Community Spirit

Despite the apparent downturn in the number of updates by a large section of my friends list –is blogging no longer the ‘in thing?’ Is it no longer fashionable? – LJ continues to be an intriguing place.

Toward the end of last week, I was invited to join two communities I’d never heard of, by people I don’t know. The first, the_blue_whale is probably best described as a pictorial celebration of (primarily) 1950s and 1960s oddness on the web; at its best when old movie posters appear, or items looking forward to the future (or ‘now,’ as we like to think of it).

The second community is theboringclub, an unabashed celebration of all things boring. That is the place to celebrate your latest cup of coffee, or discuss the shoddy seam work on a new pair of trousers.

I cannot help but think that this is what the web was invented for. I have joined both, though the latter still awaits my maiden post. Maybe this should be it, though I fancy it may be too interesting.

It has occurred to me to wonder what it is about this journal that elicited the invitations…

Community Spirit

Despite the apparent downturn in the number of updates by a large section of my friends list –is blogging no longer the ‘in thing?’ Is it no longer fashionable? – LJ continues to be an intriguing place.

Toward the end of last week, I was invited to join two communities I’d never heard of, by people I don’t know. The first, the_blue_whale is probably best described as a pictorial celebration of (primarily) 1950s and 1960s oddness on the web; at its best when old movie posters appear, or items looking forward to the future (or ‘now,’ as we like to think of it).

The second community is theboringclub, an unabashed celebration of all things boring. That is the place to celebrate your latest cup of coffee, or discuss the shoddy seam work on a new pair of trousers.

I cannot help but think that this is what the web was invented for. I have joined both, though the latter still awaits my maiden post. Maybe this should be it, though I fancy it may be too interesting.

It has occurred to me to wonder what it is about this journal that elicited the invitations…

Brew Ha-ha

I hadn’t appreciated just how short the English cherry season is. Having moved into a house with a cherry tree in the back garden, we have been cheerfully waiting for them to ripen. Some of the cherries right at the top of the tree and well out of reach of anything shorter than a giraffe have been glistening red and ripe for some time. On lower branches they have, by and large, remained resolutely yellow with but the slightest hint of redness and so we waited. We waited despite the fact that there has been an increasing shower of soggy, bursty cherries dropping onto the path. These were clearly overripe specimens from the higher reaches.

Except that they probably weren’t. The cherries seem to have moved from unripe to squelchy mess with no interim ripeness. We plucked a jarful from the tree yesterday; it was hardly nature’s bounty, though. There is plenty more sugary wetness in the tree, but sadly it remains both out of reach and far too mushy to harvest. Maybe we will have better luck next year.

In the meantime, the best of what we collected have been washed and dropped into a jar. Our fastidious sorting meant that of those we picked, maybe a third didn’t make the cut as it were, so the jar is only two-thirds full. The majority of them are yellow, though there is the hint of red here and there. I suspect that what we finally end up with will not be a deep and welcoming cerise, but rather a gibbous and malevolent orange. Still, we shall see. Anyway, having rinsed the brutes, we poured in a full bottle of Smirnoff and it is now hidden in the dark where it will steep for a month before we decant the juice out into a second and add sugar to the steeped fruit. That will then get a further month before the vodka is poured back in.

We will either end up with a new life form or some kind of cherry vodka. The bookies have it at even as the moment. Either way, I very much doubt that it will be the deep thrombosis red we were aiming for.

Brew Ha-ha

I hadn’t appreciated just how short the English cherry season is. Having moved into a house with a cherry tree in the back garden, we have been cheerfully waiting for them to ripen. Some of the cherries right at the top of the tree and well out of reach of anything shorter than a giraffe have been glistening red and ripe for some time. On lower branches they have, by and large, remained resolutely yellow with but the slightest hint of redness and so we waited. We waited despite the fact that there has been an increasing shower of soggy, bursty cherries dropping onto the path. These were clearly overripe specimens from the higher reaches.

Except that they probably weren’t. The cherries seem to have moved from unripe to squelchy mess with no interim ripeness. We plucked a jarful from the tree yesterday; it was hardly nature’s bounty, though. There is plenty more sugary wetness in the tree, but sadly it remains both out of reach and far too mushy to harvest. Maybe we will have better luck next year.

In the meantime, the best of what we collected have been washed and dropped into a jar. Our fastidious sorting meant that of those we picked, maybe a third didn’t make the cut as it were, so the jar is only two-thirds full. The majority of them are yellow, though there is the hint of red here and there. I suspect that what we finally end up with will not be a deep and welcoming cerise, but rather a gibbous and malevolent orange. Still, we shall see. Anyway, having rinsed the brutes, we poured in a full bottle of Smirnoff and it is now hidden in the dark where it will steep for a month before we decant the juice out into a second and add sugar to the steeped fruit. That will then get a further month before the vodka is poured back in.

We will either end up with a new life form or some kind of cherry vodka. The bookies have it at even as the moment. Either way, I very much doubt that it will be the deep thrombosis red we were aiming for.