Liker of coffee and words. Occasionally cranky. tumblr elderly. I apologize in advance for my tags.
I just looked up the history of ketchup, for no good reason. Just that I’d always wondered. Wikipedia says originally Chinese, then Malay—then brought by Brit explorers to the Colonies. And originally it was made with lots of things. Shellfish. Mushrooms. But in American it became tomato based.
I found this 200+ year old recipe for making some. (The silver spoon makes sense because tomatoes are acidic and reactive against many metals. They didn’t have stainless steel cookware in 1801.)
He was falling asleep and I was lying next to him. We do that sometimes because he goes to sleep much earlier than I do. Then I get up and read and fail to hydrate. (I am sitting her with a 2/3s of a smart water from Monday and a bottle of Poland Spring from Tuesday. We’re one hour into Wed. This doesn’t look good.)
Anyway. He said, “I know it’s still July, but I’ve started thinking it’s August already. Because it’s going to be here so fast. But it’s still really July.”
-silence for a minute
"OH MY GOD! It’s the 22nd! I missed our anniversary!"
"Oh, no. It’s still July. I thought it was weird that you didn’t say anything. I thought you’d at least make a post on tumblr about how I’m a jerk because I forgot our wedding anniversary."
me: crying with laughter into my pillow like Edward Cullen on his wedding night.
This week is dedicated to the An Unfortunate Lily Maid scene. Submit your own posts or reblog what we post each day.
You know. This was a tactical error in some ways. Because these posts make me want to TELL YOU THINGS. I AM SO EXCITED.
Instead I will ramble. What I have always loved about this scene from the book/film is that Anne is playing a corpse. Elaine, The Lady of Shalott, is being shipped down the river on her funeral barge. And of course Anne is like THAT’S A GREAT IDEA. LET’S DO THAT.
No surprise that Elaine appeals to Anne so deeply. She’s beautiful and cursed. She weaves constantly and watches the world only in a mirror. She’s not allowed to gaze directly at it. Then she sees Lancelot in her mirror on his way to Camelot and turns and looks directly at him. Her mirror cracks and she knows the curse is descending. She leaves her tower and writes her name on a boat. Waits for sunset. The boat bears her down to Camelot and she arrives dead.
Everyone is afraid. Except Lancelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.
Anne doesn’t arrive beautiful and dead at Camelot to be admired by Lancelot. She ends up wet, clinging to a bridge pile—and is reluctantly rescued by a laughing Gilbert Blythe. Gilbert is nothing like Lancelot, but Anne is overly romantic and too naive to see that that is a very good thing. In real life Lancelot would be a pain in the ass. He’s not going to make you tea when you’re weary, or help you before you’re cursed, or notice you at all until you are dead. He sure as hell is going to give you his job to make your life easier.