sometimes i make something so good,i almost don't even wanna share it-
my midsection doesn't need any outward sideways expansion,
and my willpower is limited to accessibility-
if there are tasty treats just hanging out on, sittin' all sorts of pretty
on the countertops of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress?
i'm not sure there's a whole lot of resistance that i'm gonna demonstrate.
i have means, motive, and opportunity,
and that's a recipe for shark-gluttonous overindulgence.
i can't afford to blarp out, man.
there're plenty of things i can't change, that i'll have to endure, like it or not-
and then there are those things i can certainly prevent.
i'm just sayin',
being old, busted, broke, broken, and blarpity?
i like alliteration as much, or more, than the next guy,
but blarps just aren't ever invited to any makeout parties,
and that's one thing i can somewhat structure circumstances
around my stormswept savage appetites,
to keep from becoming a great big fat person......
even though i'd rather keep 'em all to myself,
i'm still gonna distribute the new hottness out amongst the marginally worthy
part-time partial-appreciators and semi-passive participants
of woodsly goodsly workweek interaction out in the world.
i still ate a fresh five feast of the best damned galettes i've baked so far.
too much is the right amount?
check the black-currant-currency-type teleport:
these are what you want in your face.
and that's no joke.
what's the secret?
there's no secret!
you just make what you wish you were eating,
based on what you have on hand.
i still had a big bag of local apples,
(which i've been sharing with crabtree, who absolutely loves them)
and i found some french black currant jammie-jam at the teej,
and forces collided, and fresh-to-death flavor was established.
want some of your own?
then do this-
make a batch of custom sexy pastry dough.
here's the recipe:
2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
a T of sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1 stick plus 3-4T butts
and just enough soymilk to soften and stick it.
^food process the fat and the flour,
and then pulse it enough to barely keep it together once you add that 'milk.
wrap it in plastic, puch it into a circle, and refrigerate it for at least an hour.
that's right, at least an hour, more is much better.
get that sorted,
when it's time to really rock the party?
preheat that oven to 415F.
roll roll roll your dough out on a floured surface,
until you've got it pie-crust-thin. what's that?
roll it until it looks right, man.
get whatever circle template you wanna use ready,
and cut 'em out, laying each on parchment on a cookie sheet.
i got ten out of this last batch.
that black currant jam is the JAM.
it's good, and it's sweet, and it's very juicy.
i put about a tablespoon in the center of each circle,
sliced some skin-still-on smaller apples,
and placed them in a square on top.
that's four sides, and one on the center.
on top of that?
vanilla bean powder, shaken in with light brown sugar.
it was just a matter of crimping the sides in overlapping flaps,
cutting out some cute stars with my new die-cutter,
and baking them for 20 minutes.
the jam melted in between all the cracks and crevices,
which was expert.
the brown sugar glazed everything else through the goodly application
of steam rising up from the apples
and those crusts?
that pastry is the big business barbarian best-case scenario anyway,
so it was dope,
but that was also to be expected.
they were golden, they were pretty, they smelled amazing,
i couldn't just leave 'em alone.
rules is rules.
so i hit each one with a little of the remaining cinnamon-cider creamchee' frosting,
and kapowdered them with a little confection affection,
for an affectation of expertism that went off the hinges,
off the rails, and off the charts,
all the way to eleven.
......and then i ate half of them pretty quickly.
the dog and i burned off most of that on our rainy hike through the neighborhood.
fun little tidbit-
even in the cold november rain,
i still walk my dog.
y'know what everyone else does around here?
especially the second-home out-of-towners?
they just let their dog out.
can you guess what that does to crabtree and i,
as we pass just about every fifth house or so?
it puts us on a dog-bodyslamming wet-wiener-wiping
jumping-mudpuddle butthole-sniffing brouhaha of rough-housing ragnarok,
tugging at me tether, tripping my toes, nipping at my hands and face,
and generally infuriating me to unheard-of levels
of surprisingly un-vegan animal assault.
i will choke both dogs to death, as my nose runs, and my toes numb,
and neither listens, while you enjoy your breakfast in your dry warm house,
unaware that your F*ing A*-hole dog is participating in an excruciating ordeal
wherein my responsible dog-ownership is pitted
against my savage stormswept raging berserker battle-beastly bad attitude towards
all forms of inclement weather,
multiplied by my general, but effusive dislike for other peoples' pets.
dear the whole neighborhood,
sorry i karate'd every one of your dogs in the F*ing face yesterday.
actually, for the sake of true storytelling,
i'm 0% sorry in real life.
and if you'd bothered to come collect your dog,
i'd probably have karate'd you, too.
today is a whole new day,
and if nothing else,
at least it isn't raining.
i'll take a win where i can find one, man;
never quiet, never soft.....