On Baking, Bread, and The Precious

I've been baking.

On its own, that statement is not a cause for concern. Or rather, not much concern.

I've been baking since I was very little, at first helping my mom out, and then making a total mess out of the kitchen All By Myself. A few years ago, however, I started baking in earnest. This is right around the same time I started knitting again as well as sewing. In all honesty, I think I probably picked up handicrafts again as a tribute to my grandmother who passed away last year and also as a form of procrastination. Regardless, I do a little of everything but baking is one of my new loves.

I have slowly been acquiring gizmos and whatsits over the course of a few years and I have an interesting collection now...I think. Some Williams-Sonoma cookie cutters - the Marvel superheroes faces and the Star Wars vehicles - some pretty nifty food colors, all sorts of muffin tins, a cookie-scoop, and The Precious.

What is The Precious, you ask? Why my good fellow:

Me and The Precious at my birthday last year.

The Precious is the 6 quart capacity, bright red,  KitchenAid Stand Mixer I received for my birthday last year. This year one of my goals is to add the tengwar found on the One Ring to it in order to more properly connote its name, but until I do, that's just what I call it.

C'mon, you knew exactly what I was referring to when I said the tengwar. ...^^it's this.

So of course, upon receiving The Precious the first thing I did was baptize it in mocha and chocolate.

I'm not going to lie, having a stand mixer is a marvelous step up from using a hand mixer and my own brute strength. Paramount among the awesomeness is the ability to leave the mixer running while I melt/whip/add things. It just smooths everything out. ...I love my mixer, okay?

The problem with the Precious is it doesn't really help me with bread. I've decided that baking a decent loaf of bread is right up there with making a passable Apple Pie on "Things I Want to Do" but it's been...difficult. To that end I picked up a copy of 100 Great Breads from the Barnes and Nobles at school when I went to the bookstore to buy socks...long story...

Unfortunately, the man is a master baker and I just started making bread without the Bread Machine so mine came out all lumpy and weird. :| Going to try soda bread until I can make passable loaves.

Anyhoo. Because I made A Commitment to this blog and its general upkeep, I've decided to go ahead and start keeping better track of the things I bake. I won't make any promises as to the state of the pictures I'll take (synching my phone for pictures is enough of a hassle) but I will be doing more upkeep. And as soon as I figure out how, there will be a nifty "Baking" tab at the top of the blog where these posts will be housed.

But for tiding over, here are some pictures of stuff I've baked lately.

(Left to Right) Apple Pie, Vanilla cupcakes w/ chocolate comic book sayings, Kahlua cookie bowl with ice-cream, mocha cupcakes, apple cinnamon muffins, Star Wars cookies and blue milk.

What I've Been Up To

I have been working on Part Deux of what I'm referring to in my head as "A Week in the Life" since...well pretty much since I put up Part the First in...(checks blog) oh my God, January?! Yikes. In my paltry defense I have been having a doozy of a time with the ending to Part the Second (tentatively titled "Monday's Minotaur" which...yeah). I've re-written the pivotal transition scene five times and I'm still not satisfied. It starts out on a bus and I want to keep the action on the bus in order to keep the story condensed, but (in typical Cell fashion) the characters have gotten all carried away and now want to do things like "walk around the city" and "pretend they're detectives" and...ugh.

So, I'm onto my sixth attempt at finishing this piece and I am thisclose to just crashing the bus they're on and being done with it. "Rocks fall. Everyone dies."

In the meantime I've been doing other things, paramount among those was the reformatting of my computer which was infected with Loki's Own Virus and needed to be completely wiped in order to be useable. The fun part about the "Google Redirect Virus" (also known as "Alureon" which is an awesome name for a craptastic thing) is that it doesn't let you use Google. You go onto the site, it doesn't recognize your Google ID, then when you click on links, it takes you to some scam pages. The virus also disguises itself as a driver and hides in your registry, pushing out little tendrils of evil into your machine and just really mucking everything up.

So. Full-on reformat it was. A three day process. But it's done now and I can finally get back to work. Or, you know, as close to work as I ever get. So, rather, Endless Procrastination and WoW.

What I was doing prior to deciding I needed to write something this Spring Break.

I've also been watching movies and TV Shows because, why not. So. A running list:

•  Chronicle: the found-footage movie about teenagers getting super powers and then Screwing Everything Up. I saw this with the Captain on Valentine's Day this year and it was very, very good. I thought I was getting tired of the found footage movie but this one was masterfully done and the story was so engrossing that I was riveted the entire time. Although (spoiler) I was kinda upset that the black guy died first...as usual. He looked like the famous Jett Jackson so, bummer.
• Sherlock: the BBC series with Benedict "Voice of Smaug" Cumberbatch and Martin "I'm F-in' Bilbo" Freeman. So amazing. They've thrown Sherlock Holmes into the modern era complete with Google searches and cellphones and all the problems those bring to a retelling of Sherlock Holmes. Yet the raport between Watson and Holmes is excellent and the show shines even as it exists in the murky shadows of London's streets. Plus:

Look at this excitement. A murder's just been announced, after all! ;)

• Being Human: the BBC version. I watched the first three seasons of it on Netflix last year while I was wracked with insomnia and enjoyed it tremendously. The show is pretty much everything I like wrapped up into one foul-mouthed, gory show. Urban supernatural? I'm all over it. Well-acted? Done. Character development and plot-driven story-telling? And how. While season 4 is a completely different animal (now there's a Prophet Child and Plans for World Domination) at its heart, even with a new cast, there's still just enough of that "three supernatural friends try to make it in a world that doesn't believe in them" that I'll keep watching. And there's the fact that it's very often hilarious:


• 



• The Woman in Black: I saw this in the theater with the Captain and I'm pretty sure I gave him a bruise. I don't scream in scary movies, instead I gasp and cut off the circulation of whomever I happen to be sitting next to. When Bilbo turns into evil, troll Bilbo in Fellowship of the Ring, I squeezed my brother so hard, he had little finger-shaped bruises on his thigh for days. But yes, this movie was everything I like in a horror movie - it had the Victorian gothic sensibility, the creeping fog, the over-bearing air of Evil and the threat of Terror around every corner. Plus a few fun mind games and creepy children. Mixed into all of this was a more modern horror element and the mix of the traditional and the new worked together to really make this movie absolutely wonderful. I'd watch it again. Preferably with the lights on, though.
• Downton Abbey: oh this show. I'm so addicted and I have my mom, sister, and dad hooked on it too. With a little time and judicious application of the war scenes, I'm sure I can get my brother into it, too. Little did I know when I heard the guild whispering of it on Thursday nights that this show would take over my brain as it has. Attempting to describe it is like trying to describe that book Ishmael. The one about the talking gorilla? You say that and people automatically tune out even though the book is excellent. Explaining that it's essentially a soap opera set at the turn of the 20th century in an English manor house and what happens to the family and the servants is a really good way to turn people off. But. It's amazing. First season's on Netflix. :) Also? Dame Maggie Smith. You can watch for her alone:
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• 
• The Adventures of TinTin: I missed the first part of this movie, but I really loved the part I did see. It's so pretty and the story is rollicking and I just had so much fun. Completely awesome. I'll have to procure it at some point in the future so I can see how it starts, but regardless, it was really entertaining.
• Immortals: I have a color-theory about this movie that is very long and needs its own blog post to describe, but I enjoyed it. A gorgeous movie in the slow-mo style of 300 and that ilk. But though the story isn't quite up to par, it's certainly worth watching for the pretty. (And the color theory) (And what they're saying about man and bestiality and the horror of war). Umm... I only enjoyed this movie because I analyzed the heck out of it, apparently...

I've also been to the ballet to see the ballet I'm named for ("Giselle") and now I want fanfiction...I know, I'm a horrible person. And, in other news, the 6 Nations Rugby Tournament is back. I'm probably going to get around to writing out the rules for those in my family who refuse to believe it has any.

So that's what's been occurring in my life these past few months. I am utterly failing at New Year's Resolution number 3 (keep to a blog-writing schedule) but I'm going to do my very best to do better.

Until next time when I'll (hopefully, please God) be bringing you Part Deux of The Story That Isn't Working.

Back I go... to the pain...I'll let Elijah speak for me:

Jason Stenham & the Tuesday Unicorn

Finally, finally wrote something. I might...at some point... write up a thing about the crushing depression I suffered last year and how that made me just drag myself around the house in Despair and Angst and Nothing Good came of it. But! It's a new year and a new season and new things have happened and
I.
Wrote.
Something.

My God, it's not even an analysis of the works of late American authors. It's honest to God fic.

Yay!!

Click the link below for the story.

Swann's Song

Swann Elric Eldicott is stretching her calves against the back wall of the dance studio as Madame Michelin drums impatiently against the record player. If it had been on, it would have been skipping, a tune too tricky to dance traditionally to. But it is off, its needle hovering over the side of the plastic, a record speared by the center turner lying patiently and waiting for power. Madame Michelin clears her throat and manages to motion to the time that is passing without moving anything but an eyebrow. Swann smiles at the wall and sits on the floor to stretch her hamstrings. 

Her mother wanted to name her after a ballet, of course. Her older sister was named for one, her brother was named for one, even her mother’s name came from the Tradition. All of the other little girls in Swann’s year were named Coppelia or Belle. There were a few Odettes, one Giselle, a Carmen. Swann’s mother gave up on Jardin after her father declared that naming his youngest daughter after a garden was just not going to happen. Swann wanted to know what kept him from having a problem with the name of a big honking bird.

Madame Michelin does not even bother clearing her throat again. She drops into a deep plie and then rises to her toes. Swann is gruffly pulled to her feet and slid across the floor to stagger against the barre. Madame’s smile is a baring of teeth. She curves her fingers into position and the record player’s needle jumps, music creeping from the speakers. Swann slips her feet into the familiarity of first position and prepares. 

The magic wells up with the motion of their bodies, every drop of exertion poured out into the air around them, until the room fairly rings with light, a golden river that rises until Swann and the Madame are submerged within it. 

Swann hates this part; she always feels as if she is drowning. 

The barre exercises take them the better part of two hours; a slow layering of color added to the golden river with each new position, each different movement of their feet. Swann is exhausted by the end of it, her leotard and leg warmers sodden and gross and all she wants is to be allowed to go home. Madame looks at the bright green that has crept into their river of magic and shakes her head.

“You are not doing the grande battements correctly, Ms. Eldicott. This should be a forest green. A complementary shade. Not this…neon color.”

“Maybe the containment spell isn’t working properly,” Swann says, wiggling her toes in her pointe shoes and trying to calculate whether she has to shower at the studio or if she has enough time to do it at home.

“Nonsense,” Madame scoffs, absentmindedly standing on pointe and moving the needle to a resting position with the motion, “I danced it myself.” 

Swann takes the end of the music for the end of the class and bends at the waist to unlace her shoes. She sighs with relief as she pulls them one at a time from her feet although she takes the time to wrap them up carefully before she tosses them lightly across the room. Madame raises an eyebrow and Swann quickly flicks her hand out to slow the shoes’ flight. She straightens and pops her hip and the shoes put themselves away, her bag zipping up on its own, her street shoes aligning themselves in front of it.

“I have asked that you not practice that street magic in my domain,” Madame says from behind her with a frown. 

Swann apologizes, slipping her feet into her shoes and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She catches a look at herself in the studio’s mirrors and grimaces. She pulls her hair out of its long blond ponytail and twists it into a bun before securing it with a pencil from the outside pocket of her bag.

“Swann,” Madame says, her tone that of someone who is tired of repeating themselves. Swann turns to look at her. The Madame sighs and drops into a graceful curtsy, her feet perfectly positioned. Around them the containment spell drifts away in a twist of classical music. “Work on your turnout on those kicks, please. I fully expect forest green tomorrow.”

Swann opens the door to the studio, her entire body aching. As she closes the door behind her she can hear the Madame’s final missive through the door.

“Just ask your sister for help!”

Swann scoffs and takes the stairs down at a skip that makes the air around her ring with the clash of a gong. 

“Right,” she says as she heads for the parking garage. “Like that’s gonna happen.”

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Swann’s bike is waiting where she left it, and she takes the time to put her helmet on over her bun and then does a quick, exultant jump from the concrete so the bike springs to life between her knees. It’s really her brother’s bike, but she knows Orpheus won’t mind as he’s busy the entire week. And really, one of the King’s top magicians shouldn’t be riding a motorcycle to work. 

Swann’s smile is wide as she rockets into traffic and takes the turns too quickly, the fast beat of the music in her head letting her pass through cars that are in her way and make corners that a traditional magician would be terrified of taking. 

She gets home with enough time to shower and change and even knock out a quick routine that dries her hair and knots it into a complicated twist she knows her mother will appreciate. She glides down the stair to a ring of cymbals and her sister grimaces from the landing. 

“It’s ‘cause you put that hip-hop in your steps, Squab,” her sister says with a smile. Agon is a beauty in all the ways best loved by the Tradition. Her hair is long and dark and suited to a bun, her arms and legs exuding grace. When she walks, she glides and the only music that accompanies her is Tchaikovsky. From the landing, she stretches her arm up over her head and sweeps it down in a neat arc that lifts Swann’s skirts with the ripple of its passing. Swann giggles and jumps down the last step with a full body roll that upsets her sister’s magic and introduces a backbeat to the symphony.

Agon turns a quizzical eye to her sister, but smiles and locks her elbow with Swann’s as they descend the stairs to the mixed tune.

At the bottom, their butler does a pas de bourree and the doors to the dining room open. Orpheus sweeps in after them, the dark strains of a viola drifting around his head as he takes his seat with all the drama of a tortured lead. Agon laughs again and does a rond de jambe under her skirt that only Swann sees. Their brother is heaved forward in his seat and his tie lands in the soup. He looks up at his sisters and sweeps his arms through the first two positions, the viola music increasing as Agon flies backward. Swann takes a spread out stance and jumps to cross her feet then uncross them, curtailing her sister’s flight and allowing Agon to turn the fall into a cabriole that has Orpheus pinned to the far wall, soup dripping off his chin.

Of course, this is the moment their mother chooses to enter, her steps silent against the marble. Behind her, their father is buried in that morning’s paper and he fails to see the scramble as Agon, Orpheus, and Swann move to their seats, righting upset tables and dancing the soup back into the tureen. 

Their mother casts an appraising eye on her children and raises the left corner of her mouth in half a smile.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to tell you myself,” she says. In one motion she sweeps her skirts to the side and sits to the right of their father’s chair. “Now, shall we dine?”

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Swann knows her family are confused by her magic. Not many understand that the street dancer’s movements are almost as powerful and certainly more versatile than the Traditional forms. Once she caught her sister attempting a simple shoulder roll and her closet exploded into a warren of rabbits. Through the cracked door, Swann had seen Agon throw up her hands in frustration and then do a series of quick fouttes to turn the rabbits back into clothes. “I don’t know how she does it,” Swann heard her sister say, and she had smiled and kept going down the stairs.

There was definitely something to the Traditional magic. The control needed to dance the Tradition was a perfect base for any other kind of magic that might need to be done. There was not magic without breath and there was no magic without quick and agile feet and the Tradition taught that surer than anything else. But the form and function of the Tradition was steeped in the mastery that came from centuries of it being used. She saw how her mother exulted in a well-turned dance, and she saw the radiant joy that beamed from Agon’s face when she could perform a jump so cohesively it righted an overturned house two miles away from their home. 

Swann thought the soul and rhythm that infused the street dances was just as useful, and it had taken her a while to convince her family, but once she had they were willing to allow her to experiment. Of course, they frowned on her doing it too often, or in public, but Swann was thinking that maybe she could change that. 

An Odile was coming to court, after all. 

The Odile’s dancing was precise and beautiful and terrible in its beauty. The rumors said she had danced an entire village to death and sent the ghosts dancing into eternity, never to lie still. Swann was thinking maybe a good pop-and-lock would throw her off balance, and a properly placed foot switch would send the sound of drums to beat back the strains of her clarinets.

There was only one way to be sure, of course. But Swann was confident in her skills. Hadn’t she found all of the lost children last Christmas with a backflip? Hadn’t she proven herself capable in her chosen field?

Swann liked her name. It made her stand out and she appreciated that. But most of all she liked her initials: S.E.E. She could see clearly enough that the dominion of the Tradition needed to come to an end. Maybe she could make the rest of them see it, too.

Man in Storm-Drain: April 2008

Second verse, same as the first.  This is something I wrote when I thought I saw something while driving.  It's been so long, I almost don't want to edit it, but I like it in spite of its errors.  Originally titled "Poe's Doppleganger".
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"Did you write The Raven?" she asks, crouching down and peering at me with her head cocked to the side and a look of distaste sitting at the corners of her mouth.  I try to move my head, to shake it because what the hell?, and hit it on something.  I groan and she squeaks, moving back a few inches.  Blinking a few times to clear my eyes (is that water in them?) I notice she's standing in a puddle.  In the street.

Where the fuck am I?

"What the hell?" I manage finally, my voice raspy, bouncing up from what I'm starting to think is a storm drain.

"I asked you if you wrote The Raven."

"Why the fuck would you ask me that?"
    
"Because only Edgar Allen Poe is allowed to die in a storm drain."

Edgar Allen Poe?!  This freaking crazy bitch is comparing me to some old dead guy?  What the hell happened last night?  Where the hell am I?

All I can remember is getting kicked out of the bar and then a lot of lights.  Loud lights.  I can't remember anything else up until now, when I can't move and all I can see is the view up, onto the street.  There aren't many cars for a... what day is it even?  

"What day is it?" I croak and the girl chuckles.  Bitch.

"It's Thursday."

"Thursday?  You're crazy, lady.  It's definitely..."  I try to think, try to remember, and all that comes is the dusty sign hanging over the bartender, 'Monday: Drinks 1/2 Off.'  "It's definitely Tuesday, lady."

"It's Thursday," she says with a no-nonsense glare.  "You've been lying in that ditch for two days and you're starting to smell."

"Well help me the fuck up, then, if it bothers you so much."  I try to move again and feel as if I'm just sliding around in my own skin.  What the hell did I drink?

"I can't," she says, standing up and looking down at me.  She's dressed in some of those old-fashioned clothes with all the skirts and shit and her arms are crossed over her chest.  It's a nice chest and I almost don't hear her next sentence.  "You've got to do it yourself, the first time."

"First time for what, woman?"

"First time getting out of your body.  Well...only time, really..."

I don't think I heard her right.  I can't have heard her right.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're dead, John.  You walked into a truck two days ago at 3:14 in the morning.  You ended up in this ditch.  No one's seen you yet, but they're going to as soon as anybody walks down here and smells you.  So you need to get upand get a move on."

"How the fuck do you know my name?"  I'm trying to stand up, I'm really trying and I can't do it.  I just slide around some more.  I can't even feel where I'm touching the street; why am I not cold?

She rolls her eyes.  

"Because I'm dead too, you moron.  Now get up before you're in deeper trouble then you are now."

I stop sliding and just sit there, my eyes firmly focused on the tips of her shoes.

"How,"  I say, deadpan.  She arches an eyebrow and looks down at me again.

"Don't try to move your body.  Just think get up."

It works.  Stupid bitch.  She steps back and lets me get used to standing there and looking at myself.  I look like shit, roadkill shit.  And she's right, I do smell.  

"Well what now, oh wonderful psychopomp?"

"You know that word?"

"I'm an alcoholic, I'm not stupid."

"Could've fooled me.  And I'm not your psychopomp.  I was just walking and did the good thing."

"Well how did you die, Miss Petticoat?"

She blushes.  At least, I'm pretty sure she blushes.  

"I fell off a cliff."  I open my mouth to laugh and she shoots me a glare brimming with hellfire.  I close my mouth and settle for the biggest grin I can manage.  Which is pretty big.  She mutters something as she walks away that sounds a whole hell of a lot like asshole.  I don't stop grinning as I jog to catch up with her.

"Where are we going?"

"We aren't going anywhere.  I'm going to visit a friend of mine.  You are going to find out what you're supposed to be doing with the rest of your life."  She turns and points down the street.  "It's that way.  Follow the light," she adds sarcastically before she turns and clicks down the street.

I turn.  There is a light down there, I'll be damned.  Or not...  Shit, I don't even know right now.  I shrug and it surprises me how light I feel.  I do it again before I start walking down the street.  There's nobody on it.  It's a veritable ghost town.  Haha.  Well, nobody except my body and some old dude walking down the other sidewalk, coattails flapping in some invisible breeze 'cause it sure as hell isn't windy; it's dead calm.  The old dude raises a green bottle to his lips and takes a swig before he starts walking again, stumbling a little.  He mutters something as I pass him.  It sounds like nevermore, but he passes me before I can be sure and when I turn around to look for him, he's gone, the green bottle rolling in the street.

Man in Library - Feb. 2008

Originally posted in February of 2008.  A story that came to mind when I saw a guy sitting in one of the computer cubicles on my way up the stairs.  He had long hair and his head in his hands.  His laptop was open in front of him.  The desktop background was a blurry picture of a young woman and a toddler.  Both were laughing.  He wasn't in it.
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It could be his wife and kid.  Or his two younger sisters.  Or his best-friend and her daughter that he thinks is his but she never says.  "How can it be yours, James?" she asks.  "We never did it."  But sometimes he can almost imagine they have, and he can vaguely recollect a party and her tears and his urgent need to make things better.  Those days he shakes his head as his brain tries to remember the porch swing and the cushions by the back fence and all of the other things that he can't quite remember happening but can't convince himself didn't.  

Sometimes he just wants to know.  Is she his?  Does Blair actually carry his blood in her veins?  Is that his smile turning up around tiny teeth?  Did he help to form the tiny hands and tiny fingers and tiny toes?  He can't remember even though when he looks at her he feels something.  Something like recognition.  Like a part of him has come back.

But she swears that she doesn't remember the father.  That it was drunken revelry weeks after the party with the tears and the comfort.  "We never did it, James.  I'd remember, I mean, you're my best-friend..."  And she trails off every time, her face blanking as maybe she tries.  She must try to remember; Blair's father is not faceless.  But she shakes her head each time, clearing whatever memories her brain is bringing up.

He can never ask if she remembers a porch swing and laughter in the grass.