Easter returns
Editorial asides I have written on my hot cross bun recipe at an earlier date:
1 tsp (hah!) mixed spice
I like them spicier.
Kneed fruit into dough (or add it earlier, this is a swine).
Thanks, past-self; maybe you could have put that advice in the recipe before the dough was finished.
My knuckles ache, but the result is delicious.
I bought The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy radio plays on tape from a charity shop last week. It's a very odd listening experience - I taped them from the radio when I was younger and had chunks unintentionally memorised when I was about eleven. Now I couldn't recite them, but as soon as they set up each joke, I know the punchline. It's deja vu for hours on end.
I thought the same would apply to my venture back into a church on Easter Sunday. I really wanted to sing the seasonal hymns so I looked up local institutions likely to offer them. I wasn't able to drift through the proceedings on autopilot, though. I couldn't find my family's denomination, so the liturgy was totally unfamiliar, and the hymns had the tunes I remembered, but different words. The hymns were dreamlike in their wrongness, or a sci fi attempt to keep me quiet by providing soothing surroundings that had gone subtly awry.
The hot cross buns are also from my childhood, but they have proved neither unsettling nor disappointing.
1 tsp (hah!) mixed spice
I like them spicier.
Kneed fruit into dough (or add it earlier, this is a swine).
Thanks, past-self; maybe you could have put that advice in the recipe before the dough was finished.
My knuckles ache, but the result is delicious.
I bought The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy radio plays on tape from a charity shop last week. It's a very odd listening experience - I taped them from the radio when I was younger and had chunks unintentionally memorised when I was about eleven. Now I couldn't recite them, but as soon as they set up each joke, I know the punchline. It's deja vu for hours on end.
I thought the same would apply to my venture back into a church on Easter Sunday. I really wanted to sing the seasonal hymns so I looked up local institutions likely to offer them. I wasn't able to drift through the proceedings on autopilot, though. I couldn't find my family's denomination, so the liturgy was totally unfamiliar, and the hymns had the tunes I remembered, but different words. The hymns were dreamlike in their wrongness, or a sci fi attempt to keep me quiet by providing soothing surroundings that had gone subtly awry.
The hot cross buns are also from my childhood, but they have proved neither unsettling nor disappointing.