Does it help you feel better that this is just what we do when we're in love?
The weeping cherry was beginning to approach Melvillean dimensions in my inability to photograph it in good light, so this afternoon before my phone appointment I ran out with ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch and my camera, determined to give it one last try before impermanence caught up with either of us. Fortunately, since neither the tree nor I were in a novel by Melville (or Miéville), it worked out.
Thar she blows!
The blossoms are reaching the end of their operational life, but they still pour down beautifully from the sky.
We're not actually sure of the species of tree flowering just within the fence of the now-shuttered playground on our street—they're the right white cloud for Bradford pears, but they don't smell weird enough. I never remember that the little semicircle of park benches at the entrance to the playground is technically named Vincent Brogna Square. All these odd little memorial corners of the city.
Spotted in a neighbor's yard: Audrey Tulip.
Spotted on the dining room table: Autolycus Valentine.
Rob meticulously documented the making of last night's lemon cake. I am especially pleased with the action shots. I am still running a low-grade fever and my airways hate me and I feel like hell, but since I ran up and down the equivalent of six flights of stairs and my oxygen saturation still tests high normal for sea level, I think I can ease off worrying about pneumonia. We are thinking of baking a coffee cake next.
spatch and my camera, determined to give it one last try before impermanence caught up with either of us. Fortunately, since neither the tree nor I were in a novel by Melville (or Miéville), it worked out.
Thar she blows!
The blossoms are reaching the end of their operational life, but they still pour down beautifully from the sky.
We're not actually sure of the species of tree flowering just within the fence of the now-shuttered playground on our street—they're the right white cloud for Bradford pears, but they don't smell weird enough. I never remember that the little semicircle of park benches at the entrance to the playground is technically named Vincent Brogna Square. All these odd little memorial corners of the city.
Spotted in a neighbor's yard: Audrey Tulip.
Spotted on the dining room table: Autolycus Valentine.
Rob meticulously documented the making of last night's lemon cake. I am especially pleased with the action shots. I am still running a low-grade fever and my airways hate me and I feel like hell, but since I ran up and down the equivalent of six flights of stairs and my oxygen saturation still tests high normal for sea level, I think I can ease off worrying about pneumonia. We are thinking of baking a coffee cake next.
no subject
That lemon cake looked delicious.
no subject
Thank you! He just looks like that. It is an unfair advantage.
That lemon cake looked delicious.
It is my mother's version of Maida Heatter's East 62nd Street Lemon Cake. We butter the pan without flouring it, use lemon extract instead of lemon zest, leave the salt out in favor of salted butter, bake at 350°F, and use at least a full cup of lemon juice with an appropriate ratio of sugar for the glaze and don't bother with heating it, just stir until it supersaturates. It is essentially a pound cake with a pile of lemon. I've never had it go wrong.