Syllaus #206

We've been birthdaying real hard over here.  Most years, I hate my birthday with as much passion as a severe wave of depression can manage, and sometimes I end the day crying on the floor of my closet.  It's real cute.  This year I was bracing myself for a deluge, because it was a perfect storm of me having raging PMS on a rainy day that also happened to be my annual reminder of the futility of existence.  Instead, I just ate my feelings at Redheaded Stranger and then Andy took me out to a ballgame but did not buy me peanuts or cracker jacks.  He did buy me a beer, although we are one of those couples with fully merged finances, so technically we bought me a beer.  Nice try, though.

Then I was supposed to drive out to the old homestead to visit the parentals, but I made it a quarter mile down the block before my low tire pressure light came on and I found a nail in my tread.  Shout out to the Dickerson Pike Tire Barn for patching my tire and having me back on the road 2 hours later.  When I finally arrived, there was cake:

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This is really a bop.  

Long live Samantha Irby, never stop writing about your diarrhea.  

Not to be one of those commenters on a recipe where I say, great recipe, but I changed the following 87 things, but, uh, I did that.  I made Smitten Kitchen's roasted pear and chocolate scones, but I used peaches instead of pears and did not use any chocolate, and as a result of the peaches being so juicy, I increased the flour to 2 cups.  Also, I did not shape the dough into a big disc and cut it into wedges, I just made them drop-style.  Overall, great recipe!  5 out of 5, would make my completely different version again.  I'm sure Deb's is great, but I had a glut of peaches I was trying to use up in a fun way, and this required 1 bowl and ingredients I already had on hand.  

Analog Reading:

Finished my old pal Steve King's novella collection, Different Seasons.  The Body was great, and now I need to go watch Stand By Me.  Andy continues to be shocked by movies that literally everyone on the earth has seen but me, and that is one of them.  The other night we were at Redheaded Stranger, sitting at the bar eating tacos and tots, and they had a Keanu Reaves movie on the TV.  I turned to him and stage whispered, "Is this The Matrix?  I've never seen it."  If we hadn't been in public, I'm pretty sure he would have poured his drink on me.  Reader, it was, in fact, The Matrix.  

The last story in the collection, The Breathing Method, was a bit unusual in several respects for a Stephen King short story/novella, one of which being that that it was actually short.  It left a lot of questions hanging in the air when it ended rather abruptly