Dr. Walsh ,'Potential'
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risqué (and frisqué), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
I had the same reaction. It's essentially just making curds and whey, right?
Right. This person first denied that milk and lemon juice will do the same thing, and then, when I countered with paneer, is now arguing something about the sugar in the Coke binding to the curds, which just makes no sense at all. And the acid in your stomach is far more acidic than Coke is. I'm trying to stop arguing -- she's just stuck on "Coke makes gross stuff happen, and so you shouldn't drink it!"
Oh, and she told me that I'm misunderstanding it, but assured me that "it's OK."
Oh, and she told me that I'm misunderstanding it, but assured me that "it's OK."
Ha!
"It becomes the texture of sand!" Yes. That's ricotta.
diet coke is just extra magic evil. Or regular coke. any kind of soda, it's slowly killing us all. Either that or the secret candida parasite epidemic the government is hiding from us.
Is the implication being that it does it to your stomach? Which is weird, because sometimes it soothes mine. (I have reduced my consumption, but, dag, it seems that both sides of the spectrum team up to take any micron of pleasure out of my life. Which is the sort of bipartisan action I can live without, tbh.)
Fingers crossed Diane is a good fit, Askye.
My one ghost story is completely banal, but it is mine. When I was six, a friend and I were playing in the basement rec room. There was some kind of vent in the ceiling in with a ball-chain cord. While we both had our backs turned, we heard a distinctive "ka-chunk!!" sound and turned around to see it swinging back and forth.
The only other weird thing I have is that while in Peace Corps, I read all of "Girl, Interrupted" (randomly chosen from my "to read" stack) on the same day of my sister's suicide attempt . Actually, there's been other things with my sister but I don't remember them at the moment.
bonny, good luck. Will click as directed and spread word.
There was more but can't remember. So sleepy. Night, Bitches b
My sister used to be able to predict whether a baby would be a boy or a girl. This was back when we were little kids, when ultrasounds weren't usually done unless there was some problem with the pregnancy, so most people still didn't know until the baby was born, but whenever a friend's mother was pregnant, my sister (who was in preschool or maybe the first few grades of elementary school) would say whether it would be a boy or a girl, and she was always right. I don't know if she can still do it. When we were teenagers, a neighbor was pregnant, and my sister said that she felt "a definite girl vibe," but that it was confusing and she wasn't sure, and then it turned out to be boy and girl twins.
"I wonder who's in there..."
Night, smonster!
The theater at my college, which long long ago had started out as a barn/stable with various associated starcrossed student/stablehand and cruel riding accident tragic stories, apparently has a ghost in the costume shop/former tack room. Lights mysteriously going off, everything from measuring tape to entire bolts of fabric abruptly disappearing and then turning up in comically improbable places, the usual.
The summer theater costume mistress, who was otherwise a thoroughly stolid, unfussy and woo-free individual, told about being up late one night until she was finally, blissfully, one garment away from done. She decided that just this once she could quit early, as long as she had the fabric cut and laid out for basting before she crashed.
She got out her best fabric scissors, the NYC garment-district-graduation-present-to-herself ones, laid them on the table, turned to pick up the fabric and muslin, turned back, and the scissors were gone.
She looked around the table. She looked under the table. She looked in her pockets and her sewing kit in case she'd been so tired she'd only dreamed that she had taken them out and laid them on the table. No dice -- gone, just gone.
She turned her back to the table, threw up her hands, and said to the ceiling, "Okay, you had your fun, but now I'm so tired I'm about to cry. Pretty please?" And she turned back around, and there they were back on the table just where she'd left them.
There's also a rather creepier story involving my aunt and the furnished apartment she and a friend rented after the elderly occupant died, but I think I may have told that one before.