Line of thought: I am a fan of horchata - today is cinco de Mayo - it looks easy enough to make ... and it was easy. In principle.

Two cups of uncooked rice and about three cups of water in the blender? No problem. Whirrr.

Taking the blender off its base, throwing in some cinnamon, fitting the lid, and positioning the whole ensemble in the fridge? Not too difficult.
Leaving it there for several hours? Takes patience, but I have some of that.
Coming back to the fridge, finding that someone has rearranged its contents, opening the door and having a blenderful of incomplete horchata bathe my feet?
splash.
Expletive.

Scrambling for a towel. Splashing more of the stuff as I picked up the blender (which, thanks to the lid, was really only half empty) and containing it on the counter. Horchata all over the sink faucet - the cabinets - under the fridge - my shirt - my arms - not wanting to waste all that rice, I strain the remaining portion into a pitcher. It splashes. Now there's horchata down the side of the stove. Horchata that somehow manages to find its way inside the dishwasher housing. I wipe down the blender, put the rice back in, refill it with milk, and blend the whole thing again, keeping a hand clamped over the lid to avoid horchata on the ceiling (successfully).

"Strain the milk into the same pitcher as the water. Discard the rice." Barefoot, I'm tracking rice-dust and water everywhere. It's beginning to dry on the floor, leaving a slippery white film. Somehow, the recipe card has managed to escape the worst of it. Hose down the kitchen, I'm thinking it should say. But no - "add sugar to taste." I settle on a quarter cup. No vanilla, cause I like the way the cinnamon and milk go together.

And it tastes pretty good, for a first attempt. I'm almost laughing. My mother sighs, hiding a smirk, and goes for the mop. My dad helps move the fridge, and all of my siblings promptly exit the kitchen before they have to help do anything other than consume the (finally) finished product.

The scene above is the counter, after most of the rest of the disaster zone had received aid.



Yeah, that's a broken key. Isn't it lovely? It's actually on a leather cord now, not a chain anymore. Shorn off, somehow - its user must have tossed it in the gravel of the road in front of their house. That's where we found it, at least; on the side of the road in the neighborhood behind my school. We being my friends and I, on a pseudo-adventure. A real adventure takes longer than an hour, but this one was just fine. It was one of those golden days where everything is important and beautiful and you love things for what they are.

We found ourselves in a narrow, jungly city wash that looked almost magical - like it had a portal at its other, unreachable end. 

And we walked as far to the end as we had time to do.

We still didn't get there, but there are some ends that exist simply for the purpose of being there - not to be reached.

And we found things. We found this hot tub-slash-fort thing that sombody'd dug out of the top of the hillside, like it would fill up during monsoon season - or people would just sit around in it at any other time of year, put their feet up and all.

Whoever had dug out the steps in the side of the wash to get up to the fort had left a pen and a tiny piece of paper. "Tell us what you think," read some small ballpoint letters. "Great castle. All you need is a stained-glass window," we put. So there were two shards of blue glass that I'd found along with the key, on the way there. We left one by the note. "Here's a piece to get you started."

The other one went into my pocket, to go into my jar of desert glass.

Some adventures are for sharing; others not so much, but this one merited it because it explains the key.

So I mentioned me taking down the fennel in the last post - soon after that, I took down the creosote as well. I'm infusing it right now: crushed it all up into tiny little bits and sealed it into a jar of olive oil. It has to sit for a few weeks before it's "done," so it should be ready by the time school gets out. Here's what it looks like in the meantime, next to the jar of found glass.

That's once it's shook up, which you have to do every so often to maximize the actual herb coming into contact with the oil. If it settles to the bottom, it can't infuse properly.

Shook up and settled, respectively.

What do I want this blog to be? I think it's finding its place. I'll probably put more time and energy into figuring out exactly what that place is later, but right now it serves as a sort of conglomerate ground upon which to place pieces of information that interest me, accompanied by photographs. Or photographs accompanied by information. And my words and voice and faith. Some place like that.

Lauren's Mesquite Cookies

Incredibly light and really soft.

1/2 c. wheat flour

1/2 c. mesquite flour

1 c. all-purpose (or whatever) flour

1 tsp. cinnamon

1 tsp. baking soda

Whisk all that together. Then mix thoroughly:

3/4 c. butter

3/4 c. sugar

2 tsp. vanilla

1 tsp. vinegar

and add 2 eggs to the wet mix, one at a time.

Add the dry mix to the wet until just incorporated, drop by teaspoonfuls onto a greased pan, and bake for about 8 minutes at 375*F.

You can do just about anything with this recipe. I think they'd make terrific gingersnaps, but I haven't tried that yet ... they're good with a dash of chili powder and some chocolate chips, though.

The only problem is the batch only makes about 2.5 dozen, which basically disappears in an afternoon.

*sigh

... Friday morning, tomorrow, at 7:30 sharp, I go to school and take yet another final exam. After Wednesday's, I wandered around for a bit and found this:

I'm not sure what kind of bird that is, but there was a whole flock of them feeding on thistle that'd gone to seed all along the back alleyway.

I hope there's a gift like that again tomorrow.

I know I'll be looking for one.