Okay, let me start with this, I f*cking LOVE food.
This could be exotically spicy Tom Yum Talay OR
Reconstituted Cat Vomit
These could be Tender and Succulent Chiken Satay Skewers OR
Premature FaceHuggers waiting for their moment to pounce
This could be the Chef’s Own Special Saag Lamb OR
Proof of Life on Uranus
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 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
Forget about the last atrocity the next time I’m enjoying a wonderful meal and repeat above steps in an infinite happiness/disappointment loop
I said, bad…ass.
- 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
- 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)
- Remove from fridge
- Spread on tortilla
- Add Cheese
- Add sour cream
- Add some fucking ham if you want
- Eat with some green shit…if you’re a pussy
Dear High Street purveyor of ‘delicious’ lunchtime meals,
It’s like a Dali painting. ‘Toyed it, my heart’, obscure and abhorrently delectible!
I’ll be a-giggling while I consume your soul!
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.
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:
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.