(no subject)

Circular woodpiles do not appeal to my sense of aesthetics. At all. Single row woodpiles have fallen over twice. (I was not the person stacking them.) I can tolerate a lot of things, but a toppled woodpile is not one of them. The single-row woodpile I restacked (to get it out of the way of the grass I was trying to mow) lacked stability and would probably have fallen over, given time. Unacceptable, unacceptable, unacceptable. I restacked the woodpiles so that they were codependant. Each is unable to stand on its own, yet all remain upright through cooperative leaning. The overall effect is of a sturdy, non-rockable woodpile. This pleases me.

I mowed more seldom-mown lawn and ran the lawnmower out of gas. Tomorrow I'm going to finish with the woodpile stacking thing, so that all resized wood is stacked appropriately. The wood is being resized because I've upgraded from an open fireplace to a contained woodstove thingie. The fireplace that used to fit 30" wood now fits nothing that exceeds 15" in its largest dimension. Since I have leftover wood from last year, it needs to be resized so that I can use it this year. I have suckered my Aunt Dora's people into doing that for me (I am not a fan of chainsaws) because I drove her son Jon to college for a semester last spring and they owe me.

I'll also mow some more. I'd like to get done with the mowing before the weekend so that I can go die on my red horse without worrying that I'll have to look at excess greenery (brownery?) outside my damn windows all winter long because I'm too crippled to cut it.

(no subject)

One of my life's little mysteries cleared up this evening. See, my dad's wife makes the world's best fudge. It's ungodly good. It's so damn good that I could not save a single piece for Not-Our-Real to try. I ate all the pieces because I could not bear to share any of them. Because I adore my dad's wife's fudge, I cannot possibly ask her for the recipe. That would mean she *won* this round. If that doesn't make sense, don't fret on it. Just accept that the normal-person response in this situation, asking for the recipe, is not an option. I can't do that.

The prospect of facing life without the delightfully good fudge does not appeal to me. Dad's wife is not all that young and she's not in the world's best shape. Adult-onset diabetes runs in her family, she's got hardly any teeth, and while *some* of us have managed to split with the demon weed, she hasn't. Her mother died in her mid-sixties, and she's not that far from 'em. The prospect of NO MORE GOOD FUDGE isn't exactly looming, but I can see that day a-comin' if I don't figure out how the fuck to make it for myself.

Now, Dad's wife swears, to anyone who inquires about the delightful fudge, that the recipe is "easy, no trouble at all." Generally, this is dad's-wife-speak for delicate, complex, and involved... but I've never seen the fudge being made and the wife doesn't own complex items like a candy thermometer or a marble board for paddling the hot fudge. Further, I suspect (because the only time she has this stuff in the house is immediately prior to fudge-production) that the ingredients include canned, condensed milk and marshmallow fluff. This evening, on a whim, I examined a jar of marshmallow fluff while I was in the grocery store. It had a recipe for fudge on the back of it. The recipe included marshmallow fluff and canned, condensed milk. It was also alarmingly non-complex. Hrm...

I have made the fudge. It has cooled and set properly. I've tried it. This is the proper fudge.

If you'd like to have the proper fudge at your house, get the 7 oz. (the smaller size) jar of Kraft Jet Puffed Marshmallow fluff stuff. Read the recipe on the back for what they call Fantasy Fudge. Make it as per the directions, but add a cup and a half of walnuts instead of just a cup (I like walnuts) and don't bother chopping them. Manly hunks o' walnut make it better.

It freezes beautifully, so don't feel you have to eat it all at once.