(Recipe shamelessy adapted from another blogger’s recipe, can’t remember the name, but she was linked through David Lebovitz)
The original recipe called for strawberries. For some reason, I couldn’t find any last week (which is weird, because they’re all over the place this week, and taste frikkin’ awesome!), but raspberries were on sale. So, I thought, wait, I like raspberry Mort Subite, which is a soured beer, so why not?
This is (almost!) a guilt-free ice cream. Well, it is in my book, anyhow. My book of guilt-free pleasures. The taste comes close to tasting like frozen yogurt, but doesn’t have that sharp bite to it. Very simple to make, no making of custards, no egg yolks—a shame, really—no scraping of vanilla beans, etc. Let fruit macerate in sugar, mix in the creams, and voilà.
- 1 lb raspberries, rinsed
- 3/4 cup sugar
- 1 cup sour cream
- 1 cup 35% cream
- 1/4 tsp salt
- Juice squeezed from 1/4 of a lime
Place the raspberries and sugar in a bowl. Stir until the sugar is incorporated. Cover with plastic wrap and let sit at room temperature, stirring occasionally.
After an hour, pour the raspberries, creams, salt, and lime juice into a mixer. Whip at high speed. (The original recipes calls for a food processor so, if you have that, go for it.)
Chill the mixture for a few hours, or over night, and then transfer to your handy dandy ice cream maker. Chill for a couple hours or, again, overnight.
To serve, let it thaw at room temperature for about 5 minutes. And, for the love of all that is good and holy, do not use hot water to dip your scoop in. You have been warned.
At home last night, the door phone rang. I stumbled over to it, expecting the milliner to be on the other end, ringing me to let her in. Instead, it’s some woman, wanting to be let in so that I can sign a petition, agreeing to let some film company block our street next week. It’s all getting a bit complicated listening to this over the intercom, so I tell her to wait two seconds and that I’ll simply come down to meet her. Down the stairs I go, followed by Daisy.
Down at the entrance, the woman is there; ready to go into her spiel. She hands me an info sheet, I’m scanning it quickly, when, oh glory of all glories, I see what they want to film. Dead Like Me.
I do believe I wet myself then.
Squee! One of my favourite shows evah! So, this woman and I get to talking, I’m acting all fan-crazy about them filming on my street, how it was such a great show, how Jasmine Guy could put handcuffs on me any day, etc., when I suddenly remember: hey! Our dog! She’s named after one of the characters from the show!
Well, then, when she finds out, this woman tells me that I just have to bring Daisy around the set. So, sweetness! I might actually get to meet George and the rest of them. Funny though, I don’t know how Laura Harris would react to meeting Daisy Adair in canine form.
Update: Sigh, I guess not enough folks agreed to have the filming on our street, as it (the street) was strangely bare yesterday. The dog didn’t seem overly concerned, but seemed curious as to why I was weeping uncontrollably for hours.
Wow, nothing like a car-versus-bike accident to increase site visits. Write about it, include some pics, get far-more popular blogs to link about it, and voilà! Thanks all. You like me, you really like me. Unfortunately, I’m running out of intact body parts, so I might have to put a kibosh on all this getting-injured business.
I’m all better now, btw.
Oh, and also post an entry about Alyson Hannigan and How I Met Your Mother. It seems most visitors are interested by this.
Or, more to the point, busted up.
Note #1: Long post coming up, as accident reports usually are.
Note #2: Wrote this while waiting in the ER, six hours after getting there.
Tuesday, mid-afternoon, General Hospital ER:
I’ve been injury-free for the past few years, thankfully, but of course it couldn’t last.
I was riding my bike to work this morning, making good time, enjoying the ride, when every cyclist’s nightmare occurs: just as I’m riding past a parked City of Montreal truck, the driver’s side door opens. I have just enough time to swerve, thereby not ending up flying throught the door window. What I failed to do, however, was to completely avoid the door, so that the side of truck door clipped my handlebars, with the expected results.
“Shit, this is gonna hurt,” went through my mind, as I was heading face- and shoulders-first toward the pavement. (Clipless pedals, I love ’em so much that I want to have their babies, but they don’t always release.) As I’m sliding on the pavement, all the loose pebbles embedding themselves into my calf, I barely have time to realise that it isn’t too bad.
What I didn’t have the time for, unfortunately, was to see, and get out of the way of, the car driving behind me. And she, the driver, didn’t have the time to get out of the way either. Everything happened so fast then, as I saw/felt the front wheel of the car drive over my back tire (ouch!) and the process repeat itself as her back wheel followed suit.
Did I mention that I was still pinned under the bike? I remember watching the car bounce, I remember trying to pull myself out of the way. I might have whiplashed into the side of the car, which might explain why the left side of my body is incredibly sore today, but I don’t know for sure. Time kind of slowed down then. I saw the car come to a stop further ahead, I’m lying in the middle of the road, pinned under the bike. I’m trying to move, but my body doesn’t seem to respond.
There’s no real pain anywhere, but my left arm is still stuck behind me. “How ruined is my bike anyhow” I’m thinking, “when it’s both over my right leg and behind me?” Silly me, the bike isn’t on my leg any more, it’s just that my leg is the part that absorbed most of the trauma, and nerves are giong wild-simply-wild over me. I perform a quick, subconscious scan of my body (I’ve gotten use to doing that), but nothing is really screaming. However, something tells me that I won’t be standing up and riding away from this. So, instead, I lie there, hoping no other cars come along and drive over me again.
Someone comes up, I think the city worker, to ask if I’m okay. “911” is pretty much all I can squeak (they’ve already been called), and go back to trying to get out from under the bike. More folks approach, hands to their mouths, making me wonder just how badly screwed up I am. I’m not screaming, I’m not talking, I’m just waiting for something worse to happen, for the bones to start complaining that they don’t appreciate being broken thankyouverymuch.
Another cyclist stops by, and tells me that she’s a first responder. Well, that’s a bit of a relief, someone to take charge. The city worker, perhaps according to protocol, is back by the truck. I’m guessing, because I haven’t seen him any more. So, the first responder checks me over, and it’s pretty much what I suspected: my right leg is fucked, but that’s about it.
Things get weird just about now. This crazy lady comes along, skirt flapping high in the wind, proclaims to ask and sundry that she’s a doctor, has been for 27 years, and is here to save the day. Feels me up, gives my breasts an extra-special squeeze, undoes my belt, checks my alertness level and that’s about it. But, like I said, there’s a weirdness going on, and I’m looking forward to the ambulance guys coming along and getting me out of there. Which they thankfully do. Come along, that is.
So off goes crazy doctor lady, but not before bending over me, skirt still flying wildly all over, and kisses me! Both cheeks! BAD TOUCH! OOOO, bad touch! Who does that?!?
I’m still worried about my bike, which is still lying in the road behind me, but the nice (and sane!) cyclist/first responder volunteers to take care of it for me. I hand her my U-lock (it was in my pack, which is under me), and she goes off and locks it to a parking meter. Thank dog for folks like her. The bike? Were it a horse, I’d have to shoot it.
The ambulance folks asks me if I can get up onto the stretcher by myself, but no go, so I get a boost. I see some cops talking to the driver, who seems to be in a state of shock, and other cops are talking to the city worker, who’s staying near his truck. Get loaded into the ambulance, where the paramedics make an educated guess that all these cuts on my leg—including the one on the ankle that goes all the way to the bone—were most likely caused by the bike chain.
Naturally, being the olde thyme blogger that I am, I whipped out my camera and took a picture. A cop is in the ambulance with me, taking an incident report. I’m worried that I’ll have to buy a new bike, which? I really don’t have the coin for. (Hey, if I sound obsessed about my bike, it’s because I’ve had it for about 15 years, I worked on it a lot, it’s my primary mode of transportation, and I rode it a lot post-op.)
Grab my cell-phone, which finally serves its purpose, call the milliner, tell her what happened, and that I’m heading to hospital. You know that you’re injury-prone when your beloved’s response to such news is, “Same hospital as always? I’m on my way.”
So! Spent the day in ER, the triage nurse simply wrote “cut on right foot” on my record, so response was slow. Got x-ray’ed 3 hours into my visit, and stitched up last night. Nothing broken, just a bunch of stitches on my leg, my left side is killing me, but hey!, besides that, I’m unscathed.
I was thinking of getting a fixed gear, velodrome bike next. And yes, I’m keeping the clipless pedals. What could possibly go wrong?
I’ve noticed something rather disturbing lately when using Google services. Now, I’ve been using gmail since way back when, something like 2002 or so, and can’t imagine migrating to yet another free email service. But this?
This is just creepy.
Notice how the address field is all in red? Notice how there’s a slash across the padlock, pretty much indicating that my email is open, no longer secure. Unfortunately, it doesn’t only occur with my email account, but with my Reader as well:
What’s going on here? Is someone pissed off that I have Crooks and Liars in my RSS feed? Is it because, like a sheep (mmmm, lamb. With rosemary. And garlic. I digress), I signed up to Facebook, pretty much giving away my liberties to its evil, right-wing conservative overlords? Or is it because I ran away, screaming and frustrated, from Blogger once Google took it over, rode it hard and put it away wet?
I’d hate to think that this is a sign of things to come.