Smokey the Magnificent

Yes, the Canadian is gone. I briefly considered running around the house in my knickers yelling, but it was cold. So I fell asleep feeding the snortlepig and wearing my jeans instead.

Helpdesk Man, as I predicted, is suffering from post-hospitality syndrome and is burrowed in bed with a headache. The pig is industriously emptying out the hardware drawer, I am blogging, and the Canadian is presumably on his merry way, minus a towel and the knowledge that the snortlepig at one point absconded with and sucked his toothbrush. (I cleaned it with boiling water, but it seemed the better part of valour not to risk harshing his mellow over such a bygone, wouldn’t you agree?)

So this week’s challenge is more or less to get back into the swing of things. I have determined, come hell or high water, to take the pig to Music and Movement class this week; I rashly invited a woman with small children from church to morning tea on Friday, which means cleaning the house; I need to put a second coat of paint on the sewing room; and tonight, I am going to Mother’s to belatedly celebrate my twenty-third birthday. Which means making a big honking pie. At least, it’s not an absolute requirement of entry, but ever since I figured out how to make edible pastry I’ve been seizing every opportunity to make a big honking pie or, alternatively, some tiny tartlets. Like these.

Aren’t they lurid? Less so in real life; it was a flash issue. The psychology of this new camera is beyond me. Anyway, I should mention in passing that a really good tartlet pan, from which the tartlets spring out joyously without sticking, is worth its weight in gold-pressed latinum. Helpdesk Man bought me mine last Christmas, and I haven’t dared ask what it’s coated with - probably cancer culled from tribbles - but gosh, it is super. Gives me a frisson of joy every time a tart shell slides happily out. Who needs hard drugs, eh?

Anyway, so: anyone know any big honking pie recipes? Not pumpkin, we had it last night. And nothing that needs eight hours to set, because it’s already midday.

You know what would be a pretty oose job in its own way? Running a recycley crafting centre. Like an op shop, but for fabrics and notions and raw materials. People could donate and swap, and maybe one could charge them a little for charity or something, and people could put up “Wanted: 600 Empty Coke Bottles to Make a Faux Hamster for My Dining Area” notices, or organise drives to crochet boleros for orphaned infant weasels. I know such stores exist, more or less, in Other Climes, but I’ve never seen one here.

Hokay, question. Suppose you were popped into solitary for two years for being a redhead or whatever. Would you rather live in utter silence, no singing to yourself or anthropomorphising and subsequently befriending your bucket; or have Elvis songs played 18 hours a day for the duration?