Once or twice a year, I drive the fifteen or so minutes to Stan’s, a homely, rundown shop in Santa Clara. From the window, you can see the doughnuts being cut from slabs of rolled-out dough. There are several people sitting on stools at the counter, and usually five or six waiting in line, crammed in by the door. People smile. Prices are posted on the wall behind the racks where freshly glazed doughnuts sit, dripping. No one minds waiting, because that means the doughnuts are warm when they’re packed into the cardboard boxes (if you’re buying a dozen) or the white bags. Sometimes there are jelly-filled, sometimes not. I usually get the regular glazed, big, hefty ones so unlike the Krispy Kremes. It is possible to eat two, but difficult to rise from your chair afterward. Once or twice a year, it’s okay. That means I have one or two trips coming up.
I use it as a pizza dough, for cinnamon rolls, and dinner rolls. It probably makes good doughnuts, though I’ve not tried. Not as sticky as regular homemade dough, and no mess to clean as well. When the kids were little, I’d leave some out on the counter to thaw, only to find later that it had odd impressions, and was even misshapen from time to time. Turns out they loved to poke it, calling it the ‘pat-able bread’.
Sad to say, they still do this.
For all their bluster and posturing, ravens seem to be very camera shy. Before the rain began anew, this one pecked around the skylight for a long time.
A bit of clearing at the end of the day, but it didn’t last. The white Christmas lights on the shrubs next to the kitchen window were needed during supper. When the rain isn’t tapping on the skylights, the gutters overflow.
I could live here in a more or less constant storm situation. But I think my feet would be colder.
When it doesn’t stop raining for days and days, visions of pot roast come to mind: piping hot, chunks of meat cooked till fork-tender, with onions, potatoes and carrots, and lots of dark gravy to spoon over noodles or rice. I have something fairly close.
Yesterday I simmered boneless short rib meat till it could barely be lifted without breaking apart. I will make a stew with part of it, and maybe chili with the rest. But definitely something served in big bowls and eaten with spoons. There’s even half a loaf of cheese bread that can be slathered with garlic butter.
From NZine, an article about a drought or two, and a storm or two.
He’s here, isn’t he. Beating his drum and shaking his staff.
Around here, it seems to emanate from the concrete of the patio, sidewalk, and driveway, though the smell coming from the driveway is murkier, grittier, oilier. In the side yard, it’s musty and heavy from the soil and dead leaves. But overall, it does smell fresh and good. It’s called petrichor. Because the ground and most surfaces are saturated, we will not experience petrichor for some time.
How the Indians stole fire from the jaguar, who once stood like a man, and hunted with bow and arrow.
So much rain, so little sun. This was taken last year at a farmers market.