Milkweed Puff Pastry is my version -- in my 40s -- of Blood Sugar Sex Magic. Remember the Red Hot Chili Peppers?
I'm consumed by pastry. Nature walks. The fate of the dwindling number of the overwintering Mexican monarch butterflies.
I talk to trees. Probably in the near future I have a feeling I am going to put on a muumuu
and it won't be ironic. There won't be a line break. It'll be what I'm wearing.
As I've already said of triceps, having them -- let them go the way of the dodo, and the adorable quaint cabinetry of the library catalog. I will flap my wings.
What a Prufrockian fuss I make over frangipane. ""Do I dare', and 'Do I dare?'" And the answer is yes if the quest is Îles flottantes.
I so totally don't need to click on that. I use phrases that include "the development of the crumb" with my bifocals perched on my nose, uneuphemistically, while my daughter plays the ukulele.
This is no laughing matter. Look at my frown lines. I don't know how much time I have left to get it right is what I think
as I collect the cattails from the swamp and arrange them -- ikebana-ish -- in a tall glass vase.