upon finding out last thursday that my oven has indeed recuperated from the Pizza Box Blast of 2005 (thank you, pizza-eating brother) and is now alive and kicking, i immediately leapt out of my seat in glee and launched into a 3-day baking spree. oven, it has been too long.
i am a happy camper because we have sufficient ingredients in our pantry, and also because my oven is now working. now if only i can find the bloody asshole (i’m being polite, the first word that came to mind was motherfucker) who ran off with my kitchen scales AND measuring cups!!!!! they are nowhere to be found. and to bake with no accurate measurement tools is such a dangerous thing. not to mention very frustrating. now i need to go out and get measuring cups, because i suddenly have a craving for bread and butter pudding.
mexican bun. filling too sweet! next time i’m just going to go with plain salted butter.
banana bread bars. my brother thinks these are good enough to sell! high praise, yo
chocolate muffins with peanut butter frosting
is it very narcissistic of me if i really like to eat my own baking?!
May 1st, 2006
there’s this one guy i used to know. he had this weird way of pronouncing ‘ramen’. ray-mund, he’d say, with an all-important drawl in his voice. and i’d correct him tightly, it’s rah-men. say it right, RAH-MEN.
that was how our whole relationship was. him doing seemingly small things that would irritate the hell out of me for no good reason, me correcting it, him shrugging spinelessly, everything swept under the carpet. until one day i thought, this is it, if he says ray-mund one more time, i’m so going to fucking slam the bowl of noodles into his face.
i actually looked forward to the prospect of that. cos if he asked, why did you slam the bowl of ray-mund into my face?, i’d say, because you pronounce ramen in the most fucking pompous way i’ve ever heard it pronounced in. at least i’d have justification, you know? i’d have a reason. my ‘because’ wouldnt be left hanging. i can channel all my pent-up frustration, all the frustration and anger and spite i’ve ever felt for him, i can channel all of it into that one single action of standing up and sweeping from the table the hot bowl of noodles onto his face and into his hair and onto the front of his shirt. it’d be so vicious that all observers would be able to see the subtext, and they’d gasp at the intensity of it. then with a final ‘fuck you’, i’d turn around and storm out, forever leaving, and in doing so, sealing the one-sided deal once and for all.
it didnt happen, though.
there were many opportunities but i just couldnt bring myself to do it. i’m weak like that, i think. and naive. and torn apart.
May 1st, 2006
