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Nun bakes! Film at 11.
Sep. 13th, 2020 01:26 pmLa Fashionista, her semi-cousin C, and I were supposed to have a girls' night in last night, but I was the only one who wasn't feeling horrible from the smoke. But C had planned a potluck at her place, so I had bought ingredients for a blueberry cobbler.
What to do? Bake the cobbler and eat some of it, of course. So far so mundane, you think, except for this: it may have been the first dessert I ever baked all by myself in my life. You see, I don't bake as a rule because, to quote my father, I'll just eat it.
But bake I did. Yes, there were minor screwups like frozen butter and baking soda instead of powder. But you know what? Cobbler is forgiving. It's hard to screw up too badly when butter, sugar, and blueberries are involved. Nom!
Bonus: I have dessert ready for the Wendling when he comes for dinner tomorrow night. He may like it better than the usual bowl-o'-berries, but he better not get used to it.
And speaking of smoke, my P100 respirator that, believe it or not, I didn't buy for Burning Man has let me carry on with riding my bike as ever. My 1980s windows and 1950s front door are keeping the smoke out of the Devil Girl Pad. My fourteen African violets are busy turning carbon dioxide from me into oxygen as I type; they continue to bloom more often than in previous years in what I can only assume is a show of appreciation. I think all sixteen of us — if you include my son — are going to be OK.
What to do? Bake the cobbler and eat some of it, of course. So far so mundane, you think, except for this: it may have been the first dessert I ever baked all by myself in my life. You see, I don't bake as a rule because, to quote my father, I'll just eat it.
But bake I did. Yes, there were minor screwups like frozen butter and baking soda instead of powder. But you know what? Cobbler is forgiving. It's hard to screw up too badly when butter, sugar, and blueberries are involved. Nom!
Bonus: I have dessert ready for the Wendling when he comes for dinner tomorrow night. He may like it better than the usual bowl-o'-berries, but he better not get used to it.
And speaking of smoke, my P100 respirator that, believe it or not, I didn't buy for Burning Man has let me carry on with riding my bike as ever. My 1980s windows and 1950s front door are keeping the smoke out of the Devil Girl Pad. My fourteen African violets are busy turning carbon dioxide from me into oxygen as I type; they continue to bloom more often than in previous years in what I can only assume is a show of appreciation. I think all sixteen of us — if you include my son — are going to be OK.
