When I get to be an old, old lady, scrawny and skinny, all elbows and knees and just can’t imagine growing a vegetable garden anymore, I will still grow my herbs. Returning to my garden from being away I go to my herbs first. They anchor me. There is something so timeless about them, magical even. Who knows, maybe in a past life I was a shaman or a witch, poking around in my herb patch, passing out love potions and remedies.
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Four generations connected via Skype.
This means “I had a good birthday” in sleep speak.
We’re going to Jackson (Hole) and we’re taking Harvey with us. As a PI he’s accustomed to traveling in stealth.
And the jury says? It’s toasty and pillowy soft. It’s so smooth you almost don’t realize what your eating is cold. Matt ate his toasted marshmallow custard ice cream with his eyes half closed.
Just made toasted marshmallow ice cream w/ homemade marshmallows and an egg custard base. Wow. It reminds me of my first real egg custard in Maine.
Mom says if you’re going to make your own ice cream, you just *have* to do it up right with custard. Next up, sugar punkin’. Holiday cooking rules. And since I seem to have started off with one of the most complicated recipes possible, it’s all easy breezy from here on out. Two hours and I’ll be tucking into a big bowl a spoonful from Matt’s bowl, says he (after we licked the whole machine clean). Who doesn’t love ice cream in winter?
