preraphaelitepunk.com

Those who have been to my flat will attest to its, um, somewhat chaotic nature. (Important things, such as keys and leash and purse, have their places and are always put neatly away, but the rest of the material universe that is mine is generally in a state of flux.) Usually, I justify this by the fact that it’s just Nigel and me to be bothered by the mess, and he’s reasonably tolerant of the stacks of books and CDs and DVDs waiting to be read or watched or put away. Even with my heightened tolerance, though, I occasionally reach a breaking point, and then will spend hours cleaning.

Such a breaking point occurred today, though if you hadn’t seen it beforehand, you might not believe me. It started in the kitchen — which is usually reasonably organized, except perhaps for a few dishes in the sink — as I was cleaning up after breakfast. Wiping down the counters and stove led to polishing the stainless steel fridge, which led to vacuuming the tiles, which led to vacuuming the entire flat* and then to scrubbing the floors. (Scrubbing instead of mopping, because there are few open spaces of tile or wood that are not mostly covered by the huge Oriental carpet, so it’s frankly easier to get down and scour the nooks and crannies by hand; you simply can’t get to everything with a mop.) Trash and recycling were taken out to the receptacles. Laundry was done. Futon mattress was flipped. Dishwasher was run and the clean dishes actually put away afterward. Valiant attempts were made to detach the Cuisinart’s whisk attachment from the work bowl pillar, but those were unsuccessful. (My dad may have to step in; he was the only person who could fix it last time it got stuck.) Dog was perplexed by and slightly anxious about all the weird and unfamiliar activity.

There is still disorder and chaos, but at least it’s clean disorder and chaos.

I lead such an exciting life. o.O

It may be that I had too much coffee this morning, because in addition to all of that, I also did a fair amount of baking: biscuits and tempeh sausage for breakfast (photographed for my Flickr page, now that my camera batteries are recharged), a chocolate walnut loaf cake this afternoon (currently cooling to the point at which I can glaze it — I think I can manage a glaze, if not actual icing), and an experiment in making seitan in my slow cooker. Beyond baking and cleaning, I also managed to clear out at least a little of my Lifehacker backlog on Bloglines: I was up to about 150 archived posts, dating back to November, and by dint of a couple hours’ effort I have now managed to get the backlog to under 100.

I know, not the most thrilling update in the world. Whatever. At least next weekend, I’ll have the Sisters of Mercy concert, which should be interesting. (More interesting than this, at least, even if you aren’t a SoM fan.)

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*Vacuuming the flat is no small undertaking, despite its small dimensions. Nigel sheds a ridiculous amount of hair, and my vacuum cleaner was chosen more for the fact that it dismantles for easy storage in a cabinet than for its capacity, so I have to stop five or six times during a session to empty the receptacle. I’d consider getting another one, except for (1) the expense, and (2) the fact that the dinky little vacuum is the only one I’ve ever found that is quiet enough not to freak out Nigel, who ordinarily is terrified of vacuums.

It has been literally years since I went to a concert. Ages ago, back when I’d first moved back to Atlanta, and the Pet Shop Boys were touring to support their Nightlife album (which came out in — holy crap, 1999? I haven’t been to a concert in this century?). It seems like it’s time to go to another one.

Happily, this urge coincides nicely with a tour by a group I actually like:* the Sisters of Mercy! Bwahahahahahaha! They’re playing at the Roxy a week from Saturday, and I’ve got a ticket! Of course, online tickets are only through TicketBastard, apparently, which knocks the $36 up to just over $50, but it’s worth it. An ironclad reason to go out on a Saturday night, maybe even (gasp!) meet some people, and at the very least enjoy some really great music.

If anyone would like to join me, it’s Saturday, March 4, starting at 8:00 P.M. — but it’s general admission, so I’ll probably try to get in line about 5:00 or so. Maybe earlier; I’ll have to think about that. Afraid you’ll be on your own as far as paying for your ticket goes, though; the money I was going to put into savings this paycheck has now gone toward paying for mine, and I can’t afford another ticket. Sorry. I will bring snacks to share, though, if anyone wishes to come along.

Now I just need to figure out exactly where the Roxy is in relation to my flat. I know I’ve driven past it before, but I was always lost at the time. Some sort of directions would probably be in order.

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*This hardly ever, ever happens. Or, if it does, I don’t find out about it until the tickets are all sold, or until after the show has already occurred. Trust me, this is a rare, rare thing.

The good news is that I think I managed to get more filling into the cupcakes this time, and that I think the ganache layer should be thicker.

The bad news is that I suck at royal icing. Last time, it was slightly too runny and oozed too much. This time, I made it so thick I couldn’t pipe it at all, and the plastic bags I used instead of an actual, real piping bag kept bursting. I was afraid that, if I started to thin it out, I’d overcompensate and wind up with gooey icing again.

I thought I’d be brilliant and make it even thicker, then, to a consistency kind of like marzipan, and make little cutouts to lay atop the cupcakes. Obviously, if you know me at all, you are now snickering at my foolish optimism, because improv like this rarely works out as well as I think it will. The cutouts stuck to the parchment on which I’d rolled and cut them, stretching and tearing, so I wound up just cutting strips as thin as I could with a pizza cutter and sticking them randomly to the ganache, as here:

This, as you can see, does not quite have the desired effect. In fact, they look so preposterous, I’m afraid to put them up on Flickr, lest people run away in terror.

I’m hoping that, if I don’t tell anyone who doesn’t read this blog exactly how the cupcakes are supposed to look, then one or two of them might be fooled into thinking it was intentional. “The random strips of icing are supposed to evoke kanji in the abstract, you see — not the meaning, but the emotion behind the kanji.” Or something. Yeah, that’s it.

I swear, I used to be able to make royal icing when I was a teenager. Must’ve lost the knack.

The cupcakes are in the oven, all dark brown and chocolatey. Keep your fingers crossed that everything turns out well. I used the food processor this time, because last time the amount of mixing required nearly burned out the motor on my stick blender with the whisk attachment. (Yes, I have no mixer. If I had room, I’d be shopping for a fancy stand mixer, possibly secondhand, but storage space is at a premium in my little studio, so only things that are really necessary can earn their space. Well, in theory at least. Once I finish clearing out, that will actually be the case.)

I’d post cupcake pics, but the camera batteries are dead and I can’t find my recharger. I know I brought it to the office because my mouse batteries were dying, and I thought I’d brought it back home, but now I can’t find it. (It is, of course, black, which means I’ll never find it in my very dark, very chaotic flat.) Hmm. If I can’t find it soonish, I’ll have to buy another one. It might be a good idea to have a backup recharger, anyway.

As an aside, oven thermometers are among the greatest inventions ever. Cheap, and more reliable than the built-in thermostats and preheat-alert gadgets and so on, at least on my overly optimistic oven, which tends to say it’s achieved 350 degrees when, in fact, it’s only at 275. It’s amazing what a difference baking at the actual correct temperature makes, really.

I just thought I’d mention that the Odessa Fallow Deer Reserve people were kind enough to send a thank-you e-mail for the small donation I sent them. That sort of thing doesn’t happen very often, especially with small concerns like this (basically, it’s five people who are sheltering the deer until they can get them into a permanent reserve), so I thought that was rather sweet of them.

(One problem with del.icio.us bookmarking is that it doesn’t let you write voluminous notes, but cuts you off unceremoniously after a certain number of characters — but still lets you keep on typing merrily away. It can be hard to fit everything you want to say in under the limit. Maybe I should try using PressIt more, and just locally bookmarking pages. Hmm.)

In other news, I’ve ordered a new CD: “Drunkard’s Prayer,” by Over the Rhine, primarily on the strength of one song that was highlighted on Fabulist! a few weeks ago. I’m not really sure how to characterize them — the original song I heard, “Hush Now (Stella’s Tarantella),” kind of reminded me vaguely of some of Janis Ian’s less despairing songs; “Moth,” an MP3 of which is available on the OtR site, seemed to evoke the Cocteau Twins, only with more intelligible lyrics. If I can remember, I’ll try to post a little review once I’ve received the CD and had a chance to absorb it.

Finally, the Great Cupcake-Making Day has finally arrived: one full recipe of Fauxstess cupcakes (that’s 12 cupcakes total) to be made this afternoon, for transport to the office tomorrow to mark Alan Rickman’s 60th birthday. Sadly, I haven’t yet decided on the design for the cupcake tops (assuming that I can get the royal icing consistency right this time); I may just wimp out and do random swirls or zigzags or something. My icing skills are too primitive to attempt anything fancy. Please keep your fingers crossed that the icing isn’t too fluid this time.

Addendum: Isa Chandra Moskowitz’s upcoming cookbook, due out this autumn, is going to be all cupcakes, all the time. A copy of Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World would be an ideal present for moi, should any of you (perhaps those of the parental persuasion?) happen to be in the market for such a thing around that time. (Just saying.) Although, on further reflection, I probably won’t want to wait to get my mitts on a copy, so I’ll probably just preorder it as soon as I can. Never mind. I’m bad at delaying gratification anyway.

I’m particularly anticipating the Mexican Hot Chocolate cupcakes, which can be seen here. So pretty. Mine won’t be nearly as pretty, but oh well.

• Odessa Fallow Deer Reserve
  Via VP: “a recently converted deer sanctuary in Odessa, Ontario [has] 105 deer that a hobby farmer couldn’t deal with any more, and rather than let the deer be killed, they’re working to get them transferred to a sanctuary.” They take PayPal donations.
  (tags: animalwelfare deer rescue donation)

• Paris Hilton flour-bombed in anti-fur demo
  Not that I really endorse bursting bags of flour over people who wear fur (it’s better than throwing paint, but still a mite rude), but when it happens to Paris Hilton, it’s just funny. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving twit. :)
  (tags: antifur demonstration)

Item 1: Something about this time of year seems to kill my appetite. I keep forgetting to eat until 2:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon, and then only realize the omission because I’m getting woozy, not because I’m hungry. Odd. A similar thing happened last year, but I chalked it up to deadline stress. Maybe it’s something to do with the angle of the sunlight or hibernation impulses or something. Whatever. It’s a savings on food bills, but kind of a drag when most of your Flickr photos are built around your latest baking or cooking projects. I hope to get the lead out of my lingerie this weekend, though, because Alan Rickman’s 60th birthday is Tuesday, and those celebratory Fauxstess cupcakes aren’t going to bake themselves.

Item 2: If, while on a walk, your dog happens to wrap his extendable leash several times around a passerby’s legs, thus rendering her incapable of walking, it is considered polite to at least pretend to apologize. Just smiling and shrugging and letting the person try to extricate herself is ever so slightly rude. Yes, Woman Walking the Pug this afternoon, I’m talking to you. :P (This icon is meant to be a tongue-sticking-out image, but on my screen it looks more like an open-mouthed grin. Please revise the image as needed in your head.)

Item 3: So far, the plan to reduce consumption from Whole Foods and other chains seems to be going fairly well, though I do still drop in on WF about once a week. (I’m weak, I know; it’s a love/hate thing.) However, if this one particular cashier asks me ONE MORE TIME, “Oh, are you a vegetarian? I’m a vegetarian, too. Been one for years. It’s so much easier now than it used to be; so many products,” then I am going to throw my little head back and scream as loud as I possibly can. I swear, she has said the exact same thing the last four times I have been through her line. Has she nothing else to contribute to the conversational world? Are these the only words in her vocabulary? I don’t mean to be snarky — well, not overmuch — but the brilliant revelation that she’s a vegetarian and has been one for years and likes eating packaged foods has kind of lost its allure. I’m sick of it already. Next time, I should viciously interrupt her as she gets started: “Why, yes, I’m a vegetarian. I hear you’re a vegetarian, too. Have been for years. Don’t you find there are a lot more products available now that vegetarians can eat? Do these words sound at ALL familiar to you? Huh?” Or I could just not go through her line. The thing is, almost all the cashiers there annoy me in some fashion — which is yet another reason I prefer to hit Return to Eden or Rainbow over lunch, instead. (The tricky bit is then to remember to get the chilled goods out of the fridge at work and take them home, before they throw everything out on Friday.)

Sometimes it takes me a little while to get around to watching movies — like, 10 years or more. I didn’t watch “Die Hard” until the late 1990s, for instance, firstly because I have to be in a particularly tolerant mood to stand Bruce Willis, and secondly because the first time I stumbled across it on television, I quickly realized that Alan Rickman was playing the villain, and thus his character would die at the end,* and that would be too depressing.

Thus, it was only last night that I finally watched Michael Moore’s “Roger & Me,” which came out in 1989. Overall, I enjoyed it, though I did feel bad for the people working at the country club — they were just doing their jobs, mostly seemed to have no control over club policy and probably couldn’t have afforded memberships at the very place they worked, and didn’t deserve to be hassled (though MM was very polite in his hassling, I thought). Other notable features included the hilarious 1980s hair — I have had many ill-judged haircuts in my life, but I am proud to say that I never hairsprayed until my hair was poufy and stood up like a big fluffball, increasing my apparent height by about five inches — and the poor mayor who was trying so desperately hard to find some sort of tourist attraction to keep the town alive.

My main problem? The bunny-butchering scene came as a complete shock. Objectively, its inclusion makes sense — the woman doing the butchering was selling rabbits “as pets or meat” in a desperate attempt to survive in a town with overwhelming unemployment — but I guess I wasn’t expecting them to show quite the lengths she had to go to. I felt bad for her (and for the bunny too, obviously); desperation can make you do things you ordinarily wouldn’t even consider. I hope she made it out and is now in a situation where she doesn’t have to worry about where she’ll get her next meal, or how she’ll keep the roof over her head, and, I hope, doesn’t have to sell rabbits dead or alive any more. (Not said in judgment, but in sympathy. Per Maslow’s heirarchy, it’s damned difficult to worry about philosophical abstracts such as whether it’s right for you to eat animals when you’re not even sure your basic survival needs for shelter and food and security are going to be met. Not impossible, obviously, but a lot harder. Basic survival needs tend to be rather insistently distracting.)

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*Don’t think that warrants a spoiler warning at this point.

Today has been characterized by the fates repeatedly ambushing me in peculiar ways. This morning, Flickr was (briefly) blocked by the firewall at work because of (dum dum DUM) nudity issues. I freely admit to having pictures of naked dogs on my page, and perhaps a few gratuitously lascivious pasta shots, but no split cupcake shots or squash domination scenes. I definitely draw the line there. I do have some class.

Anyway, so that got sorted out, and then the fates decreed that walking the dog while talking on the phone is too complex a task for me, and decided to humiliate me publicly. Let me just say that if you have long hair and use a retractable leash, do not hold the leash and your mobile phone in the same hand while, and at the same time, bending forward to pick up after your dog in the manner of responsible dog people everywhere, because your hair will get caught in the leash when it retracts and you’ll stand there like a complete dork with eight inches of hair snared inside the leash handle and other dog walkers will laugh at you.