Sunday morning, staying in
Nov. 29th, 2009 12:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceGod, but it's grim up north. Out there. Grey and vicious from one horizon to the next, not just raining but hurling rain against the windows, hard enough to splash; and given that those windows all face north, that betokens ice in the wind.
I don't wanna go out in that. Haven't, yet. Have to later. *huddles*
One unexpected - and unexpectedly abiding - benefit of jetlag: it has reset my body-clock, such that I have rediscovered the art of lying in. Not to teenage levels; certainly not to my young-man nocturnal attitudes, when I used to go to bed at dawn and rise at three pm; but still. At nine-thirty I was cozy in bed and listening to the rain and just rolled over, never a thought of getting up. Yay.
Now I am here, and Barry loves me for I have turned on the gas fire in the office. He doesn't deserve it, for one or other of the cats broke into the fridge overnight and ate all my ham and it might well have been him if it wasn't the other one (I do not believe their stories of a big cat who came and did it and then ran away), but nevertheless. There is fire, and hot cat.
Yesterday I made a sourdough ciabatta, which turned out pretty well all things considered; though it might've ruined the apocalypse cake, if dense fruit cake weren't quite so forgiving. My cooker has two ovens, one above the other; I bake in the lower, larger one. I left the cake in its tin & paper in the upper one to cool overnight - and then forgot about it, and ran the lower one at top heat for ninety minutes or so to bake the bread, so that it must've got all hot again up above. The top is perhaps crispier than it was, but I don't think it's taken any harm else. I have drenched it in brandy and wrapped it in foil and put it away in the cool, and promised it many more drenchings before the apocalypse. I have no idea how much brandy a cake can actually absorb, but the poor thing deserves the chance to learn.
What Bryan Said: "Y'know, it's actually quite hard to draw a badger in a bowler and make it look serious."
I don't wanna go out in that. Haven't, yet. Have to later. *huddles*
One unexpected - and unexpectedly abiding - benefit of jetlag: it has reset my body-clock, such that I have rediscovered the art of lying in. Not to teenage levels; certainly not to my young-man nocturnal attitudes, when I used to go to bed at dawn and rise at three pm; but still. At nine-thirty I was cozy in bed and listening to the rain and just rolled over, never a thought of getting up. Yay.
Now I am here, and Barry loves me for I have turned on the gas fire in the office. He doesn't deserve it, for one or other of the cats broke into the fridge overnight and ate all my ham and it might well have been him if it wasn't the other one (I do not believe their stories of a big cat who came and did it and then ran away), but nevertheless. There is fire, and hot cat.
Yesterday I made a sourdough ciabatta, which turned out pretty well all things considered; though it might've ruined the apocalypse cake, if dense fruit cake weren't quite so forgiving. My cooker has two ovens, one above the other; I bake in the lower, larger one. I left the cake in its tin & paper in the upper one to cool overnight - and then forgot about it, and ran the lower one at top heat for ninety minutes or so to bake the bread, so that it must've got all hot again up above. The top is perhaps crispier than it was, but I don't think it's taken any harm else. I have drenched it in brandy and wrapped it in foil and put it away in the cool, and promised it many more drenchings before the apocalypse. I have no idea how much brandy a cake can actually absorb, but the poor thing deserves the chance to learn.
What Bryan Said: "Y'know, it's actually quite hard to draw a badger in a bowler and make it look serious."