kitchen laminate

thelastunicorg replied to your post “This past week I have been craving two things: strawberries and…”

Sam are gnocchis hard to make?

I….don’t know. Maybe. 

I mean, okay, I’ve never tried to make straight up potato gnocchi unless I was opening a bag of them and pouring them into boiling water. Which is not hard. And the dough for sweet potato gnocchi is simple, really, it’s just mashed cooked sweet potato, egg, seasonings, and flour. Theoretically. 

But I have tried to make sweet potato gnocchi a number of times under the delusion that if I just do it again it will get easier, and while I can say that they were edible, they never got easier, so now I also just buy premade sweet potato gnocchi. 

I think I must just be missing some trick, because what happens is I make the sweet potato mash and then I stir in an egg and some flour…and some flour…and some flour…and some flour…I have literally stirred in three times the amount of flour the recipe calls for and the dough is STILL STICKY and nearly impossible to roll into ropes and then slice into the proper gnocchi shape. And I mean they eat fine, but why laminate my kitchen counter in a thin layer of stuck-on gnocci dough when I can just buy some? 

I have a friend who makes beautiful sweet potato gnocchi, and I know she does it by hand because I’ve sat at her kitchen table watching while she does it, then eaten the results, which were amazing. So I intend to consult with her the next time I get the mad desire to make my own. 

But for this week, I just bought a bag of them at Trader Joe’s. 

Do you ever feel like a door is a portal? 

Like this side represents the status quo, safety, comfort. But that side…that side is another dimension. It could be anything. It could mean anything. This is an idea I’ve pondered on for oohh half my life. Deep inside me, I know that there’s something to it. It’s like I’m Darwin a few days into his stay on the Galapagos. Something is happening here but..what is it?

One of the main things I need to figure out is how it all works:

Is it like a switch? Where crossing through a doorway triggers something to happen. Exit the room - congratulations, you’ve got lymphoma! Move from the living room to the kitchen (and carpet to laminate) - well done, you’re barren! 

Or is it more like a border, where crossing through the doorway itself isn’t what makes the change happen. Instead it’s just a fact of Mother Nature and the cosmos that one side is inherently different from the other. Over here means good, over there means bad. This side means life without sickness, that side means cancer. 

It’s just TOO PERFECT a metaphor to not be symbolic. Think: “To close the door” on something; “Knock, Knock, Knocking on Heaven’s Door”; Sirius Black dies when he falls through a door (the veil) (ps, 100 points to Ravenclaw for Harry Potter reference);  bad things always happen “behind closed doors.” 

..I mean, CMON! The world is rife with warnings about doors. And I think we would be wise to listen. 

Call Me Sammy

Character(s): Sam Winchester

Warnings: None

Word Count: 992


           College boys are, in general, an unwashed mass of blockheaded, sex-drive idiots who traipse around with their equally stupid girlfriends. If not this, the other variety is the purely academic sort who came to the school on a full ride or at the expense of their parents and couldn’t care less about anything to do with sex. Once in a blue moon you might find one who is actually decent and worth some time and effort, but Stanford seems to balance between the academic freaks and the dirty-minded jocks. Well, except for Sam.

           Sam is one of the rare few, the type whose initial goal wasn’t to get you in bed with him. Rather, he’d approached you the first time because he had no idea where anything was on the Stanford campus, and, as it turned out, neither had you. He’d become your first friend here.

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One more hour of class
and I’m picking at my eyebrows
and chewing through layers of my lips;
watching the man next to me
copy this lecture with the most beautiful script
I’ve ever seen.
One more hour until I can escape back home
into coffee and ham sandwiches;
until I come home to find the dog’s mess
on the floor and pretend I don’t mind
because he’s still learning there’s more freedom
in a pile of dead, brown leaves than a laminate kitchen floor.
One more hour until bra-less, boob liberation.
One more hour until I peel off the blue jeans and lipstick;
until I crawl into the bathtub and scrub the people-crowd
filth from my skin,
their dry, sputtering mouths out of my ears,
and just enjoy the loneliness.
—  Schuyler Peck, 21/30, Kinder Ways to Say I Don’t Want to Be Here