Five Fridays make a thing
Jun. 20th, 2014 12:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceIt may only have been yesterday that I was reading about how true passionate bakers will get out of bed at ridiculous hours of the morning to achieve the perfect loaf at the perfect time, and it is possible that I may have thought "Alas for me, that I am not truly passionate! I am a fraudulent baker! I do not do that!"
...And then it was midnight last night and I was getting out of bed because I had forgotten to feed my sourdough starter, and just maybe I thought, "Oh, wait a minute. Maybe I do..."
And now I come to think about it, I think there was at least once that I got up at four o'clock in the morning to take a dough out of the fridge, so it'd be at room temp when I was ready to work with it. But I don't do it regularly, 'k?
*is still a dilettante*
In other news, as I was walking into town this morning I was musing on dogs and barking, no doubt for reasons, and wondering if there is regional or national variation, accents even, and if an American Lab would sound different to a British Lab's ear - his floppy ear, I thought, cheerfully - and then I realised what should have been obvious for years, that my inner monologue has become the voice of my journal, or possibly vice versa. I always have walked around playing with the wording of my thoughts, reshaping them for finer euphony, for clarity, for rhythm and for charm, of course I have, doesn't everyone? - but now apparently I cast that in the guise of talking to you people, telling LJ about my inner life, even though I write up very little. I suspect this comes under the same heading as "I'm not talking to myself, I'm talking to my cat..."
Last night a bunch of us went to see Marry Me A Little in Mountain View, which is one of those Sondheims I'd only ever known from the cast recording, and that barely: it's a wossname, a patchwork, a stitch-up (I know we have a word for this!) of songs cut from other shows or else utterly reworked - very odd, hearing half the lyrics from "Being Alive" in a different shape, a different mood, a very different song - and it works like a charm.
And then we sat outside a tapas bar and ate tapas and drank sangria and the only thing missing was m'wife, who didn't come. But the same company is doing Sweeney Todd in the fall, and the same company of us has pledged to go, and I will inveigle Karen if I can.
Meanwhile, I have an irritation in my throat which makes me coffy. Sometimes. Sometimes I coff at night, and worry that I'll disturb Karen; last night I coffed in the theatre, and worried that I would disturb the audience; just now I was coffing here in the library, and worried that I would disturb other users. It's irritating, to me and (I worry) to others; this must be why it's called an irritation. It goes away, though, after not very long at all mostly. Which is also kind of irritating, because even when I'm coffing I can't really work out if I'm sick or not, I'm just coffing; and when it goes away I have to conclude that I'm really not sick at all, because look, no symptoms; and then I coff again. Snarl. So I never get to lie wanly on the sofa with cats and petition for soup, which is the sole benefit of being poorly. Which apparently I'm not.
...And then it was midnight last night and I was getting out of bed because I had forgotten to feed my sourdough starter, and just maybe I thought, "Oh, wait a minute. Maybe I do..."
And now I come to think about it, I think there was at least once that I got up at four o'clock in the morning to take a dough out of the fridge, so it'd be at room temp when I was ready to work with it. But I don't do it regularly, 'k?
*is still a dilettante*
In other news, as I was walking into town this morning I was musing on dogs and barking, no doubt for reasons, and wondering if there is regional or national variation, accents even, and if an American Lab would sound different to a British Lab's ear - his floppy ear, I thought, cheerfully - and then I realised what should have been obvious for years, that my inner monologue has become the voice of my journal, or possibly vice versa. I always have walked around playing with the wording of my thoughts, reshaping them for finer euphony, for clarity, for rhythm and for charm, of course I have, doesn't everyone? - but now apparently I cast that in the guise of talking to you people, telling LJ about my inner life, even though I write up very little. I suspect this comes under the same heading as "I'm not talking to myself, I'm talking to my cat..."
Last night a bunch of us went to see Marry Me A Little in Mountain View, which is one of those Sondheims I'd only ever known from the cast recording, and that barely: it's a wossname, a patchwork, a stitch-up (I know we have a word for this!) of songs cut from other shows or else utterly reworked - very odd, hearing half the lyrics from "Being Alive" in a different shape, a different mood, a very different song - and it works like a charm.
And then we sat outside a tapas bar and ate tapas and drank sangria and the only thing missing was m'wife, who didn't come. But the same company is doing Sweeney Todd in the fall, and the same company of us has pledged to go, and I will inveigle Karen if I can.
Meanwhile, I have an irritation in my throat which makes me coffy. Sometimes. Sometimes I coff at night, and worry that I'll disturb Karen; last night I coffed in the theatre, and worried that I would disturb the audience; just now I was coffing here in the library, and worried that I would disturb other users. It's irritating, to me and (I worry) to others; this must be why it's called an irritation. It goes away, though, after not very long at all mostly. Which is also kind of irritating, because even when I'm coffing I can't really work out if I'm sick or not, I'm just coffing; and when it goes away I have to conclude that I'm really not sick at all, because look, no symptoms; and then I coff again. Snarl. So I never get to lie wanly on the sofa with cats and petition for soup, which is the sole benefit of being poorly. Which apparently I'm not.