Peonies from the farmers market

They were buds this morning.

The dessert so nice I made it twice

Although I would consider myself a semi-competent cooktress, I haven't made many forays into baking. Whether this is due to rabid fear of failure or my complacency with a good ol' pint of B & J's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk, I do not know. My repertoire consisted solely of apple crisp and that ill-fated Disaster Cake... until now.

Do you read food blogs? You should. By blogs, of course, I am only referring to the exalted Smitten Kitchen, which I discovered through my dear friend McSamalama. All other blogs pale in comparison to Deb's beautious photos, story-ful prose and down-right darn good eatin'. I've made this Moroccan Stew for a few dinner parties, and each time it enters my guests' mouths they literally shriek with deliciousness.

Deb has often tempted me with her delectable desserts, but until yesterday I was too chicken to give them a go. Dangle anything strawberry-rhubarb in front of my face, though, and I'll do anything you say. Her strawberry-rhubarb crumble was too mouth-watering to pass by.

I made a batch last night along with some Quiche Gone Wild and broiled asparagus to surprise the manf after his long day of selling snake oil at Barnes and Noble. The guy thought he hated rhubarb. You bet your bip he thought again. His verdict? "Perfect."

We got invited to a Memorial Day barbecue today. I got a little cocky, and decided to use the same recipe to make my very first pie with the extra shell I had (I'm too chicken to make my own crust just yet). Behold:


I know that if the pie fell or if the stray alley cat jumped up and snatched it, it would make for a much better tale. But that hasn't happened. So this is the end. OKBYE.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

These geese wandered within five feet of me while I was waiting to be picked up from my Excel training at a "learning center" in Beaverton. I derived great amusement from imagining them waddling up to my instructor and honking, "You're a quack!" (He wasn't, but, you know... puns.)


The farmers market has been back in action for weeks now, but I only just made my way down there this morning. I wish I could send you a smell-o-gram from this place. Eau de Sustainability, I tell you.


I stumbled upon proof of what I've always known while at the Rose Garden this week. That could totally be my handwriting from a past life.

My first piece of crocheted art

About a month ago I went to a crochet-a-thon at the Museum of Contemporary Craft to aid in a new project by fiber artist Mandy Greer. Though I've been knitting for about six years, the only crocheting I've mastered is the chain stitch. With the help of a crochet book my ma got me for Channukah to augment what I learned at the museum, I decided to make a doily.

I thought I was following the directions correctly, but instead of a flat, circular piece of fabric, I ended up with a cone:


At first, I thought: baby hat! I don't know too many infants with cone heads, though, so that was out. Eventually, inspiration struck: bra cup. I set to work making a bridge to go between them, and attempted to make the new cup from the bottom up. Things didn't quite go as planned, and I ended up with the doily I had originally tried to make:


Whoopsies. Do you want to see how silly this looks? Of course you do.


Since the only mirror we have in our new apartment is this small one in the bathroom, I enlisted the help of my infinitely helpful and very shirtless boyfriend to further illustrate the depth of my art.


And now, a side view:


Hawt.