Eh heh heh...
Learning experiences taste... interesting. Actually, it wasn't as bad this time around as it could have been. I decided to try making curried veggies. Normally, not a problem, but I had the brilliant idea to do a yogurt sauce and cheerfully dumped the yogurt into the hot pan with the veggies where it promptly curdled. Oops. I also put in the onions too soon and the carrots didn't go in soon enough. *sigh* As I said, though, it didn't taste too bad. Just a tad, um, odd.
On a completely unrelated subject, I finally got back to dance practice last night, which was a ton of fun. I hadn't been since the Wednesday before Crown. Old Mole is definitely a fun dance, as is Alta Regina.
Oh, and I seem to have found my errant muse, at least for the time being. The current prompt word in the poetry exercise thread I frequent is "cinnamon," which yielded this:
Apple Butter Season
Crisp wind in my hair, redolent
with cinnamon-spiked apples,
invokes the ghosts of wind-rosy cheeks
and frost-nipped noses that tingled
with returning warmth, of glove-thick fingers
that dropped as many apples as they picked,
perched in the gnarled Pippin tree behind the house,
of hands juice-slick from peeling and coring, and aching arms
that stirred the giant, bubbling pot on the stove for hours
in the heavy, fragrant heat of my grandmother's
autumn kitchen.
On a completely unrelated subject, I finally got back to dance practice last night, which was a ton of fun. I hadn't been since the Wednesday before Crown. Old Mole is definitely a fun dance, as is Alta Regina.
Oh, and I seem to have found my errant muse, at least for the time being. The current prompt word in the poetry exercise thread I frequent is "cinnamon," which yielded this:
Apple Butter Season
Crisp wind in my hair, redolent
with cinnamon-spiked apples,
invokes the ghosts of wind-rosy cheeks
and frost-nipped noses that tingled
with returning warmth, of glove-thick fingers
that dropped as many apples as they picked,
perched in the gnarled Pippin tree behind the house,
of hands juice-slick from peeling and coring, and aching arms
that stirred the giant, bubbling pot on the stove for hours
in the heavy, fragrant heat of my grandmother's
autumn kitchen.