What cultivates as the perfect recipe for brownies? Is there anything special that must be added before it becomes the standard for future pastries to be judged at?
There’s nothing much to brownies: eggs, cocoa powder, flower and the usual baking ingredients. It’s only judged by its makers, really (or anyone who is in the kitchen). I pegged myself as the amateur photographer, documenting just small instances that would have been forgotten.
The perfect recipe for brownies: 5 roommates, gluten free flour, a guitar, blink 182 & 3 computers (1 laptop has a fly in it, so really, macs can’t get viruses, but obviously bugs).
Mother nature knows me best. She reacts to my moods quite well, and has the tendency to predict rays of hope and the downpour of emotions.
At the moment, the anxiousness and accumulation of stress building up from school and work is creating the perfect storm. It is almost the end of the day for me, and the clouds swirl above my head. It encircles my inner feelings of confusion and and exerts the tears for me, so I don’t have to. Mother nature takes upon my pains so I don’t, just like my biological mother whom I miss dearly.
As I may be alone, sitting amongst the grey skies, mother calls for me. She whispers into my ears “everything will be okay”. She sends me a warm hug around my body, and sends me on my way. The bulbs flicker as they turn on as a source of light, heading my way.
The ten minute walk between my house and the bus stop is the only time I have to myself. The morning sunlight upon my face, keeps my soul warm and composed. The only noise I hear are the trotting of the family of deer that roam throughout the neighborhood, always keeping a close eye on me and other strangers.
By morning, I’m interrupted by people wanting to interact with me, when all I really want to do is just to keep my my mind clutter free from its own voices. In the evening, All I can ever hear are footsteps upon the creeky hardwood floors that pass by my bedroom, and echoes throughout the home as a reminder that you are never alone.
I hope the ghosts of my past understand that I am already haunted by things much more scarier things.
As I sit her watching Harriet bake cookies, and listen to Marianne unpack her bags, I sit her being drowned out by the sounds of the downpour of rain and the bass drums from the killers.
This week has been a whirlwind of events. Moving, packing, travelling, unpacking, re-packing. It’s been a pattern that the end of summer is dedicated to moving into a new, yet foreign, atmosphere. Meeting new people, new roommates and so far, it has gone smoothly (with a bit of awkwardness).