So Good, It Must've Been Elves
Made my first really truly successful three-herb foccacia last night. Nothing, nothing shall ruin this for me, not The Flint, not The Phelgm, not even a traffic compound >12.5% of my monthly paycheck>.
Recipe follows.
And I've begun the long-overdue experiments with sourdough.
(Ah San Francisco, where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars... I can't say I miss you, but I do feel an occasional honey-roasted nostalgia for the spinach salad at Cafe Borrone in Menlo Park.)
So, yeah, sourdough. The starter's in a jam jar on the kitchen counter. It's a sort of proto-starter at this stage: who knows what sort of family tree of baked goods it will spawn? (Fingers crossed, nothing rancid.)
[UPDATE, two days later: Smells good, yeah, but where are the bubbles?]
One of Ira's nature-loving buddies went on a trip to a threatened forest area (or something) and took some pretty spectacular photographs, and wrote a story (not so spectacular - flowery, rather long-winded, chock-full of stock phrases, and yet, miles better than any non-Fazal writing to grace the pages of The Beard).
Now this would probably never happen at a real newspaper. But for the past four days, I've hijacked the centre spread for Fazal's stories, splashed across in full technicolor... without having to consult El Flinto, and only dropping a word with The Phlegm, along the lines of "Hey, I have a centrespread story. Okay with you?"
So, yeah, centrespreads. Another one coming up. Woohoo-ville.
And I'm taking a long-overdue vacation - two weeks in January - to visit La Famille. Tickets all booked, leave application filed, and a good chunk of my packing done (yes, it's still August). All I need is a little countdown clock and a stapler, and I would have transformed into Milton from Office Space.
So, yeah, vacations. Time to kick back and relax and bake quiche with M&M, my two tiny nieces. Yeah.
Recipe follows.
And I've begun the long-overdue experiments with sourdough.
(Ah San Francisco, where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars... I can't say I miss you, but I do feel an occasional honey-roasted nostalgia for the spinach salad at Cafe Borrone in Menlo Park.)
So, yeah, sourdough. The starter's in a jam jar on the kitchen counter. It's a sort of proto-starter at this stage: who knows what sort of family tree of baked goods it will spawn? (Fingers crossed, nothing rancid.)
[UPDATE, two days later: Smells good, yeah, but where are the bubbles?]
One of Ira's nature-loving buddies went on a trip to a threatened forest area (or something) and took some pretty spectacular photographs, and wrote a story (not so spectacular - flowery, rather long-winded, chock-full of stock phrases, and yet, miles better than any non-Fazal writing to grace the pages of The Beard).
Now this would probably never happen at a real newspaper. But for the past four days, I've hijacked the centre spread for Fazal's stories, splashed across in full technicolor... without having to consult El Flinto, and only dropping a word with The Phlegm, along the lines of "Hey, I have a centrespread story. Okay with you?"
So, yeah, centrespreads. Another one coming up. Woohoo-ville.
And I'm taking a long-overdue vacation - two weeks in January - to visit La Famille. Tickets all booked, leave application filed, and a good chunk of my packing done (yes, it's still August). All I need is a little countdown clock and a stapler, and I would have transformed into Milton from Office Space.
So, yeah, vacations. Time to kick back and relax and bake quiche with M&M, my two tiny nieces. Yeah.
