I was looking down the barrel of yet another totally blown afternoon at a second-hand in Brooklyn, this time at the Brooklyn Flea. Apparently hipsters in this borough are made not born, because their rejects certainly aren’t worth the elbow deep rummaging in BO and stale cigarette smoke. I will reserve my thrifty shopping to up-or-out of state.
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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?
The snow storm on October 24th devastated Simsbury. My mom had around 100 trees down on the path around the property, including a couple of treacherous Old Maids (cracked but still attached branches that hang vertically). So we’ve been walking around the property as much as we can, pruning and clearing and macheting and chainsawing.
We can’t really fathom how a bunch of heavy snow can take down all these trees and limbs, but we’ve seen the results firsthand. It feels good to be out in the woods, breathing in the leave dust and feeling the chilly November air of New England. We can’t complain. It is good to be home.
