In which One Contemplates the End of September
The logic being, if one must do the dishes, one might as well be drunk.
I am making beef stew, pourng quantities of McEwan's Scotch Malt Liquor into the stew and myself, thereby improving both immeasurably. The stew is loosely adapted from memories of my mother's stew and the Fannie Farmer cookbook's advice. I'd call one or the other and ask them for the exact recipe, only my mother is fictional and I've already asked Fannie. Or the other way around.
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stitchinmyside made lamb-and-apple stew the other day (and might be kind enough to post the receipt?) It put me in mind of the stews of my youth, and this seemed like the most edible. I don't think I've ever bought beef before. inlandsea was with me at the grocery store when I got it. "It's so... red." I said. "Is it always this red?"
I have plans also to make quince and apple tart, using the fruit I bought at the Moss St. Market today.
After the market I went wandering too far on a bruised heel. I ventured into the silence of Uplands. (Does anyone actually live there? I can't imagine being happy in that neighborhood. Quietly dying of a wasting disease as the golden leaves rain upon the grass, yes. Being happy, no.) I followed the bus route until I was afraid of losing it in the careful intricacy of intruder-repelling cul-de-sacs, and sat down to read a regency romance (for... um... research) until the bus should materialize out of the haze of wealth and Garry Oak leaves.
It honked at me. I don't think a bus has ever honked at me to get my attention. I thought policy for dealing with anyone obviously waiting for the bus but momentarily distracted by, say, a flight of rabid bats, was to sail smugly past. Instead he stopped. I got on, tucking Frederica under my arm.
"If one doesn't may attention, one stands in danger of missing one's bus." said the (headphoned, male, pleasing) bus driver.
"One has learnt one's lesson." I responded cheerfully, and paid my fare.
The question being, was it just a Regency sort of day?
{rf}
I am making beef stew, pourng quantities of McEwan's Scotch Malt Liquor into the stew and myself, thereby improving both immeasurably. The stew is loosely adapted from memories of my mother's stew and the Fannie Farmer cookbook's advice. I'd call one or the other and ask them for the exact recipe, only my mother is fictional and I've already asked Fannie. Or the other way around.
stitchinmyside made lamb-and-apple stew the other day (and might be kind enough to post the receipt?) It put me in mind of the stews of my youth, and this seemed like the most edible. I don't think I've ever bought beef before. inlandsea was with me at the grocery store when I got it. "It's so... red." I said. "Is it always this red?"I have plans also to make quince and apple tart, using the fruit I bought at the Moss St. Market today.
After the market I went wandering too far on a bruised heel. I ventured into the silence of Uplands. (Does anyone actually live there? I can't imagine being happy in that neighborhood. Quietly dying of a wasting disease as the golden leaves rain upon the grass, yes. Being happy, no.) I followed the bus route until I was afraid of losing it in the careful intricacy of intruder-repelling cul-de-sacs, and sat down to read a regency romance (for... um... research) until the bus should materialize out of the haze of wealth and Garry Oak leaves.
It honked at me. I don't think a bus has ever honked at me to get my attention. I thought policy for dealing with anyone obviously waiting for the bus but momentarily distracted by, say, a flight of rabid bats, was to sail smugly past. Instead he stopped. I got on, tucking Frederica under my arm.
"If one doesn't may attention, one stands in danger of missing one's bus." said the (headphoned, male, pleasing) bus driver.
"One has learnt one's lesson." I responded cheerfully, and paid my fare.
The question being, was it just a Regency sort of day?
{rf}