At least, that’s what Mom used to say. Behold last night’s noble experiment: vanilla almond granola. First mistake: setting the oven for 375°F instead of 300°F. Next mistake: Reading blogs instead of following my nose. Result? Utter culinary chagrin.
This picture is not only blurry, but underexposed. The lightest color on my pan was the darkest color that you see here. I wish there were a way to import smell into Blogger. Although you should probably feel thankful that I can’t. Good news is, my kitchen vent fan worked wonderfully; I didn’t set off the smoke alarm, and yes, I have a fresh battery in there. And the whole mess was small enough to fit back into the oatmeal container, the better to schlepp it out to the dumpster.
That’s three cups of old-fashioned oats, plus a cup of six-grain cereal, plus over a cup of sliced almonds *and* four whole teaspoons of vanilla that I have to throw out. Not to mention half a stick of butter.
This is what I get for browsing half a dozen recipes and then winging it. Yes, I will try this again. And next time I will pay more attention to what I’m doing.
What was so fascinating, that I cremated the granola? My friend and I are playing on various paint company websites and emailing color ideas for the outside of the rental unit to each other. And just about the time I was seriously getting into it, my computer decided it was tired, so *I* should go to bed. Now I know how my kids felt when I used that logic on them!
And all that knitting that I thought I was going to do last night? Well, apparently virtual paint chips fall neatly into the category of Oh Look, Shiny! Still, there was some progress yesterday; I have about three inches of ribbing done now. I probably should try the stocking on to see if I want to add one more inch, or two.
[fumble fumble mutter grunt]
Two inches it is. I am just cresting the curviest part of my calf, with about 3.5 inches to go if I wanted to knit all the way to the crease at the back of my knee. Which I do not. When I was a little girl and wore knee socks, I hated having anything touch me there. Not my knee socks. Not the hem of my skirt. I wonder if my nerves are wired funny there?
I just realized that I have handed the perfect straight line to Firstborn. Which makes it a good time to log off and head out for some knitting á là recumbent bike. But first, a mini-rant:
So, we turned in the paperwork in October to make the transition from my receiving the Social Security check on LittleBit’s behalf, to her receiving it on her own behalf while she completes high school. [He can quit. He can get fired. He can’t stop being 65+.] Said paperwork including information on her bank account for direct deposit.
And it should have hit her account last Wednesday.
And it didn’t.
And because she is now a legal adult, Social Security can’t talk to me about why her money is not in her account.
I sent her a text message: “You will have to deal with SS directly. 7a to 7p Mon-Fri. [toll-free number] Not set up for direct deposit. Oye. Check mailbox”. And when I hit “send”, I felt one more responsibility slide off my shoulders.
She’ll handle it. And she’ll handle it well.
Welcome to Grownupville, baby girl!
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!