A post comprises little things
Dec. 16th, 2009 06:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceHere's an uncertainty: I have less than a hundred pages to read through, or I have fewer than a hundred pages to read through. Either way, depending. Is it less than a [hundred pages], the single unit of a century, or is it fewer than [a hundred] pages, the actual count? Certainly it's fewer than two hundred and twenty that I still have to work through the computer. Urgh. And less than a week to go.
It seems I can only bake perfect bread when nobody else has to eat it. I tried to adapt the sourdough process on Sunday, to have it fresh for a lunch date: left it in the fridge overnight, got up at six (!) to give it a swift final knead and set it to prove in the airing-cupboard. At nine, it was still chilly; dough is apparently a very poor conductor. Who knew? I baked it as late as I could get away with and it looked okay, but it turned out very cakey and not particularly nice.
Still working on the process, this morning I shifted the dough from fridge to airing-cupboard at 4am (not sleeping, see: last night I couldn't sleep, today I couldn't breathe. I wait agog for the next symptom) and kneaded it at ten, left it proving while I went into town. Baked it at 3.30, and it is heaven on legs. Without the legs, obviously.
(Which reminds me, I have been reading Alan Bennett's diaries, and he proposed a competition for the best men's legs in art. Tragically I cannot now remember his own recommendations...)
I must work more. I only have till Wednesday next. (Which remind me also, I heard reviews last night of the Chicago run of the new musical of the Addams Family. Not flattering reviews, but, y'know. Addams Family, and Nathan Lane: I'd go.) I keep getting flakey, cutting myself a little more slack. Also, people keep wanting to see me. What is this sudden popularity, damn it? I've been here all year, y'know...?
I just discovered a literal hanging participle. Fat general, hanging out of window:
Leaning out like this, perilous above the fall of it, the sound of hammering...
No, dear. The sound was not leaning out, tho' it might be perilous in and of itself.
*fixes*
It seems I can only bake perfect bread when nobody else has to eat it. I tried to adapt the sourdough process on Sunday, to have it fresh for a lunch date: left it in the fridge overnight, got up at six (!) to give it a swift final knead and set it to prove in the airing-cupboard. At nine, it was still chilly; dough is apparently a very poor conductor. Who knew? I baked it as late as I could get away with and it looked okay, but it turned out very cakey and not particularly nice.
Still working on the process, this morning I shifted the dough from fridge to airing-cupboard at 4am (not sleeping, see: last night I couldn't sleep, today I couldn't breathe. I wait agog for the next symptom) and kneaded it at ten, left it proving while I went into town. Baked it at 3.30, and it is heaven on legs. Without the legs, obviously.
(Which reminds me, I have been reading Alan Bennett's diaries, and he proposed a competition for the best men's legs in art. Tragically I cannot now remember his own recommendations...)
I must work more. I only have till Wednesday next. (Which remind me also, I heard reviews last night of the Chicago run of the new musical of the Addams Family. Not flattering reviews, but, y'know. Addams Family, and Nathan Lane: I'd go.) I keep getting flakey, cutting myself a little more slack. Also, people keep wanting to see me. What is this sudden popularity, damn it? I've been here all year, y'know...?
I just discovered a literal hanging participle. Fat general, hanging out of window:
Leaning out like this, perilous above the fall of it, the sound of hammering...
No, dear. The sound was not leaning out, tho' it might be perilous in and of itself.
*fixes*