Tag Archives: home
Three Hundred & Sixty Five: Days at Home / Seventeen.
Three Hundred & Sixty Five: Days at Home / Sixteen.
Three Hundred & Sixty Five: Days at Home / Fifteen.
Day-Before-Payday Baking: Partially-Eaten-Apple Shortcake.
Find, in every room of your house, a partially eaten Granny Smith apple. This is your reality now. Don’t fight it.
In a large bowl sift 2 cups of self-raising flour, 1 cup of brown sugar and a pinch of cinnamon. Add to the dry ingredients 1 tablespoon of vinegar (I use Apple Cider), 6 tablespoons of olive oil and 1 cup of luke-warm water. Mix until combined. Pour half of the mixture into a cake pan that you have either greased or lined or is made of silicone because you are terribly modern. Do this all very quickly, as to not attract the attention of the children. If they do wander into the kitchen, looking for something to eat or ruin, simply hold aloft one of the partially eaten Granny Smith apples and make leading and severe eye contact.
Thinly slice 2 partially eaten Granny Smith apples. Layer these on top of the mixture and sprinkle with brown sugar. Pour the last half of the mixture over top and smooth over with the back of a spoon until it is completely covering the partially eaten Granny Smith apples.
Bake at 175 degrees for 30 minutes, or until a knife comes out clean.
Cool on a wire rack, dust with icing sugar and serve.
Pro-tip: The children will still not eat the apples. But Partially Eaten Partially-Eaten-Apple Shortcake is so meta it’s best not to think about it.
Three Hundred & Sixty Five: Days at Home / Thirteen.
Three Hundred & Sixty Five: Days at Home / Twelve.
Let That Be A Lesson To You – The Story of a Saturday Morning.
A morning with the house to myself. I sleep in and make a lavish breakfast that no one asks me for a bite of. I roam the internet with abandon, even though there was a beautiful day at the door. I do all the things that seem like indulgences to those with children, and like a regular Saturday to those who don’t. You lousy ingrates.
I hear the hound; whimpering and wailing and tearing around the property. ‘Cat’, I think. But his behaviour persists long after any cat would stand for this nonsense. Then I hear it; not one, but two sets of scrabbleclaws raging around in my kitchen. I storm through the house with those footsteps you use when Someone Is In Trouble.
And there she is; Otto’s Girlfriend. A Pitt-Dober-Weiler with a belly of saggedy nipples. As I approach her she takes off, hauling her heft over my 6 foot fence. She’s had a lot of practice at this, you can tell. Otto is naturally forlorn at the hand love has dealt him – she was delivered to him, his dream girl of questionable morals, only for her to be taken from him as quickly as she arrived. He has not spoken to me since.
I tell him that no nice girl has even had to haul ass over a fence to escape a boys mother. And then remember, I have been that girl.
Which has produced the pervading thought: NEED TALLER FENCE.







