There seems to be quite an interest in Parsnip Cake. If i were to make another, i would use this recipe, and replace the oatmeal with the same amount of grated parsnip.
You obviously don't need to let the parsnip and buttermilk stand for 20 minutes. Instead, beat together all the wet ingredients (sugar, melted butter, eggs, buttermilk (probably half the amount stated) and parsnip - and grated ginger if you are using fresh, rather than dried) and add to dry ingredients.
Meanwhile, i am making Curried Parsnip Soup for lunch, from this beautiful book.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Making out
As decreed by the omnipotent and excellent MsR of woman of experience, fridays are Make & Do Day, so here is my Make project from last week (you may have to wait a few days to read about today's Do ..). I was challenged by both Helga and anArtistExposed to follow through on my airily proffered parsnip cake recipe, so, here goes ..
The recipe i had in mind was Parsnip Dark Spice Cake, from the quirky Down to earth, by Georgeanne Brennan, which i found written out in full, here, should you wish to try it.
It is another of those blissfully easy cakes where the 'wet' ingredients are heated in a saucepan, and added to the 'dry' ingredients with only the briefest of blending - as with muffins, you don't want to over beat at this stage, otherwise the light crumb is lost.
If you do make it, be sure to allow the boiling mix of parsnip, sugar and spice cool to only a pallid warmth before adding to the flour, otherwise you will have instant dough; tough to mix, and gives an unfortunate playdoh appearance to the final product (as you can see in my photo). The hot cake smelt divine, thanks to a generous piece of finely grated ginger, and was still fragrant with warm and goodly scents the following day. I used mixed spice instead of whole cloves, just for personal preference.
"Do you need a guinea pig?" he asked, eagerly.
"Please" i said, and cut him a slice from the centre. I was not confident - the cake was unsatisfactorily dense and looked more like a tea bread then the fluffy, moist slice i had anticipated, but he hummed in appreciation, and came back for another slice.
"There is no parsnip flavour" he complained. Probably just as well, i think, the aim is to add texture rather than earthiness.
"Add some stem ginger next time" he suggested,
".. and perhaps candied parsnip"
"... green ginger wine as a syrup", i pondered.
We retreated to the comfortable chair with a pile of cookbooks, curled up like cats in the leather embrace, coffee and crumbs, tangled legs and faces occasionally touching, seeking favourite recipes to exchange opinions, to salivate over, and thus the feasting continued through the morning.
The recipe i had in mind was Parsnip Dark Spice Cake, from the quirky Down to earth, by Georgeanne Brennan, which i found written out in full, here, should you wish to try it.
It is another of those blissfully easy cakes where the 'wet' ingredients are heated in a saucepan, and added to the 'dry' ingredients with only the briefest of blending - as with muffins, you don't want to over beat at this stage, otherwise the light crumb is lost.
If you do make it, be sure to allow the boiling mix of parsnip, sugar and spice cool to only a pallid warmth before adding to the flour, otherwise you will have instant dough; tough to mix, and gives an unfortunate playdoh appearance to the final product (as you can see in my photo). The hot cake smelt divine, thanks to a generous piece of finely grated ginger, and was still fragrant with warm and goodly scents the following day. I used mixed spice instead of whole cloves, just for personal preference.
"Do you need a guinea pig?" he asked, eagerly.
"Please" i said, and cut him a slice from the centre. I was not confident - the cake was unsatisfactorily dense and looked more like a tea bread then the fluffy, moist slice i had anticipated, but he hummed in appreciation, and came back for another slice.
"There is no parsnip flavour" he complained. Probably just as well, i think, the aim is to add texture rather than earthiness.
"Add some stem ginger next time" he suggested,
".. and perhaps candied parsnip"
"... green ginger wine as a syrup", i pondered.
We retreated to the comfortable chair with a pile of cookbooks, curled up like cats in the leather embrace, coffee and crumbs, tangled legs and faces occasionally touching, seeking favourite recipes to exchange opinions, to salivate over, and thus the feasting continued through the morning.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
HNT/flash
At about mid-morning, once our coffee is drunk and cake consumed, i straddle his lap, in the mood to titillate yet confident in my deliberate upholstering. I am wearing my biggest knickers underneath tights pulled up to my waist, with a securely buttoned denim skirt hoicked up around my bottom.
I feel his hand slide along the underside of my thigh so i sit down harder, squeezing him out.
He relents, laces his fingers casually behind his head, watching my face as i grind the V of my body against the prominent lump under his serge. Despite the privacy of the room the protracted frottage seems strangely exotic, the layers of cloth between our obviously heated and hardened bodies emphasising the blatant expression of my hips.
A little later we shift sideways across the long sofa. He is now arched above me, my knees still wrapped around his legs, but i am the one looking up at him. He places one hand on my left cheek, pressing my face into the leather seat. Our eyes remain locked. His hand retreats then connects, hard, on the side of my jaw.
I grin. He grins too, with delight at discovery.
"You have tiger's eyes" he says, and pulls me back into his lap.
I feel his hand slide along the underside of my thigh so i sit down harder, squeezing him out.
He relents, laces his fingers casually behind his head, watching my face as i grind the V of my body against the prominent lump under his serge. Despite the privacy of the room the protracted frottage seems strangely exotic, the layers of cloth between our obviously heated and hardened bodies emphasising the blatant expression of my hips.
A little later we shift sideways across the long sofa. He is now arched above me, my knees still wrapped around his legs, but i am the one looking up at him. He places one hand on my left cheek, pressing my face into the leather seat. Our eyes remain locked. His hand retreats then connects, hard, on the side of my jaw.
I grin. He grins too, with delight at discovery.
"You have tiger's eyes" he says, and pulls me back into his lap.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
the little things matter
Toast - crisp on the outside, still soft and moistly steaming in the middle.
Toast is rare for me, on a gluten-free diet, when bread is usually a tasteless commodity not worthy of the time spent eating it. The only brand i like is this one, and i only buy it if i happen to be passing Waitrose, but when i do .. that is a whole day of eating hot toast, with cold butter and thick ruts of lemon & dark ginger marmalade.
A hot bath.
Wallowing in water in the middle of the afternoon is contrary to my daily routine, and the luxury of bucking the day's rhythm is surpassed only by the sensation of being swallowed whole in to the embrace of deafening, soothing heat.
An empty house.
I hear nothing.
There is nothing to hear.
There is no-one to hear me.
I emptied my bag of toys on to the bed, a higgidly pile of colour and glimmer, of crinkling foil packets and smooth tubes, of muffled phallic shapes, the scent of synthetic and sex.
I rewound the long hank of black, silky rope about my forearms, relishing the pull against my skin and bone. I add the huge silicone dong, wrapped in silk, unused since my husband last fucked me with it. I checked for a decent quantity of condoms, replenished the various lubes from the cupboard stocks. Running out of straight lube at the point in the afternoon when my arse is in the air is uncommonly frustrating, and leads to experiments with tingle lube that i would rather not repeat.
At the bottom of my bag is a slim vibe of little note, one i often ignore. It was a mistaken purchase, bought because it has a pattern of large raised nodules and a visible spine that cracks satisfactorily to give a twist and bend to its length, but visually disappointing because the small, slim head.
The tip of a cock is the most exciting sight for me; whether emerging, already glistening, from behind a zipper, or revealed, achingly slowly, from a caul of pale folded skin, the sloping shoulder of a well defined helmet the pinnacle of my expectation. This vibe has none of the definition of a beguiling bell end, but today it will suit as I feel closed, tight, now unaccustomed to penetration, wary of opening myself.
A generous smear of lube (tingle, because my pussy appreciates the fizz, if not my arse) knees spread and i shaft myself. No preamble - with a cock this slim i can pierce that mental hymen in a single stroke, burying my hand into the soft cushion of my genitals. The toy shakes within itself, a good vibration from tip to base, the stiff spine holding it into a curve against the roof of my cunt. I grind pleasingly, taking the time to position the shank just so, burying its particular strength into soft giving fleshy walls, rotating my hips gently, delicately - a spiral on a stick, a mouth around a thumb, a stir upon a spoon.
I have a finger on the wet, warm fold of my clit, the base of the toy humming close by, the action of my hips adding to the erotic stimulation. It is all i needed.
Toast is rare for me, on a gluten-free diet, when bread is usually a tasteless commodity not worthy of the time spent eating it. The only brand i like is this one, and i only buy it if i happen to be passing Waitrose, but when i do .. that is a whole day of eating hot toast, with cold butter and thick ruts of lemon & dark ginger marmalade.
A hot bath.
Wallowing in water in the middle of the afternoon is contrary to my daily routine, and the luxury of bucking the day's rhythm is surpassed only by the sensation of being swallowed whole in to the embrace of deafening, soothing heat.
An empty house.
I hear nothing.
There is nothing to hear.
There is no-one to hear me.
I emptied my bag of toys on to the bed, a higgidly pile of colour and glimmer, of crinkling foil packets and smooth tubes, of muffled phallic shapes, the scent of synthetic and sex.
I rewound the long hank of black, silky rope about my forearms, relishing the pull against my skin and bone. I add the huge silicone dong, wrapped in silk, unused since my husband last fucked me with it. I checked for a decent quantity of condoms, replenished the various lubes from the cupboard stocks. Running out of straight lube at the point in the afternoon when my arse is in the air is uncommonly frustrating, and leads to experiments with tingle lube that i would rather not repeat.
At the bottom of my bag is a slim vibe of little note, one i often ignore. It was a mistaken purchase, bought because it has a pattern of large raised nodules and a visible spine that cracks satisfactorily to give a twist and bend to its length, but visually disappointing because the small, slim head.
The tip of a cock is the most exciting sight for me; whether emerging, already glistening, from behind a zipper, or revealed, achingly slowly, from a caul of pale folded skin, the sloping shoulder of a well defined helmet the pinnacle of my expectation. This vibe has none of the definition of a beguiling bell end, but today it will suit as I feel closed, tight, now unaccustomed to penetration, wary of opening myself.
A generous smear of lube (tingle, because my pussy appreciates the fizz, if not my arse) knees spread and i shaft myself. No preamble - with a cock this slim i can pierce that mental hymen in a single stroke, burying my hand into the soft cushion of my genitals. The toy shakes within itself, a good vibration from tip to base, the stiff spine holding it into a curve against the roof of my cunt. I grind pleasingly, taking the time to position the shank just so, burying its particular strength into soft giving fleshy walls, rotating my hips gently, delicately - a spiral on a stick, a mouth around a thumb, a stir upon a spoon.
I have a finger on the wet, warm fold of my clit, the base of the toy humming close by, the action of my hips adding to the erotic stimulation. It is all i needed.
Monday, January 26, 2009
overkill
He is bringing rope and his sharp knife and he will handcuff me, bind my legs apart and eventually slice my clothes from my body, paying particular and slow attention to the oozing creases and folds of my vulnerable pussy. I am hoping that he will leave me a thin red line, somewhere, as a souvenir.
I feel so hot i can hardly breathe.
I'm telling you this now, disregarding my usual Random Timing Rule, so if i don't post my HNT on time you know whodonit, except of course, you won't know where to find my body.
I wrote this post in May last year, and he did exactly as we had planned. He knelt on my spread legs to keep me still and pressed apart and he cut off my knickers with his hunting knife. He then teased me with the press of chill metal on my exposed cunt while i trembled (carefully) in mock horror.
At the time we were very conscious that he was driving around the home counties with a sharp knife and hand cuffs in the glove pocket of his car, which was risky enough, but it never occurred to us, that, if we had taken pictures of that blade threatening the pink and glistening flesh of my pussy or when he held the flat, cold steel against my nipple, than we could have been taking 'extreme' pornography as defined by the new legislation.
How soon before writing scenes of threatening behaviour becomes illegal too?
The extreme porn law is active in England and Wales from today. There are plenty of excellent observations around blogland at the moment; comments on the ridiculousness and the practicalities. Please read, and consider how this might effect you personally.
I feel so hot i can hardly breathe.
I'm telling you this now, disregarding my usual Random Timing Rule, so if i don't post my HNT on time you know whodonit, except of course, you won't know where to find my body.
I wrote this post in May last year, and he did exactly as we had planned. He knelt on my spread legs to keep me still and pressed apart and he cut off my knickers with his hunting knife. He then teased me with the press of chill metal on my exposed cunt while i trembled (carefully) in mock horror.
At the time we were very conscious that he was driving around the home counties with a sharp knife and hand cuffs in the glove pocket of his car, which was risky enough, but it never occurred to us, that, if we had taken pictures of that blade threatening the pink and glistening flesh of my pussy or when he held the flat, cold steel against my nipple, than we could have been taking 'extreme' pornography as defined by the new legislation.
How soon before writing scenes of threatening behaviour becomes illegal too?
The extreme porn law is active in England and Wales from today. There are plenty of excellent observations around blogland at the moment; comments on the ridiculousness and the practicalities. Please read, and consider how this might effect you personally.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
balls
For the meatballs: 500g minced beef, a grated apple, one beaten egg, 2 tablespoons of grated parmesan, ground pepper, chopped parsley, perhaps a touch of chilli. Mix gently but firmly with hands (very therapeutic), then roll into walnut-sized balls. Drop them on to a plate of polenta (or tortilla flour, wheat flour if you prefer but you won't see that yellow hue) to coat.
For the sauce: finely chopped or process an onion, a large clove of garlic, a carrot, stick of celery, a red pepper if it happens to be wilting in the fridge. In a solid flat pan melt a little butter and olive oil and let the vegetable mixture soften to a sweet gloop. Add a splash of apple juice, a tin of tomatoes, a bay leaf and season. Cook for 20 minutes, add 100 ml of milk (seriously) and cook for 10 minutes more.
In another fry pan, heat a little oil and brown the meatballs briskly. Don't over fill the pan, and when they are temptingly crusted (2/3 minutes; you are only sealing them, not cooking them through) just pop them in to the bubbling sauce in the neighbouring pan. Roll the meatballs around to lubricate in sweet tomato goo. Cover with a lid, if you have one, and simmer gently for 20 minutes. Delicious with rice, but the children like them also with buttery noodles, but then it is no longer a gluten-free supper.
Adapted from Nigella Lawson's How to Eat, the Feeding Small Children section, although i defy you to find an adult who won't enjoy these.
There is trailer for a movie that i keep seeing on TV; He Is Just Not That Into you.
"If he is not calling you ..
he is not interested."
Duh. I don't want to see the movie, but i'm living that line.
Friday, January 23, 2009
hot and fast
A leg of venison, approximately 1.5kg in weight. Rub with marinade of olive oil, garlic, rosemary, salt.
Par-boil potatoes for 5 minutes, drain and dust with tortilla flour.
Meanwhile cook venison for a 20 minute 'sizzle' at 210ºC, add potatoes to pan when they are ready and continuing cooking for another 45 minutes at 160ºC. Remove the meat to a hot plate. cover and allow to rest for 10/15 minutes. Turn up the heat and finish off the potatoes if necessary. Perfectly pink meat and crunchy potatoes.
Par-boil potatoes for 5 minutes, drain and dust with tortilla flour.
Meanwhile cook venison for a 20 minute 'sizzle' at 210ºC, add potatoes to pan when they are ready and continuing cooking for another 45 minutes at 160ºC. Remove the meat to a hot plate. cover and allow to rest for 10/15 minutes. Turn up the heat and finish off the potatoes if necessary. Perfectly pink meat and crunchy potatoes.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
HNT/lost and found
I have been rushing about all week, just scooping up my handbag on the way out of the house. I keep my phone tucked in a pocket of my jeans (old habits) and rarely look in my bag. It was several days before i eventually searched for something innocuous and found only my little blue vibrator (which i remembered rescuing from the hotel floor on the final scoop around for lost items), a comb (it was a thankless task, taming my hair after the combination of his fingers and my orgasms), some hair smoothing cream and a shank of dark, cocao rich (81%) chocolate, slightly fluffy.
Not much use for distracting a toddler during school assembly.
I like myself in black and white photos, but not this time .. i wanted you to see my flushed rosiness compared to the neutral colours of my cook's apron.
happy HNT to you all x (and don't forget the Other place)
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
swallowing air
"Don't be so defensive" he says, standing feet apart, arms crossed over his chest, at least 3 pieces of solid furniture between us. I puff steam over the sheet i am pressing.
"You were going to say it" i said, grinding hot metal into fabric
"so i said it first."
"don't ask for it."
"The courts would not give me custody", he says, "but we should make things formal."
A little later i am furiously beating a cake and i realise i can't hear. Sure, I can hear the music i have turned up loud, and the coffee grinder rasps soundly enough, but my head is echoey, as if encased in rubber, sound bouncing between my ears, muffling thoughts and reverberating with pressure. I poke things in my ears, wanting them to bleed.
"You were going to say it" i said, grinding hot metal into fabric
"so i said it first."
"don't ask for it."
"The courts would not give me custody", he says, "but we should make things formal."
A little later i am furiously beating a cake and i realise i can't hear. Sure, I can hear the music i have turned up loud, and the coffee grinder rasps soundly enough, but my head is echoey, as if encased in rubber, sound bouncing between my ears, muffling thoughts and reverberating with pressure. I poke things in my ears, wanting them to bleed.
Monday, January 19, 2009
fractured
That same evening I sat on the train gradually unpicking my hair, stroking and smoothing ineffectually at the fuzz, a little rueful at the multitude of broken blonde lengths that came away in my fingers.
It is probably partly the weather - the frigid air, and the contrasting heat of radiator-warmed homes - but today it is mainly his fingers which have caused such wreckage.
I had perched nervously on the wooden chair, a little uncomfortably squashing my knuckles between my bottom and the rough wicker seat. He stood in front of me, so close but unreachable, restraining my face inches from his denimed groin while ruffling and tugging at my hair, fingers tangled securely in soft thick plaits around my ears while he gently twisted and rolled my neck; both soothing and thrilling.
I floated delightfully, more and more intoxicated at the thought of opening my mouth for him.
Later, as i crouched between his spread knees, he tightly gripped a fistful of curls, pulling sharply up and backward, my scalp hot and tingling at the tension, such pressure between the ache at the roots of my hair and the need to press my lips to his cock, his free hand blurring with motion in front of my eyes as he dangled my tongue to catch his milky bounty.
It is probably partly the weather - the frigid air, and the contrasting heat of radiator-warmed homes - but today it is mainly his fingers which have caused such wreckage.
I had perched nervously on the wooden chair, a little uncomfortably squashing my knuckles between my bottom and the rough wicker seat. He stood in front of me, so close but unreachable, restraining my face inches from his denimed groin while ruffling and tugging at my hair, fingers tangled securely in soft thick plaits around my ears while he gently twisted and rolled my neck; both soothing and thrilling.
I floated delightfully, more and more intoxicated at the thought of opening my mouth for him.
Later, as i crouched between his spread knees, he tightly gripped a fistful of curls, pulling sharply up and backward, my scalp hot and tingling at the tension, such pressure between the ache at the roots of my hair and the need to press my lips to his cock, his free hand blurring with motion in front of my eyes as he dangled my tongue to catch his milky bounty.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
snippets
It was a perfect winter's morning for a walk - bright enough to winkle us from the indoors, chill enough to encourage the children to trot briskly, skies and trees washed clean from last night's torrents, the pathways straddled with mirrored scraps of blue water for dodging (or not). It is only laundry, right?
Oh, and evidence of the huge winds we have had this winter.
Last night my neighbour and friend gave birth. I was curled up on the sofa, tearfully watching 'Four last songs' whilst knowing she was in labour and simultaneously feeling that peculiar tug of my shedding womb. The movie had themes of lovers, infertility, unplanned fatherhood, death .. so many emotive connections. I'm still young enough to have another child; i can't quite quell that thought.
It has been awhile since I have had one of these meals with the children. Briskly roasted chicken lubricated with butter, bay, lemon and pepper with a pile of parsnips, potatoes and token greens.
Oh, and evidence of the huge winds we have had this winter.
Last night my neighbour and friend gave birth. I was curled up on the sofa, tearfully watching 'Four last songs' whilst knowing she was in labour and simultaneously feeling that peculiar tug of my shedding womb. The movie had themes of lovers, infertility, unplanned fatherhood, death .. so many emotive connections. I'm still young enough to have another child; i can't quite quell that thought.
It has been awhile since I have had one of these meals with the children. Briskly roasted chicken lubricated with butter, bay, lemon and pepper with a pile of parsnips, potatoes and token greens.
Friday, January 16, 2009
summer time
I travel for sex sometimes. On the coach or by train, the morning spent swaying gently along through countryside towards the city, a coffee cup in one hand perhaps, always a book nearby and that hollow, reverberating flutter in my belly at the thought of his hands on my skin. I dress demurely but with impractical heels and extravagant underthings, and a bag of toys carefully tucked beneath my seat.
This particular morning had started well, but there was a delay somewhere and i end up frittering away another hour or so, tension building.
i text > I will stop to buy a picnic
he replies abruptly > no get your arse here
He is checking in at the desk as i walk into the hotel so i wait to one side, a little dizzy from the final rush through narrow streets and at the prospect of the hours ahead, the lack of breakfast. Together we climb two flights of stairs; waiting for the lift is time spent too passively.
The room is light and airy with a magnificant view; my home for 24 hours. I put my case on the table and walk into the bathroom. I strip, turn the shower on. I don't wait for the water to run hot, but climb in, cold water in my hair, shockingly chill over my bare breasts, sloughing layers of stress and sweaty public spaces off my back, eyes shut against the sting and pleasure.
I hear him follow me into the room, feel him climb in the tub behind me. Hot skin pressed against mine in the now tepid torrent. He strokes my back, one hand lingering at the base of my neck, squeezing gently. I lean forward slightly to rub slick, rounded buttocks against the hard flat of his groin. He presses my head further under the stream of water, and i bend from the waist, reaching downwards to take hold of the shiny taps for balance, my heels pressed to the sloping sides of the deep bath.
He is inside me, contrasting heat pressed through the silky current, our thighs slippery and cool beneath the burn of our connection. He strokes my vagina with his cock; a slow thrust, not fucking - more of an intimate handshake. We lazily bounce off each other, a rocking of hips and legs. I'm aware only of the sliding sensation of the water bouncing off my neck and back, gushing rain flowing down my arms and into crevices and the plugging of my body with his. I am breathing through my mouth through the rush of warm liquid, sensations drowned by being upside down under the deluge of noise and weight of water and his heavy hands.
We have barely spoken, just a chaste kiss in the lobby of the hotel.
After a few minutes, as my dizziness increases, i lift my head, shake hair from my eyes, turn to him.
"you look quite different" he says, wiping water from my face, "with your hair slicked back."
I climb out and wrap myself in a towel. He moves forward underneath the heavy flow of water, begins to wash his hair.
I lie down on the bed, naked and wet, waiting for him to come to me.
This particular morning had started well, but there was a delay somewhere and i end up frittering away another hour or so, tension building.
i text > I will stop to buy a picnic
he replies abruptly > no get your arse here
He is checking in at the desk as i walk into the hotel so i wait to one side, a little dizzy from the final rush through narrow streets and at the prospect of the hours ahead, the lack of breakfast. Together we climb two flights of stairs; waiting for the lift is time spent too passively.
The room is light and airy with a magnificant view; my home for 24 hours. I put my case on the table and walk into the bathroom. I strip, turn the shower on. I don't wait for the water to run hot, but climb in, cold water in my hair, shockingly chill over my bare breasts, sloughing layers of stress and sweaty public spaces off my back, eyes shut against the sting and pleasure.
I hear him follow me into the room, feel him climb in the tub behind me. Hot skin pressed against mine in the now tepid torrent. He strokes my back, one hand lingering at the base of my neck, squeezing gently. I lean forward slightly to rub slick, rounded buttocks against the hard flat of his groin. He presses my head further under the stream of water, and i bend from the waist, reaching downwards to take hold of the shiny taps for balance, my heels pressed to the sloping sides of the deep bath.
He is inside me, contrasting heat pressed through the silky current, our thighs slippery and cool beneath the burn of our connection. He strokes my vagina with his cock; a slow thrust, not fucking - more of an intimate handshake. We lazily bounce off each other, a rocking of hips and legs. I'm aware only of the sliding sensation of the water bouncing off my neck and back, gushing rain flowing down my arms and into crevices and the plugging of my body with his. I am breathing through my mouth through the rush of warm liquid, sensations drowned by being upside down under the deluge of noise and weight of water and his heavy hands.
We have barely spoken, just a chaste kiss in the lobby of the hotel.
After a few minutes, as my dizziness increases, i lift my head, shake hair from my eyes, turn to him.
"you look quite different" he says, wiping water from my face, "with your hair slicked back."
I climb out and wrap myself in a towel. He moves forward underneath the heavy flow of water, begins to wash his hair.
I lie down on the bed, naked and wet, waiting for him to come to me.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
HNT/dismay
My peacock blue fishnet stockings, ripped beyond redemption but worn anyway.
I am so easily undone; this scares me. One minute i am flying, the next i have sunk.
My husband sent me a text today
>sorry
>for what it is worth
That is the point, isn't it. It is not worth anything anymore. I can't trust him, and i find i can't trust anyone else.
I have kinky sex with men because i can manufacture a level of reliance with someone (that they won't maim me or leave me tied up in a hotel room) but beyond that? Can i ever believe anyone ever again? Can i ever share me, ever again?
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
close to home
He found me in the bookshop, browsing cook books.
"You are very blonde" he observed with a smile, looking straight into my eyes, "and tall."
He took me by the arm.
"Coffee" he says.
I pick up a tray, order for us both at the counter. I've never met him, but i know how he likes his coffee. He hands me a five pound note and i carefully carry the tray and the money to the till; one taupe coloured disc, and one, smaller, of darkest mocha with a stray caramel bubble and an oval of warm, frothy milk. He helps himself to a stick of white sugar and i take two of brown.
We sit on a chocolate hued leather sofa in the corner of the huge room, my bottom tucked in against his hip, his crossed knee covering my thigh.
About an hour later i realise i recognise the little girl, a class mate of my youngest son, playing at the neighbouring coffee table with her grandmother and her aunt.
"It is the Village WI*" i warn, whispered in his ear.
"Were you hoping to be incognito?" he asks.
"May i" says a matronly woman, sitting down opposite us in the matching armchair, settling on our a table a cappuccino and a magazine, producing from her bag a slice of home baked cake in a piece of foil. The cafe is only partially full, generous floor space and comfortable upright pale wood chairs among the leafy pot plants (if a garden centre can't have decent foliage, who can?), low voices murmuring and anonymously expensive art on the walls.
"Have i passed the interview?" he asks, loudly.
He walks me to my car, enfolds me in his jacket for a moment as we stand close together, his short beard tickling my forehead. I can feel his hand in my hair, tugging gently at my scalp.
"You are very blonde" he observed with a smile, looking straight into my eyes, "and tall."
He took me by the arm.
"Coffee" he says.
I pick up a tray, order for us both at the counter. I've never met him, but i know how he likes his coffee. He hands me a five pound note and i carefully carry the tray and the money to the till; one taupe coloured disc, and one, smaller, of darkest mocha with a stray caramel bubble and an oval of warm, frothy milk. He helps himself to a stick of white sugar and i take two of brown.
We sit on a chocolate hued leather sofa in the corner of the huge room, my bottom tucked in against his hip, his crossed knee covering my thigh.
About an hour later i realise i recognise the little girl, a class mate of my youngest son, playing at the neighbouring coffee table with her grandmother and her aunt.
"It is the Village WI*" i warn, whispered in his ear.
"Were you hoping to be incognito?" he asks.
"May i" says a matronly woman, sitting down opposite us in the matching armchair, settling on our a table a cappuccino and a magazine, producing from her bag a slice of home baked cake in a piece of foil. The cafe is only partially full, generous floor space and comfortable upright pale wood chairs among the leafy pot plants (if a garden centre can't have decent foliage, who can?), low voices murmuring and anonymously expensive art on the walls.
"Have i passed the interview?" he asks, loudly.
He walks me to my car, enfolds me in his jacket for a moment as we stand close together, his short beard tickling my forehead. I can feel his hand in my hair, tugging gently at my scalp.
Monday, January 12, 2009
it is all relative
The venison that i delivered to my brother is returned .. in handy sausage shapes. Free food, unless you count the 300 odd miles it has travelled. They are gamey and rich, and my boys eat them with lots of ketchup and serious expressions. I eat mashed potato with green beans and some black olives; i can barely taste what i put in my mouth but am beyond caring, just wanting carbohydrate. The ache in my neck is now spreading across my chest and plugging my ears and i want to go to bed.
I have a date tomorrow. I should know better by now, but this one seems significant somehow.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
skin contact
Early morning, and i am curled up on my side, with a small child making a cave in the space between my ankles and bottom. His head emerged briefly from the cover of the duvet.
"i am thinking"
he announced with a roar, and a flailing arm.
"about Star Wars!"
before heading back to abuse the back of my knees.
*
I have become closer to my children since my husband left. Physically we touch more - especially my eldest and I. He seeks me often, initiates cuddles and hugs just at the time when was i expecting him to be growing out of mummy contact. They often look for me when i am busy with chores, playing around my feet as they did when they were babies. We usually walk to school as a threesome, hand in hand, and the two boys grip my hips tight at the school gate; it used to be just a casual wave over the shoulder as they disappeared through the classroom door.
They are particularly needy when i am cross with them, and i ache because i know that they worry that i might disappear too.
*
Lying naked in a bed, a bedraggled cotton sheet draped loosely over our legs, i soak up his heat along the full length of my body, lulled by the weight of his chin fitted in the hollow of my neck as we talk quietly, his voice buzzing with the close proximity to my ear, his fist now passive and relaxed on my hip - this luxury of uninhibited dirty, sticky sweet intimacy restores me.
"i am thinking"
he announced with a roar, and a flailing arm.
"about Star Wars!"
before heading back to abuse the back of my knees.
*
I have become closer to my children since my husband left. Physically we touch more - especially my eldest and I. He seeks me often, initiates cuddles and hugs just at the time when was i expecting him to be growing out of mummy contact. They often look for me when i am busy with chores, playing around my feet as they did when they were babies. We usually walk to school as a threesome, hand in hand, and the two boys grip my hips tight at the school gate; it used to be just a casual wave over the shoulder as they disappeared through the classroom door.
They are particularly needy when i am cross with them, and i ache because i know that they worry that i might disappear too.
*
Lying naked in a bed, a bedraggled cotton sheet draped loosely over our legs, i soak up his heat along the full length of my body, lulled by the weight of his chin fitted in the hollow of my neck as we talk quietly, his voice buzzing with the close proximity to my ear, his fist now passive and relaxed on my hip - this luxury of uninhibited dirty, sticky sweet intimacy restores me.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
i-temize
I took this from Sulky Girl, and it is a useful stop-gap tonight, as my brain is buzzing. I feel emotionally precarious.
Open iTunes/iPod or Windows Media Player to answer the following. Go to your library. Answer, no matter how embarrassing it is.
How many songs: 798
Sort by song title:
First Song: Accidental babies - Damien Rice
("do you really feel alive without me?
if so, be free, if not leave him for me
before one of us has accidental babies" ... makes me cry, every fucking time)
Last Song: 99 years - Vika and Linda
("Oh give me ninety nine years
Thanks I'll think it over")
Sort by time:
Shortest Song: A bed of Ferns - Michael Nyman
Longest Song: Sinner Man - Nina Simone
Sort by album:
First Song: Folsom Prison Blues - At Folsom Prison - Johnny Cash
Last Song: Hometown Glory - 19 - Adele
Sort by artist:
First song: Adam Green - Emily
Last song: something by Yothu Yindi - Track 2?
Top [10] Most Played Songs:
1. Jenny Don't Be Hasty - Paolo Nutini ('cos my lover used to sing it to me while he fucked me)
2. She Moves In Her Own Way- The Kooks ('cos it was the song i remember singing the day i fucked someone who wasn't my husband)
3. How to Save a Life - The Fray
4. Rewind - Paolo Nutini (spot the theme?)
5. Laundry and Dishes - Adrienne Pierce
6. Everybody Knows You Cried Last Night - The Fratellis
7. The Ship Song - Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
8. Charlie Owen's Slide Guitar - Paul Kelly (more death .. how i love this song)
9. Into My Arms - Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
10. You and Steve Mcqueen - The Audreys
Open iTunes/iPod or Windows Media Player to answer the following. Go to your library. Answer, no matter how embarrassing it is.
How many songs: 798
Sort by song title:
First Song: Accidental babies - Damien Rice
("do you really feel alive without me?
if so, be free, if not leave him for me
before one of us has accidental babies" ... makes me cry, every fucking time)
Last Song: 99 years - Vika and Linda
("Oh give me ninety nine years
Thanks I'll think it over")
Sort by time:
Shortest Song: A bed of Ferns - Michael Nyman
Longest Song: Sinner Man - Nina Simone
Sort by album:
First Song: Folsom Prison Blues - At Folsom Prison - Johnny Cash
Last Song: Hometown Glory - 19 - Adele
Sort by artist:
First song: Adam Green - Emily
Last song: something by Yothu Yindi - Track 2?
Top [10] Most Played Songs:
1. Jenny Don't Be Hasty - Paolo Nutini ('cos my lover used to sing it to me while he fucked me)
2. She Moves In Her Own Way- The Kooks ('cos it was the song i remember singing the day i fucked someone who wasn't my husband)
3. How to Save a Life - The Fray
4. Rewind - Paolo Nutini (spot the theme?)
5. Laundry and Dishes - Adrienne Pierce
6. Everybody Knows You Cried Last Night - The Fratellis
7. The Ship Song - Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
8. Charlie Owen's Slide Guitar - Paul Kelly (more death .. how i love this song)
9. Into My Arms - Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
10. You and Steve Mcqueen - The Audreys
HNT/trashy treat
I was arranging a date recently when the conversation degraded to opinions on the underwear that he might/could end up stuffing in my mouth/binding my hands.
"cheap red nylon?"
"No", i said, "i don't own any."
I don't choose red knickers as the colour doesn't suit me, and nor do i buy cheaply as the cut is invariably wrong but there was still something about his suggestion that appealed to my inner slut, so, when i found these crimson flimsies i did not resist. There is something quite delicious about wearing flashy, ruched, sequinned scarlet underpants underneath regulation mummy jeans, even on a perfectly normal day - just for me to know about, and you of course.
Happy HNT to all x
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
tea, no milk
He offered me a cup of herb tea then held my face gently, one hand cupping my chin, the other fist in the tangle of curls at the back of my neck, tilting my head backwards as if studying the planes of my face. I watch him, eyes half closed in dreamy flow at the satisfaction of the manipulation.
He smiled, lifted his hand and slapped me on my left cheek unexpectedly but lightly, kept on smiling. I can't remember if i had told him i liked it.
*
"You must tell me" he said, "tell me exactly what you want me to do".
I shook myself, stepping away from the heat on my skin.
"Drink your tea" i said.
He smiled, lifted his hand and slapped me on my left cheek unexpectedly but lightly, kept on smiling. I can't remember if i had told him i liked it.
*
"You must tell me" he said, "tell me exactly what you want me to do".
I shook myself, stepping away from the heat on my skin.
"Drink your tea" i said.
Monday, January 5, 2009
to the floor
My little one was curled up besides me when i woke up yesterday, and, as is my habit, i reached over blindly and put the radio on. Being Sunday, it happened to be the epiphany church service.
"Angel songs" he cried out in delight, so we stayed snuggled up in the cloud of duvet listening to the end of the carol service.
For supper we had Veal Loaf with celery (polpettone di vitello al sedano). I can put it together in 10 minutes, then leave to poach unattended for an hour while i attend to more important things.
3 rashes of bacon, celery leaves from a small bunch of celery and 2 bay leaves finely processed with a hand blender, added to 350g minced veal and an egg (i also added a grated apple). Season. Knead throughly and shape into a log about 7 inches long (roll in breadcrumbs, if you wish).
In a good sized lidded pan, brown each side of the loaf in hot butter and oil, carefully turning with wooden spoons. Add half a cup of wine (or apple juice), let it sizzle, and turn down the heat to minimum for an hour, with the lid slightly askew. Excellent either hot, cold or room temperature. Try it with mashed potato with a squeeze of lemon juice over the top.
Dammit, but i fell hard .. barely 24 hours and i am totally engrossed. FaceBookitis.
"Angel songs" he cried out in delight, so we stayed snuggled up in the cloud of duvet listening to the end of the carol service.
For supper we had Veal Loaf with celery (polpettone di vitello al sedano). I can put it together in 10 minutes, then leave to poach unattended for an hour while i attend to more important things.
3 rashes of bacon, celery leaves from a small bunch of celery and 2 bay leaves finely processed with a hand blender, added to 350g minced veal and an egg (i also added a grated apple). Season. Knead throughly and shape into a log about 7 inches long (roll in breadcrumbs, if you wish).
In a good sized lidded pan, brown each side of the loaf in hot butter and oil, carefully turning with wooden spoons. Add half a cup of wine (or apple juice), let it sizzle, and turn down the heat to minimum for an hour, with the lid slightly askew. Excellent either hot, cold or room temperature. Try it with mashed potato with a squeeze of lemon juice over the top.
Dammit, but i fell hard .. barely 24 hours and i am totally engrossed. FaceBookitis.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
seek/stumble
I spent 50 minutes looking for something entertaining on youporn last night. In the end i shut down the laptop in disgust and had to resort to some real life action replay in my head.
Where do you go, on the spur of the moment, when you don't want to see false and flashy fingernails scratching away at some slapped pussy? Grrrr
I am visually unsatisfied.
*
It did not make for an exciting photo, but my supper last night was a simple pale soup of 2 sliced leeks, a small chopped celeriac and a couple of potatoes softened in a little butter, then simmered for awhile in water. Blended, a dash of cream and sprinkling of pepper; warm knit cashmere in a bowl.
*
I have a date tomorrow.
Bob, as i shall call him (to avoid any impersonalization), and I are going to see a movie. I swear that i specifically told him that i didn't want that sort of relationship, but suddenly it seems just about right.
Where do you go, on the spur of the moment, when you don't want to see false and flashy fingernails scratching away at some slapped pussy? Grrrr
I am visually unsatisfied.
*
It did not make for an exciting photo, but my supper last night was a simple pale soup of 2 sliced leeks, a small chopped celeriac and a couple of potatoes softened in a little butter, then simmered for awhile in water. Blended, a dash of cream and sprinkling of pepper; warm knit cashmere in a bowl.
*
I have a date tomorrow.
Bob, as i shall call him (to avoid any impersonalization), and I are going to see a movie. I swear that i specifically told him that i didn't want that sort of relationship, but suddenly it seems just about right.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
some day
My husband would come home from work and ask "Did you do anything of note today?"
I have always been prickly over that particular emphasis. As anyone who has tiny children will understand, one's day revolves around basic life function and isn't fascinating to anyone, bar perhaps the doting parents. If there was anything particularly unusual or interesting that happened it usually ended up here, posted anonymously, as the only fit place for such sordidness.
It is, perhaps, how my ex-lover made himself so indispensable, because he submerged himself in the minutiae of my (often adult-free) days. Part of letting him go has been the process of distancing myself from the comfort of sharing my daily triumphs and disappointments with him.
I still know his routine as if it were my own; i can picture him on his way to work, in his office, where he eats his lunch. I am still achingly aware of the passage of time at the points of synchronicity. There was a moment in his morning journey, in between transports, when he knew my alarm would be about to sound; he would call me, to be the one who woke me.
It is not just a case of closing my legs to him, i am also closing my life - which is probably even harder to do.
Anyway, in the pursuit of the futile, i am now to be found here, if you wish. It will probably become a menu opportunity.
If you prefer hot chicks, try here. A big smoochie thank you to the luscious Blue-eyed Vixen who included me, and an old friend of mine (happy blog birthday! - 2 years of blogging as of today), in her line-up of 2008.
I have always been prickly over that particular emphasis. As anyone who has tiny children will understand, one's day revolves around basic life function and isn't fascinating to anyone, bar perhaps the doting parents. If there was anything particularly unusual or interesting that happened it usually ended up here, posted anonymously, as the only fit place for such sordidness.
It is, perhaps, how my ex-lover made himself so indispensable, because he submerged himself in the minutiae of my (often adult-free) days. Part of letting him go has been the process of distancing myself from the comfort of sharing my daily triumphs and disappointments with him.
I still know his routine as if it were my own; i can picture him on his way to work, in his office, where he eats his lunch. I am still achingly aware of the passage of time at the points of synchronicity. There was a moment in his morning journey, in between transports, when he knew my alarm would be about to sound; he would call me, to be the one who woke me.
It is not just a case of closing my legs to him, i am also closing my life - which is probably even harder to do.
Anyway, in the pursuit of the futile, i am now to be found here, if you wish. It will probably become a menu opportunity.
If you prefer hot chicks, try here. A big smoochie thank you to the luscious Blue-eyed Vixen who included me, and an old friend of mine (happy blog birthday! - 2 years of blogging as of today), in her line-up of 2008.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
sticky treat
A brief summary of Nigella Lawson's Buche de Noel:
Whisk 6 egg whites until they froth thickly, whisk again with 50g of caster sugar until glossy.
Whisk the egg yolks with 100g of caster sugar until thick and foamy, fold in 2 teaspoons of vanilla extract and 50g sieved cocoa. Carefully amalgamate .. one large spoonful of the whipped whites into the custard froth to ease the mix, and gradually add the rest with a firm but slow hand.
Carefully pour mix into a lined swiss roll tin .. do not bang tin, or you might lose the air. Bake for 20 minutes at 180ºc. I immediately remove from the tin (turn upside down on to a clean tea towel, and peel off the greaseproof paper) and leave to cool a little. Slice off the sides and ends (good to nibble on), spread with a little warmed raspberry jam.
I use this, sliced thickly and soaked in liqueur, for the base of a trifle made with red berries and lashings of custard, but will also cover in buttercream (175g chocolate, 250g icing sugar, 225g butter, 1 tablespoon vanilla extract thoroughly beaten) for a heart-stopping extravaganza of sugar and fat.
I saw in the New Year with warm, sticky fingers (my own), a smile (again, my own), and a painful pulled muscle in my left buttock cheek (it felt toooo good not to move that way). Do vibrators need a health and safety warning?
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