spoon fed

I will not bore or horrify you with further scenes from the front.  No blow-by-blow on the ewe with the prolapse and the vet's MacGyver-esque repair thereof ( let's just say he put the "butt" back in buttons), no cataloging of the rest of the week's adventures with intramural swapping of head cold and stomach flu germs, no tally on the number of dirty towels generated by cold lambs taking a spa break by the woodstove indoors.



None of that.  Just a little gooey lamb photography, and a travelogue of cooking fantasies.  You will note my armchair travel was mainly routed through pudding territory.  What I want, when I feel taxed, is something from a spoon.

  • Not pudding, but visually appealing: this blog (I can tell that both her kitchen and her sketchbooks would be very tidy, which is inspirational), and these cake servers, for the casually elegant, hip and funky, mismatched vintage groovy stylish life I lead in my mind.

  • This king of all rice puddings, which I devoured, despite making it absolutely wrong (though I only ever buy or cook short grain brown rice, all I had--mysterious!--in the cupboard was long grain, and I added the flaked coconut too early, forgot to soak the fruit, and am a full-fat dairy girl all the way). Rice pudding is almost always all wrong, but this one is all right.

  • In the meantime, a little good news in the form of hope for the future makes an excellent topping.