Walkings (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} unrendered) wrote,@ 2008-01-15 23:08:00 |
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now, take four an twenty blackbirds...
I don't think I'm actually OCD, although it's fun to say it sometimes, but I do have the ability to concentrate deeply on very detailed activities for long periods. This makes me adept at tasks such as cross-hatching or making pies.
Pies. You pour a couple cups of flour into a bowl and then you cut the cold butter into teeny-weeny cubes, adding them one by one and rolling them with your fingers in the flour so they don't stick to each other. You slowly add cold water to this until you have dough. Roll it out, cut little "v" shaped vents, and chill. Then, you peel the apples. I'm back in the east, so I have access to Macintosh apples again. Divide them into quarters, gouge out the seedy innards, and slice. If inspired, you put the peels in a coffee grinder or food processor and throw them in as well, all along with whatever random assortment of sugars and spices you feel like it. Maybe a little more butter or cheese.
And then you bake it lovingly, and take it out piping hot with the whole house smelling like heaven.
THAT is when you drop it on the floor.
And then you go to fetch your camera, because why loose such an impressive sight. After that, you're free to scoop up some bits that didn't touch the floor to taste. Yes, it was a lovely pie.
And strangely that felt like an accomplishment this evening. The making of the pie, and a taste of what it was. Makes me feel all zen (and shit), the road and not the goal and all that, but I was surprised at how little it bothered me.
Meh. Not too surprised I guess. I'm rather accustomed to me, being that I am me and all that.
I don't think I'm actually OCD, although it's fun to say it sometimes, but I do have the ability to concentrate deeply on very detailed activities for long periods. This makes me adept at tasks such as cross-hatching or making pies.
Pies. You pour a couple cups of flour into a bowl and then you cut the cold butter into teeny-weeny cubes, adding them one by one and rolling them with your fingers in the flour so they don't stick to each other. You slowly add cold water to this until you have dough. Roll it out, cut little "v" shaped vents, and chill. Then, you peel the apples. I'm back in the east, so I have access to Macintosh apples again. Divide them into quarters, gouge out the seedy innards, and slice. If inspired, you put the peels in a coffee grinder or food processor and throw them in as well, all along with whatever random assortment of sugars and spices you feel like it. Maybe a little more butter or cheese.
And then you bake it lovingly, and take it out piping hot with the whole house smelling like heaven.
THAT is when you drop it on the floor.
And then you go to fetch your camera, because why loose such an impressive sight. After that, you're free to scoop up some bits that didn't touch the floor to taste. Yes, it was a lovely pie.
And strangely that felt like an accomplishment this evening. The making of the pie, and a taste of what it was. Makes me feel all zen (and shit), the road and not the goal and all that, but I was surprised at how little it bothered me.
Meh. Not too surprised I guess. I'm rather accustomed to me, being that I am me and all that.
