You may now sound your trumpets while I hurry the choir up on the
stage.
One can never have too many Hallelujahs in their day.
*grins*
Writing this afternoon has taken a rightful backseat to celebrating my
mother.
A culinary feast is painstakingly being prepared. Made from scratch
Focaccia has swallowed up most of my time. The first batch of dough I had to
toss when it just laid there on the table dead as a freaking doornail no matter
how much sweet kneading I gave it. Five cups of flour, the culprit yeast, a
dash of salt and some water and olive oil made their exit stage left in a trash
bag around eleven this morning.
The second batch, I am happy to report, is progressing nicely. While
it’s enjoying its third rising of the day and before I jump into the making of
a rhubarb cobbler, I am here blogging... duh. *smirks*
Later, when I should be writing about my boys settling into the next
stage of their rather exciting lives, I will most likely still be embroiled in
a pasta dish chocked full of eggs, cream and a manly touch of bacon.
Then, perhaps, I will turn back with a sigh to my pursuits of literary
grandeur… i.e. that castle in the sky I’m trudging through the sands of the
Dead Sea to reach.
*scratches her head and wonders
where the heck that came from*
Alrighty-then.
I think I’ve been out in that darn Dead Sea sun too long. Perhaps it’s best if I go back inside and
leave you nice people alone now?
Yep, I think that’s a very good idea.
Apologies, mates.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe, the desert wanderer
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