The cure to writer's block...

...clearly isn't lace-knitting.  On the other hand, I did spend the weekend terrifying the cat by indulging this inexplicable need to VACUUM ALL THE FLOORS! and after that there was little to do but settle my blown eardrums in for a concerted bit of shawl-making.  Result: Omelet is officially off the needles.  Get excited!  Well, or not, obviously, but somebody's bound to love the pretty pictures.  Turns out it's this beautiful frothy bit of style-over-substance when you do it in true laceweight and big needles.  But who needs substance anyway?  Behold!

Slow Children at Play

Sometimes I wish I'd listened to my mother and become a pathologist.  It's hard not to have creative block when your job isn't exactly the stuff of action movies: "Today I diagnosed 6 people with flu (again), argued the semantics of asthma, and got chewed out/written up for not giving a family the answer they wanted to hear in the tone they wanted to hear it in."  Yeah, that's pretty much a day in the life.  At least dead people and tissue specimens complain less.  And I love a good detective story.  Though I did have that pesky urge to vomit all through first-year anatomy and histology.  Nothing a good mask, chronic sinusitis, and a steady supply of Dramamine can't fix, right?  Or maybe I've just watched too many episodes of NCIS while on call waiting for the phone to ring for the eleventy-billionth time, and Ducky is awesome and I want his job.

Be that as it may, I am the slow child at play in question (thank the gods my easily-offended patient families would never deign to read this blog).  You can always tell how the creative juices are flowing by how many times I fudge a section on lace-knitting.  Omelet shawl is stubbornly still on the needles, and it's a very good thing it's so forgiving.  The pencil line marks where I've finally gotten to in the pattern after much cursing and ripping down to the lifeline (again, hooray lifelines!) and re-knitting.  While stone-cold sober.  This says much about my mental state.

And below is an up-close-and-personal look at the stitches so far.  If you can't tell where I've fudged, neither will I.

Though speaking of fudge, I have successfully managed mousse.  Oddly enough, it's easier than custard.  If by easy you mean it turns out nicely even if you don't have a functional electric mixer and are forced to hand-whisk your egg whites into submission.  Also, teacups make a dainty and quirky serving vehicle if you're into presentation.

If you're curious about the recipe, it's lovingly ripped off and halved from a book called "The Totally Chocolate Cookbook."  Ripped off 'cause I never do anything exactly to specifications, and halved 'cause my experiments have to be small enough to feed one.  2 eggs, separated, 2 tablespoons butter, 2-1/2 ounces chocolate of the bittersweet or semisweet persuasion, 1 teaspoon rum, 1 tiny pinch salt.  Beat egg yolks until smooth (or until pale and increased in volume and your arms are tired), melt chocolate and butter over low heat (makeshift double boiler for the win!), add chocolate/butter mixture and rum to yolks and mix well, beat egg whites and salt until stiff peaks form (ow, the pain!), fold into chocolate mixture until whites just disappear, spoon into ramekins or teacups, cover with plastic wrap, and chill until set.  Makes 4 dainty teacups' worth or probably about 3 normal-serving-size ramekins.

So, yeah, enjoy the humble offerings of my existential crisis while I figure out how to make National Poetry Month count.  Or...something.