There's something about finding things just lying around in the great outdoors and taking them home that makes me feel so resourceful, like I'm one of the Boxcar Children. And I think you'll understand completely when I say aspiring to be like Henry, Jessie, Violet and Benny is one of my chief goals in life. Especially because my own siblings and I go boy, girl, girl, boy in birth order JUST LIKE THEM. Fate.
Yesterday I went to the movies to see another group of kiddies I'd very much like to emulate. Sectumsempra! Except not. More like Wingardium Leviosa. Semantics. Anyway. I snarfed way too much popcorn with melted golden topping and cherry cola and was feeling woozy from all the sodium and sugar I'd ingested. I required approximately 1 million salads to counteract the effects, stat, but in a pinch decided I could make do with the blackberry bramble in my alleyway. The bramble may have its roots in someone's yard, but the plant itself leans wantonly into the alley, making its fruit The People's Berries, I speck.
Nevertheless, I was very sureptitious as I pulled one juicy fruit after the other from its be-thorned lair. As soon as I had filled my little plastic container, I raced home with my illegal berries and admired they way they glistened in the sunshine.
I gobbled them up straightaway, and let me tell you. Blackberries never tasted so sweet. So tart. So delicious.
My Portland bosom buddy invited me to a homewares party hosted by her former coworker. The brand was Demarle, a line of French cookery that's all floppy and nonstick and stuff. I was very intrigued, especially by the mini tartlet pan and the mold that would make your baked goods look like a bear. I was close to buying their famous pan, weirdly called a "silpat" for no good reason, until I learned that it would cost about a million dollars. Plus if you're going to be baking things like meat or fish that would "throw their juices," you would need to get the special pan that costs about two million dollars.
Throw their juices? That has to be the funniest/best phrase I have ever heard coming out of a very put-together plastic surgeon wife's mouth while she conducts a live informercial, like, ever. You could use it for expressions of rage ("You'd best step off or I swear I'll throw my juices!") or joy ("I was so psyched I threw my juices!"). But I digress.
By the grace of Moses I was able to get out of there without parting with my dearly-beloved moolala. And I'm so glad I did, because look what I found lying on the sidewalk yesterday:
It's Flexipan, not Demarle, but it's still french! And floppy! I soaked it in soapy water for a good long time last night, but it still has a filmy green tint on top. What think? Should I risk self-poisoning and make some delicious blackberry muffins in this baby? I'm pretty sure that's what Jessie and Violet would do.
And now, as your reward for reading this far, I give you another found object: Mt. Hood, as viewed from Mt. Tabor at sunset: