Right now, I’m totally obsessed with the idea of making mead. (Could also be that I’m just wanting to celebrate the non-Rapture that occurred. Oh wait, I wasn’t expecting it to)
A friend of mine has a “honey supplier,” and I’ve been dreaming of all the things I could do with a batch of honey.
Poached pears in Sauvignon blanc. Drizzled with a bit of honey over a dollop of marscapone cheese. Grilled peaches drizzled with honey. Even pork chops, with a honey-balsamic glaze and spiced with rosemary.
I’m all over the food porn today, I guess.
The idea of making honey wine intrigues me. I’ve had mead before, and it can be lovely. It can also be cloyingly sweet. I imagine the mead that I would make would be effervescent (the mead we’ve made before–the one time we tried–did have bubbles, even if it tasted like cough syrup). Light and bubbly, a little sweet. It would be delightful to poach those pears in it.
This is how I imagine it, anyway.
I don’t know if this makes me a foodie or if this makes me just one step closer to embracing my Ren Faire geek status. First, it’s brewing mead. Then, the next thing you know, I’m down at the Ren Faire in a corset four sizes too small and fishnets, pretending like my boobs aren’t trying to spill out the top of my outfit.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the Ren Faire. I really do. The costumes, the pageantry, the goofy shows, the food. I admit I am geeky enough to be entranced by it. I enjoyed the men in leather armor (mmm, leather pants). But the women… Seriously, ladies, put some clothes on. I’m pretty certain you’re not going to find your sugar daddy at the Ren Faire, so looking slutty won’t get you the attention you’re craving (unless you have Daddy issues–and don’t we all?–and then maybe it will). See, honey, the man you’ll find at the Ren Faire will be a bloke who makes his own chain mail, lives in his mom’s basement and will argue the finer points of the Gunpowder Plot with you. Seriously.
Not that those guys aren’t fun. In a contest of geek versus cool guy, I’d take the geek any day of the week. They can at least (usually) string a sentence together.
Here’s my second point about the clothing at the Ren Faire: If you are a size 24 and ask, “Can you see my nipples?” really, for the love of all you consider holy, don’t wear it. And stop lying about your size. We all know you’re not a size 6. Shhh, honey, it’s okay. Neither am I. Just put the corset down and put on a shirt. They had those during the Renaissance, too.
So this is my fear for myself… my slow, gradual slide into uber-geekdom. Today, I’m all about brewing my own mead. Tomorrow, I’m making chain mail.