I read somewhere a joke that all vegetarians and vegans eat are stuffed capsicums. Ha, ha. If you fancy confirming the stereotype, hit the comments to see how they’re made.
I was missing her today, and missing France. So I did something that always makes me feel closer to her: I bought some roasted chestnuts on the street. I had them with her for the first time one freezing night when I was 7 or 8 (we bought them Place des Chapeliers in my hometown and shared them). I always feel she is closer when I eat them. I can’t wait to share chestnuts with her again.
Some veganized Anzac cookies and a glass of Bonsoy, that’s what.
Today I got seized by such an urge to eat biscuits that I had to make some, right then. My excuse is that I gave half a litre of blood yesterday, so I am giving myself a pass for the next week or so (about how long I was told it would take me to make it back up).
Recipe in the comments.
One night while walking our Mira about 7 years ago, we stumbled on a dead cat (the poor thing had been hit by a car). When we got home I called the city rangers to ask them to come get him (even dead I couldn’t bear the thought he would be out there through the night).
The ranger couldn’t come. I insisted, saying there was little to no dignity in said dead cat being left out where he was, most likely for up to 3 days (these things always happen at the start of a long weekend). The ranger said: ‘You could go get him and take him to the animal hospital’. I said: ‘I might just do that’ (it sounded like a dare to me). So we did: we went back, put the cat in a box, and drove him to the animal hospital. With all windows down because, well, he smelt kind of bad. And we never really managed to get rid of that dead cat smell in our car (we have since then sold it, so no word on whether 7 years on it still smells).
Christian said: ‘Promise me that we won’t drive anything else that’s dead in our car, ever again’. I said ‘Deal’.
Last night Christian and Mira found a little baby bird that had fallen out of his nest. Not dead! He qualified for getting in the car. I got attached and named him William. William sadly died later that night at the animal hospital, but with a full belly and in a warm blanket. I am both devastated but okay with it. C’est la vie.
Not much time and not much inspiration means errrrr… this.
But the little strawberry jam croissants (which I made for knitting night some time ago) were nice. In fact, looking at the picture I am seriously considering making some (even at 9PM, in my tired and grumpy disposition. Amazing.)
No, I’m not going Dadaist on you (I will leave that to Nichole). I end up saying all this very frequently actually, except not like that: by spelling my name – S.A.B.I.N.E. (I know, how clever of me).
In this country for some unknown (and slightly irritating) reason, I have to spell my first name on an almost daily basis. If my father had won (and I had been called Florence) I’m fairly sure I would never have to do that. But my mum prevailed, so I have a shorter and more difficult name (the one she always knew she would give to one of her daughters someday). So I might have to spell my name very often but it’s a gift from my mum – something precious between her and me that was long coming.
This was really a strange experience: these things are marketed as ‘faux’ chicken nuggets (another use of French that both annoys me and cracks me up at the same time – don’t ask me to mime that one).
The thing is, they really do taste like chicken, from what I remember. So it’s very disconcerting and bizarre to eat them. I don’t think I can cope with the contradiction of meat-tasting soy protein. Does that make me wimpish?
Recipe in the comments.
Me: ‘There’s one of my kind in there. How does that make you feel?’
Christian: ‘I’m scared, soon you will take over and it will all be escargots and tiny cups of coffee’.
We got take away tonight and were served by a French guy. Christian fears an invasion.
Sundays are always vegan French toast for brunch (which Christian prefers to the eggy version by the way – just in case anyone was mean spirited enough to imply I was forcing veganized food on him).
And if Saturdays I am motivated you might find me making banana pancakes, because no matter how good it is, eating vegan French toast 2 days in a row, well I couldn’t.
Recipes in the comments.
On Friday morning nice and early I went to the Blood Bank in South Melbourne, intent on doing a good deed. Except, my blood refused to flow past filling a teeny bag. And I went really pale (I’m already pretty pasty, how can you detect further paleness on my face??). So that little bruise in the crook of my elbow was kind of for nothing, and I feel inadequate. Nuts.