(no subject)
It's amazing how, when you've got about half of a month off, how many people come out of the woodwork and want to hang out. Mm... warm fuzzies... :)
I made delicious bread. Mayhaps I consider it delicious because it was my first successful attempt at yeast bread and therefore I'm predetermined to like it whether it tastes like bread or rancid play-dough. But it also prompted a strong desire in me to make more bread. That... can't be healthy. However, I ate said bread on my porch this morning, slathered in laughing cow cheese and nibbled strawberries and blueberries and drank raspberry sun tea I made on Sunday and selfishly kept to myself because they were fresh raspberries and, well, let's face it; I'm not really a nice person.
I'm about to go hiking at the Chattahoochee nature center and I'm feeling a sort of calming centrism that I haven't felt in a very long time. It's... nice. I think it may be because it is fall and it's decidedly my favorite season of the year. This is what I missed-- the leaves changing, the crisp smell at night, and the urge to begin making and storing soups and stews and butternut squash and wild rice and delicious granny smith apple pies. My poor mother must be convinced that I am slipping further and further into domestication. I have to consistently remind her that I have wild plans to hike the Andes and motorbike through Italy and attend the international music festival an hour outside of Timbuktu, and my lucky Buddha is always worn close to my heart. I just happen to like the warm feelings toward Christmas (dear me, was I un-Kosher... oh wait, I don't care). That, and when your parents can't cook, well, you appreciate what meager talents you yourself may have. Because enchilada sauce does not work on spaghetti and god help me if my mother ever enters the kitchen for more than coffee again.
Y asi fue.
I made delicious bread. Mayhaps I consider it delicious because it was my first successful attempt at yeast bread and therefore I'm predetermined to like it whether it tastes like bread or rancid play-dough. But it also prompted a strong desire in me to make more bread. That... can't be healthy. However, I ate said bread on my porch this morning, slathered in laughing cow cheese and nibbled strawberries and blueberries and drank raspberry sun tea I made on Sunday and selfishly kept to myself because they were fresh raspberries and, well, let's face it; I'm not really a nice person.
I'm about to go hiking at the Chattahoochee nature center and I'm feeling a sort of calming centrism that I haven't felt in a very long time. It's... nice. I think it may be because it is fall and it's decidedly my favorite season of the year. This is what I missed-- the leaves changing, the crisp smell at night, and the urge to begin making and storing soups and stews and butternut squash and wild rice and delicious granny smith apple pies. My poor mother must be convinced that I am slipping further and further into domestication. I have to consistently remind her that I have wild plans to hike the Andes and motorbike through Italy and attend the international music festival an hour outside of Timbuktu, and my lucky Buddha is always worn close to my heart. I just happen to like the warm feelings toward Christmas (dear me, was I un-Kosher... oh wait, I don't care). That, and when your parents can't cook, well, you appreciate what meager talents you yourself may have. Because enchilada sauce does not work on spaghetti and god help me if my mother ever enters the kitchen for more than coffee again.
Y asi fue.