Small fussing boy is fussing
Aug. 11th, 2009 03:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceThis sossidge casserole should probably be famuss.
Actually, I think perhaps it already is famuss, world-famuss, at least in this house (which to certain furry persons is all the world that matters, obviously). Since I came in, Barry has been most unaccustomedly all over me: licking and purring and kneading and generally making an infernal nuisance of himself in the cutest ways imaginable. He does not usually do this. The other unusual thing today is that the whole house is redolent of sossidge. You do the math. I'll wait...
Much of the day, I seem to have spent wishing that I was a cook instead of a writer. Sometimes, it really is all I want to do. But not a restaurant cook at all, obviously, all that pressure and hierarchies and shit, and doing the same thing over and over, oh no. Some kind of extremely private cook, who doesn't have to deal with the world at all; I probably want my friends to pay me to cook for them, or something. Really I want to be a cook in the same way that I am a writer, in this isolated little bubble I inhabit. Hmm: 'tis not exactly a viable proposition, methinks. I shall decline, and remain Galadriel, and go into the West.
But oh, this is a good casserole already, and it can only get better. I added the rind of a boiled ham, for extra unctuousness; and the roots are yet to go in, to absorb all that unctuosity; and tomorrow I think perhaps I shall add some kind of cabbage, because that's always good with sossidge and with chilli and with roots. And beans. And unct. Good with everything, cabbage is.
Actually, I think perhaps it already is famuss, world-famuss, at least in this house (which to certain furry persons is all the world that matters, obviously). Since I came in, Barry has been most unaccustomedly all over me: licking and purring and kneading and generally making an infernal nuisance of himself in the cutest ways imaginable. He does not usually do this. The other unusual thing today is that the whole house is redolent of sossidge. You do the math. I'll wait...
Much of the day, I seem to have spent wishing that I was a cook instead of a writer. Sometimes, it really is all I want to do. But not a restaurant cook at all, obviously, all that pressure and hierarchies and shit, and doing the same thing over and over, oh no. Some kind of extremely private cook, who doesn't have to deal with the world at all; I probably want my friends to pay me to cook for them, or something. Really I want to be a cook in the same way that I am a writer, in this isolated little bubble I inhabit. Hmm: 'tis not exactly a viable proposition, methinks. I shall decline, and remain Galadriel, and go into the West.
But oh, this is a good casserole already, and it can only get better. I added the rind of a boiled ham, for extra unctuousness; and the roots are yet to go in, to absorb all that unctuosity; and tomorrow I think perhaps I shall add some kind of cabbage, because that's always good with sossidge and with chilli and with roots. And beans. And unct. Good with everything, cabbage is.