When you make pasta, and just before you pass it through the pasta roller, it’s suggested that you take a small bit of the dough beforehand and “temper” the roller with it. This way, you clean out whatever dust may have accumulated on the roller between uses.
Of course, you’re left with a small round of unusable dough afterward. That’s not entirely true. You can make pasta hats for your cat.
The weather is warm, there’s not enough snow to either cross-country or downhill ski, everything is melting. What to do, what to do?
I know, let’s don sharp pointy things on our hands and feet and go climb crumbling waterfalls! It’s a plan!
To whoever voted under my name in the advanced polling. I greatly appreciate you taking the initiative while trying to let me off the hook. I mean, it’s not like I really wanted to put my constitutional right into practise. And, between you and me, let’s hope you voted the correct way.
But, um, could you have let me know before I headed off to the polling station? Because, that way, we could have avoided all this little problem at the voting booth, what with folks wondering what to do, looking for some form that I had to sign, what with me having to solemnly vow that I was who I said I was, etc. Just an fyi for next time, mmkay? Thanks, you’re a peach.
(Now, were I conspiracy-minded, I would associate my vote being taken away with the fact that I answered a telephone poll saying that I had absolutely zero intention of voting Conservative, but this thought would prevent me from sleeping at night.)
Oh yes, there is.
Bouchons aka Chocholate corks
Mix together eggs and sugar. Sift together 3/4 cup of flour with a whole cup of cocoa. Melt 350g butter. (You read it correctly. You’ll end up with about 1.5 cups of butter. Melted.) Alternate adding the flour mixture to the egg/sugar blend with the butter. You’ll end up with something that looks like mud.
Wait, we’re not done.
Chop up 6 oz bittersweet chocolate, and add this to the mixture. Pour into very small muffin moulds. I used a pastry bag for this step. I started freaking when the butter started oozing(?) out of the bag. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes. Top with icing sugar.
I dare you, nay, I double dirty dog dare you, to eat more than one.
Coming up to this week, I still didn’t know whether my contract was being extended and, after 18 months, I still hadn’t been offered permanent employee status. Fed up with the constant uncertainty, I decided that, screw it, I had had enough. Fuck ’em, I wasn’t going to continue in this vein.
So, Tuesday, during a meeting, where we were discussing what to do for the next several weeks, I interrupted the proceedings to tell them that Friday (today) was going to be my last day. No jobs in the pipeline or anything, I had just had enough. Well, needless to say, the fecal matter hit the ventilation system. How can you do this?, it’s not professional, yada yada. Whatever, is my reaction, I gave you four more days’ notice than I’ve ever been given.
There’s back and forth between the company where I work and the placement office, discussions with the person in charge here, some arm-twisting and bridge rebuilding, and finally (because I’m such milquetoast) I agree to stay on. I’m told that, for some weird reason that can’t be explained to me, I can’t be offered permanent status, for the time being. I accept because, hey, it’s better to have a job than not have one.
Come in yesterday, only to find that the company has been sold to some other company, with much deeper pockets.
So, to recap, I resign Tuesday, am convinced to stay on Wednesday, and having a celebratory meal downtown with the rest of the company on Thursday.
Lovely weather we’re having. Temperature fluctuations of over 20 degrees in only a matter of hours, enough rain to make me think of taking up boat-building one day, ultimate shrinkage the day before because I went out commando-style, etc.
Nice to know that the political parties are completely ignoring environmental issues. If I had kids, I’d be shitting myself thinking what their future will be like.
After a couple of failed attempts and misplaced emails, the lightspeedchick, the milliner and I made it to Hurley’s trivia night. The sordid affair is told here.
I had been told, by whom I believed to be a reliable source that the questions could be difficult, and initially they were. However, we gathered up steam when the topics turned to Hollywood gossip (there’s a perverse shame in knowing those answers), and proceeded to leave our opponents in the dust.
One thing I did learn, however: strangers in bars don’t particularly enjoy being trash-talked with comments such as “Suck on that, losers!”
Whatever, I’ll drink to them with my winnings. Heh.
If you’re representing a party that has a decidedly Christian-right slant and you’re trying to appeal to a wider audience, it’s probably best that you not look like elders from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Just a thought.
Case in point: Saturday morning, the bell rings. I answer. A couple that can best be described as a Hitler youth and the modern-day equivalent of Eva Braun are at the door: Hello, we’re from the Progressive Conservative party and we’d like to talk to yo..
Me: Yeah, I’m not interested.
HY: Well, this would only take a few minutes.
Eva Braun: Perhaps we can leave a pamphlet?
Me: No. Now go away.
I had an intense need to wash the scum off me after that. And to think they’re leading the polls. Sigh.
I was at the gym the other day, doing a few laps on the wall. I was talking to some friends, when suddenly we hear a guy screaming at his girlfriend, “Descends-moi! Christ, niaiseuse, descends-moi t’suite!”
“Whatever,” thinks I, “just another small-dicked macho gym climber treating his doormat girlfriend like shit.” They’re a dime a dozen, and can usually be found strutting around and struggling up moderate routes. They appear and disappear like dust bunnies. But no, we look over and notice that his left arm. Is dangling. Just dangling. Seems he popped his shoulder. Yeah, ouch.
He’s limping around, in obvious pain, clutching his arm, trying to lift it, etc. Seems he has experience with this. He pulls his arm up and, realising he’s going to pop in back in place, we turn away. Unfortunately, we still heard the loud “cra-pop!” Thanks for that.
Now, I’m not the one to suggest that folks with certain physical, um, conditions not engage in certain sports, but when you’re doing something that can put all your weight onto your weakest spot? Yeah, not a good idea.