We don't need no Julie and Julia.
Last night Mr DWH flames some olive oil, readies vanilla beans, sears some scallops, adds butter - yo ho, caramelized scallops with vermicelli and rice! Mr DWH scans a recipe quickly and moves on. I study it, repeatedly, constantly picking it up and worrying it.
We are into oil spatters right now - last weekend we tried the new french fry slicer. It didn't work, but the oil was ready. Hand sliced fries are probably much better, anyway.
Yesterday Miss DWH promised a first line of a book. This morning she grabbed Lost Letters of Jane Austen, Volume I and here it is:
I am leaving again. I am throwing away the remnants of my past into a black plastic garbage bag with yellow handles, which sits on the painted hardwood floor like Santa's bag. Maybe it has presents in store for someone.
And I examine the presents, each with its own story.
And then there's this: ...the overriding question of my life at this point seems to be: will I find love? Maybe I want to find myself in a Jane Austen novel, unfinished. I seem to have moved past the heroine's age even in the autumnal Persuasion, although I am always a sucker for a good love letter.
And here is my epigraph, my book's guiding principle:
For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
--Rainer Maria Rilke
Baby, Miss DWH is cookin' now!