Jess Whitecroft (she/her)
@jesswhitecroft
Writes romance and horror. Sometimes combines the two in a horrible romance. Gluten-free. May contain nuts. No DMs, please, because the UK has determined I'm not adult enough to read them.
Well, it's not perfect, but for someone who learned origami from old Rupert the Bear annuals, and hasn't done it for about 40 years? Not too shabby.
My kitchen Bible. Yes, it also has recipes, but it's my go-to for just about everything - roasts, emulsions, meringues, pastry, yeast baking. If you can think of it it'll tell you how to cook it.
I know YouTube comments are Thunderdomes of absolute bullshit, but rarely you'll come across a commenter who Gets It so hard it's like being shoved backwards into another, better reality.
Stinky pee. It's what's for tea. (Recipe in alt text)
It's that brief, lovely time in late spring when everyone's wee smells really weird. Time to bake.
Look at it. Look at this monstrous fucker. Does it look like it's sick? No, it doesn't. It was, about 20 odd years ago when it was a sad office stick fed on dregs from the coffee machine, but he's fine now. Stop messing with him.
Back on my wool cube (wube) bullshit. This is what happens when Bluesky is down.
I've been making a bunch of soft furnishings for the mother-in-law with this Morris inspired fabric. So beautiful that I had to grab a piece for myself for an embroidered panel.
We have Mother's Day cake, gluten-free, white chocolate, orange and caraway. Recipe in the alt text.
Late afternoon and I still have enough light to sew by. What is this spring thing?
Tic-Tac tits are going to kill us all. Scream, flail, panic. Only flags and tepid tea can save us now.
Cake. It happens. Excuse the Fanny Cradock of it all, but I was in a hurry. And mascarpone? Yeah - they're not joking when they say it doesn't freeze.
Proof of light. Feels like the sun should be holding up a copy of today's newspaper.
Before and after - the long stripey twat who stole my weekend.
Nope. I'm wrong. It was an even older Penguin. I think the spine might have been orange at one point. It has small print, and a not insignificant number of Marmite stains.
Welcome to my current nightmare. Those edges? Yeah. They've all got to be stitched down. My carpets are a disgrace of frayed bits.
Hemstitch, for example. You can have a really good seethe over a small Italian hemstitch.
Was doing this anyway because I wanted the physical sensation of writing very, very small, but in the light of the government's idiot announcement about AI training this feels like the right way to get shit done.
Post a perfect album from the 90s that isn't Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, or Alice in Chains
Because it's never been a butthole! It's a decahedron, if that's even a thing.
Butthole work in progress. Now less anusy, more geometric.
Added a splash of brandy to the vegetarian option for Christmas dinner. Don't know why I didn't do it before. Now they're off to the freezer for next Thursday. (Recipe in alt text.)
What I'm making right now. It is definitely not an inverted butthole. Honest.
Hazing ritual. Definitely. Now to figure out how to repurpose their flat, footless little corpses. I'm thinking some kind of ganache-filled tartlets, but that will have to happen tomorrow.
The fussiest, silliest French princes of stupid fucking biscuits now have to sit out and dry like baking drag queens before they go into the oven to give me even worse anxiety than they have already. (And yes, I know my spice rack is a joke.)
Welp, fuck me sideways. Somebody's having scrambled eggs tomorrow. The yolk broke TWICE.