I have had a perfect whopper of a week. Happy, grumpy, exhausted, and above all, blond. Very very blond. I have just finished working for the uni. today. And I have been alternatively exhausted and hyper. At work and home. By the way guys. You haven't heard form me? Sorry!
I am a natural blond, and I'm usually fairly bubbly and cheerful to go with it. unfortunately, I can also be as ditsy as they come when I have occasion to be. a couple of nights ago was a case in point.
I realise that the flat has run out of bread. Now, I love baking. Bread, cakes, you name it. I just really enjoy it. However, unless I really concentrate, I make silly mistake, and end up with more of the recipe on me than where ever the recipe was meant to go. I have inherited an ABC of cookery from my father, and I think he got it from his mother. So it is an old and wonderful book. full of knowledge that was accepted wisdom back then. (early fifties if I remember rightly) Like: Chop carrots, and other veg, put in the pan and boil for fifteen minutes or until soft. The thought makes me cringe. Because, talking to my grandmother, soft meant mush. Personally, I LIKE a bit of crunch in my veg. But each to their own. Whatever floats your boat, as my uncle would say always wistfully, looking at the miles of land that surrounds his house without a trace of water in sight.
Anyway. So, the bread recipe in the book needs three and a half pounds of flour. Three and a half. Well, I have maybe two thirds of that. So I weigh out one and three quarters of a pound of flour and then get distracted. By what, I don't know. Maybe it was my friend I bake with telling my flatmates how I have just managed to disconnect my mouth from my brain brake when she told me she was finding grey hairs and how she was pulling them out. I turned around and said: Don't do that! you'll go bald. Meaning, of course, if you keep doing that you'll go bald. Anyway. Distraction happened (as it did just now actually. Tea is a wonderful thing. Especially when a lack of caffeine doesn't keep me up at night.) and I forgot to half the rest of the ingredients. So I turn around again, and half everything. INCLUDING the flour and put it in a separate pot, and all over my skirt. Not to mention that I forgot I only had a salt grinder, not table salt. and in grinding it managed to unscrew the top and spill it everywhere. So, weighing it out I realise what has happened and then correct it, kneed the dough, and put it in the grill to prove, as I don't have an airing cupboard.
However much time it was later, I take the bowl out of the grill and think hmm odd. this is flexible. And then promptly think nothing off it until a flatmate gasps and says, "but! that's a plastic bowl Hanna! What are you doing!" Cue recognition dawning in my eyes and a feeling of oops creeping up my back.
This is a feeling I am well used to. I was so blond that night that I ended up not cooking dinner. most everyone else did it for me. Especially after the sausages nearly caught the oven on fire...
On reflection, being blond is usually fairly harmless. occasionally something lethal happens, but something lethal happens randomly anyway to a whole host of people. But usually it is a cause for mild ribbing and laughter on the part of those observing said blond. Laughter and occasional winces. In my opinion, both as a blond and an observer of blond, I hope the breed never dies out.
I am a natural blond, and I'm usually fairly bubbly and cheerful to go with it. unfortunately, I can also be as ditsy as they come when I have occasion to be. a couple of nights ago was a case in point.
I realise that the flat has run out of bread. Now, I love baking. Bread, cakes, you name it. I just really enjoy it. However, unless I really concentrate, I make silly mistake, and end up with more of the recipe on me than where ever the recipe was meant to go. I have inherited an ABC of cookery from my father, and I think he got it from his mother. So it is an old and wonderful book. full of knowledge that was accepted wisdom back then. (early fifties if I remember rightly) Like: Chop carrots, and other veg, put in the pan and boil for fifteen minutes or until soft. The thought makes me cringe. Because, talking to my grandmother, soft meant mush. Personally, I LIKE a bit of crunch in my veg. But each to their own. Whatever floats your boat, as my uncle would say always wistfully, looking at the miles of land that surrounds his house without a trace of water in sight.
Anyway. So, the bread recipe in the book needs three and a half pounds of flour. Three and a half. Well, I have maybe two thirds of that. So I weigh out one and three quarters of a pound of flour and then get distracted. By what, I don't know. Maybe it was my friend I bake with telling my flatmates how I have just managed to disconnect my mouth from my brain brake when she told me she was finding grey hairs and how she was pulling them out. I turned around and said: Don't do that! you'll go bald. Meaning, of course, if you keep doing that you'll go bald. Anyway. Distraction happened (as it did just now actually. Tea is a wonderful thing. Especially when a lack of caffeine doesn't keep me up at night.) and I forgot to half the rest of the ingredients. So I turn around again, and half everything. INCLUDING the flour and put it in a separate pot, and all over my skirt. Not to mention that I forgot I only had a salt grinder, not table salt. and in grinding it managed to unscrew the top and spill it everywhere. So, weighing it out I realise what has happened and then correct it, kneed the dough, and put it in the grill to prove, as I don't have an airing cupboard.
However much time it was later, I take the bowl out of the grill and think hmm odd. this is flexible. And then promptly think nothing off it until a flatmate gasps and says, "but! that's a plastic bowl Hanna! What are you doing!" Cue recognition dawning in my eyes and a feeling of oops creeping up my back.
This is a feeling I am well used to. I was so blond that night that I ended up not cooking dinner. most everyone else did it for me. Especially after the sausages nearly caught the oven on fire...
On reflection, being blond is usually fairly harmless. occasionally something lethal happens, but something lethal happens randomly anyway to a whole host of people. But usually it is a cause for mild ribbing and laughter on the part of those observing said blond. Laughter and occasional winces. In my opinion, both as a blond and an observer of blond, I hope the breed never dies out.
2 comments:
Even if blondes eventually die out, I've a feeling their spirit will live on.
The world wouldn't be the same without them. It'd find a way to mkae a replacement.
but surely your's would be a cyber replacement. You need to employ a biologist! not me though. I'd be extinct.
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