Tonight’s dinner: french green lentils, kale, and smoked chicken sausage cooked with red wine and fresh rosemary.

Get the recipe here.

Me: “Why would anyone give this stuff away? It’s in such good condition!”

Him: “Probably because the old lady who owned it died.”

Truth.

buh. If I had a ton o’ cash to spend on pro dye jobs (and if I wouldn’t look completely ridiculous as a redhead), I’d want something like this.

The things one says to their cat when they are alone are probably some of the most unfiltered, brain-to-mouth statements ever uttered.

That’s not what I meant, Google, though I can’t say I’m not interested…

Behind the scenes, season 1.

scottlava:

“Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera!”

The black-robed figure of the grim reaper is but a childish fabrication, a Lombroso-esque fantasy designed to perpetuate the illusion that one can distinguish good and evil by a thing’s mere image.

In reality, death appears in much subtler forms.

(via crushculdesac)

(via lostsplendor)

Another list of things to watch. Mostly for my own benefit.

For Me and My Gal

Cover Girl

It’s Always Fair Weather

Les Girls

The Young Girls of Rochefort

When finals are over I’m going on a Leslie Caron binge, which shall include:

Fanny

L-Shaped Room

Gigi

Father Goose

The Glass Slipper

Is Paris Burning

ragbag:

fisselig • (adj.) flustered to the point of incompetence

despite how cool i seem to almost everyone that ever has met me (especially those who are superior judges of character), i can—from time to time, especially when nagged by a supervisor—lose my composure. and on those occasions, i don’t just show my nervousness, i completely break down to the most feral, least competent, slathering cretin that ever existed. it is on these occasions which i could accurately be described by the germans as “fisseliged.”

This sounds familiar.