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inciting the scroob to culinary decadence
Monday, 3 July 2006 05:57 pm'Tis the season for random recipes. Ye gods, 'tis July. I cannot condone this helter-skelter promiscuity of the months, just lately, even if my Star Wars calender has just flipped over from June's images of Anakin Skywalker being petulant (new trilogy, ptooey) into the far more acceptable July collage of Luke and Han. But, since Scroob asked, and because I bear her no malice for her unaccountable alien marzipan fondness, there shall be culinary distraction from the wanton passing of time. ( Chocolate Pear Tart recipe lurks decadently within. )
Jo&stv came round last night and wantonly cooked a large Thai meal in our kitchen, a process auxilliary to the main point of the evening, which was getting our Friendly Psychologist drunk. (She's stressed about the immanent arrival from overseas of the other half of an internet relationship). Much fun was had, except that I seem to be labouring under some kind of weird virus which means I became heavily nauseous, with extreme room-spinnage, on two G&Ts. (This is absurd. I can hold my gin, usually in a large bottle cradled protectively to my chest.) I'm still feeling faintly ick, tired and achey today, which is annoying since this evening sees Part 2 of the FP Distraction Program, which is more gin, and Indian take-out, at her place. I may be a small, pale, quiet presence in a corner.
Despite quasi-viroid ickness, I did this day finally and utterly kill not only the 2500 words on Disney (with a stake through its heart, at a crossroad, with a rude inscription about consumerist manipulation on its headstone) but an additional 250+ on John Crowley (this one buried beneath a gallows in an alternate universe, with a small, enigmatic hieroglyph). How the hell my Nice Editor Man expects me to be definitive on Crowley in 250 words is utterly beyond me. Crowley's writing is dense, weird, literary, intellectual and rife with reference to folklore, mythology, fable and gods know what else. I'm still reeling from Aegypt and that was months ago, not to mention the complete quasi-Victorian folkloric rehash that is Little, Big. 250 words, tchah, I say! He got 317, and cheap at the price.
(Actually, the Nice Editor has just mailed me back to thank me for the entries, with a sweet little punning riff on the fact that they're "outstanding" - indeed, he says, outstanding in quality, not lateness. I preen.)
Jo&stv came round last night and wantonly cooked a large Thai meal in our kitchen, a process auxilliary to the main point of the evening, which was getting our Friendly Psychologist drunk. (She's stressed about the immanent arrival from overseas of the other half of an internet relationship). Much fun was had, except that I seem to be labouring under some kind of weird virus which means I became heavily nauseous, with extreme room-spinnage, on two G&Ts. (This is absurd. I can hold my gin, usually in a large bottle cradled protectively to my chest.) I'm still feeling faintly ick, tired and achey today, which is annoying since this evening sees Part 2 of the FP Distraction Program, which is more gin, and Indian take-out, at her place. I may be a small, pale, quiet presence in a corner.
Despite quasi-viroid ickness, I did this day finally and utterly kill not only the 2500 words on Disney (with a stake through its heart, at a crossroad, with a rude inscription about consumerist manipulation on its headstone) but an additional 250+ on John Crowley (this one buried beneath a gallows in an alternate universe, with a small, enigmatic hieroglyph). How the hell my Nice Editor Man expects me to be definitive on Crowley in 250 words is utterly beyond me. Crowley's writing is dense, weird, literary, intellectual and rife with reference to folklore, mythology, fable and gods know what else. I'm still reeling from Aegypt and that was months ago, not to mention the complete quasi-Victorian folkloric rehash that is Little, Big. 250 words, tchah, I say! He got 317, and cheap at the price.
(Actually, the Nice Editor has just mailed me back to thank me for the entries, with a sweet little punning riff on the fact that they're "outstanding" - indeed, he says, outstanding in quality, not lateness. I preen.)
