Yesterday, I spent most of my time just waiting for my dough to grow. It didn't, really. So I gave up and did the proofing basket thing et cetera.
As I explained it to beloved, prepping the dough for baking from the proofing baskets goes like: Fold... fold... fold, fold, fold... foldfoldfoldfoldfold... gotcha!
A process made even more interesting by the fact that the liners for my improvised proofing baskets freaking disintegrated and I had to make do with tea towels, which I can never actually flour properly. Therefore a part of the process is gently disentangling dough from cloth.
Of course, we have ordered some of the proper ones but, like everything else in this day and age, the order processing and delivery is on hold whilst the plague reshapes the world in its own image.
These last few days, I've been bingeing She-Ra and loving it. The whole series is lovely. Get it. Watch it. You're welcome.
This week, I may be seeing if I can get back into my novel without going on a three-page diatribe about how bloody stupid people are during pandemics. This is the downside of writing a main character who has studied Fantasy Medicine.
I may not get anything done in the novel. I am prepared for this. I'm still stressed about the continuing clusterfuck, and writing anything is something of a minor miracle.
My Dutch Oven has a rust spot, and the instructions I've found go as follows:
- Scrub the rust away and dry carefully
- Place a high-smoke oil on the spot
- Bake at the highest possible temperature for a couple of hours
- Hope for the best
Aussie ovens apparently don't get as hot as the US ones and I may have to take this thing to an expert or even replace it which means more spending in my immediate future.
Kind of nervous about all this because the last time I checked, I had zero money. A check today reveals a return of cashola and a resolution to be EXTREMELY CONSERVATIVE with my spending in the foreseeable future.
I'll see how long that lasts.
For now, I have a tale to tell.