unsigned-me

[unsigned-me]

Church bells will ring in the wintertime. Once they do, rosy cheeked children will come out to play. You are welcome to play with them, but never allow them to get you into the woods.

[unsigned-me]

The Rat is wise of the world, take his advice, but never if you haven’t asked a question first.

[unsigned-me]

Apologies for My Absence

Morbid has sent me into yet another downtrodden spiral. I apologize for a my absence during this time. I’m nearly fully recovered now, though it took much coercing from that distant, insufferable Scholar. Though, The Scholar has a rough method in rousing me. Sending his poor apprentices, all sighing and sulking, to harass me in my bedraggled state. The poor children hardly want to do this, they apologize in-between relating his threats. He wouldn’t bother to try at all if he wasn’t so irked about my over-do books. I swear I shall return my books, but if he is so concerned he may come get them himself (knowing him and his short patience, he just might do that).

Now, if I am going to be returning my books, it’s only right I have a collection of others to make him bring to me. Serves him right for declining all my attempts at renewing the books. So, what books do you suggest? Leave me a long list, I want to spite that Scholar.

[unsigned-me]

Rainy Day Quotes

There is little weather I agree with more than those with rain. I will trade the blazing, burning days for the murky sky before it howls with wind and water.

“Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane, and making mournful music for the mind, I hear the singing of the frequent rain.” —W. A. Burleigh.

“In the evening or after the rain, the whole earth, its womb moist with a seed redolent of bitter almond, rests after having given herself to the sun all summer long.” —Albert Camus

“In raining bullets on those silent faces, already turned away from this world, you think you are disfiguring the face of our truth.” —Albert Camus

“How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, in the broad and fiery street, and in the narrow lane; how beautiful is the rain!” —Longfellow.

"The rain is as contrary as I ever was," she said. "It came because it knew I did not want it." She threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face. She did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuther-ing." She could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself. If she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. How it "wuthered" and how the big raindrops poured down and beat against the pane! "It sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said.” —Frances Hodgson Burnet

“The clouds consign their treasures to the fields, and softly shaking on the dimpled pool prelusive drops, let all the end pure or a a decision, o’er the freshened world.” —James Thomson.

“The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune fitfully on the skylight, and the shade of the fast-flying clouds passes with delicate change across my book.” — Nathaniel Parker Willis

“Clouds overlaid the sky as with a shroud of mist, and everything looked sad, rainy, and threatening under a fine drizzle which was beating against the window-panes, and streaking their dull, dark surfaces with runlets of cold, dirty moisture. Only a scanty modicum of daylight entered to war with the trembling rays of the ikon lamp. The dying man threw me a wistful look, and nodded. The next moment he had passed away.” —Fyodor Dostoevsky

What do you think of the rain? It’s it welcomed with arms wide, hair whipping about? Or is it scowled at like a misplaced paint stroke in your otherwise impeccable piece? No matter your opinion, I love you all the same.

If you have any additional quotes you’d like to share with me, by all means do share. Frances Hodgson Burnet is an author I need to reread properly, all those late nights smiling at a page… ah, I must read it again. If you’d like to read it with me, let me know, I’d be overjoyed to share.

Yours always,

Me.

[unsigned-me]

Poll: I'd Like to Know What You'd Like to See

I intend to do all of these in time, but which would you be the most enthusiastic for?

Hello dear- I hope you are well. Morbid has been inclined to linger in rooms with me, and its mutterings are downtrodden as always. On any other occasions, I would be glad to listen and discuss with Morbid, but by work has been giving me trouble. The narrator is just so devotedly nick-picky...

Description of The Options:

The collaborative reading list would be made with the help of you, and you can read alongside me with discussions each week.

—

An original, interactive story would be published (or I shall make a valiant attempt to publish) once a week. The vague atmosphere will be decided by you, and your feedback/response to the character will affect the story.

—

Trying your recipes? Just as it says! I'm eager to cook and bake more.

—

Book reviews would be, once more, decided by you. You suggest books, I hold a poll. As I read, I'll update you on my changing opinions, ending with an overall review.

—

Philosophy talk is where I (and you) get to ramble, discuss, and engage in ideally civil talk about various philosophies, ideas, and dilemmas. I fully expect to be corrected where I'm lacking and look forward to learning with you.

[unsigned-me]

Trying Food From Bram Stoker's "Dracula"

Paprika Roast Chicken over Mamaliga

Before offering the recipe, proper dues and citation must be given! Here is the proper website of the recipe I tried:

“I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians.”

-Dracula, Chapter 1

“I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was "mamaliga"…”

-Dracula, Chapter 1

As it can be guessed, I’m heartily partaking in Dracula Daily. I decided that merely re-reading the novel wasn’t enough for me, and at the very least I should try a recipe or two. Now, I’m unsure about the authenticity of the recipe, though I enjoyed it regardless, and would appreciate recommendations for more authentic versions. Ah, I’ve spent enough time tottering on like a bird, here is the recipe. After which I’ll give a few thoughts.

Paprika Roast Chicken over Mamaliga

(A lofty thank-you to Heather Schmitt-Gonzalez, the author of the recipe, is in order. Thank you.)

prep time: 15 MINS cook time: 35 MINS total time: 50 mins

INGREDIENTS:

For the chicken:

2 tablespoons honey (all I had in my abode was Hot Honey, which seemed to work fine.)

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice (alas, mine was not fresh…)

2 tablespoons smoked paprika

1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 teaspoon garlic powder

1/2 teaspoon ground white pepper

1 (3.5 pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces (I’m not fond of bones, chicken breast worked for me, just be sure to confirm the poultry is cooked thoroughly.)

1 large yellow onion, peeled and cut into 1/2"-thick wedges

For The Mamaliga (Romanian Cornmeal Porridge):

3 1/2 cups water

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 cup coarse yellow cornmeal (sometimes labeled grits or polenta) (My note: I never knew I was already so familiar with this dish!)

1/3 cup sour cream, optional (heavily optional in my case, something about it makes me uneasy.)

1/4 cup chopped fresh mixed herbs (parsley, thyme, sage, tarragon), optional

INSTRUCTIONS:

Make the chicken:

1. Preheat oven to 500° F; place rack in upper third of oven. (Fainting for those with glasses. Warning; temporary, foggy blindness.)

2. Combine first 7 ingredients for the chicken in a large bowl until smooth. Add chicken pieces and onions; toss to coat. Pour everything into a 12-inch cast-iron skillet (or similar sized dish), with the chicken is skin side up, making sure to scrape all of the paprika paste into the pan. (If there is anything I would have done better, it is slightly increase the amount of paste I made.)

3. Slide into hot oven and bake until chicken is just cooked through (should register 165° F on an instant-read thermometer), 30-35 minutes. (Around 74 degrees Celsius. There may be some burning, I find it didn’t detract much.)

Make the mamaliga:

1. In the meantime, put the water, butter, and salt in a medium-large pot and bring to a full boil. Using a wooden spoon, stir costantly as you gradually add the cornmeal, stirring constantly. (Those from the American south or anywhere that grits are common, will be well acquainted with these steps.)

2. Reduce heat to low and simmer, stirring often, until it thickens and starts to pull away from the sides of the pot, 30-35 minutes. If using, immediately stir in the sour cream and herbs.

To serve:

1. Serve chicken and onions over the hot mamaliga, spooning a little extra paprika butter from the pan over the top.

This was a wholly wonderful meal. Not nearly as “Thirsty” as dear Jonathan proclaimed, but I will not poke fun at him for it. The chicken was certainly savored and will be made again. The Mamaliga wasn’t much of a shock, as I’ve technically already had it—just under a different name. Regardless of its accuracy, it was filling and hearty. A type of dish best eaten shared. (Though, most dishes are heightened by company. Cooking or baking for others brings me such joy.) I think you may enjoy the recipe, if you do intend to try it, and hope it brings you the contentment of a pleasantly fat cat (like it did me).

[unsigned-me]

A Cursory Introduction

Who Am I?

Aside from allegedly being human, I Intend to be a tad tight-lipped about myself. What I am willing to share is this:

I was born in December, the day is left to mystery’s reticent hands.

I have no favorite color. So please, do not ask.

You may have seen me in your deepest daydreams. I find traipsing in those types of thoughts delightful.

The heat of summer is the bane of my reality. This, and when my friend George, who experiences time in a more belated manner than me, is late for our duocentennial tea and coffee. (Incorporeal friends are sweethearts, but scheduling is rough.)

Sweets are lovely, but make me feel ill. I consider this an appalling, inconceivable injustice. Sadly, I have yet to find a lawyer with the mind to help me sue.

With how much I love bread, it’s very handy that I know how to make it.

And- Oh dear, that’s all I’m willing to say at the moment…

What This Will Entail

For years I’ve wanted to have a place to share assorted creations and eclectic thoughts. This seemed as good a place as ever, and that there was no time like the present to start. So, what you, my dearest, can expect from this is of the following:

Pondering on some Philosophy I’ve read in my pastime.

Book recommendations and reviews.

Quotes I find within pieces of work I see fit to share.

The occasional and erratic display of art.

Discussion on anything from the mundane to the extraordinary.

Recipes I’ve recently tried and decently enjoyed.

Writing prompts and the possible short story.

(I tentatively add this) a type of weekly story publication you can interact with.

And lastly, suggestions and requests. Because I’m almost certain you’ll have better ideas than me!

-Yours Always, Me.