My friends told me tonight that I could never live in a commune because no one would ever eat my food. Testament to that statement is my experiment last night with rice pudding. My mom made it a couple of weeks ago and it sounded good. I didn't actually think of rice pudding until I had already cooked a big batch of brown rice. Now, I don't know if I'm the only person who has ever made rice pudding with brown rice, but I think I might be. It also might be a safe bet that the brown rice combined with soy milk with vanilla has only been attempted by destitute individuals.
The gray/brown milky substance looked like grains of wheat immersed in a mud puddle. I stirred and stirred for 40 minutes and it only got uglier. Finally, I dished my concoction into custard cups.
I opened the fridge tonight and remembered my dessert. I chewed my rice pudding and wondered why brown rice is tougher than white rice. I also don't know if the soy milk producers envisioned pudding as the final product. It tasted pretty good by my standards. On the other hand, it probably won't be a commune fav.
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Rossetti on a snowy night.
Well, twenty years have passed since then:
My sister now, a stately wife
Still fair, looks back in peace and sees
The longer half of life--
The longer half of prosperous life,
With little grief, or fear, or fret:
She, loved and loving long ago,
Is loved and loving yet.
-Christina Rossetti, 1856
My sister now, a stately wife
Still fair, looks back in peace and sees
The longer half of life--
The longer half of prosperous life,
With little grief, or fear, or fret:
She, loved and loving long ago,
Is loved and loving yet.
-Christina Rossetti, 1856
Hope
is the thing with feathers that perches on the soul
and sings a tune without the words and never stops at all
E. Dickenson
and sings a tune without the words and never stops at all
E. Dickenson
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