The bathroom looks amazingly better. The ceiling has been mudded, the wallpaper finished — it looks like a bathroom near completion instead of a semi-civilized hole to pee in. Unfortunately, we need more mud, which means a trip to town, which means we may as well pick up some veggies, more hummus, more appropriate shade cloth for Siberia….

I see why a trip to town, 20 minutes away, turns hours long and eats the day.

We collected a gallon of berries in half an hour, when dusk made it impossible to pick berries without picking thorns. Ouch! They were wonderful al Mascarpone (which means with gangster from Madagascar*. Don’t ask me, I just report the trivia, I don’t make it up…), and wonderful compoted and heaped over buckwheat pancakes this morning. More are definately in order, however.

    Get it together, Mnarra:

  1. Augh! Kill whichever puppy has gas! [chokes] Nothing worse than a puppy whistling at one end….
  2. Finish this damned chapter so I can get to fun stuff, like death-threats and enormous guilt
  3. Get supplies from town
  4. Hang shade cloth on Siberia
  5. Water Siberia
  6. Write about puppy
  7. Finish mudding the bathroom
  8. Make beer
  9. Write critiques for the1st100words
  10. Pick more berries tonight

*I have just been informed that I was mistaken about the etymology of al Mascarpone. Mascarpone is a small village in northern Italy, known for producing a wide variety of neutered chickens for show gardens, presumably for the benfit of the upper classes. Apparently, these are bred free-range and ubiquitous. You can’t swing…well, a dead castrato rooster without hitting one. Any dish, therefor, eaten in this town was eaten in the company of modified poultry. Fruit al Mascarpone, being fruit with a rich cheese sauce, actually refers to the origins of the dish, and should be interpreted as “fruit eaten in the company of castrated chickens.”

Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry