What else? It's interesting how the phrase "Let's roll" works in conjunction with cooking, since when you stand looking at a peace of dough with a rolling pin in your сallused hands and grave intentions in your head, what else can you say but "Let's roll"? I dare you people! What else?

Come to the dark side... So you’ve got nothing to do, and sky is gray, and water is wet, and, well, you how it feels. There is a pencil, and peace of blank of paper. And there is no other choice but to doodle. It’s something deeply embedded into instinctive nature of our subconsciousness. Blank surface must be filled. Sounds like graffiti justification, but I bet in some way, somehow it has to be true. But let’s imagine for a second, that sky is blue, and water is still wet, and you still aware of how it feels. The only difference now, that there is no pen, pencil, papers or other stationaries in sight. But this doodling itch is still there. And it’s getting worse. And, since there is no way to scratch your brain, there is no choice but to doodle. Snickerdoodle! Ok, when you discover yourself in the kitchen, finding substitute for stationaries in the form of flour, sugar, butter, eggs, ginger, vanilla and cinnamon is not that hard, you know. You get to work, and whisk ingredients together with all you might, roll resulting doodling pieces of dough in sugar mixed with cinnamon powder, doodle everything onto an oven-tray, put everything into an oven, heat up the darn thing and wait. Itching goes away, with a first the first cookie. The most important thing is not to get too involved in cookie-chomping, or simply face overweight as inevitability. Everything has its price. Come to the dark side... We have cookies... (Put your favorite devilish laughter in the background here) P.S. Your guess was correct after all, a snickerdoodle is a type of cookie.

Why long notebook entries are deemed as something not worth correcting and/or commenting?

Yes, that's my question.

Why when you write simple and ridiculously fresh and inspiring "Hi people, I'm new here. Lets engage in jolly co-operation!", or something along those lines, you will get 100500 corrections, and 10 comments for good measure?

But if for some reason you write deep, long post about something intrinsically touching, this post automatically plunged into a void of ignorance. No comments, no corrections, nope! Not today, not ever.

What's happening with you people? This is not the place to be ignorant and/or indifferent, you know.

Smell perception, or how getting home makes you bake And so you are getting back home from work. And the getting drags its bushy time tail behind you for so long that it seems like eternity peeks behind the corner of your sanity. But eventually, finally, inevitably you fall through the door frame into your habitat and exhale. Exhalation keeps going, forever. When you get to the bottom of your lungs, every last speck of your working day is out, and now you can inhale, filling your body with your home. Seems to me like a fare exchange. Though, for some obscure reason, your home feels strange. And you start thinking about it. And what do you think should tired, slightly swaying guy, do, with his breathing system full of home, and head full of strange ideas? First, of course, you grab a pumpkin. Middle-sized one should do just fine, since you would not need a large piece of it anyway, about 100 grams. And now you grab your blender and chop the pumpkin into small pieces, carefully observing the end result of your efforts, ticking the time until you have a nice texture and blinding pumpkin smell. If you ever dreamed about being Ichabod Crane this is the right time to take pity upon poor Headless Horseman whose legendary remnant you have just dissected so heartlessly, blending it for good measure. Now it’s time to see to my favorite domestic pet. It doesn’t demand much care. And every time, after a good meal, I stick it into my electric oven. You guessed correctly. I’m talking about yeast culture. Cuddling is unnecessary. You just bathe it in warm milk, throw it some sugar and watch it grow, just like a proud father. Everything else is quite simple. You mix your domestic pet into 550 grams of flour, sprinkle resulting mess with Headless Horseman legendary remnants, add 2 eggs, and pinch of dried ginger, and pinch of salt. Knead the result until you can imagine the back of your lover under your palms. Put the dough into a warm place, to rise to twice its size, just like your bellowed one, if you care about him/her too much, gastronomically speaking. And here cinnamon magic happens. Like in the manual “How to draw an owl”. ... You can exhale now. Now is the right time. And inhale, deeply. Now you are at home, generally, mentally and geographically speaking. The world around is upright again. And you can sleep, breathing in and out the smell of home, and have your strange dreams, as many as you like.

The hat will byte your ears off... ...if you knit it with your own hands and... but first let's make a small recap. Handmade hats are really touchy about the way you treat them, despite being comfortable and warm. And like every story about complicated intricacies of hat vs. owner relationships this one goes like this... So you decide to adopt a puppy... nope, thats the story for another evening. So you decide to get yourself a hat... Warm one, made of natural wool. You locate closest available hat mall and go there, searching for the one in a millon hat, Holy Grail amongst hats, and it's not there. You continue your Crusade until you realize one simple truth: acrylic fiber, like a vile virus, infested every possible hat in the world. What you have in stock now is the mass produced machine-woven atrocity, that we from now on will call zombie-hat. Here is the simple explanation why. Wool grows all around us. There are occasions when it grows on us directly but thats beside the point. End especially lush source of wool is a sheep or an alpaca (yes we all love alpacas). What is important that the source of the wool fiber is a living thing, that for several years was grazing meadows, and invoking breathy "aaaaa"s of adoration. So in some way, wool is alive. Omitting all the details of the technological processing, acrylic fiber is a polymer and is a byproduct of oil processing. Why in the name Yahweh would you want to wear processed puddle of oil, on your head? Besides i hate the way synthetics cling to my skin. This unliving-matherial-made, mechanically-woven mass product of global cost effective optimization makes me cringe. And for me acryl is a dead matherial, period. And so, from not very long time ago, i knit my hats myself. Like a very careful student i calculate all necessary angles and radii using Pythagoras's theorem, мake precise measurements, and finally here it is. Putting away a knitting hook, with my blistered fingers I pull the hat on, and proudly look at myself in the mirror. Reflection tries to smile back, but the lips curvature seems unconvincing because... ...the hat will byte your ears off if you knit it with your own hands and forget to take your damn ears into account when you decide on the size of the hat you are making. Of course there is a slight possibility that a tiny portion of alpaca's soul still possesses the woolen thread and tries to gnaw affectionately on the only protruding part of my body it can get it's teeth on. But i sincerely doubt it...

Happy birthday to me! Yes, today is my birthday... I've accomplished quite a lot. Cooking all day long isn't the way many of you imagine your own day of birth i guess, but i like to tinker with all sorts of things, and mixing ingredients into something eatable is one such activity. Here is the small check list: 1. Cinnamon pumpkin rolls. Done. Eaten. 2. Cinnamon sugar cookies. Done. Eaten. (I hid some for tomorrow morning tea) 3. Sand crust jam pie. Done. Half eaten. (if it wasn't so huge, it would have been eaten on the spot) 4. Waffle tubes with the boiled condensed milk filling. Done. One third eaten (The pile of tubes was to intimidating to eat it in one sitting) 5. Pumpkin coffee cakes. Done. Eaten. 6. Pizzas. Done. Eaten. (Both of them) What else can i say. This community is empty as an outer ridge of the Andromeda nebula and as talkative as a jolly company of mermaids. No one wants to skype, no one wants to correct mistakes, no one takes invitations, no one answers your messages. I feel like Conan the Cimmerian crying out loud into the empty void and getting no results whatsoever in response except for occasional snake hissing in the background. People you are great, somewhere deep inside, maybe, I hope so. Would you open your clams, Please!? Have a nice... whatever you have on your side of the globe, and take care!

Making rasta-braids, elves and a horrible conspiracy Here is the strangest story about one of my hobbies. For some reason googling doesn't help, so here is the brief explanation for the people who are not really familiar with handicraft of this sort. So, what rasta-braid making is. The process is unnecessary complicated, and looks somewhat ritualistically redundant, but really, why not, if you have some free time... You take a friend out (gender is irrelevant), and find a nice spot. Nature, buzzing insects, fresh grass, shady oak in the background might be nice additional options. You spread a blanket, relax, drink chemical (generally acclaimed, highly toxic) beverages, tea, eat homemade stone cookies. First stage is over. Now you start weaving the braid. In general the final product looks like very tight striped 5-8мм thick thread, that consists of embroidery thread, that tightly surround specific selected lock of hair Additional decorations like wooden beads or small tiny metal bells are welcomed. Making such braid 15-20 centimeters long takes approximately 1,5-2 hours. Yep, it is possible to rub your fingers with the threads up to the meat, in the process. And one day, while i'm all busy destroying my fingers, my friend tells me the story about elves. And it goes like this. All we know is that elves are strange immortal creatures that live forever for no reason at all and spend their time doing mysterious things. From books we know that Children of Ilúvatar are cool, and many people try to show that they know what it is like to be one of them, posing as elves in role playing games. I've never done anything like real life RPG myself so i started to ask about it. And imagine my surprise when terrible blossoming truth was revealed to me in its full HD colour. It turns out that to simulate close relations, especially when roleplaying is performed in public, players use this elaborate method of braid weaving. I mean very close relation... Yes, yes, yes, i'm talking about sex. It may turn out to be some king of wildly spread apocrypha. And i think that right now my friend is giggling into his pillow. But the story is great nonetheless. Especially when you tell it to your newly braided friend in 5-10 after you have finished your work. This works every time, and I have to admit that expressions on their faces worth all the effort and every mutilated finger. I hope now you see why knowing much doesn't always improve your social life and hardships of friendship. I'm done here. Have fun! Bye!