Cornish Pixies are not for the faint of heart.
Or for the weak of stomach.
With grand designs to create a new batch of ever-improving butterbeer at least once a week, I entered this realm of co-authoring a cooking blog with my usual positive intentions. Envisioning wild success, I knew we would soon have as much fame as Gilderoy Lockhart, (5 time winner of Witch Weekly's "Most Charming Smile Award") if not more. Our sparkling faces would adorn every would-be-witch's computer screen each time they entered the kitchen. Soon we would be honorary members of the Wizengamot...
wait, what?
Then the pressure kicked in. What the heck are we doing? Who are we to think that we can even begin to master these subtle culinary arts that have taken centuries to perfect? Now I was starting to picture an endlessly spiraling disaster (much like trying to be an adult) that sooner or later would have us both curled up in a corner retching up slugs or in a state resembling petrificus totalus. Shortly thereafter my stomach began to feel like I had swallowed a swarm of Cornish Pixies. Devilish little blighters that they are, they started wreaking havoc on my insides, making the very concept of taste testing a creatively brewed batch of butterbeer sound absolutely repulsive. My horrible nightmare started to become a self-fulfilling prophecy as I sat on the couch and stared dejectedly at my counter full of ingredients.
Then I started craving a butterbeer. Tonight, the journey beings anew.
Or for the weak of stomach.
With grand designs to create a new batch of ever-improving butterbeer at least once a week, I entered this realm of co-authoring a cooking blog with my usual positive intentions. Envisioning wild success, I knew we would soon have as much fame as Gilderoy Lockhart, (5 time winner of Witch Weekly's "Most Charming Smile Award") if not more. Our sparkling faces would adorn every would-be-witch's computer screen each time they entered the kitchen. Soon we would be honorary members of the Wizengamot...
wait, what?
Then the pressure kicked in. What the heck are we doing? Who are we to think that we can even begin to master these subtle culinary arts that have taken centuries to perfect? Now I was starting to picture an endlessly spiraling disaster (much like trying to be an adult) that sooner or later would have us both curled up in a corner retching up slugs or in a state resembling petrificus totalus. Shortly thereafter my stomach began to feel like I had swallowed a swarm of Cornish Pixies. Devilish little blighters that they are, they started wreaking havoc on my insides, making the very concept of taste testing a creatively brewed batch of butterbeer sound absolutely repulsive. My horrible nightmare started to become a self-fulfilling prophecy as I sat on the couch and stared dejectedly at my counter full of ingredients.
Then I started craving a butterbeer. Tonight, the journey beings anew.
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