A Mexican influenced fridge draw this week:
- Jam, Blackcurrant (Posh)
- Cheese (Parmesan)
- Tin Foil (Contents Unidentifiable)
- Cherry Tomatoes (Multiple)
- Soured Cream
- Onion, Red (½)
- Pepper, Green
- Pepper also, Red
- Cheese (Cheddar)
Here are the main offenders of the most stolen food and drink. All of which are infuriating when they mysteriously disappear faster than they should. All of which I steal from others. All the time.
- Olive Oil (‘they definitely won’t notice’)
- Butter (‘who the hell could eat toast without it?’)
- Squash (‘today of all days I just can’t face dull water’)
- Mayonnaise (‘just this once, I’d never do it otherwise’)
- Milk (‘it is against human rights to be denied a cup of tea’)
Here is the latest progress of our little kitchen herbs. It’s true. We are probably not fit parents for our plants and should have social services called in. With this in mind, it was an undoubtedly a bad idea to welcome into the world our new addition, Thyme (anticipate puns to follow). It doesn’t even get a pretty saucer. Although, look at that fullness of leaf. It’s arrogant really and is clearly making the other two feel inadequate. Basil isn’t looking great, but I’m determined he’ll pull through. There’s a tiny bit of green, which I’m pinning all of my hopes and dreams to. Coriander has suffered quite heavily after the quesadilla night, but I’m applying the ‘what doesn’t kill you’ theory to it. Some might say draw your herbs less, water them more. But where’s the suspense in that? Also, dead plants are easier to draw.
Carcinogenic toast. A problem, only for the excessively polite, or those with an over-talkative housemate. Combined, this spells disaster for bread products. This generally stems from a shared household, with wildly varying opinions on how long toast should be scorched for. As soon as a fellow housemate’s back is turned, the dial will be sneakily adjusted. Which is fine, each to their own and everything, but if you presume it was the same as before, well, that’s a dangerous game my friend. Now, this is where the fellow housemates come in. You’re idly nattering, but in the back of your mind, you’re thinking, ‘I’m sure that toast has been in there long enough. Or maybe I’m just worrying and mentally speeding up time. Maybe it’s not been in there long enough, and then I’ll have interrupted this nice talkative person. Maybe I should just trust the toaster. The toaster knows what it’s doing. Toasting is what it always does. What could go wrong? But maybe I should just check. No, no it’s fine. I’ll wait for a conversation break.’ And so you wait, and then lunge for the toaster. CANCEL. But your worst suspicions have come true. You try your best to tunnel through the blackness with a knife, but these valiant attempts are ruined when daylight starts to shine through the crumbs. It only makes matters worse if the conversation in question was a discussion about how best to remove mold from bathroom grouting. Heaven forbid this was your last slice.
There are some very solid items in life that possess evaporating properties. These objects correlate with usefulness and urgency of need. The main items that show this phenomenon are: safety pins, hairgrips, biros, keys, and, most baffling of them all, Tupperware. Now, it would sort of be all right if the whole thing just vanished, but it will always be either the lid or the bottom, which will decide to disappear. Primarily the lid. The only plausible explanation to this is a Tupperware-lid-eating gremlin, nestled at the back of the cupboard, who flicks the V’s at you when your back is turned. As you’re angrily searching for the lid, the bottoms seem to multiply as you look, spilling out on top of you. The more desperate you get, the more they multiply, until the kitchen floor is flooded with boxes and you’re sitting in a white sea of plastic. It’s like a shit episode of The Crystal Maze. Best to not bother storing any food and just have six portions instead, for the sake of your mental health.
In an attempt to feel as though we had some sort of garden, we acquired a couple of herby plants. This was going swimmingly, until they were abandoned while we all selfishly went away for the Christmas holidays. I may feel as though I punished my body during the festive season, but this pales into insignificance compared to poor Basil. But I have faith! I am convinced my leafy companions will pull through this hiccup and so will be recording the progress of their miracle recovery. Now everybody pray.
In terms of right of way in the kitchen, few culinary actions can trump the teabag on teaspoon. You’ve just finished brewing and must now venture across the kitchen in order to dispose of your bag. However, if you are a gentle squeezer, this will be a watery, drippy trek. This is where kitchen pecking order comes in. If another body comes in the way of your escapade, your kitchen companion has no choice but to assume you are gentle squeezer. Therefore they must get out of the way immediately, for fear of becoming the proud owner of a warm, moist tea splodge. If tea juice finds its way on the kitchen floor it will be THEIR FAULT. This means if they are responsible for wiping it up. An action that, let’s be frank, none of us can be arsed to do. It is therefore up to them to make the obligatory over-emphasised dive out of the way of this teaspoon-balancing act, often accompanied by a humourous ‘wooop’ sound. For those few seconds, armed with spoon and bag, none shall pass. This great power could probably be applied to the rush hour commute, although people may avoid you due to different motives.