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Source: critteristic.com

 

Yeah, I'm a grammar nerd. And I'm proud of it.

(Source: All Things Stylish)

I'll take my coffee with a splash of inspiration

Pulled the trigger...just ordered this amazing mug, which will hopefully inspire me each and every day with these words:

"Fail fucking often. Never take no for a fucking answer. Learn from your fucking mistakes. Show some fucking passion. Start a new fucking project. Believe in your fucking self." 

BTW, I'm still coveting the poster. Check it out for yourself at www.goodfuckingdesignadvice.com.

I'm back!

Woot! After a long, drawn-out lockdown, I have won. I am back.

Ladies and gentlemen, this indeed is gonna be a great year.

Fly by the seat of my pans

Some people revel in the consistency and precision that baking requires. I am much more of a "pinch of this, dollop of that" kind of cook. Level measurements be damned. Which means I'm often too lazy (or too daunted) to attempt to bake something.

But last night I was in the mood for something sweet and crunchy to go with my tea, and I had all the right ingredients on hand, so I thought 'what the heck' -- this recipe seems simple enough. It even calls for a "pinch" of salt. How delightfully imprecise!

ORANGE ALMOND BISCOTTI

Ingredients:


2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/4 cups white sugar
1 pinch salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 cup sliced almonds
1 tablespoon orange zest
3 eggs, beaten
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1/4 teaspoon almond extract


Directions:


1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease and flour a baking sheet, or use parchment paper (much easier).


2. In a large bowl, stir together flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, almonds, and orange zest. Make a well in the center and add the eggs oil, and almond extract. Stir or mix by hand until the mixture forms a ball.


3. Separate dough into 2 pieces and roll each one into a log about 6-8 inches long. Place logs on prepared baking sheet and flatten so they are about 3/4 inch thick. Bake in preheated oven for 20 to 25 minutes.


4. Cool slightly, and remove from baking sheets. Slice diagonally into 1/2 inch slices with a serrated knife. (Bonus: at this point you get to sample the end pieces, since they won't sit level on the sheet, anyway...)

5. Set cookies on their sides back onto the cookie sheet and bake for 10 to 15 more minutes, turning over after halfway through.

Finished cookies should be hard and crunchy, and consumed with a hot beverage while you put your feet up and read trashy magazines on the sofa.

Just around the corner now...

Photo: The Sartorialist

Ode to Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease;

For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river-sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

 

- John Keats