So I think its possible that heaven is going to smell like freshly baked bread. Because right now, my kitchen smells divine. A little (organic) whole wheat flour, a little yeast, a little milk and salt, a little pino noir (ok, the wine was just for drinking) and I am enjoying my very first official loaf of bread.
Thank you Farmgirl Fare Susan! (And if you have not read her blog, you really must, because she is one amazing bread-baking, sheep-raising woman)

Crescent Roll Genie

Rub the the magic tube three times and a genie will appear to grant the wishes of your taste buds.

As most of you know, I am not a big fan of any food that comes in a tube, be it yogurt, cheese, or anything else - even tubed cookie dough can be a little sketch. However, the crescent roll is a whole different story. It is reserved only for camping trips, never for home, but slow cooked over the fire it is magical. I can scarf down half a tube like nothing, eating them plain, stuffed with gouda, or smeared with pomegranate jelly. Their buttery goodness rivals the s'more as my preferred campfire treat.

However, this tube was problematic. There was no satisfying "pop" of the cardboard tube, in fact, it was a dud (I guess that's what we get for buying generic). B and I had worked our selves up for a little roll-smackeral and in our panic to open the tube, somebody got stabbed. The tube oozed dough at an alarming speed. We pried and pulled, but the tube stayed sealed and the dough just kept coming. With dirty fingernails we clawed at the cardboard, alternating between shrieking and hysterical laughter. In the end, the rolls were excavated, the tube was a shredded mess, and sweet crescent salvation came in the form of three feet of string-like dough wrapped expertly 'round a skewer, toasted golden brown.

Wallace Falls

So, enough with the Puget, lets talk about the Cascades! Can I say AMAZING! One of the most wonderful parts of my life up in the Pacific Northwest is the number of hikes that I am able to take. Yesterday I drove out to the foot of the Cascades to a little town called Gold Bar (so little that the population sign only said "pop" with no number) to hike the Wallace Falls State Park.
It was drizzling and grey (in other words perfect) and six miles later, had stayed the same. I munched on wild salmon berries, and had all the moss, ferns, and lichen I could feast my eyes on. But the Falls were what it was all about.

The pictures do so little justice, so you must look at them and imagine the roar of water, the cold mist on your face, and the damp earthy scent of rich, decaying detritis. My heart belongs in those places.

It is about time that I put up a little sneak peak picture of my studio. It is my happy place, where I can go and work for hours. The painting on the wall is still in progress (about 70% done) and is about the move, the changes in states, about spring, cherry blossoms and rain.