stained fingertips on glasses ringing in the darkness
I stayed up too late last night writing a story that is completely not the story I wanted to write, but which is probably truer to the scenario than my original conception. *hands* Writing. It is weird and frustrating.
***
On Sunday evening, I made petite vanilla bean scones. They are very tasty - they have a sugar cookie vibe to them - and they smell heavenly.
Normally, I wouldn't bother cracking the egg into a separate bowl, the eggs have been around longer than usual (though they're still short of their expiration date), and I wanted to make sure it wasn't bad. Also, I really love those bowls. I've found the whole set really useful for various things.
Anyway, that's the egg, the heavy cream and vanilla (I used vanilla bean paste instead of actually scraping out a vanilla bean, because I am lazy and I didn't get started until after 9 pm), and the butter.
I actually find doing this with my hands more efficient than using a pastry blender (also, one less item in the sink at the end), and also kind of therapeutic. I don't know, there's something about digging your hands into a bowl of flour and rubbing it around until it forms crumbs that makes me happy.
Then you add the cream and vanilla and mix it until it forms a ragged dough (I forgot to take a picture of that part). Then you dump it out onto a floured counter (or, in my case, cutting board) and shape it into a rectangle:
Possibly I was a little overzealous in flouring the board. Also, I didn't trim off the ragged edges as the recipe suggested.
And then I cut it into triangles:
Here they are just out of the oven:
And here they are after I dipped them into a modified version of the icing, where "modified" means "containing only 1/2 cup of powdered sugar and therefore not the right consistency or color:"
Don't worry, I kept all the raggedy shaped ones for myself and brought the ones that actually look neat and triangular into the office, where they rapidly disappeared.
***
Today's poem:
SYNAESTHESIA
Silence is purple, brash.
I drown it out with blues and greens,
tap staccato silver on the table-top.
You smile at me. What if, you say. What if?
I laugh - red - and say:
there is no what if.
It comes out wrong, burnt umber,
and you glare like there's no tomorrow
and empty your glass of vodka
in a single purpled gulp.
You wince. I burn.
Light blue is the colour,
stained fingertips on glasses
ringing in the darkness.
We talk in mauve. Bruises.
I shiver under your touch.
When it's over your words are edged in black
and I pretend not to hear you.
~ Ellie Blow
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/307281.html.
people have commented there.
***
On Sunday evening, I made petite vanilla bean scones. They are very tasty - they have a sugar cookie vibe to them - and they smell heavenly.
Normally, I wouldn't bother cracking the egg into a separate bowl, the eggs have been around longer than usual (though they're still short of their expiration date), and I wanted to make sure it wasn't bad. Also, I really love those bowls. I've found the whole set really useful for various things.
Anyway, that's the egg, the heavy cream and vanilla (I used vanilla bean paste instead of actually scraping out a vanilla bean, because I am lazy and I didn't get started until after 9 pm), and the butter.
I actually find doing this with my hands more efficient than using a pastry blender (also, one less item in the sink at the end), and also kind of therapeutic. I don't know, there's something about digging your hands into a bowl of flour and rubbing it around until it forms crumbs that makes me happy.
Then you add the cream and vanilla and mix it until it forms a ragged dough (I forgot to take a picture of that part). Then you dump it out onto a floured counter (or, in my case, cutting board) and shape it into a rectangle:
Possibly I was a little overzealous in flouring the board. Also, I didn't trim off the ragged edges as the recipe suggested.
And then I cut it into triangles:
Here they are just out of the oven:
And here they are after I dipped them into a modified version of the icing, where "modified" means "containing only 1/2 cup of powdered sugar and therefore not the right consistency or color:"
Don't worry, I kept all the raggedy shaped ones for myself and brought the ones that actually look neat and triangular into the office, where they rapidly disappeared.
***
Today's poem:
SYNAESTHESIA
Silence is purple, brash.
I drown it out with blues and greens,
tap staccato silver on the table-top.
You smile at me. What if, you say. What if?
I laugh - red - and say:
there is no what if.
It comes out wrong, burnt umber,
and you glare like there's no tomorrow
and empty your glass of vodka
in a single purpled gulp.
You wince. I burn.
Light blue is the colour,
stained fingertips on glasses
ringing in the darkness.
We talk in mauve. Bruises.
I shiver under your touch.
When it's over your words are edged in black
and I pretend not to hear you.
~ Ellie Blow
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/307281.html.
people have commented there.