Blowing in the Wind

Or in my case, making a noise like a flock of geese honking into a tuba. Which is a fairly accurate way of saying I have a cold. Bleagh.

Worse thing is, I have lost my sense of taste completely. It re-emerged at lunchtime with a brief snippet of chicken soup - hooray, celebration, but all too briefly. Poor old Husband was served up insano-turkey last night with a ladle full of chilli flakes dumped all over it. I tasted nothing; not even the evil, evil, evilness of the newly discovered 2011 pickled Habaneros managed to blast through it. WOE IS ME.

On a lighter note, I have discovered a rather splendid album by a Norwegian lady called Susanne Sundfor, The album is called The Silicone Veil and she is obviously a bit mad, but I quite like that. The single White Foxes includes the wonderful line "I hunger, I crave the gravy of your soul". Okaaay. Lost in translation maybe? Who knows. Maybe soul gravy is a very real thing in Norway. Actually it sounds quite nice....mmmm, soul gravy.....meaticilious.... Hang on - Soul Train, Gravy Train?!! -My God!

Full of Eastern Promise

I have realised that, having trumpeted this blog being about food and books, I very rarely write about either one. So, I have to report that I made Moroccan Lamb and Chickpea Soup last night, and very nice it was too.

And I further report I am reading "The Case of Spring-Heeled Jack" which features the (alas) fictional adventures of Algernon Swinburne and Sir Richard Burton, which ties in nicely to the Eastern theme as he spent much of his life researching and translating Arabian poetry. Tah-dah! Book and cooking tie in.

Spring Heeled Jack was a peculiar thing. In Victorian London he appears as a cloaked figure, spitting fire and able to leap over walls in a single bound. He attacked several people and in one really scary incident, spat fire at a woman who answered her door when he knocked. Her sister came to her rescue and shut the door in Jack's face. BUT rather than run away, he just carried on knocking....brrrrr...shiver.

Who knows who or what he was? One things for sure, between Jack (both bouncy and rippery), opium dens, Moriarty, and sundry other unpleasant types, Victorian Britain probably wins the "Scariest Time"award; doesn't mean I wouldn't want to visit! In a gesture that can only mean it's true love, the Husband has booked us onto the Jack The Ripper walking tour....I shall have to resist the temptation to correct the host and start looking for blood stains....

The way is should be...

If things happened the way I think they should, I can guarantee the world would be a weirder place but a lot more fun...well, for me at least.

I think this pretty much sums up how history actually happened. Oh and Francis Drake was a man-duck.

You must suffer to be beautiful

As my mother and granny always said, which makes them sound as though they were used to being squeezed into rib-crushing corsets as youngsters - not true. Unless of course I am actually 112 years old and they were protecting me from the truth that I am related to Yoda.

However I would gladly ram skewers through my earlobes to sport these bad boys!

These earrings are now fully operational.

Because One is an Oeuf...

So, here I am, abandoned at home while the Husband lords it up in Portugal with his chum. Curses. As Noodles pointed out, my hamster is not a great conversationalist, more of a listener I suppose.

Anyway, 6 days of quiet in the Pit; me assuming the position on the sofa and enjoying back to back telly crap - what could be better? Still obviously cooking enough to feed two - even though this nibs would not have appreciated last night's effort due to a distinct lack of meat.

The whole kitchen smells like pickling vinegar, due to an egg/ jar seal accident on Sunday. However, the eggs were saved and are festering away in the cupboard gradually looking more and more black and evil - mm mmm mmmm. I know I will have to leave them at least a month (Christmas goodies!) but everytime I open the cupboard I have to fight the urge to just nick one. Which would turn into two. Shortly followed by the rest of the jar.

Two dozed pickled eggs later, I think I would need to get used to being lonely for a very long time.

Where's the Cheese?

I'm having one of those weeks when I feel like a rat in a maze (hence the title...mind you, where is the cheese?).

I can't believe Mrs Dooms-Patterson wants to play Maria.....

• Get up
• Porridge
• Shower
• Teeth
• Walk to work
• Coffee
• Work
• Lunch
• Work
• Walk home
• Dinner
• TV 
• Bed

And repeat until death.

I think the clocks changing makes a difference, it's so bloody dark that when I do see the sunlight I feel like my eyes are boiling in their sockets.
The same old people, day in, day out. Which as a moan is ironic as I loathe meeting new people, I always feel awkward like my skirt's tucked into my pants, or I have unmatched shoes on. Bah, it's just autumnal blues I guess. Next week will be even worse as The Husband is off on a golfing holiday....dear god, when did we turn into Margo and Jerry? Altogether now, "the Ooh-Aaah Bird is so called because it lays square eggs....I don't get it"

Part 2 - YES HE DID!!!!

Hallelujah, sense prevails, the world turns once more on its axis and all is well.


After the fear of contracting a case of the Mitts, we can all breathe a sigh of relief. Reasons why:

Mitt Romney (as a Mormon) believes he has magic underpants from God that protect him from temptation.

Now I am the last person to prejudge a person on the strength of their religious beliefs; loving one another and generally being  respectful seems to be the basis of most faiths. however....

UNDERPANTS?   REALLY????

One part of me throws my hands up in despair and gives up. Another part of me would dearly like to see these magic pants, and wants to know if they come in a set of other special magic undergarments - anti-satanic socks maybe? Beelzebub battling bras? Who knows what cosmic struggle goes on in Mitt Romney's nether regions - no wonder the poor guy looks startled a lot of the time, a poorly placed pitchfork will do that.

YES WE CAN (try)

To paraphrase Gershwin "I'm glad I'm not in America, Bad politics in Amereeeeca".

My God, if the world stops turning one day, the unholy crapfest will probably look a lot like the Republican party attempting to put shine on the rape shaped turd laid at their doorstep by the Tea Party. I can only imagine how crazy people are going, having angry adverts crammed into their eye sockets 10 times every half an hour.

At least in jolly old Blighty, once every five years a wee beige man sitting in front of a library of classics will lean forward to tell the waiting public that his political foe is a jolly bad egg and not to be trusted.

It took the election to bump me out of the funk I've been in since dear old Auntie Betty died. A greater, more magical person I will never have the privilege to know again, and mores the pity.