In honor of my dear neglected friend Ron, I am inviting you into my kitchen to enjoy a modern updating of "humble pie"... HUMBLE BROWNIES...
INGREDIENTS:
250 g dark chocolate
1 large rabbi, melted
2 dwarves, beaten
2 cups pixie stick
1 tsp. ABBA extract
1/2 cup puffyamiyumi
pinch of constitutional law
1 drunk olsen twin (doesn't matter which one)
walnuts
RECIPE:
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
Bring the chocolate and melted rabbi to a boil over low heat, stirring constantly, then remove from heat.
In a large bowl, beat the 2 dwarves until light and fluffy, then add the pixie stick and the abba extract and continue beating until creamy.
Beat in the slightly cooled chocolate rabbi mixture, and alternate in puffyamiumi with a pinch constitutional law. Fold in walnuts and the drunk olsen twin.
Pour into a 9x11 glass brownie pan and bake for 35 minutes or until the olsen is slightly browned on top but still gooey in the middle. Let cool for approximately 3 months so Eva knows how you felt when she ignored your utterly fabulous email.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
"Cause every time I seem to fall in love... Crash! Boom! Bang!"
I crashed into my boyfriend from behind! Not metaphorically, really, I hit him when we were waiting at a light.
Here's my little dent. I don't know whether to be proud of her or embarrassed that she's so small. Or just embarrased that I crashed into a stationary object.
Though, it must be said, it isn't nearly as embarassing as when mahboyfriend crashed into the back of a Rainbow milk truck because he was busy making faces at Ve and I as we drove alongside.
The innocent milk truck:
The not-so-innocent provocateurs of the crash:
Here's my little dent. I don't know whether to be proud of her or embarrassed that she's so small. Or just embarrased that I crashed into a stationary object.
Though, it must be said, it isn't nearly as embarassing as when mahboyfriend crashed into the back of a Rainbow milk truck because he was busy making faces at Ve and I as we drove alongside.
The innocent milk truck:The not-so-innocent provocateurs of the crash:
Friday, May 18, 2007
A poem for today: friday may 18
"Oatmeal"
I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge, as he called it with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime, and unsual willingness to disintigrate,
oatmeal should not be eaten alone.
He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly OK to eat it with an imaginary companion, and that
he himself had enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John Milton.
Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as
wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something from it.
Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the "Ode to a Nightingale."
He had a heck of a time finishing it those were his words "Oi 'ad a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through his porridge.
He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his pocket,
but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas,
and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they
made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if they got it right.
An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket through a hole in his pocket.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,
and the way here and there a line will go into the configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up
and peer about, and then lay \ itself down slightly off the mark,
causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.
He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some
stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.
I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal alone.
When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there is much of one.
But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field go thim started on it, and two of the lines,
"For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours,"
came to him while eating oatmeal alone.
I can see him drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into the glimmering furrows, muttering.
Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters.
For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from lunch.
I am aware that a leftover baked potato is damp, slippery, and simultaneaously gummy and crumbly,
and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh to join me.
Galway Kinnell
I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge, as he called it with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime, and unsual willingness to disintigrate,
oatmeal should not be eaten alone.
He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly OK to eat it with an imaginary companion, and that
he himself had enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John Milton.
Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as
wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something from it.
Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the "Ode to a Nightingale."
He had a heck of a time finishing it those were his words "Oi 'ad a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through his porridge.
He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his pocket,
but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas,
and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they
made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if they got it right.
An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket through a hole in his pocket.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,
and the way here and there a line will go into the configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up
and peer about, and then lay \ itself down slightly off the mark,
causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.
He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some
stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.
I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal alone.
When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there is much of one.
But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field go thim started on it, and two of the lines,
"For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours,"
came to him while eating oatmeal alone.
I can see him drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into the glimmering furrows, muttering.
Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters.
For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from lunch.
I am aware that a leftover baked potato is damp, slippery, and simultaneaously gummy and crumbly,
and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh to join me.
Galway Kinnell
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Slightly belated but still as weird as ever
What scandalous discrimination against coconuts. How can I celebrate Mahashivratri Day without my coconuts?
But in all seriousness, if anyone can explain to me why Mahashivratri Day this year was coconut-free, or what agarbatis are... or what Mahashivratri Day is, that would be grand.
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