Tuesday, May 03, 2005
It's on fire guys, what should I do?
L'Inventaire Fantome is something you should see. Amazing, the things that can be done with some ingenuity. I know I missed at least half the short script, since my French has disintegrated into "J'espere que tu te noie", "qu'est-ce que c'est?" and "Donne moi le remote control" but it was fantastic regardless.
Earlier this week we had an incident in the kitchen. By "incident" I mean we were watching tv in the living room and my mom called to us "It's on fire, what should I do?"
"Huh?" "What? What's burning?"
A quick exodus to the kitchen revealed 3-foot flames(not huge, but much larger than we were accustomed to having on our electric stovetop) leaping from the pan my mum was making chicken in. We opened all the windows and contemplated the situation.
"Don't put water on it, that 's grease right?"
Eventually the flames died down. Suprisingly, the chicken was just fine.
Later, I made crepes and turned them into funky blintzes. They weren't thin enough but I made a cream cheese/sugar/vanilla/sour cream filling that is much less disgusting than it sounds, wrapped them up, and sprinkled powdered sugar on top. Baked then broiled the sugar made the tops crispy. I'm rotten at following directions. Luckily, when I make it all up as I go along everything seems to turn out well.
There was also blackberry jam. I love jam.
To-day was the last day of my British authors class. We met at a local coffee house(mediocre at best) and shared stories, passages, and whatever came into discussion. There are a few people in the class that have some amazing stories, talent, or both. At the end I shared Hemingway's quote describing Fitzgerald's relationship to his writing:
" His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless. "
It seemed appropriate. -- G 'Bye, Sonya -- . ( 3.5.05 ) .
L'Inventaire Fantome is something you should see. Amazing, the things that can be done with some ingenuity. I know I missed at least half the short script, since my French has disintegrated into "J'espere que tu te noie", "qu'est-ce que c'est?" and "Donne moi le remote control" but it was fantastic regardless.
Earlier this week we had an incident in the kitchen. By "incident" I mean we were watching tv in the living room and my mom called to us "It's on fire, what should I do?"
"Huh?" "What? What's burning?"
A quick exodus to the kitchen revealed 3-foot flames(not huge, but much larger than we were accustomed to having on our electric stovetop) leaping from the pan my mum was making chicken in. We opened all the windows and contemplated the situation.
"Don't put water on it, that 's grease right?"
Eventually the flames died down. Suprisingly, the chicken was just fine.
Later, I made crepes and turned them into funky blintzes. They weren't thin enough but I made a cream cheese/sugar/vanilla/sour cream filling that is much less disgusting than it sounds, wrapped them up, and sprinkled powdered sugar on top. Baked then broiled the sugar made the tops crispy. I'm rotten at following directions. Luckily, when I make it all up as I go along everything seems to turn out well.
There was also blackberry jam. I love jam.
To-day was the last day of my British authors class. We met at a local coffee house(mediocre at best) and shared stories, passages, and whatever came into discussion. There are a few people in the class that have some amazing stories, talent, or both. At the end I shared Hemingway's quote describing Fitzgerald's relationship to his writing:
" His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless. "
It seemed appropriate. -- G 'Bye, Sonya -- . ( 3.5.05 ) .