There are a lot of apples in my apartment now, yes, and I have nothing to do with them, really. One can only eat so many apples, unless they are fresh in the fall sunlight, and many of the ones on my counter are cooking apples.
I really do not like cooked fruit. I think it is an abomination. You have a perfectly good fruit, and you heat it until it gets mushy and then you mix it with sugar until it is sickeningly sweet, and then one is expected to eat the syrupy mush? This should be outlawed, along with mayonnaise and all other sour-tasting white substances: yogurt, cream cheese, sour cream - such things should exist only as moistening agents in baking of otherly-flavored baked goods.
Still, what is there to do with cooking apples but cook them? And baking apples at least smell delicious, with the cinnamon and the nutmeg and all.
I am seriously considering a party, for which I will bake pies that I do not eat. My apartment is too small, though. I might have to borrow my future apartment.
I have not thrown a party in six years, since I left Rwanda. In August of 2004, I laid out candles along the edge of the stone patio and dragged out the living room chairs and a single bed to supplement the seating. I bought beer and sodas, and Q. cooked vats of Vietnamese food. Nearly all my Rwandese and ex-pat friends gathered on the patio in the dark, with the candles the only light because, as always, the power was out.
I suspect my next party will be a little different.
I really do not like cooked fruit. I think it is an abomination. You have a perfectly good fruit, and you heat it until it gets mushy and then you mix it with sugar until it is sickeningly sweet, and then one is expected to eat the syrupy mush? This should be outlawed, along with mayonnaise and all other sour-tasting white substances: yogurt, cream cheese, sour cream - such things should exist only as moistening agents in baking of otherly-flavored baked goods.
Still, what is there to do with cooking apples but cook them? And baking apples at least smell delicious, with the cinnamon and the nutmeg and all.
I am seriously considering a party, for which I will bake pies that I do not eat. My apartment is too small, though. I might have to borrow my future apartment.
I have not thrown a party in six years, since I left Rwanda. In August of 2004, I laid out candles along the edge of the stone patio and dragged out the living room chairs and a single bed to supplement the seating. I bought beer and sodas, and Q. cooked vats of Vietnamese food. Nearly all my Rwandese and ex-pat friends gathered on the patio in the dark, with the candles the only light because, as always, the power was out.
I suspect my next party will be a little different.
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