This weekend marked a much-deserved rest after a frenetic week of running around getting last-minute tasks done, goodbye lunches for ex-coworkers, throwing surprise cake parties, and of course, getting ready for a murder mystery where, as it turned out, yours truly Did It (in the cafe, with the potassium cyanide). And they never suspected! Mwahahahahaha!
(On an unrelated note, I discovered far too late into the preparation for that evening that I have lost every single one of my bobby pins. I used to have a small box full of them, all carefully horded from grade 7 onwards. Whence my faithful hairpins, whence??)
All in all, it was nice to have absolutely nothing to do on Sunday after everything was over (although some people apparently felt the need to put us slackers to shame, and be productive). Given that we are, in fact, slackers, and the Far Too Cold To Skate weather that day, The Boy decided to finally light the fire we’d been talking about for a couple weeks now.
(Although I helped with the starting and the poking, I will say he did all of the manly hauling of wood in from the garage, as I was far too cozy to think about taking off my slippers, or putting on outerwear and getting colder for the sake of getting a fire going.)
Doesn’t it look toasty? Well it was! And there was knitting and hot chocolate for me, the super skills competition and comic books for The Boy, and even sunshine for awhile. We learned that Guinness isn’t a big fan of fires, although she retreated fairly gracefully to the basement. Cashew, however, is bizarrely terrified of the fire. (She did rally up some gumption once there were only embers though, and stood for several long minutes — gopher-like — peering through the grate.) There was also a little more smokiness than anticipated, and some blankets which need the campfire smell washed out of them, but in spite of that, I have no regrets about how we spent our Sunday afternoon.
I do, however, have regrets about a project from the previous weekend. Behold, if you will, the Face Of Failure:
I’ve been finding for some time now that my bread, while admittedly more whole-grain-ey and hippie-tastic than The Boy might like, was definitely a little far over on the Dense Chewy Cardboard side of the bread scale. When my parents had visited earlier last year, my dad had suggested that perhaps my yeast was too blame. After this latest eggy insult, I checked and apparently my yeast kicked it in August 2008.
So! Good news! It’s not me — it’s them.
I’ll have to pick up some fresh yeast and try again, hopefully with fluffier, tastier results.