Sunday, January 3, 2010

Pittsburg is the new UK or How My Husband is like Robert Pattinson

I don't remember when it started but for lots and lots of years my husband has been opening fan mail from young girls cooped up at boarding schools across England. OK, the boarding school thing is a guess, but I think it's a pretty good guess based on the tone and level of adoration in the letters. Seriously, these girls would make you blush. They send the letters because, as previously discussed, he's pretty spectacular at taking photos (that's me on the left in the slot canyon). And for whatever reason it's always been the young Brits who are moved to send him mail. To be fair, sometimes it's the Australians, but as far as this conversation is concerned, Australians are just extra slutty Brits (sorry to everyone I offended in Australia, and to the rest, you're welcome). Just a few days ago he received a plea to be his assistant. Awesome. Super. I can't wait to cook dinner for a girl in knee socks and the Queen's English who flew half way around the world to spend time admiring my husband. (He politely declined her offer—good man.) A few minutes ago he was digging into his web stats and found his photos all over the website of a sixteen-year-old girl in Pittsburg.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how my husband is like Robert Pattinson: girls in the UK knew about him first. (That and the rakish facial hair.)

What does this have to do with baking? Easy. Mark's the first one who turned me onto an Amazon merchant account and I just finished setting one up. So, when I post links to books and kitchen tools and the like, if you buy through the link, I get a teeny tiny percentage of the profit.

Full disclosure and I are a little in love, so I thought I'd document a gesture of affection.

As for the quince paste in the last post: so far so good. It's chillin' in the fridge. My only advice is  skip the buttered parchment step when you roast the quinces. I plunked the fruit in a Pyrex pie dishwithout any protection and it didn't stick. (Don't say I didn't warn you about those links.)

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