Author: <span class="vcard">admin</span>

Just can’t get enough…

I’m not even trying to pretty this one up.  It looks like sick.

Shitty Pictures of Food

Okay, let me start with this, I f*cking LOVE food.

(Or with a bit less vulgarity) I love in short order: the process of picking out ingredients to make a home cooked feast; smells of gastronomic indulgence that waft over me when walking through an open marketplace on a Saturday afternoon; the giddy anticipation at my favourite restaurant when I know I’m going to swoon over whatever they put in front of me.  You get the idea.

My soul is that of a middle-aged, borderline obese chef named Ernie.

What isn’t very appetizing about this obsession are my shitty pictures of food.  Oh sure, I can talk about the exquisite meal I had a week ago with the same fervour that most people talk about their children. They’re even allowed to have pictographic examples of little Jonny’s adorableness. Yet, somehow, carrying around a picture of each and every meal that’s made me want to explode with joy is a little insane?  How is this fair?  Then, when I think a little longer about this proposition and I decide that it probably isn’t a good idea anyway, as most of my food pictures end up looking like this-
This could be exotically spicy Tom Yum Talay OR Reconstituted Cat Vomit
Or this
 These could be Tender and Succulent Chiken Satay Skewers OR
Premature FaceHuggers waiting for their moment to pounce 
Or this
 This could be the Chef’s Own Special Saag Lamb OR Proof of Life on Uranus


The events leading to these abominations go little something like this-
  • Enter restaurant/pick out amazing ingredients
  • Peruse menu and select delicious foodstuffs to fill my belly/cook beautifully tasty & nutritious meal
  • Experience apoplectic fits of glee when my plate is placed before me
  • Immediately shove my face into said plate thereby impressing my dinner mates with how long I can hold my breath
  • Come up for air three quarters of the way through eating and I think that it would be ‘Supercool to document this experience and share it, yay!’
  • Attempt to rearrange food on plate so it doesn’t look like it was danced on by a rabid possum
  • Take Photo
  • Take another photo
  • Take another photo
  • Take 12 more photos from various angles hoping that one of them will look even a tenth as good as it tasted
  • Once I get the photos on a larger screen realize they all look like toddler vomit covered in a thick layer of cow drool
  • Cry
  • Forget about the last atrocity the next time I’m enjoying a wonderful meal and repeat above steps in an infinite happiness/disappointment loop


At the risk of sounding like a liar, I’m not trying to turn this into a food/cooking blog.  I know that statement looks like total bullshit considering this is the third time I’ve talked about food this week.  I also know there are already many out there that do it miles better than me and I would never dream of trying to take them on.  That’s like begging a cat to repeatedly bite you on the lady-bean while banging your head with a cast iron pot.

My ‘lazy’ chili? Badass.

I said, bad…ass.

Day One

  • One medium onion
  • One green, red or yellow pepper (your preference)
  • Small packet of minced steak (250g) (I didn’t use mince, but modified the recipe for it, but don’t use ‘ground beef’ it’s bullshit …for reals)
  • Kidney Beans
  • Fūl (aka Fava Beans)
  • Fresh plum tomatoes, diced
  • Tinned plum tomatoes (I know they’re the same thing STFU)
  • Cayenne Pepper
  • Johnny’s (or equivalent) to taste
  • Paprika
  • Chopped Jalapenos (if you want this shit to taste like Rick James)

Cook that shit.  Mix that shit. Stir that shit for at least 30 minutes (MUCH longer if you used proper meat)
Eat the hell out of that shit.  (But it’s best to wait til the next day)


Day Two

  • Remove from fridge
  • Spread on tortilla
  • Add Cheese
  • Add sour cream
  • Add some fucking ham if you want
  • Grill
  • Eat with some green shit…if you’re a pussy


Monday Munchy Malfeasance*

Dear High Street purveyor of ‘delicious’ lunchtime meals,

Hi!  Let me start off by saying, for the most part, I really like you.  I’d friggin’ marry your cheese and pickle sandwiches if there wasn’t a chance for the relationship to moulder after an unrefrigerated romance.  But there’s something we need to talk about; have a discussion, a palaver, if you will. 

Your salads are kinda gross. (Mummy Tourette always told me to lead with the good and then stick the knife in.)

I happened into one of your shops today, hungry and looking for something to satiate me.  I found myself in front of your cooler box of love.  Your friendly fluorescent lights beckoning me to choose one of the brightly blissful packages of ambrosial goodness.  It took me about 10 minutes- because honestly how can one choose between such salacious synonyms as: scrumptious, yummy, enticing and delectable?  There were so many to choose from, but I settled on the ‘Tempting 5 bean salad with spinach and grilled halloumi in a spicy tomato sauce’. It certainly was. What? I dunno.  I bought this salad based on your duplicitous description- preparing for the incredibly awesome flavour assault on my taste buds.

What I got was this-
It’s like a Dali painting.  ‘Toyed it, my heart’, obscure and abhorrently delectible!

Seriously, High Street?  I mean, seriously?  How do you only grill (your incredibly salty) halloumi on one side?  How does your tomato sauce taste less like tomatoes and more like cheesy feet?  How does your 5 bean salad actually consist of 3 beans of varying sizes?  (And by the way a lentil is not a bean, it’s a pulse.) Also, the extra helping of lime?  Would have appreciated a warning that the first bite of my supposedly mildly spiced salad would involve me having a lime induced seizure.  There was no description of lime on your label; can you be more forward with your sour intentions before I shove you in my mouth?

But your most nefarious infraction, your most poisonous predication was this-

I’ll be a-giggling while I consume your soul!

The best name I can come up with for these slimy, diseased facsimiles of red onion are…well, diseased facsimiles of red onion. (Or purple sluggy mates of FUN!)   Why, high street, did you decide to torture me?  Why did I have to spit the purple sluggy mates of FUN! out after first chomp?  Because they’re disgusting, High Street.  Just gross.  Onion does not age well in the best of circumstances.  It’s even more monstrous when you decide to use this half-cooked nastiness in your so-called fresh salads.  Half-cooked anything in a fresh salad is blasphemy, is it not? (I realize the ridiculousness of calling any refrigerated salad with an eight day outdate blasphemy, but go with me here, I’m trying to prove a point.)

So what does one do in such a situation, High Street?  Continue eating this rubbish because I’m ravenous?  Yes.  Yes, I did. Understand, I was f*cking famished, High Street.  And I ingested your abhorrent awfulness to fill my belly. 

It took a hell of a lot of Cholula and a bit of Johnny’s, but I managed to get it down. Can’t say I liked it, can’t say I didn’t. But next time High Street, keep your sickly, slimy slugs from hell to yourself.  And let me get along without your lime of doom. DOOM!

*this post contains copious amounts of absolutely amazing alliteration, use wisely! Like Cholula.

Chirpy Little Birdy (they’re buttholes & they hate you)

I heart you 98.2% of the time. Just not when you start peeping at two in the morning. Look, I know it’s raining, hard, and that makes it difficult to bed down. I know we just got those nifty LED lights down our road that makes it seem like daylight all the time. But for F*CKS SAKE!  Shut the hells up. For reals.

Birdies, I really like you, but I may not slam on my breaks the next time one of your brethren are in the road I’m driving down. Am I kidding?  Try me.

Just sayin’.

Plant, Y U No want to live?!

I’ve always had plants in my house.  I can remember as a child my mum having a Schefflera so big and beautiful (and older than me) that I was perpetually in awe of it.  That is, until I killed it with Kool-Aid.  See, I decided it would be a good idea to help my poor, overworked mother with the household chores, yet my child brain did not comprehend that the pinknuclearsugarwater! from the fridge was not the same as the stuff that comes out of the tap.  It died, but I bet you saw that coming.  My mother was upset with me but in the end her good humor won out and she forgave me for my transgression.

Skip forward a couple of decades and I consider myself to be relatively good at the green-thumbery.  I can keep my plants not only alive, but in some state of flourish.  In the last couple of years I’ve even managed get my flowering plants to actually flower year after year.  The one black mark on my plant keeping record is this little bastard:

I will die, just to spite you!  Har har!

Now, I do feel bad calling him (yes, him) a bastard.  I love my plants and when they aren’t well, I’m distraught.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t harbor fantasies that my plants are my children, or any other sort of projection psychoses, but when something that requires a minuscule amount of care to live won’t stop dying? Well, you start question your ability to do even the most basic of tasks.  Eating and dressing myself?  Pshaw!  I’ll just ooze along the floor naked and earthworm-like hoovering up bits of food that have been dropped, until someone comes along and takes pity on my poor carpet burned flesh and puts me out of my misery.

The first sign that something was amiss was a week after I bought him and found a brown tip on one of the leaves.  The next week the whole leaf was brown.  The following week, the entire stem.  I was told by a plant-y type friend to cut the offending stem off; sort of like amputating a gangrenous limb.

Apparently, in the plant world this is considered an act of psychological war. 

For the next two years this plant has done everything he can, short of actually dying, to torture me.
The short list of remedies in order of insanity I have tried to help the my little suicidal botanical friend are as follows:
More water, less water, rain water, poopy fish water, new soil, new pot, super nutrient enriched soil, dry fertilizer, liquid fertilizer, more sun, less sun, intermediate sun, no sun high humidity room, dusting the leaves, ignoring him, doting over him, playing music to him (real and badly played guitar), singing, collecting dead bugs and putting them in the soil, breathing on him, giving up and crying into the pot, launching plant into space, shouting swear words and plant based racial slurs at him…

Nothing has worked. Sometimes the green starts to come back and new shoots start emerging from the soil but it doesn’t last.  He lives an eternal cadaverous existence.  Wanting to give up, but taking far too much pleasure in watching me run around in fits of hysteria and probably hoping I burst into flames out of frustration.

I’m now fully convinced that it’s the Schefflera reincarnated making me pay for the Kool-Aid incident.  Jerk.

A few other plants that live happily in my house to prove I’m not entirely inept.

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