Gee, I love bread. Not the bland, Kleenex-bright stuff that comes uniformly sliced in plastic bags from the supermarket, but the nice rustic sourdough-type stuff, the sort you buy as a whole loaf from a bakery and you hack slices off it yourself. (Slices that are twice as thick on one end as the other, if your loaf-slicing skills are anything like mine.)
I bought an organic sourdough from the French bakery on Swan Street today and ate several slices with nothing but butter. Soft and a little rubbery on the inside, chewy and crusty on the outside. Yum.
Of course, it's also a guilty pleasure for me since I'm gluten intolerant, but ya gotta live a bit, right? (Gluten free bread just isn't the same.)
On the band Wagons again
The Wagons set at Moomba last night was great. How can you not enjoy an hour of songs about death and murder and Willie Nelson, I ask? There might have been one or two about love as well.
They played on the same patch of grass where I first saw them last year. I may have told you this before, but I have a little crush on the lead singer, Henry Wagons. Yeah, he looks like a myopic hobbit, but he's funny and I love the music. He's not the most unlikely crush I've had...
Moomba was a burst of sound and colour, cheap stuffed toys and overpriced crap food last night. Well, crap except for the poffertjes (mini Dutch pancakes) with lemon and sugar. Yummy.
When I was walking home flying foxes were flying low over the river, reflecting in the black glassy water. One landed high up in a tree and hung upside down in a little batty clump.
I have the flat to myself this weekend. Ah, just like old times...