we love brownies

Hi everyone,

So not much is happening right now so I though would share something with you, the recipe for my browines (that my friends love). So here it is:

525g 70% Dark Chocolate broken

into pieces

375g butter cut into chunks

4 eggs

375g brown suger

127g plain flour

1 1/2 baking powder

Method:

1. Preheat oven to 160/gas 3/ fan oven 140. Grease a 13/9in tin and put baking parchment in the tin. Melt butter and chocolate in a bowl over a saucepan of boiling water, stir well and allow to cool.
2. Whisk eggs and suger until pale, glossy, thick and well combined. Gently fold in thechocolate then sive in the flour and baking powder and stir gently until smooth.
3. Pour the mixture into the prepared tin and bake in oven for 30-40 mins. Stick a cocktail stick in and it should come out clean with only a few crumbs sticking to it. Allow to cool before cutting into squares

Hope you like them let me know how it goes you can find me on twitter @ramblingsrandom.

Talk to you soon,

Penny.

New Beginnings

We all have those urges when we decide to try something new -a sport, a musical instrument, a language. Some of the time it works, some of the times it just fails spectacularly and you give up -I'm sort of like that, if I don't have an initial affinity for it, I immediately say "NO! I'm NOT doing this anymore!" Like a three year old slamming down their box of crayons when they're accidentally coloured outside the lines.
    But recently I've had lots of ideas of trying things out, the ones going most well are my new liking for the martial art, ninjutsu (and YES, I am learning to be a ninja, try not to be jealous) and another contact sport, kick-boxing. I like them both, they're physically active, not something I naturally go into and they're enjoyable with a group of people around me and interesting things to try out.
    Languages? Pfft, I'm learning French in school, although I'd like to get better at that language instead of replying to everything with a blank expression and a mumble of "Oui" tumbling out of my mouth.
   And that brings me to musical instruments. My first love -music. Everything about it, the history, the theory and most important, the piano. I've been doing piano since I was about seven going on eight, around second class, maybe first, I can't remember. But every since then, I've gotten over the whole outburst of "I'M NOT DOING PIANO ANYMORE, I DON'T LIKE IT ANYMORE!" When I was nine until I fell down over that hill and began to really really really really really really (I could go on, but I won't) like it.
   However, I can't help but feel underachieved when people come out and they're like, "Yeah I can play piano, too! And guitar, and violin, and cello, and trumpet and accordian and OH! I'm starting the harp, too." I groan internally but outwardly, I try to smile and if I don't I just give them my blinking, staring expression of awe and then go on to bow down and worship them.
   So, then I decide -I'll take up organ! Which I will, but those damn foot pedals are a pain in the neck and as I have realised recently, it's not that I find it difficult itself, it's the fact that I'm comparing it to piano, something I've been doing for nine, going on ten years and have gotten to quite a good standard in and then I stop and say, "It's not working" and abandon it there and then, just because I'm not necessarily good at it straight away.
    It's a problem that I'm trying to get over because as I've realised recently, it has actually interfered with my job in my friend's mam's shop where I'm making sprays and posies but they just DON'T want to go right. It's me, not them, and my inability to start at the beginning again, down at the lowest rung and make my way up a year at a time. Practice makes perfect has always been my motto.
    And so, this time when I'm saying that I'm taking up guitar, I'm actually going to do it. I'm quite terrible, I've only started to day (Tuesday) but I'm willing to keep working at it until I get it to a proficient level as such. We'll see how I go, I won't give up, I'm getting too stubborn at this point.

And so that's me out,

Arma.

The Rain in Ireland Stays Mainly Everywhere (not in the plain)

Taz here.

Most Irish people hate the rain. 

With good reason, I guess. It's wet, and cold, and you can't hang your washing out, or even go out for that matter. Kids don't play in it, you don't tan in it, and when it comes as you're on the sidelines of a football pitch? It sucks.

(Apparently)

Everyone says the rain is awful. They moan and groan and intone that it's a holy terror and god forbid we get a bit of sun for once. It's the topic of an infinite number of conversations-all of which conclude the rain is just horrible.

Personally I think the rains pretty awesome. 

And why wouldn't I? In my head, rain equals warmth. Coincidentally, it's currently pouring rain from the (figurative) heavens outside my window. I'm seated on a swingy-chair in my warm room typing away at my clonky old PC, a cup of coffee at hand. I'm comfortable. I'm cosy. I'm other nice descriptive words beginning with c which if I were bothered to think of and type out would create some nice alliteration. Point is, even though I can hear the wind and rain bashing against my window, I'm somewhere safe.

Rain, to me, acts as a physical representation of wealth. It reminds me that I'm very lucky in life, that I have comfort and security. I'm not living on the streets, or in a slum. I don't need to cower into somewhere relatively dry(er) when rain comes. I don't need to beg or scavenge for scraps of food. And assumably, if you're reading this, neither do you.

It puts things into perspective, doesn't it? It's all well and good to complain about the wet and the cold and how miserable it is, when we're going home to a heated home. And maybe you think I'm a downer for thinking like this, but to me its uplifting. Not the fact that others are wet, of course, but the fact that we're dry. It makes my grateful, and happy, and all of that other soppy stuff.

Now if you'll excuse me I think I'll go for a run. And quite literally soak up the weather of an Irish summer.

Old people and Dogs.

What? Late? Don't be silly.

But I have a somewhat genuine excuse this time. I was making old people happy with my Aunt and her dog. No seriously, I really was.

My Aunt (let's just call her Kay) came to me with the idea a couple weeks ago. She'd seen an add in the church bulletin for ''Pet Therapy'' down at local nursing home, and thought it was a brilliant idea. Only problem was that she needed someone to hold her dog, benjy, in the car. So that's were I come in as the somwhat willing volunteer.

Now, I know I sound kinda selfish in saying ''somewhat willing'' volunteer. But trust me, you don't know Benjy. He's not exactly one of those tiny fluffy white puppies that stare at you with their golden brown eyes. Oh no. As Kay calls him, he's a typical little boy. Scruffy black and brown hair, less than a foot tall, and some sort of terrier (possibly austrailian) you wouldn't think he was capable of any mischief. But trust me, that dog can bark. Loudly. Never snap or bite, just bark. Loudly. And a lot.

Kay is one of those people who is a real mommy to her pets; she loves him unconditionally, spoils him ,and refuses to see any fault in him no matter what anyone says. Telling her that bringing Benjy wasn't the best idea would be like telling a child that there favourite toy was infected and had to be burned along with every other of it's kind.

So, needless to say I was a bit apprehensive about bringing him. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love the little guy. But I'd kinda been hoping we could bring my dog after the first trip, but I don't think they'd welcome us back with open arms if we left while trying to restrain a yelping mutt from killing anyone.

So anyway, the big day arrived, and Kay picked me up at my house before we went to pick up the little rascal. All was going well, he didn't seem to be overly comfortable on my lap, but at least he'd stayed quiet.

Until we got into town. And then suddenly, all hell breaks loose.

Just picture the scene. We're at a crossroads and the traffic lights are red. I have benjy in a headlock, as he howls and wringles, trying to get out of the metal box. Kay is beside me, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on Benjy's head saying in a sickenly sweet voice ''There we go benjy, we're almost there. You've been a good boy haven't you? We're nearly there now.''

Thankfully, she soon pulled into the car park of the Nursing Home, snapped on his lead after a bit of grappling, opened the car door as I let him leap out of my arms and onto to the tarmac. Then, silence.
When Benjy had had a good sniff around, we made our way to the reception. After that it's just a blur of ''Aw, look at the wee thing it's so cute!'', large grey hands fumbling to touch, photos, and getting tangled in the lead.

I was surprised to see how amazed they all seemed. I was guessing that loads of people had been coming down. After all, it was in the church bulletin. In Ireland, if you want to get news out quick locally, just put it in the church bulletin. But we found out on our second visit (that time was with my dog) that we were the only ones that had come.

well, I guess that's all for this week. Toddle loo guys!
-teri