NOTICE

换博客系统了，不兼容，旧的就都留在这里，2008年。
最新的博客还是在blog.yuvia.org里面写。

仅作存档。

Posted by yuvia

2008/12/23 12:40 2008/12/23 12:40
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秘制圣诞

圣诞节眼瞅着就要到了，我只在昨天以十分钟一个的速度做了一个小布袋，以圣诞的名义把抽带和ribbon染上绿色和红色而已。

圣诞不是一两天，25号过完，咱还有的是时间，重要的是这份过节的心情。所以别怪我野心又大、开始又晚啦！搜罗若干手工网站，为你的圣诞手工添点主意：

圣诞小人挂饰 - santa，雪人和小棕熊



圣诞树上的彩灯还不够炫？当然是挂上自己的手作更有个性了。

圣诞树挂饰


我曾有一口气做几十个stuffing小心的经历，让我换不同的口味做这样一批小东西，何乐而不为？

小手套挂饰



松树绿+红色的搭配最经典，忍不住购入了几块水玉布布，质地很优秀，圣诞被你延续很久。

圣诞小鹿钥匙包



红红的鼻子和粉嫩的脸蛋儿，实在惹人喜欢，如果嫌挂饰用处不大，做个这个钥匙包不错。

圣诞树摆件



我已决心做颗这样胖乎乎的小树玩玩。那水玉也忒合我意。

圣诞主题包袋



这个包包那一圈点睛的布条实在讨喜，细细碎碎的都是圣诞主题，而且一看就知道做工精细。可惜我没找到那么好看的圣诞布料，如果你有耐心，自己用水笔或丙烯花些花纹也不错。当然，要有耐心啦！

圣诞花环



做一个挂门上。最好是原木门，灰常质朴。



这些鲜红的小物太讨喜啦！衬得这块黑板灰常好看。有剩料，做这些最好。雪花可以手绣。

圣诞袜子



天哪。我就是为这一批美丽的圣诞袜子而冲动地展开了我的又一轮手工生活。不织布！不织布！

Posted by yuvia

2008/12/22 18:01 2008/12/22 18:01
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偶的孤单不单调

今天冬至，我前后听俩人说才知道。我凑巧心情大好，在今天给自己包了饺子吃。家里还有点羊肉，外面下了雨冷得很，实在不想出去，就切了几段葱，包了我爸常做的“一个肉丸馅”的。没有擀面杖，扒出来个酱油瓶子擀了擀……我还真没和过饺子面，和出来的有点软，弹性特大的那种，加上玻璃瓶子擀面杖，擀出来的饺子皮有饼厚……呜呜。后来剩了一块面，干脆烙了张饼。做的饺子个特大，皮厚馅足，哇咔咔。不到十个，还吃了两顿。每次回家老爸都要我学包饺子，我从没当回事过。但我肯定继承了我爸那么一点利索劲吧，至少。

歪打正着冬至吃了饺子，嗯嗯，一个肉丸的。

晚上给自己买了09年的日记本。从上大学开始日常生活里就离不开电脑，日记四年只写了不到一本。我觉得这对自己的将来是个损失。我还是喜欢看纸质的书、查纸质的字典、在纸上写日记，这样有一种存在感，使我觉得不会那么空虚。

每天从早到晚面对屏幕，除了工作，你有多少时间能花在学习上？看了一会儿该看的东西，就又跑到土豆上看电视剧去了。即使是沪江这样的学习社区，即使是豆瓣那样牛人云集的地方，因为资源过度泛滥，我们的目标瞬间缩小成一根针，找都找不到。

不管我工作什么性质，我都不能容忍自己从床上爬起来就坐到电脑前面去，这样子没办法思考，我也不相信能在工作上有什么飞跃。

想想自己的现状我对自己很不满，生活得毫无中心，常常无聊度日。虽然工作辛苦有时候真的不想做事，但人不逼自己将来就要被别人逼。我虽然不是个有野心的人，但为了自己能生活得有质量点，至少要付出相当的努力。

唉。09，走向社会的第二个年头，我该怎样整理自己？

Posted by yuvia

2008/12/21 22:25 2008/12/21 22:25
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想玩拼布了。。。

欲望是要刺激才能激发出来的。只要给我两张美图，我的欲望就激发出来了。

从没玩过拼布，所以想玩了。不过现在不打算玩。冷，不爱伸胳膊伸腿儿。而且家里能利用的空间太小了，一堆布拿出来乱七八糟的，不高兴。

等明年吧。明年铁定要从现在这个地方搬出去了，找到新居所，我再看看有没有发挥的空间。额哈哈哈。

我想一个人住。

Posted by yuvia

2008/12/20 13:42 2008/12/20 13:42
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琐事

我老拿照片混事，不好。



直接偷图了！这是本人本周收到的圣诞礼物，咔咔咔咔咔，俺滴多拉A莔。来自喂骆驼，链接地址见图。灰常喜欢，随身携带。

Posted by yuvia

2008/12/18 15:59 2008/12/18 15:59
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我喜欢的一篇短篇

对大段大段的描写情有独钟，无对白的段落往往暗藏着无限的安静。
James Joyce的经典短篇，EVELINE，首段和尾段都是经典中的精粹。



SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired.

Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it -- not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field -- the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her home.

Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word:

"He is in Melbourne now."

She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about her. Of course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people listening.

"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?"

"Look lively, Miss Hill, please."

She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.

But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then she would be married -- she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dead mother's sake. And no she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages -- seven shillings -- and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had been left to her charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work -- a hard life -- but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly undesirable life.

She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet her outside the stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say to him.

"I know these sailor chaps," he said.

One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly.

The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet to make the children laugh.

Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air Strange that it should come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into the sickroom saying:

"Damned Italians! coming over here!"

As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very quick of her being -- that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:

"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"

She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her.

She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.

A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:

"Come!"

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.

"Come!"

No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.

"Eveline! Evvy!"

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

Posted by yuvia

2008/12/17 22:15 2008/12/17 22:15
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一场无声的剧



我昨天被拉去做壮丁，负责拍照的壮丁。看一场莫里哀的剧，在复旦。

剧不是无声的，只是我一个字儿也听不懂而已。我以为是在剧场演，好歹有两边的字幕可看。结果只是个不大的空场地，四周摆上了两排椅子，中间做舞台。不过这样的场地和一向小成本的舞台剧风格倒是很相称。戏剧把一切繁枝细节通通抹去，用简陋的道具和有力的台词直面一米之外的观众，最质朴的东西往往有着最卓越的表现力。

我听不懂，开场前看了看蹩脚的中文简介，只能一切凭感觉走了。上次看话剧还是看《哈姆雷特》，那个大学时代就常常被提起的TNT剧团。莫里哀的喜剧和莎士比亚的悲剧比起来，在造型上还是一眼就能分辨得出的。那些脸谱和夸张的戏服看着就好笑，即使我这种“聋子”，看一场听不懂的剧也会常常笑出声来。可叹的是这个剧很看重灯光的表现力，开头一场灯光全息，演员上场手上会有一盏小小的灯，让你一下子就把注意力集中到了他们想要你集中的地方。这样的场景还算好，郁闷的是其中有一幕暗夜幽会的戏，黑压压的什么都看不见，我的感官全部失灵，只能通过演员的语气和喂骆驼同学偶尔的一句讲解来串连感知。

唉，所以说，语言是这个世界上最有表现力的东西。

上图吧！还是收获了不少美图的，完全是视觉享受了，这回。



o，忘了提剧名了囧。看海报。

图还很多，点击打开再看。


Posted by yuvia

2008/12/15 10:55 2008/12/15 10:55
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我做了！“囍”烤麸


没笋干，可惜了。写完这句话才想起来买的菇没有放！囧。四喜缺了囍，大家别传出去丢人。通常的四喜指的就是笋干、木耳、黄花菜和香菇，我这道是“双喜烤麸”，莔。

成色还是挺不错的嘛，按我的喜好稍微那么不甜了一点，拍出来照片还挺上相。撒上葱花之后还飘着淡淡的葱香味。到了上海我就一直很喜欢这道家常菜，浓香可口，咸中带甜，是一道典型的本帮菜。

查了一下，烤麸是属于高蛋白、低脂肪、低糖、低热量食物，是麦子做的面筋发酵蒸煮之后做成的，还是比较适合怕胖的人吃的。不过四喜烤麸做起来是要过油炸一下的，虽然我不敢多放油，但面筋这东西形似海绵，还是很易吸收油份的。这个做法要放不少糖和调料，要是因为怕胖选择吃烤麸，可最好不要选择这种做法哟。可以和萝卜皮、木耳等凉拌着吃。吃之前都要先煮上十分钟左右。

不过还是觉得四喜烤麸看上去最有食欲，哈哈。

为了不使自己那么罪过，吃饭之前拿了一根黄瓜啃。买了好几根黄瓜，新鲜得不得了，水汪汪甜甜的。不过我不是拿来啃的，下午腌一盆脆脆的泡瓜做喝粥小菜吃。偷偷提一句，晚上买了饺子皮做牛肉锅贴吃。细细，不好意思，就知道吃。

今天在ELLE上看的消息！！！明年TOPSHOP要在正大广场开旗舰店！！！！我喜欢的牌子，总算不用对着onlineshop流口水了。别看经济开始萧条，国内的时装市场倒是越来越热闹嘛。

Posted by yuvia

2008/12/13 14:28 2008/12/13 14:28
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[ the lab ] lust for life

用户插入图片
<BR />图是借来的。读书人不叫偷，叫借。<BR /><BR />俺收到这个包包礼物好长一段时间了，ms有小半个月了；后来还收到了老妈送我的zara包包，贼喜欢呐（样子是我自己选的，钱是我自己垫的，挂个老娘的名头心里更踏实，回家还能要红包）。这个棉花包包没想到这么流行哦，那天我还在地铁里碰到一个人背，跟芳仔一块儿的时候。个头太大了，就是。我的是个蓝色的，比较深的那种，也好看，还百搭。因为平常上班背个本本我就不爱提包了，最近拎我的zara完全是为了显摆。这个棉花包包这么大，就更不爱随便挂出去了，拿俩树枝走走捡捡回家还不见得能装满。被我挂在衣橱的把手上放每天换下来的衣服了，但我深深感到我对它的喜爱是不能这样浪费的，迟早有一天我会把它带出去溜达溜达。<BR /><BR />晚上在床上玩儿我就把它抱在怀里，暖和！容量超大，装衣服用最好，不然装满了别的东西也怪沉的。<BR /><BR />喜欢就一个字。<BR /><BR />请大家继续高频度高质量地送礼给我吧！

Posted by yuvia

2008/12/12 16:06 2008/12/12 16:06
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我要吃烤麸！！！

四喜烤麸的做法:

主料：烤麸100克、花生仁（生）10克、木耳(水发) 5克、竹笋10克、黄花菜10克

辅料：植物油、大葱、姜、八角、料酒、酱油、白砂糖、色拉油、味精、香油各适量。

做法： 1.先将烤麸切成3厘米见方的块，入沸水锅煮10分钟，取出洗净沥干。

2.油锅烧至七成热，放入烤麸炸至淡黄色，发硬盛起。

3.花生仁用水煮10分钟，捞起去红衣，木耳，金针菜去蒂洗净，切段。扁尖笋去根，一撕二开，洗净切段。

4.炒锅加入色拉油，爆香，姜，葱，茴香，下木耳，笋段，金针菜翻炒均匀，放入烤麸，花生仁，加入调料及水，先用旺火烧开，后用小火收汁至稠厚，再用中火收汁，淋麻油，炒匀出锅即可。

特点：此菜色酱红，香浓醇，咸中带甜。

Posted by yuvia

2008/12/12 15:08 2008/12/12 15:08
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