Moshpit of Monsterous Mobsters

bookspaperscissors:

Seven Deadly Sins | Chris Hill

aetherbox:

And Today on “Fuck Sleep, Grimm is Making Bread” Theatre: What happens when you realize the only sugar in the house is brown, and since your paycheck won’t even cover this month’s rent, (And you have realized after some quick deductions that on a good month after taxes it will -probably- pay Rent and nothing else, you have a week to figure out where the rest of the paycheck-to-paycheck funds are going to come from, and so you are going to be getting VERY VERY CREATIVE IN A SECOND HERE 8D) you are LAUGHING at the idea of buying more.

So, after pouring two cups of boiling water into your bowl, you dump in the sugar.  The first thing that happens is, the molasses separates from the sugar crystals, leaving a brown miasma wavering up from the stripped grains. Intrigued, you take a wire whisk to that shit, and you wind up with a brew that looks exactly like black tea when it is steeped to perfection.

Since you do not want to murder your yeast, you wait for the water to stop smoking…and then you dump in about two tablespoons of yeast.  

Now.

For some perspective on what I am about to describe here, I’ve seen yeast do lots of things depending on how lively the culture, how hot the water, how much sugar is in the mix, how well dissolved the sugar is, and whether or not the oil and salt have been added in yet. The most exciting episode previously experienced was when the yeast puffed up into these charming little boats of sea-foam on the surface of the water, which I am told is a very good sign.

 I did not know what effect brown sugar would have on yeast, if any, and so I did the scientific thing: I plunked my two spoonfuls in, and watched.

 The little fuckers hung out on the surface of the water in their rabbit-food pellets, got kinda fuzzy in the water…and then layer by layer they DESCENDED into the opaque molasses cloud lurking at the bottom of the bowl with alarming speed.

…Did I just witness a yeast culture HOLOCAUST, thought I as I crouched warily beside my rickety card-table and tried to get a good look at what was going on through the underside of the bowl.

The water beneath was the murkiest I had ever seen…and within it, currents were swirling ominously.  Standing again, I watched in slack-jawed, possibly sleep-deprived awe as sizable bubbles popped into being from the thickening soup, and chunks of ravenous yeast-blobs bobbed back up to the surface in a forboding spiral shape: my word, thought I, I appear to have created a hurricane in my front room.

I stopped gawking at the primordial processes long enough to grab a camera and snap a photo as the yeast MUSHROOMED up through layers of deceptively dead-looking brown liquid like a hydrogen bomb. BooooOOOOOssssh!

Within seconds, the mushroom had taken over the entire top of the…the water tension thingie. Surface. There was no quarter given, and no prisoners taken. The resulting pile of foam was so thick that when I dumped the salt in, it merely cratered the mass…and then the yeast ate it too!  

I dumped the oil in and absolutely did not adopt a defensive posture while brandishing my wooden spoon in a manner I dearly hoped was intimidating.  And as the oil settled, I beheld a fragile wonderland.

And then, after taking pictures, I DESTROYED IT WITH MY WHISK and dumped six cups of flour into the mix, a half a cup at a time, until I had to sit on the floor and knead the last two cups in with my hands. Once the flour was mostly lumped and flaking away from itself, I stood and proceeded to make one of the most beautiful lumps of bread dough ever.  It is warm. It is ALIVE. And it feels like nothing else you can describe, except for maybe drying plaster.

In another hour’s time, I shall return to my quietly blooming creation and marvel with parent-like adoration at how it has grown.  

And then I am going to punch the dickens out of it, cut it apart, and squish it into ill-fitting pans, where it shall sit, mounting indignation and humiliation at my betrayal swelling it to three times its original size.  Alas, I shall have to bear the brunt of its scorn. Beating it builds character, you see, and it shall need character dearly if it is to survive the coming trials.  

This is why I cook. 

YOUR DAILY DOSE OF JEREMY BRETT

Oh yeah and David Burke I suppose…

(via fuckyeahgranadaholmes)