Pastry Porn

It's Bake-off Day!

Tonight the 2nd episode in the 4th (?) series of The Great British Bake-off will air on BBC 2.*

Pirate and I are properly addicted.  I even applied to be on the 2nd season, and very nearly made it.  They phoned me up the very day I submitted my application and spent almost an hour asking me questions.  (Now whenever I watch it I think, I coulda been... a contender.)

Did you read yesterday's post, about Pirate baking sourdough bread?  Well, in honor of Bake-off day, here is a photo of the bread.

 

Eat yer heart out, Mary Berry.

*I think it's on BBC2, I'm not really sure.  I watch it on iPlayer.

Pet Names

Pirate and I finally came up with good pet names for each other. The usual "honey" and "darling" just wasn't working for us. We drew upon the native American tradition for inspiration (and utterly insulted it in the process). We are:

Bear Who Waits For Blowjob

and

Little Cooking Flower

Dances with Worms

I saw the most amazing thing yesterday. It was a seagull.

No, that in itself is not amazing. I moved away from Bristol to escape the fucking seagulls. (Don't tell Pirate; I'm just using him for his low-seagull lifestyle.)

The amazing bit is what the seagull was doing. It was dancing.



Pirate explained that it was creating vibrations in the ground which the worms perceive as rain, which inspires them to come to the surface. (You wouldn't think this would be necessary in a country where it rains every fucking day anyway, but there you go.)

I love this. I love this on several levels.
1. It's cute. No doubt about it. Seagulls suck. Dancing seagulls are cute.
2. It's seagulls doing what seagulls were meant to do, ie, act like birds. In nature. Not tear apart my garbage bags and squawk and shit all over me.
3. It's industrious. They're earning their lunch. I'm down with that.

But mostly, I love it because I love the idea of a universe where you can do a little dance and you lunch magically appears at your feet. How brilliant is that!!! I want to live in that universe! I want to, whenever I'm hungry, do a little dance, and look down, and *poof!* LUNCH!

*sings* Do a little dance... Make a little worm... Get lunch tonight! Get lunch tonight!

Now every night when I fix dinner I make Pirate stand in front of the serving hatch and do a little dance. Then I give him his dinner.

Feelin' Fuzzy

or
Still Crazy After All These Hairs

(This is a funny one.)
On Friday morning I put my hair in french braided pigtails while it was still damp. I wore them all day Friday (it's the most comfortable hairstyle in existence) and slept in them Friday night. When I work up Saturday I took them out, fluffed my hair, and got dressed.

I wore a black and white striped turtleneck, and because it was colder than the balls on a brass monkey, topped off my look with a tan, corduroy, flat cap (Oliver Twist-style). I looked in the mirror.

There was something unnervingly familiar about the person looking back at me. I stared and stared, and then all at once it dawned.

You know how they say that over time owners start to look more and more like their dogs? I think the same is true of music. I clearly need to update my record collection. I had become...


...some weird 21st century hybrid of Simon AND Garfunkel. (Except with boobs.)

There's No One As Irish As Barack O'Bama

A Pirate's Wedding, Part II: Full Speed Ahead

Gak! I wanted to get loads of beauty sleep the night before my wedding. I wanted to relax, read my new issue of New Scientist, maybe blog a bit, or spend some time in the spa that is in the hotel. Alas, to no avail. I didn't even have time to go for a swim in the pool in the bathroom that was masquerading as a tub. (The hotel really came up trumps with the room, and gave us this gargantuan suite with a superking bed and shower you could throw a party in. And it was cheap. They really treated us like royalty.*

No, instead I was up dealing with cake things until bloody midnight. Miss Melville SHOULD have stayed over with me, instead she wound up taking a cab back to her hotel and breaking inn. (Did you see what I did there?) Ask her nicely and she'll tell you all about it.

After printing off the readings for the service tomorrow (which I'd completely forgotten to do beforehand, sending me into a panic about what other totally obvious things I might have forgotten), I took a sleeping pill and went to bed, worrying about the cake in the fridge downstairs and whether the soupy frosting would set overnight to something useable. (It didn't.)

I woke up, took a shower, pinned my hair up, put on some jeans (thank got the wedding wasn't until 3 pm), and went downstairs for breakfast, where I was assaulted by my family, all my parents' friends, my future in-laws, and all their friends. It took me 30 minutes to extricate myself and I never did manage to eat anything. 9 am is WAY too early in the day for social niceities.

I got the marvelous people at the hotel to get the cake out for me and take it up to the Forrest Suite, where the reception would be held. The frosting was still soup. I called The Cake on my mobile. "Cake, we need more frosting. Can you run to Sainsbury's and buy 6 tubs of whatever they have that's white?"
The Cake: "No, because I'm so bloated I can't zip my dress up. I have to go into town to buy expensive suck-me-in underwear. I'll send The Pud."

The Pud, bless his heart, showed up with 6 tubs of Betty Crocker vanilla frosting. Perfect. (I still haven't paid him back for that. I really must remember to do that.)

Big Wally kept Smally Wally entertained while Vi, MM and I frosted and assembled the cake. Except for the 2nd tier, which was too big and rather misshapen, it looked great. That took a while. My brother and Sister-in-law set up the place cards and favors, and MM took my phone away from me and made herself my P.A. for the day, so I wouldn't have to answer the 4,000 phone calls that came in.

Eventually I had to go get my hair done. The cake was assembled, but I hadn't put the crystallized flowers on it yet. MM and I ran to the hairdressers, where Zoe did an absolutely AMAZING job. It looked so beautiful I lost the plot right there in the salon and broke down in tears for the first time that day. I'd never felt so pretty in my life. It cost a bleeding fortune, but it was worth every penny.

It was a stunningly gorgeous blue fall day. After the shit pissing wet summer we've had, with cold and rain and blowing every day, the sun broke through and it was utterly glorious. MM and I walked back from the hair dressers holding hands and singing "Going to the chapel" and "Get me to the church on time" with the sun on our faces. I'm sure the local onlookers though we were lesbians. I'm OK with that.

Then I ran back up to the Forrest Suite to put the candied pansies on the cake. By now it was after 2, the service was at 3, and I hadn't even started getting dressed yet!

My dad came up (looking very dapper I might add) and took the flowers away from me, saying he'd finish it for me (which was great because he's probably the only person in the world I would trust to do that) and ordered me to go get dressed.

When I got to my room it was a frenzy of half-naked bridesmaids throwing clothes around and attempting to apply makeup while stuffing me and themselves into a variety of cumbersome dresses.

I put on my makeup (very minimal, only took 5 minutes), and then someone had to help me into my underwear. My aunt and my mother showed up at this point, and so got an awesome view of my uber-sexing wedding-night smalls as The Cake (and this bit is absolutely HEROIC) spent 10 minutes on her knees behind be, my ass full in her face, as she attempted to connect the tops of my stockings to the little garter strap thingys. The woman is a saint. MM can attest to this.

I did not feel at all on display while this was going on and random family members came in to watch. No, not at all. Why is it that watching a bride get dressed is such a big damn deal? Why do people feel the need to be a part of the audience??? You wouldn't believe how long it took me to convince the videographer and photographer that I didn't want them in there. They refused to believe me. The photographer showed up anyway and I sent him away and told him to get pictures of the guests arriving at the church. Argh.

Eventually we were all ready. I have no idea what time it was, nor did I care. (It's not like they were going to start with out me.) Dad, who was standing patiently outside the door and only knocked every 23 seconds to see if I was ready yet, gave me his arm and we, accompanied by my bridesmaids, headed over to the church.

Stay tuned for Part III!



*I'm accustomed to staying in youth hostels and cheap roadside motels, so it was a rather novel experience for me to be able to pick up the phone by the bed (the room was so big it came with TWO phones!) and say to the French accent at reception "This is room 504. Could you please arrange a taxi for me and send someone up with a luggage trolley right away? Thanks." And it would happen. Just like that. Ask, and it shall be done. It was frightening how fast I got used to being waited on hand and foot. Maybe obscene wealth isn't such a bad thing after all?...

WE'RE MARRIED!!!!!

Hi all! I'm sorry I haven't been able to blog. As you know, I moved out of my flat last Wednesday week. The days leading up to the wedding were manic, despite my best efforts at preparation and organization. (Remind me to tell you about baking the cake.)

The wedding last Friday we beautiful. After 4 months of rain and grey and utterly shit weather, the sun broke through and we we had absolutely spectacular weather. My bridesmaids were fantastic, and as we walked to the church with all our flowers, me on my father's arm, I felt like a queen. (Looked like one, too. Might as well be honest.)

The service was lovely. Even the minister said it was the nicest wedding she'd ever presided. The light was blazing in through the stained glass, and all the church was aglow with autum flowers and amber light. I will post photos as soon as I have some. I, obviously, wasn't taking pictures, so I don't have any off my own camera to upload.

The reception was a blast, and by 11 pm the dancing was getting very silly indeed. I got thrown from person to person during Cotton-eyed Joe until I passed out, and Pirate's sea-faring friends did some very inappropriate things with his mother. Oh, and I have to tell you about the paper airplanes!

During dinner Pirate began writing his speech (nothing like a little preparation, is there?). He had a pad of paper, which promptly got confiscated by his mates for paper airplanes, which were thrown all over the room. There were dozens of them going back and forth, landing in people's food, the candles, hitting people in the head, etc. It was a great laugh. Then when it was time for speeches, when Pirate stood up the entire room threw all their paper airplanes at him, as well as a few napkins and anything else they could lay hands on. It was absolutely hilarious. Despite having the air of complete spontenaity, we found out later that my dad had orchestrated the whole thing during dinner with a particularly effective game of 'telephone'!

Anyway, now that i'm back online I'll have lots more stories to tell, and hopefully some pictures soon.

Married life is great! xoxooxoxox

Short Human

One of my teammates just announced she's pregnant, so I had this printed up for her at the T-shirt place up the road.
Well what the hell else do you get a knocked-up rower??? (Someone better get me one of these when I start spawning, that's all I'm saying.)

Fringe Bingo

After last year's storming success, Pirate and I decided to go back to the Fringe this year. It's not a cheap 3 days, but is seriously good fun. There is loads to see, but inevitably there are dead spots during the evening when you are between shows, have already eaten dinner, and need to kill an hour when the museums and galleries are closed. This is where the real Fringe entertainment happens.

The Edinburgh Fringe is, no doubt, one of the best places for people-watching on the planet outside of NYC. There is some serious variety, and some proper weirdos.

But Pirate and I, being competitive by nature, found a way to make people-watching a contest. Enter Fringe Bingo, stage left. Plonk yourselves outside a pub or cafe' on the Royal Mile, pull out your FB cards, and go to town. I have provided a sample card below. (Obviously if you are going to play you need to print out 2 copies, but cut one up and rearrange the squares to make the second copy.)


From the Fringe veterans I would love to hear your suggestions for adding to the card for next year.

I need this

Seriously, I do.

Not 'want,' neeeeeeeeed.

The Quantum Fishies

This is Wong-Foo:

Wong-Foo is not doing his job.

Wong-Foo's job is to eat the Quantum Fishies. The Quantum Fishies are the offspring of my two guppies, Preggers and Studly. (I'll get some photos up as soon as I remember to charge the batteries for my camera.)

Preggers and Studly are very good at their job. Their job is to make snacks for Wong-Foo. Wong-Foo's job is to eat the snacks so the tank doesn't become overcrowded. It's an eco system thing. Keep up, people.

But Wong-Foo has gotten lazy, and there are FOUR more fishies in the tank than there should be. They are the Quantum Fishies: Nuon, Gluon, Lepton, and Quark. They are little more than a pair of eyes each attached to a small, transparent body and tail. They do not swim, they do not move. They disappear from one location and instantly reappear in another place in the tank. It is not magic: it is Quantum Tankanics. They are here, there, and everywhere, few in number, but nearly impossible to count. They are the Quantum Fishies.

Best. News. Story. EVER.

Blogasm

What a weekend!

This post is going to come out in one, giant, joyous explosion of wonderful things that I experienced this weekend.

Actually, that would be a little scary. Let's break it up into lots of little, tiny, joyous explosions, in bullet-format. Little popcorn blogasms, like the orgasms you have when you're super-saturated with horniness and you've already had 3 or 4 big, earth-shattering ones but you're still so hyper-sensitive that the slightest touch sends another little aftershock through your pelvis, over and over and over again.

Yeah, this post is going to be like that. (That was a metaphor, by the way. This post will not be about sex. Just in case you were wondering/dreading.)

Saturday morning:

• Went sculling in a single (Sal is still sick). It was a beautiful, sunny day.
• Saw the heron, fish leaping out of the water, a cormorant diving, said cormorant popping out of the river with aforementioned flappy fish in beak, little twinkly babble stream flowing into river.
• Did an awesome 1k piece. Balance was perfect, rate was high, catches were quick and strong, and my boat sang to me, churning little bubbles along the bow that giggled and whispered to one another.
• Got sunburn.

Saturday afternoon:

Cycled up through Ashton Court to watch Pirate's cricket game. There was a mountain bike race going on. I needed to get to where I was going, and there was no good alternate route, so I just slotted in with them on my own (heavy) mountain bike. The trail is a bitch: it's not gravelly but properly rocky, uphill, into a headwind. I didn't get passed by any of the competitors, not even the men. They may have already been at it a while, but I wasn't exactly fresh either, having already cycled 22 miles that morning and sculled 12k. And I was carrying cargo. I crossed the finish line and waved my arms in the air like they do on TV and lots of people clapped and cheered. A marshall shouted at me for not having a number and so I yelled back "I'm not racing! I'm just awesome!" And went to go watch the cricket. (They lost.)


Sunday morning:

I cycled from Bristol to Pirate's cricket game in Devizes along the National Cycle Route 4. This is the route I take to the boathouse, but I've only ever ridden it as far as Bath. I've wanted to try the bit east of Bath for a long time.
It was the most stunning bike ride I've ever taken. I saw:

• Lovely, cool, shady old-growth hardwood forests dominated by 100-year-old beech trees, with their beautiful silver bark that makes you think you've stumbled into Lothlorian and start looking around for armed and paranoid Elves (which is pointless because you know bloody well that you won't see them until they decide to grant you the priveledge, but you do it all the same).
• Cottages and gardens overflowering with rambling roses in June bloom that were so charming Miss Marple herself would vomit rainbows at the sight
• A black, tuxedo-clad cat wearing white spats and sitting in a dignified manner beside a potted geranium. Like you do.
• Amazing aquaducts! The Kennet-and-Avon Canal, constructed by the Victorians, is a highway for river barges. And is has bridges. Not bridges that go over it, but bridges that it uses to cross gorges and valleys. So you can be on a boat and float along a water-filled bridge hundreds of feet above another river! It's genius! I'd never seen anything like it. Extraordinary. I'm so pissed off I didn't have my camera.
• The 29-lock sequence leading up to Devizes. I had no idea it was there, and certainly didn't expect to come across such an extraordinary sight. Honestly, the victorians kick our ASSES when it comes to daring building projects. It was awe-inspiring and beautiful at the same time.
• By the time I got to the locks I had cyclecdabout 39 miles. Because of the huge lock-sequence the last mile was all uphill. It didn't bother me. I finished the ride as strongly as I started, and never slowed down along the way. No exhaustion, no lactic acid. I wasn't even tired. I impressed myself. (And believe me, given the high opinion/expectations I already have of myself, that actually takes some doing.)
• A pair of neon blue and firey orange kingfishers, darting about in the sunlight over the pools beside the locks, more irridescent than dragonflies and swifter than swallows. It's easy to see why people believed in fairies. They were supernaturally incongruous inhabitants of a normally drab and dreary country.

Sunday afternoon: Pirate's cricket game

One of my favorite things about cricket is listening to the opposition discuss the Pirate while his team is fielding. They sit around and discuss the game and the players, and they have no idea who I am or that every one of their little words will make it back to Pirate's ears. I love being a fly on the wall of the enemy's locker room!
This week Pirate bowled and batted especially well, and the other team spent a good 90 minutes talking about him and him alone. Here are some of the juicier tidbits:

• (about Pirate's bowling) He doesn't need those glasses to see. They must have some kind of digital display or targeting system on the inside of the lenses. Some sort of Batman-esque readout. Or cross-hairs. That's it! The fucker's got cross-hairs on his glasses!
• I thought he'd have begun to slow down by now, but he's on his 10th over and he's as fast as his first. He's not human. It's like facing a bowling machine. That can think.
• I need a lid to face this guy. And a chest-plate. Can I borrow your chest plate? Please, someone must have a chest-plate I can use. I don't want to face this guy without more armor!
• (about his batting, uttered by the bowler who, despite his best efforts, gave away 22 runs in one over to the Pirate, one ball of which was a massive 6 that earned Pirate his half-ton) He made it look so easy! That's just talent, plain old raw talent. He bats as well as he bowls, just one after another, 4, 4, 4, 4, 6, as easy as you like. Honestly? I'm glad there are men like that in the world.
• I hear he's a Pirate. I feel safer knowing that he's out on the high seas protecting us. It must suck for the drug runners who cross his path!
• Which member of the Royal Family do you think he should marry? I dunno, none of the women are really good enough for him. I suppose maybe Princess Beatrice. Or Fergie herself even? (Yes, a bunch of 20 to 30-something guys sat around trying to decide which Royal the Pirate should marry. I couldn't make this up if I tried!)

So in the car on the way home I conveyed all of this to the Pirate who, after laughing hysterically for 30 minutes, declared "I'm going to need to get a bigger car! My ego won't fit in this one any more!"

12th (wo)man

I HAD SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH A SMALL, BLACK INSECT WHO SEDUCED ME BY CHIRPING!

I LOST MY CRICKET VIRGINITY YESTERDAY!

Actually, I got thrown in to one of the Pirate's games on Sunday. One of their men never showed up and they couldn't get hold of him, so they threw me some borrowed kit and let me play. The conversation at lunch went something like this:

Skipper: "Bob" still isn't here.

Another player: No big deal, we can field with 10 men. We've got so many runs they don't stand a chance anyway.

Pirate: CB will play. (Keep in mind this is not a mixed-sex league/team/game.)

Me: I will?

Skipper (to me): Oh? Are you a cricketer?

Me: Nope! Never played in my life, but I'll give it a go.

Skipper: Can you catch?

Me: Not really. I'm afraid of the ball. I can't run for beans either and I throw like a girl. I make no promises whatsoever about my capabilities, only my enthusiasm.

Skipper: Do you have any whites with you.

Me: Nope!

Skipper: Sounds good to me. You can field at off-stump.

Me: Okey-dokey then! Where's that?

So I was handed some spare kit from a chap who's a lot shorter and skinnier than I am and sent out to field wearing what looked like skin-tight, cream-colored capri-style yoga pants. The look was further enhanced by my hair being up in pigtails. It was no end of comedy, I tell you.

It was my first time ever on a cricket pitch and the first time a woman had ever played for the Stragglers.

It was a friendly match and didn't count toward any kind of league, and the Stragglers were so far up that even if I made several catastrophic screw-ups it still wouldn't affect the outcome of the game, so they were happy to humor me.

The ball only came towards me 3 times in the whole innings. Twice it was so far over my head only Inspector Gadget would have stood a chance of grabbing it, and the third time it came rolling past me, so I stopped it with my foot and lobbed it back to the catcher, thereby holding what would have been 4 runs to only 1. So that was good. The rest of the game I just stood there, terrified that the ball would come near me. My fear was in vain, however, as the Pirate was bowling and didn't give the poor bastards batting many opportunities to do anything other than defend the stumps.

So I was heartily congratulated all around for being such a good sport and had a great time playing England's noble game with my Pirate.

(Also when the Pirate took his first wicket I got to smack him on the ass in a manly, athletic manner, which was fun.)

Fucking brilliant

I do not like the letter 'B'

It looks too much like a 1 and 3 mushed together, even when people write relatively neatly. If they have sloppy handwriting it leads to inevitable tragedy.

This wasn't such a big issue for me in America, where one could usually discern letters/numerals through context. But here in the UK where postcodes are a mix of numbers and letters it's all too confusing.

I'd like to send an e-petition to Downing Street to be made the government's top priority for Things Next To Be Ignored, but as I'm not a citizen yet I can't even do that. I'll have to sit here being ignored unofficially and attempting to decipher people's Bs, 1s, and 3s.

Sweet Cheeks

Last night after a good bitch session with Miss Melville, who has worked for my mom for 5 years and is well acquainted with her neuroticisms and control fetish, I was feeling somewhat more relaxed. I followed that up with a chat with Vi, mother of the world's cutest monster (honest, he's like godzilla in a blonde, curly wig), who had similar stress with her wedding. She reassured me that even if we go with our original plan it is still possible to enjoy the day. I'm just terrified that at after all the drama I won't be able to enjoy the end product, you know? Anyway, after all that and a good 30 minutes looking at photos of beagle puppies, I'm feeling a bit better.

Also talked with the Pirate, which is always comforting. At the end of the phone call I said "I love you."

His response? "Ok then."

I rolled my eyes and sent a text, explaining that "The correct respons to 'I love you' is NOT 'Ok then,' you suave goofball."

His respone? "Thanks for the tip, sweet-cheeks." That made me laugh.

In nature-related niceties, the weekend rowing was loverly. It's been sunny and warmer (in the 50s) for over a week. The crocuses are blooming, the primrose are in flower, the daffodils are sprouting, and all along the river bank the ducks are bumping butts and there are little green shooty things emerging from the mud. I took a scull out and did some hard pieces, in shorts and T-shirt for the first time this year, and Pirate ran along the river beside and kept me company in the sunshine. Those are the moments I live for, really.

Nice things

Last night I went to a meeting in a pub, where I got to snorgle the pub cat. Named Moose. Big fat marmalade thing.*

I was petting him over by the bar when he got up and left abruptly. "Oh well," thought I. Imagine my delight when I collected my drink and went back to my seat and found Moose making biscuits on my coat. Yay! He settled in and stayed with me the whole evening. Yay for pub cats.

Here's a photo me making a scale model of Stonehenge for Pirate's model railroad:




*Why are marmalade cat always fat???

High seas blogging

Hi all! I'm blogging from the high seas, being tossed and turned and tumbled in family, food, and affection. Mrs. Pirate hasn't left the galley since we arrived, and the edibles have been endless. Pirate is currently trying to get his little brother's old dinghy in working order so we can go for a bit of exercise in the cold sunshine and shed a few calories in the process, but it appears to be a lost cause; i don't think the little craft has been water-tight for years. It's more than a morning's work to get operational.

We sailed up on Friday in Pirate's big, splashy classic yacht, and after leaving the fog in Brizzle had clear water the whole way. Mr. and Mrs. Pirate were ecstatic to see us, and after raising several toasts to everything Mr. Pirate could think to name, the two of us (Pirate and his mum being teatotal) drowned the majority of the ship's supply of bubbly rum. We nearly burnt the ship down that evening in an attempt to roast some chestnuts, but after some quick action on the Pirate's part there were only a few singed sails to tell the tail.

I've been sleeping like a rock in the big double hammock in the guest saloon, rocked gently each night by the movement of the vessel, and Pirate has completely abandoned the moratorium on non-married people sleeping together and has crawled into my hammock every night. Thus far a very successful visit indeed.

Tomorrow we are all sailing north to the paternal gran's port, where there will be a big clan gathering, roast turkey, and pressies galore. Stay tuned for the swashbuckling update!

You better not *wink wink* in a pear tree!

This is the best Xmas medley ever of all time. I don't wanna think what rehersals must have been like!!!