When no one's looking...

I think it's quite cute, really, the way I talk to myself when I'm cooking. (Only if the cats aren't there, o'course; if they are, I'm talking to the cats.)

I transcribe, near as I can remember:

"A tablespoon of oil ... I'll use ghee. One flippyscoop, that should be a tablespoon ... How much is a flippyscoop? I'll show you ... See? That's a flippyscoop. Just not quite enough to fall on the floor as I carry it across the ... whoops!"

And so on. In an audible undertone. Ad nauseam, unless you're cats, or absent.

As it happens, I'm making beef vindaloo. With variations.

"Four dried chillies? Four? That's ridiculous. I'll use - oh, that many," uptipping the entire container, "that'll be fine..."

Then I ground all the spices together; then I sniffed the mixture.

Whoo. Never had a sniff of dry mixture make my eyes water before. I'll let you know...

Time, and/or Chaz

My watch died this morning.

I'm fairly sure it's just the battery that's dead, actually, and it will rise again - probably on the third day, which is my average for remembering to take something into town and then remembering to do it while I'm there (there's a cheque I've been carrying around for a week, because I keep forgetting the go-to-the-bank part).

What's funny is how far I've slipped, how quickly. Take the time off my wrist, and I instantly revert to a different bodyclock. Apparently. I didn't eat lunch till three o'clock, and I've barely started cooking dinner, which is going to need a long slow couple of hours' simmering before I can think about eating. And at the moment, I'm entirely comfortable with this.

Maybe I should turn the alarm off, and see what time I wake up naturally tomorrow?

Meanwhile, back to work. I rarely work this late either, but I've barely started my evening session. Luckily, I have lots of wine...