![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The sun was bright and the air was cool
May. 18th, 2023 12:25 amRaspberries and strawberries appear to be in season, wherever it is that we're getting them from.
I tried an ice cream that called itself "bourbon vanilla truffle" and I don't know what I expected, but instead of vanilla from a place that had once been called after the French tyrants of that name, it was distinctly boozy.
"It's not the duck of my dreams, nor will it do," I concluded (riffing off my sister's Family Saying, about her first wood carving: "It's not the duck of my dreams, but it'll do.")
I may have more of it later, but it's starting to look like I may in fact have to figure out vanilla buttercream truffle centers with real vanilla. (Dipping them's not a problem, I've been doing that for what must be over 20 years now.)
Today's therapy session was paused when the internet did the thing (yet again; I'm going to have to visualize it, but Belovedest has started being able to scrape the logs for actual incidents) and featured digressions into Pulp (I had not realized that they were still active today, and their 2001 stuff still sounds fairly 70s to me), and who the alt-right were before the term "alt-right" had been coined.
One of the hilarious things about Not Thinking About Things is that you sometimes score low there on a formal assessment because you're so successfully not thinking about things that you can't think of anything that you're not thinking about. Therapist was slightly surprised-Pikachu that the nightmares about Dad only started after he actually died.
The other night we all went out in the front yard and had a planting party with the zucchini and marigolds and Extremely Goth Miniature Pansies. Gabrielle Helped! The innuendo was all us, though. We got inside before the thunderstorm did more than threaten.
I tried an ice cream that called itself "bourbon vanilla truffle" and I don't know what I expected, but instead of vanilla from a place that had once been called after the French tyrants of that name, it was distinctly boozy.
"It's not the duck of my dreams, nor will it do," I concluded (riffing off my sister's Family Saying, about her first wood carving: "It's not the duck of my dreams, but it'll do.")
I may have more of it later, but it's starting to look like I may in fact have to figure out vanilla buttercream truffle centers with real vanilla. (Dipping them's not a problem, I've been doing that for what must be over 20 years now.)
Today's therapy session was paused when the internet did the thing (yet again; I'm going to have to visualize it, but Belovedest has started being able to scrape the logs for actual incidents) and featured digressions into Pulp (I had not realized that they were still active today, and their 2001 stuff still sounds fairly 70s to me), and who the alt-right were before the term "alt-right" had been coined.
One of the hilarious things about Not Thinking About Things is that you sometimes score low there on a formal assessment because you're so successfully not thinking about things that you can't think of anything that you're not thinking about. Therapist was slightly surprised-Pikachu that the nightmares about Dad only started after he actually died.
The other night we all went out in the front yard and had a planting party with the zucchini and marigolds and Extremely Goth Miniature Pansies. Gabrielle Helped! The innuendo was all us, though. We got inside before the thunderstorm did more than threaten.
