / Oval planter / Copper music box / La Fenice italian sculpture / Gold tone jewelry / Miniature Brass and Glass Dog Figurine / Brass Nutcracker /Brass Walnut Brass/ Walnut Box /Brass Nuts Walnut... / W.A.M OldFashion antique wooden coffee grinder late 19th century. / Two brass dancers

[yeswandaus]

I Rather Coffee by deesweetnostalgia featuring a music box

Kitchen gadgets tool etsy.com

Serveware etsy.com

Wall art ebay.com

Vintage home decor etsy.com

Music box etsy.com

Home decor etsy.com

Brooch etsy.com

Miniature Brass and Glass Dog Figurine etsy.com

Brass Nutcracker /Brass Walnut Brass/ Walnut Box /Brass Nuts Walnut... etsy.com

W.A.M OldFashion antique wooden coffee grinder late 19th century. etsy.com

Two brass dancers etsy.com

[mychicsister]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage MCM Solid Brass Walnut Nutcracker Hinged Serving Dish Interpur Taiwan.