Really.

(Walker, circa 2005).

He's made the blog too cool for school. Check out the social media buttons chilling up there, the new contact page, and the joint-effort header. Rocker Walker strikes again, and I'm just proud as a mama hen that our blog is levitating, even if its little bloggy wings are from Walker. Which reminds me. I always wonder what the best antonym of levitate is? Sink and descend are just a let down;). I want to talk about ups and downs, so let's just say kitchen sink for this post, because my least favorite thing in our flat is the sink. It smells, and it's not my fault. Anyway, life has been a bit of a glide lately, trying to ride the winds of today and not get sucked into a pessimism about the future (I still need a job), trying to rise up in hope. Trying to put the kitchen sink, and all the complaints and failures of today in their place.

For instance, Weather.com promised us a dazzling week, but we've been in the fog, under the pistachio shells, at the books. Kitchen sink. But the flowers still come out, gloomy or sunshine. Blossoms are still popping out of their buds all over our garden, instants of pure joy. Drift up. Levitate.

We got to see an old mate yesterday, and tried out a new Scottish-version-of-Cracker-Barrel minus the grease yesterday. Scones are the new corn muffin. Levitating. My review can be found in its usual hiding place, here at Visit St Andrews.

Something completely invigorating is my recent bout with rhubarb. Secret: I have never cooked rhubarb in my life. Until last week, when it arrived, unsolicited, in the vegbox from the local farm. I totally thrive on the surprise element. As soon as the heavy parcel is in my hands, I run over to the counter and pull one item out at a time in glee. Potatoes, carrots and onions don't elicit as much excitement as purple sprouting broccoli. Rhubarb got an enthusiastic-trepidation-exclamation.

Somewhere in the past, I heard that parts of rhubarb are poisonous, so have long avoided it. While the vegbox rhubarb sat all salmon-coloured in my fridge, I did a quick search to discover it is only the leaves that are poisonous. And we didn't have any of those, so I had no excuse. In short, rhubarb is easier than cooking apples, and we haven't been poisoned yet.

It started with a gluten-free rhubarb and raspberry clafoutis (recipe borrowed from here). Clafoutis is a french custardy dessert baked with berries. Even with its humdinger of a name and GF alterations, it was delish.

Levitating in my initial success, recipes ideas were flying. I altered a fig cereal bar recipe to make a raisin-rhubarb cereal bar, which was good straight out of the oven, but has dried up a bit (hence the cream),

then moved on to the most elaborate of them all: gluten-free Poached rhubarb and blackberry flan with pistachio crumble crust (inspired by this). Did you read that, dad, I finally made a flan! The side effect of this is that I've been snack-attacking on pistachios while blogging. (Even if do they threaten to slice my fingertips.)

(The Rocker still tells me he's 'not convinced' about rhubarb though. Kitchen sink.) Here my rockstar and I are in the evening dim. It is quiet, unlike the unearthly seagull shrieks that wake me each morning (I tell myself I'll miss it, and roll over. Kitchen sink.) The garden has welcomed the evening, but we are not even going to the kitchen sink.

Tonight, we will take the wings of the morning. He is there. Night is as bright as day.