Did you like it when a week was like a full year long?
And this afternoon was my father's birthday observed, canceled last night after my niece began to cough her face off and then reactivated this morning when she had stopped coughing at all. We made him a Pesach-compliant Queen Mother's Cake, known more traditionally in our household as a brick of chocolate. My mother had bought little white chocolate sheep from Burdick's. I made a meadow of green icing to graze them on. Of course I took pictures.
I also took pictures of things that weren't cake. I was pleased to have captured this turquoise inset of sky.
And I could not ignore the weeping cherry, which had exploded into mono no aware when no one was looking.
I am glad our street is not entirely bereft of cherry blossoms this year.
The icing comes from a recipe for hermits: melt two tablespoons of unsalted butter, whisk into a cup and a half of confectioner's sugar with a half-teaspoon of vanilla extract, whisk in an additional two to four tablespoons of boiling water as the desired consistency calls for. For hermits, it is poured on as a glaze. I made it thicker, so that it could be brushed roughly with a sort of grass effect. It looked good by candlelight.
I can take no credit for the strawberry and elderflower filling of the sheep, or their adorable little faces.
The exodus from the erosion of the party. One survivor on its chunk of sugar turf made it as far as our dining room table, where it was carefully prevented from encountering any cats.
I came home in the evening and made dinner with![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch of which I took no pictures, but it was mushroom ravioli with sage and basil alfredo sauce, much to the interest of Autolycus. I am exhausted, but celebrations are important, especially in times of hardship and chaos. Being seventy, my father is now insisting on being referred to as Agent Double-X-35. His birth year was full of flying saucers.
I also took pictures of things that weren't cake. I was pleased to have captured this turquoise inset of sky.
And I could not ignore the weeping cherry, which had exploded into mono no aware when no one was looking.
I am glad our street is not entirely bereft of cherry blossoms this year.
The icing comes from a recipe for hermits: melt two tablespoons of unsalted butter, whisk into a cup and a half of confectioner's sugar with a half-teaspoon of vanilla extract, whisk in an additional two to four tablespoons of boiling water as the desired consistency calls for. For hermits, it is poured on as a glaze. I made it thicker, so that it could be brushed roughly with a sort of grass effect. It looked good by candlelight.
I can take no credit for the strawberry and elderflower filling of the sheep, or their adorable little faces.
The exodus from the erosion of the party. One survivor on its chunk of sugar turf made it as far as our dining room table, where it was carefully prevented from encountering any cats.
I came home in the evening and made dinner with
spatch of which I took no pictures, but it was mushroom ravioli with sage and basil alfredo sauce, much to the interest of Autolycus. I am exhausted, but celebrations are important, especially in times of hardship and chaos. Being seventy, my father is now insisting on being referred to as Agent Double-X-35. His birth year was full of flying saucers.