Umm, yeah

It's all about work, which I'm not going to tell you about and food, which I will.

Anzac Day holiday of course, with Rosmarinus officinalis being the herb of rememberance (note to slatterns: and fidelity between lovers too) I realised it would be unozshtrayan/irish/english/scottish/welsh to not roast some baby sheep and taters.

So, after smothering it in Rosemary, garlic and salt, I roasted a leg of lamb. Then everyone piked it and two of us scofffed the lot.

Otherwise, I've been thinking a lot about words and the power thereof.

Discussion of the same over the weekend made me wonder if Teh Big Ugly Tobacco companies haven't been deliberately funding some lexigraphical injections: we get fit if unfit, we regain our health after an illness - all positive transitions. Yet, when desisting from summin as incomprehensible as smoking, we give it up. Giving up in every sense I can think of is a negative transition, as is quit. You don't give up smack, you get off it. You don't give up fat if you're a hefty bugger, you get fit. Thoughts welcome.

Otherwise, tis all about movies a. Of late: Lost in La Mancha, Blowup, Stone and The Dark Crystal. La Mancha was the only first but well worth it if you're a) into teh movies, b) like Terry Gilliam, c) like Johnny Depp and/or d) like to wax quixotic or e) like all of the above and want to see chaos emerge from an English/Spanish/French/Italian crew shooting next to a Nato bombing range.

Tha's all folks.

Bhwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Russian scientists solve mystery of crop circles

My weekend as food

Chicken, prawn and pork spring rolls with iceberg and nuoc maam, salt and pepper roasted quail, tamarind prawns, lemongrass chicken, 2004 Catalina Sounds Sauvingon blanc, 2004 Rochford Pinot Noir, Coconut icecream, spinach and fetta omelette, whiting fillets in tempura batter with sebago chips and dill tartare and a pint of Heineken followed by a couple of glasses of 2004 Tieffenbruner Pinot Grigio, some apple pie with macadamia crust and kingaroy double cream and a glass of 2003 Noble One.

That’s me from last night to 4.35pm Good Friday. So much for Lent, Christianity and Judaism.

Although I wouldnae have had the fish onwards if it wasn’t for the bottleshops being shut: 20% of the population attend a religious service, for many their only one of the year and I can’t have a drink for love or money unless I eat.

What is this, transubfuckinstansiation by proxy?

No idea myself, but I’d kill for another glass of Catalina.


Addendumdum
Also: Yum Cha Sunday morning, slow cooked Cacciatore Sunday night then, finally, on Monday eve, salt crusted red wine beef on parmesan roesti with mountains of honey roasted garlic pumpkin.

Yeah.

I hate food, as you can see.

What the fuck?

Right, so I'm in my bed and apparently asleep when all of a sudden I'm back where I grew up and the world is about to end and there's chunks of fire falling from the sky and I and an old friend realise the fabric of society is beyond frayed and we must head north. To do so in a car would be madmaxedness as the freaks that are slightly ahead of us in realisations have already taken over the highways so we must commandeer a container ship and sail it North.

Do we choose to get to the docks in some safe, fireproof kind of way? No.

We get a tram.

Random protective violence and Melbournian landmarks throughout.

Then, much later in the evening and earlier in the morn, it's a way different kind of dream except for the ship. This time it's some biiiiiiiiiiiig cruiser and George Bush Jnr is on the boat except he looks like George Bush Snr. He falls off the boat whilst looking at the water and I save him, afterwards berating the members of the Australia swim team who didnt lift a finger to. The hotties they had been distracted chatting up leave them.


What. The. Fuck. Is going on in my head?

I think I had a fever.

The gold isn't in them hills

Wasn’t hard for me to imagine making my fortune growing up. You could trace it back to a Biggles/Tintin/Tom Baker as the Docto crossover: Sunken Treasure – 20,000 Leagues, Red Rackhams Treasure; Rubber Baron/Ivory Hunter, – The Flight of the Condor; hot chicks – Leila. Friendship was K9/Snowy.

But fuck me if I wasn’t wrong for once – I should have been devouring cooking books.

The gold isn’t in the hills or the trees or the ground or those lurking ruins out the back, it’s in the fruit-shop: I bought a handful of Kafir lime leaves this morn’: $125 per kilo.

Leaves.

The fuck?

They’re freakin leaves. From a plant. They make peasanty soup things like Tom Yum taste good. I hadn’t taken out a loan, wasn’t dressed right and almost didn’t wear shoes and here I am buying something for private consumption that is so light that it doesn’t even register on the scales and it’s legal? There’s black truffles in the shop next door, nestled happily in little baths of oil cheaper than this shit..

What did I do?

I went home, made stock and cooked Tom Yum from scratch, even if I was tempted to see what racking up a big fat line of crushed Kafirs would feel like.

Busted

As I've nothing you can have, you can tell me: what was your worst bust?

Was it the AFP on your way back from Bolivia? Your partners parents? Your new girlfriends menagerie bursting into the room at that critical moment? Cheating with a ruler so engraved that monks claimed it as incanabulae after the exam or just your hand stuck in the Quick tin and a chocolate stained mouth?

Spill. I'm busy.