And Barefoot Contessa's Soda Bread (alright, there's the link, and I added caraway seeds to mine), was definitely good, but not perfect. I found the dough very wet, which is fine, but super awkward to shape into rounds. The texture, when finished, was fine, but just not pretty, kind of shaggy looking. Tasty though, with the caraway, currants and orange zest. Oh well, needs a little work.
I could have also shared with you the interesting twist we took on a Snakebite and Black. Normally made with half lager, half cider, and a splash of blackcurrant cordial...yes, it's a bit girly, but pretty tasty. Anyway, blackcurrant cordial, being a British juice concentrate, is rather hard to find around these parts, and my sister had the brilliant idea (see how honest I am, not even taking credit for that!) of substituting blackcurrant liqueur for the cordial. Why, hello! A splash of creme de cassis, why not? And the cider our excellent brewer/neighbor makes? Yum! But still, it just wasn't absolutely perfect.
That could have just been me, having an off day. I did manage, all in a couple of hours, to forget my buttermilk at the store (needed for the soda bread), knock the barbecue halfway off the deck (that's right, folks, I'm a mess), turn my forearms all sorts of greens and purples while trying to fix said stupid barbecue, and trip over the garbage can, which did result in nice matching leg bruises, to coordinate with my arms. Have I mentioned that I am ridiculously clumsy? No? Well, I was having a good spell for a while there, and no major injuries. Not that these were major, not by a long shot...oh no, sirree, I've done a lot worse to myself. I'm working on it, okay?
What I will tell you fine folks, is that while it didn't quite turn out perfectly, and while I was close to tears by the time Stuart got home to save the day (with buttermilk, and an abundance of patience for me), we did manage to have a good deal of fun.
(No, the children are definitely Not drinking the Snakebites!)
With decent food and drink, amazing friends, a saint of a husband, and some fairly awesome kids, who really needs perfection? That's life, after all. The stories that are worth telling are the ones that are most definitely not perfect. And I can take that.
As for my poor, bruised self, well, it's taken worse. And I'm working on it.