Don't cry for me, Argentina

But hay fever has taken me and broken me. I’m home sick today, which means working on actual fun writing projects, but first. . . oatmeal reefer cookies!!!!!! Yaaaaaay!!! I was in the mood for something heavy and low-fat, so here’s what I came up with:

½ cup bourbon
2 tablespoons strong reefer butter
3 tablespoons maple syrup

Heated to liquid, no more, together, und dahn . . .

¾ cup oats
¼ milled flax seeds

mixed in along with enough flour to make it a slightly crumbly paste, und dahn quickly mixed in

1 beaten egg
1 tablespoon fresh chopped ginger
1 teaspoon cinnamon

before the egg set in the warmish paste.

Then I rolled it into 7 cookie balls and roasted it at 350 degrees farenheit for 10 minutes.

The verdict - I don't know what I was thinking with the bourbon, even after they cool you can still inhale it off them, which makes them a tad formaldehyde-y. I reccommend adjusting the recipe to put 1/3 cup milk and some vanilla exract in instead, and have a shot of bourbon on the side to warm up your tummy. Otherwise the taste is good – for those who are sweeter of tooth I recommend a powdering of icing sugar. These cookies would taste good chocolate chipped, too, although in that case you’d have to dice up the ginger finer than I’m prepared to. They’d also be good with chopped bananas mixed into the batter. In terms of height, I’m sailing lightly and buzzing nice and warm through my hay fever after two, but that might be because I’m not at work.

***Update***

Three cookies, 2.5 hours in, and I am fucking giggly. Might not feel good as the flapjacks, but it's funnier. This, for example (despite the fact that I'm much more of a pig than most of the men I know - yes, I am, believe me) made me choke with laughter.

***End Update***

Time for pretty:

“Sometimes my works look very childish, or childlike, schizophrenic or stupid, you know. But that was the good thing for me. Because, for me, the material is the paint itself. The paint expresses itself. In the mass of paint, I find my imagination and go on to paint it.”

I love when painters talk in a way that isn’t up their bums. And I love Karel Appel, who died on the third. He was in an art movement called Cobra, how fucking cute is that? It was a sort of half-assed cool-assed acronym of Copenhagen . . . uhm . . . Brussels? . . . and Amsterdam - I think - that the people in it came from. You can see some of his paintings here, and here are some to pretty up this page: