Want a piece of advice? Don't eat old sushi you find in your fridge.
The pie fascination around here frightens me. Do you know that? Taking advice off me on how to make pie is not the way it should be. But, still, I have the Old English Recipe for Pie and I'll share it, because it does make some fine pastry. If at one stage you say to yourself, "This is fucking lot lard here," then you're doing it right.
It goes like this:
8 oz of flour.
1 table spoon of cornflour.
Pinch of salt.
2 oz of butter.
2 oz of lard.
2 oz of cold water.
Now, another important thing to remember here is that you've really got to boil up your own apples and apricots and whatever you use, okay? My Nanna is a sweet, lovely old English woman, but there's nothing quite like hearing her say, "You're using ingredients from a can?" to make you feel like an idiot. It's insane, but true, and if she finds out you've been misusing her recipe like that, she'll call you up and set you straight. Plus, it tastes better. The other trick to it is to sift your flower two or three times, to turn it into a fine grain.
Like all things, cut back and add more as you go. If you want sweet pastry, turn the pinch of salt into a tablespoon of sugar.
So, yes, I'm still doing the thirty questions, or whatever it is now. Got sidetracked, but it's amusing me still. You can still leave words and ideas and such round, since I've got about eight slots empty from a mix of double ups and emptiness. Knock yourself out. Anything goes.
Yesterday, artbroken did the meme where you find ten introductions and put them up for people to guess the book they've come from. I liked that, party because I'm a sucker for a good introduction, and partly because I also think it ties nicely into the what kind of reader thing from yesterday, so I'm going to put up a bunch.
We are falling.
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aurliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.
--One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
I was born in the city of Bombay... once upon a time.
--Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie.
I no longer live in the City of Truth.
--City of Truth, James Morrow.
The cell door slammed behind Rubashov.
--Darkness at Noon, Arthur Koestler.
I'd just bitten the hand that fed me when God called, again.
--Outside the Dog Museum, Jonathan Carroll,
The first thing I remember is being under something.
There is an interesting condition of the stomach where ulcers build like coral, fibrous tissue replacing musculature, cicatrix dividing that shady receptacle into two zones, with communication by means of a narrow isthmus: a condition spoken of, with some awe, by the connoisseurs of pathology as "hour glass stomach".
Granted: I am the inmate of a mental hospital; my keeper is watching me, he never lets me out of his sight; there's a peephole in the door, and my keeper's eye is the shade of brown that can never see through a blue-eyed type like me.
--The Tin Drum, Gunter Grass.
"I see we're expected," the small man said, continuing to stroll toward the large open gate in the long, high, ancient wall.
--The Swords of Lankhmar, Fritz Leiber.