If you say the word "clafouti" to me or my brother, we will immediately start giggling. This is because my mother spent several months in a clafouti phase, making every possible type of clafouti: sweet, savory, small, large, for breakfast and lunch and dinner and dessert, clafouti unto forever. We eventually staged a revolt until she agreed to stop making clafouti.
There was similarly a homemade marshmallow phase. (The one I remember best was the savory basil marshmallow, served in a bowl of tomato soup.) And there have been several iterations of the monochromatic meal phase; that one is not so much a phase as an orientation, really. And there's the Simpsons episode where Marge is hammering tiles on the roof and Homer says "Marge, it's three a.m.! ...shouldn't you be baking?" and yep, that's my mom. (And me. And my brother. And, I suspect, my uncle. In case anyone wondered whether this sort of thing was genetic.)
Anyway, I have been testing this horchata recipe, and recipe testing is perfectly fine and normal, nothing wrong with that, but then I looked up horchata on Wikipedia, and now I'm contemplating horchata cubana and tigernut horchata (I love the Spanglish on that page) and Puerto Rican sesame horchata (which sinboy thinks would be gross and I think would be delicious, like a liquid version of one of those sesame and honey candies) and horchata cocktails and all these recipes (FRIED HORCHATA ZOMG) and I want one of these machines and oh god it's a horchata phase and I'm turning into my mother.
I suppose every woman has a moment like this at some point in her life. And at least I recognize the danger of entering into a horchata phase, and I can reassure myself that this is what tagging is for and I can always put the recipes away for a while and then come back and find them exactly as I left them. Which I will totally do. Right.
Unrelatedly, while looking through posts on various recipe blogs, I found the best spam comment ever on a recipe for Guatemalan oatmeal horchata. I am in awe.