The curious tale of the Cornish pasty on the radiator

‘Why is there a Cornish pasty just below the radiator?’ asked Shana, who was sitting on the living room floor, dazed and contused.

A fair question, I thought, noting also her concerns about randomly scattered boiled new potatoes, one or two nestled comfortably by the maze of wires under the computer desk. And sharing her puzzlement at the row of garden peas lodged between the living room wall and the radiator pipework just above the skirting board. It struck me that the peas were lined up rather like a row of green balls ready for a snooker player’s trick shot.

Thankfully, this evening’s meal had included no gravy. (Big phew! there πŸ™‚ ) Β And the little helpings of butter that had adorned the potatoes had hardly had time to melt before disaster struck, and so were fairly easy to clear up.

If you had just walked in the scene would have been a little like that on the ill-fated Marie Celeste, albeit a Marie Celeste manned by very messy eaters and with two of the scurvy crew (viz. Shana and I) still on board.

It’s a bit like one of those Sherlock Holmes locked-room mysteries, this, isn’t it? I bet you can’t wait to hear how this sorry scene came to be.

Well, it’s all quite prosaic, alas. We had just sat down to a late afternoon/early evening meal, when Shana decided to fetch a cushion from another part of the living room.Unfortunately she tripped over my foot, which had been so inconsiderate as to be on the end of my leg and also directly in Shana’s path. I am now designated as a human trip hazard and shall hand myself in to Health and Safety later this week, to return only when clad entirely in Shana-resistant padding.

Anyway, Shana now has more bruises than a crate of dropped apples, and feels like she’s been cage fighting with a grizzly bear.

I helped by clearing up the food debris and by wiping the floor with antibacterial wipes and doing lots of brushing. Then I checked on how Shana was faring. You may argue that I got my priorities wrong, but I contend that bumps and grazes always improve over time; whereas some of our floor covering was from an end-of-line selection and may very well be irreplaceable.

Anyway, I did make an excellent pot of tea soon afterwards, so I’ll have my gold star and nursing badge back, thanks all the same.

Tomorrow, I shall be wearing a hi-divisibility (sic?) jacket in order to be more noticeable. And Shana will be trundling around with the aid of a pair of those little stabiliser wheels that three-year-olds have on their bicycles.

Because you can never be too careful, can you? πŸ™‚

Halogen oven hardboiled eggs. Delicious!

Unless you work in a restaurant kitchen, you don’t usually have to wear any special clothing when doing a spot of cooking. Maybe an apron, or perhaps (if you’re round at my sister-in-law’s place) something fireproof πŸ™‚ But as a rule, your general everyday clobber is normally fine.

This lunchtime though, was an exception.

(Lab coats at the ready…)

Shana had decided to do an experiment!

And it involved eggs. So forget the lab coats, and substitute flak jackets and tin helmets. Because we (well, I) were expecting a weapon that even the good old USSR never had back in the Cold War era:

Eggshell shrapnel.

Yes, Shana had been scouring the Web and had found a way to do hard-boiled eggs without using any water.

Luckily, she was not using the microwave. No, Shana cooked one single solitary experimental egg on a wire rack in our Tower halogen oven (aka an Air Fryer). Ten minutes later and we were tucking into one of the best hard-boiled eggs either of us had probably ever had. Beautiful golden yolk. Wonderful rich taste.

From now on there’ll be no messing about with getting a pan of water to a rolling boil and trying to avoid splashes, From now on, our hardboiled eggs will all be done in the halogen oven. Shana’s experiment had been a total success.

I’m keeping the flak jacket and tin helment though. Might even construct a nucular bunker at Waffle Towers, just in case the Russkies suddenly decide to bombard us with twenty thousand free range ones πŸ™‚

I’ve been strudeled!

No need to call the medics though πŸ™‚

It’s just that I’ve only just recovered (Shana likewise) from my birthday lunchtime megasnack. Which was a woodland fruits strudel (something the good folks at Sainsbury’s made) topped with lashings of dairy-free custard. Nice and tangy it was, and not excessively sweet. Exactly how we like it.

I don’t want to exaggerate, but if I had a quid for every piece of fruit in that there strudel, well I’d have several quids by now. Enough to buy loads more strudels. Except that…

…I simply couldn’t manage another mouthful πŸ™‚

Happy birthday to me…happy birthday to me…

Mince pies? What mince pies?

Many times the world has had to cope with a crisis. The Great Depression in America in the 1930s, The Cuban Missile crisis in the 1960s, and the entertainment world’s anxiety over the early exit of antique presenter Tim One o’ Clock from this year’s Strictly Come Dancing, to name but three examples.

But all these pale into insignificance when compared with the Waffle Towers Mince Pie Crisis of 2014.

Yes, we are obliged to go to the local shop tomorrow, which is, let me see… (Wednesday is Christmas Eve, so Tuesday must be Christmas Eve Eve…so that means tomorrow, Monday, must be…) Christmas Eve Eve Eve!

And why must we go to the shop? Because, with only four days to go till Christmas, we still haven’t had any mince pies. Not a single one. So guess what we’ll be stocking up on tomorrow:

Yep, milk. πŸ™‚

(Ohm and maybe half a dozen boxes of mince pies as well.)