Today Missy (not Misty) had a friend over and they made Easter cookies with Nigella’s cut out cookie recipe. I made them four Easter coloured icings – robin’s egg blue, mauve, yellow and pink. Many of the cookies were eaten before they were iced. Collateral damage.
As they munched their work, Missy’s friend said: These are really moreish.
Is that a real word?
Mum, is more-ish a real word?
I don’t know. I know what it means, but I don’t know if it’s a real word.
So I checked the dictionary:
Moreish: So pleasant to eat that one wants more.
What’s surprising you today?
That’s a British expression, meaning that the product performs as advertised.
Today I saw this in the supermarket:
Can you imagine? American hotdogs in brine?
No wonder they clarified that they’re “American style”.
Marching right along with the whack a mole/didn’t you use to have a funny blog clamour in my head, is a quieter, but no less insistent noise. It relates to a comment I made over at Averil‘s last fall. Averil asked:
Do you ever find yourself waiting for permission?
Yes, but am not sure from whom.
Even as I typed that comment, I knew it wasn’t accurate. It’s niggled away at me ever since; I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m waiting for permission from myself. And the likely reason I haven’t given myself permission to finish the fucker is fear.
Fear of Failure.
Today I saw this parable from Pema Chodrun:
HOW TO DEFEAT FEAR
Once there was a young warrior. Her teacher told her that she had to do battle with fear. She didn’t want to do that. It seemed too aggressive; it was scary; it seemed unfriendly. But the teacher said she had to do it and gave instructions for the battle.
The day arrived. The student warrior stood on one side, and fear stood on the other. The warrior was feeling very small, and fear was looking big and wrathful. The young warrior roused herself and went toward fear, prostrated three times, and asked, “May I have permission to go into battle with you?”
Fear said, “Thank you for showing me so much respect that you ask permission.”
Then the young warrior said, “How can I defeat you?”
Fear replied, “My weapons are that I talk fast, and I get very close to your face. Then you get completely unnerved, and you do whatever I say. If you don’t do what I tell you, I have no power. You can listen to me, and you can have respect for me. You can even be convinced by me. But if you don’t do what I say, I have no power.”
In that way, the student warrior learned how to defeat fear.
Fuck off Fear.
Last week I went to a session of Forest Fit – boot camp in the forest. Stop laughing, because I wasn’t. It hurt. A lot. My only consolation as I struggled through sit-ups, push-ups and other inhumane treatment was that the other woman attending was as unfit as me, if not more. She was also at least a decade older than me and had a raspy voice that suggested years of hardcore smoking and drinking. She had brought her working lab, Flossie, along to the session and as we walked back to the
parking lot car park, Flossie did a big poo in the middle of the path. I waited for this woman to poo pick but it didn’t happen. She dipsy doodled around the doodoo and kept going.
I was outraged but, being an overly polite Canadian, I said nothing. I wrote the woman off as nasty and uncouth and hoped she wouldn’t be in any future sessions I might attend.
Yesterday I heard through the grapevine that this woman is a published children’s author and I found myself thinking, “How could an author do something like that?”
Which is crazy, right?
Do you hold authors to a higher standard?
Last Sunday Missy had a netball tournament, held in a sports centre in Winchester. As we walked through the tunnels towards the gym, I saw this poster:
No, of course I’m not going to start working out 30 minutes every day. That would be kookoo pants.
But 30 minutes a day could give me a good write-out.
30 minutes. I can do that. Can’t I?
(*posting late because it was my birthday today.)
Sarah W says it’s still National Poetry Month. So I wrote
a poem doggerel:
Oh yes we got Trouble
Right here in Writer’s City
With a capital T
And that stands for Trite
And that rhymes with Shite.
Oh yes we got Trouble…
(with apologies to Meredith Willson)
So sweet, right? But let’s break that word down, shall we?
s WEE et
To be fair, the house training is coming along, but most evenings, right about the time I take my eye off the dog and start cooking dinner and overseeing homework, I hear,
“Mum, Misty just did a wee.”
Still, little Missed-Wee is growing on me.
Yup, she’s growing on me, like a wee – d.