Perennial

For this week's Illustration Friday topic I am posting a picture of that perennial favourite Cinderella; a story constantly retold and illustrated.

Vegantastic Almonday Cake

Merry Almonday!

There's still time to make cake to celebrate - almond flavour of course.

Ingredients:

100g self raising flour
100g caster sugar
50ml vegetable oil (rapeseed)
1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1 tsp cider vinegar
1tsp almond essence
100ml soya milk (I used unsweetened)
50g dried morello cherries (These were all the cherries I had; cherries were sparse, but present. If you only have glace cherries, you could use them if you wish. The good thing about the dried cherries was that they become moistened by the wet mixture. Plus, they taste quite like cherries. Fresh / tinned cherries would wet the mixture too much, I should think.)

flaked almonds to sprinkle on top.

Method:

Mix together everything but the flaked almonds. Put the batter in a greased and floured tin. Sprinkle the flaked almonds on top and bake in an oven heated to gas mk 4 / 180 C for half an hour or until golden brown and with almonds lightly toasted.

Gesture

Er, Miss... Miss? Miss!
Peter's gestures are ignored as Miss Scully attends to her favourites at the other end of the room: Millibelle and Trillibee, who always dress immaculately and imitate all Miss Scully's mannerisms, even her habit of brushing her hair away from her face with an uncapped felt tip pen.
Miss! Miss! Peter gestures for her attention. Miss!

Stay

Wh - w-woah, there!

Remedy

 

Last week's Illustration Friday entry, which didn't get put up due to scanning FAIL.

He Packed up the Moon and Dismantled the Sun

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.