It seemed like a good idea at the time

I've this lovely new friend who is working on a project that requires her to research cooking and food. At work. It's her JOB. How lucky is she?!

She's been emailing interesting recipes my way, and she even gave me an Irish-themed cookbook because I was flipping through it and found instructions for making Guinness ice cream, quite possibly one of the best edible things on the planet. (Did anyone besides me buy a gazillion pints of what turned out to be a limited edition of the Ben & Jerry's version, circa 2006? The name -- Black & Tan -- caused a bit of a stink with Irish Nationalists, but boy was it yummy.)

Anyway, knowing that I love to bake and love Guinness, my friend sent me this recipe for Guinness Bread. Looks amazing, doesn't it? And the description of slathering it with butter and cinnamon sugar had me drooling. I decided to whip up a loaf last night, which required 2 bottles of the good stuff, since if I'm not getting it straight from the tap, I prefer the draught version with the widgety thingamajig inside that creates a better head of foam and those bottles are 11.2 ounces.

Thank goodness I got to enjoy the vast majority of that second bottle because that bread was TERRIBLE. The fresh version gave me a stomach ache and was the consistency of library paste. I wanted to believe the hype about the toasted version, but alas, the result was the thinnest of crispy coatings and the same gummy middle. I hate to waste food, and even more, I hate to waste a good bottle of Guinness, but the Boy Scout and I agreed that there was no saving this wreck of a recipe. There's a lovely yeasty starter blobbing away in the kitchen right now. Here's to a better outcome with the ice cream!

grey day, sunny outlook

I found this poem while engaged in the Sisyphean task of cleaning my home office last weekend and thought I'd share it with y'all. It conjured up the slow summer sunrises of London and renewed my faith that we humans are connected in ways we can't begin to fathom, but some of us keep trying to see. I hope it's as powerfully evocative for you.

Blake

I watch William Blake, who spotted angels
every day in treetops
and met God on the staircase
of his little house and found light in grimy alleys--

Blake, who died
singing gleefully
in a London thronged
with streetwalkers, admirals, and miracles,

William Blake, engraver, who labored
and lived in poverty but not despair,
who received burning signs
from the sea and from the starry sky,

who never lost hope, since hope
was always born anew like breath,
I see those who walked like him on graying streets,
headed toward the dawn's rosy orchid.

Adam Zagajewski
translated from the Polish, by Claire
in The New Yorker, August 13, 2007