Category: Food

It’s a Fine Line Between Good and Rotten

Geezus!  What’s that smell?!

I was going for my second cup of coffee, opened the fridge door for the cream……Sniff, Sniff.  Something died in there!

I didn’t smell anything the first time I put cream in my coffee.  Can something go from perfectly fine to Holy Shit Rotten in a half-hour?  The Viking has a Super Sniffer that can smell a Bastard Fart from a kilometer away, so it’s virtually impossible that he missed the odor of a veggie contemplating its own death.  And, I would have heard about it if he had because he usually makes a loud and public proclamation……

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“Something fucking stinks in the fridge!”

…….and I run for the hills because there will be an in-depth lecture on the wastefulness of food in our house and how no self-respecting Danish person would ever find a rotten anything in their fridge.  Because they all plan their meals a week ahead, purchase all the ingredients in one trip to the store, and do all the meal prep in advance so no food is wasted and no one has to lay on the kitchen floor crying because they don’t know what to make for dinner.  And, in case you are wondering about leftovers, every Sunday, every Dane eats Biksemad (bik-si-mel), which is short for a gawd-awful concoction of every item in the fridge you couldn’t bear to eat during the week, topped off with a fried egg.

I had other plans for the next hour but obviously something had to be done about the fridge if I wanted to avoid another episode of “Why Can’t You Be More Like A Dane?”.  I started rummaging around, looking for fresh veggies that aren’t so fresh anymore.  That’s usually the smelly culprit and finding it could make this task short if not sweet.

Unfortunately, there was no obvious suspect, which meant an aggressive, frontal assault on every container and condiment.  Sigh.  Don’t tell The Viking, but there was a bottle of Bar-B-Que Sauce with a ‘best before’ date of March 2019.  On the bright side, I didn’t find a single container of Science and that should count for something.

The problem then isn’t with the fridge.  The smell is coming from somewhere else…….

Please Gawd, don’t let it be a dead mouse/bird – a gift from a cat – behind an appliance!  

Before I called HazMat, I decided to put all the sinfully wasteful fridge items in the garbage.  I won’t be avoiding the “Why Can’t You Be More Like A Dane” lecture if he sees all the waste on display just begging for comment.  Better to hide that shit as quickly as possible.

I grabbed the garbage from under the sink and…….

Sweet Baby Geezus!!!

Well, shit.  It wasn’t the fridge after all.

The smell coming from the garbage was so smelly and heavy that it took the 3 seconds between the garbage and the fridge for the smell to catch up with me.

In the half-hour between coffee refills, the smell went from nothing to Holy Shit Rotten and that’s just not fair. How can I avoid the “Why Can’t You Be More Like A Dane” lecture if I only have a scant half-hour window?  What if I’m busy during that half-hour?

I’m sure Science can explain the exponential multiplication of odor molecules within a finite time limit but it doesn’t help me be more Danish.

I cleaned out the fridge for nothing.

Shit.

 

 

 

Apocalypse Now?

I just got home from the grocery store and I have to say….it was a very civil experience.  I wasn’t expecting that.  I was expecting to be cursing and crying and desperately howling at the Gods to deliver me from the madness!  I thought I would be walking into a dystopian landscape of sirens and smoke and empty, blood-smeared shelves and SWAT Teams patrolling the hazy aisles.  I imagined traumatized families huddled in corners defending the last can of Ravioli with limp English Cucumbers and 4-day-old raisin scones*.

To be honest, I was a little disappointed in The Viking for letting me walk into such a horrific situation on my own.  Given what I was expecting I thought I was being brave as hell for suggesting that I should leave the safety of our house to find food.  Surely he wouldn’t let me face the apocalypse alone.  He’s a damned Viking!  Born and bred through 1200 years of natural selection in preparation for Ragnarök which, can be argued, has maybe just arrived.

But that’s exactly what he did – despite watching hundreds of videos online of people almost eating each other to get their hands on the last roll of toilet paper!  Maybe he thought I was just Bad Ass enough to handle it on my own but how he could arrive at that conclusion is a little baffling given that he won’t let me have a Flame Thrower for “safety reasons” but if ever I needed a Flame Thrower it would definitely be right now.

I lingered at the door for a moment.  “Okay…..well…..I’m leaving now.”  He waved a distracted hand at me without turning from the computer screen.  He was probably watching one of those bloody videos!

“Alone.”

“Uh huh.”

“Who knows what I’ll find out there.”

“Yup.”

“So……I don’t know if I’ll make it home……”

“Take your time.”

“No matter what happens……I’ll always love you.”  Heavy sigh.

“Okay.”  Waves again.

So, fine!  I went alone.  I thought the parking lot would be chaos, with cars idling willy-nilly, doors open, crying infants in car seats.  Horns honking and fists waving.  Maybe a handgun or a machete.  But, nope!  There was even a Handicap space for me!  Once inside, everything was business as usual!

There wasn’t a single white/red potato anywhere though – lucky I like Yams.  Plenty of bottled sparkling water – I can let the Brita gather dust for a while longer.  Meat department was well stocked – thank Gawd!  I thought I might have to look at a legume.

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There were tons of eggs.  The fridge display was full of dairy.  Of course, there was no toilet paper, but I’ve got enough for quite a while anyway.

There was one anomaly though – Men.  And there were two distinct groups of men.

  1. Young-ish men who have been in training for the past decade for the imminent Zombie Apocalypse. These guys were mostly alone so I can only guess that they were sent by their wives/girlfriends for a fun couple of hours of zombie-killing-adventure in which they would find, retrieve and bring home food.
  2. Old-ish men who accompanied every middle-aged/elderly woman, except me of course. Apparently, I wasn’t alone in my expectations of mayhem.  I’m pretty sure all these women were expecting to need some muscle for elbowing their way through a press of sweaty, angry people who may or may not want to rip your arm off for the last can of evaporated milk because the local news has been televising shocking videos.

I’m not sure how much help these old guys were going to provide because they certainly weren’t Vikings.** At least I didn’t think they were Vikings, they definitely weren’t very impressive, but who knows?  Maybe they were all old, retired Vikings hoping to intimidate with glares and gnarly teeth rather than resorting to throwing axes.  And it was very obvious that not a single one of them were in the store by choice.

On a side note:  My Ex was a perfectly healthy, robust male in his early 30s with lots of energy and stamina……until we walked into a store……any store that didn’t involve aircraft and all related items.  As soon as we walked in, his arches suddenly collapsed, and his back started to spasm and he felt nauseous and light-headed and thought he might faint at any moment.  He got heart palpitations and clawed at his shirt while he hyperventilated.  Pink Eye developed in both eyes.  Simultaneously.  He broke out in Hives and a fever.  He kept asking fellow shoppers if they smelled burnt toast and if that was a sign of an imminent stroke?  He clung to the side of the cart with white knuckles like he was about to fall off the 18th floor of Airplanes ‘R’ Us, forming the words ‘Help Me!’ to every other man he saw, extending a blistered arm in supplication for rescue.   The longer I took to acquire the things I needed, the closer he got to death.

I mention this now because many, many of the men in Safeway were exhibiting some of the same ailments the Ex complained about.  One even brought his own Oxygen tank!

Anyhoo, my point here is that people are a little jittery.  Uncertain.  Well, not The Viking, obviously, because he’ll send me out to face the hounds of hell on my own, but most people in the grocery store opted to face the suspected challenges in pairs, probably believing that two would stand a better chance of scoring a can of corn than one.

Of course, it was completely unnecessary as it turned out because everyone was wonderful and kind and thoughtful.  There wasn’t a single example of wrestling and cursing in either the parking lot or store.  I was kind of proud of my fellow Calgarians.  We seem to be at our best when the times are the worst.

And even though The Viking’s presence wasn’t technically needed, he didn’t know that for sure when I was leaving the house.  For all he knew, I could be walking into the Zombie Apocalypse without a Flame Thrower.  So……huge disappointment…………..and he may have to answer some hard questions when he shows up at the gates of Valhalla because I am totally telling on him.

 

*the only thing left in the bakery department because raisins are an under-appreciated food

**Unlike my husband who couldn’t be bothered to show up for Ragnarök, sending his wife instead which, I believe, is a serious violation of some kind of Valhalla Code or something isn’t it?

Pudding Crypts for Cookies

When we adopted Izzie (the black succubus from Hell), and Teddy later (the feline equivalent of Joey Tribiani), The Viking did a shitload of research into the best cat food versus the best price.  After developing a complex algorithm, he decided on a brand and invaded the pet store to purchase it in bulk, both dry and canned.

For three years we’ve fed the Cats the same food and everything was fine.  Until it suddenly wasn’t.  They just stopped eating the canned food one day.  I don’t know why – it smelled fine, it looked fine, the ‘best before date’ was fine, it was FINE.  According to the Cats though, it was a toxic stew that we should be ashamed to call food.  So, The Viking went back to the complex algorithm, found the next best food and invaded the pet store again.

And guess what?  They love it!  They love it so much they’re willing to trample me to death to get to The Viking as he dishes it up.

However, we still had a couple cans of the old stuff.  Personally, I was willing to just get rid of it because it was apparent that neither Cat gave a thought to being fiscally responsible.  We discussed it and they were adamant: not a single speck of the old food would pass their lips for the rest of their lives!   But nothing annoys The Viking more than wastefulness*.

So he came up with a diabolical plan that is only slightly less diabolical (only because he didn’t do it to me) than my Mother’s diabolical plans.  She used to make delicious pudding when I was a kid and then hide old, dead cookies in the bottom of the bowl and we were forced to eat it because child abuse was not quite as frowned upon as it is these days.  And now The Viking took a page out of Mom’s diabolical book and mixed the toxic stew with the new food and presented it to the Cats like it wasn’t abusive at all.

I’d like to say that both Cats noticed immediately and refused to eat it.  But, nope!  They happily chowed that crap down and licked the bowls clean and I find that reprehensible.  It’s like they compromised without a thought.  Where’s their pride?  What happened to standards and expectations?  Don’t they know they have a responsibility to the rest of us?  When they give in to tyranny once, the overlords know they’ll do it again.  And if Cats will cave, then humans will cave, too, because everyone knows that Cats have an aversion to authority that surpasses even The Viking’s aversion to authority.  It is common knowledge that if you want to take over the world the plan begins with Cats and they’d better have good catnip toys.

What they’ve done is create a world of possibilities where any atrocity is possible.  They’ve shifted the current Space/Time Continuum and we now live in an entirely different place.  A place where Mom’s diabolical Pudding Crypts for Cookies is the norm and not considered the unimaginable horror that it is.

And I can’t just ignore who kicked off this current regime of terror – The Viking!  He has become the kind of person who will hide terrible food under delicious food.  He’s become a Monster!  If he’ll betray our cats, it’s only the smallest of steps to betraying me.  How can I trust any food he makes now?  Will I find Pickled Herring masquerading as a pork chop?  Fried Liver hiding under a lovely cream sauce?  Sauerkraut disguised as Spaghetti?  Curry Meatballs pretending to be any normal kind of meatball?

I’ve given this considerable thought and my only option now is to install HD video surveillance in the kitchen.  Yes, I could sit and monitor exactly what he does when he’s cooking, but he’ll bide his time until I need to pee, or the phone rings, or another Just Energy salesman rings the front doorbell, before he slips Kale into something.  I would rather be safe than sorry, so I’ll install a Viking Cam in the Drinking Horn on the sideboard.  And then I’ll squat like Golem in a dark closet with the monitor, watching every move he makes until I can bust his ass for Food Crimes Against Humanity.

The cats are on their own, though.  The little traitors deserve every gross thing The Viking hides in their bowl because they brought this on themselves.

 

*Slow drivers in the fast lane comes in a close 2nd.

My Finger Is Fucked. And Also my Brain.

I believe I’ve passed my ‘Best Before Date’.  I’m not one to worry much about getting older; in fact, I actually like the person I’ve become.  It didn’t come easily though, there were very high hills and very deep valleys that needed to be traversed, but it shaped who I am and that’s fine by me and, apparently, The Viking because he still sleeps beside me every night.  The down-side of getting older, of course, is a body that can’t – or won’t in this case – keep up with my big ideas and crazy dreams.  Or even get out of bed in the morning without a bunch of whining.

I noticed, the other day, that my left pointer finger is evolving, adding an extra lump to the first knuckle below my fingernail.  After rubbing it and poking it and staring at it there was only one conclusion to be made:  my finger is fucked.  Thankfully, the fuckage doesn’t include pain which is great news considering what’s going on elsewhere in Lori Land.

I woke up one morning last week to the shrieks of my left shoulder.  I said, “What the hell?!”  It said nothing but stabbed me in the neck just for spite.

“Oh, come on!  You have to do this now?  I was going to paint the entire house tomorrow!”

……

“……okay….I wasn’t going to paint the whole house, but it still isn’t the most convenient time to have your meltdown.  I need both shoulders at the moment.  If I had known how picky you were going to get I would have exercised more!”

…….

“…….okay…..I probably wouldn’t have exercised more, but that is no excuse for getting cranky.  It’s not like you’re really old yet!”

We eventually had to agree to disagree.  Shoulder was complaining about carrying the weight of the world and I was insisting it was being a big old baby.  It gave up two days later but gives me a twinge every once in a while, just to remind me that it’s still there and not especially happy.

And then the thumb on my left hand……

Gasp!  WAIT A MINUTE!

It’s the finger on my left hand, the left shoulder and the left thumb!  I was working with the theory that random body parts were acting out, but this appears to be a pattern.  A left pattern!  Maybe it’s my entire left side that’s fucked.

Just a minute…..I need to check on something…..another possible theory….

…..

…..

…..

…..

This is what Brain Made Simple has to say.

The left side of the brain is responsible for controlling the right side of the body. It also performs tasks that have to do with logic, such as in science and mathematics. On the other hand, the right hemisphere coordinates the left side of the body and performs tasks that have do with creativity and the arts.*

I am right handed and I’m famous for my logic so maybe my left brain is hosting a sloppy protest about the amount of feelings going on, but only a few body parts want to participate.  Or, it could be my hippy, feel-y right brain is bullying my nerdy left brain for being such a party-pooper.  OR…..maybe it’s the whole brain having tiny hissy fits hosted in random body parts.

Maybe I need some vitamins or something.  I looked up ‘Food that’s good for your Brain’ and found out that I should be eating more of this:

  • Fatty Fish – Yuck! I prefer fish that doesn’t taste like fish.
  • Coffee – Yum!
  • Blueberries – Meh.
  • Turmeric – what the fuck is that?!
  • Broccoli – Meh.
  • Pumpkin Seeds – okay.
  • Dark Chocolate – ummmm….I prefer Milk Chocolate but I suppose I could go with the dark in a pinch.
  • Nuts – Is this a good recommendation for someone who is already a little bit nuts?
  • Oranges – can I drink the juice to avoid all the hassle of the peel? It gets under my fingernails.
  • Eggs – YUM!
  • Green Tea – only if it doesn’t taste like Green Tea because that shit is nasty.**

Sigh.  I suppose I need to take steps.  It seems that my brain has a mind of its own and being reasonable isn’t its forté.

So, brace yourself Brain!  I’m about to dump all sorts of good shit on you.  Lots of eggs and coffee, the occasional orange juice, a couple nibbles of dark chocolate and a pumpkin seed with a blueberry chaser.  You may have won concessions with food, but there is no way in hell that you’ll take away my Lemon Gin & Tonic.

Seriously.  Don’t fuck with the Lemon Gin & Tonic.

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PS:  While I was searching for brain pictures I came across something  Disturbing   and before Brain intervened, Finger clicked the link.  I mention this because I should have a written testament that I was not looking for ways to get a new brain, legally or illegally.  If people start losing their brains in my general vicinity it is a total coincidence.

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*This is a fact, so you might have learned something.  Please accept my apologies.  This blog is supposed to be a total waste of time. 

**Additional Apologies for the additional learning (if you didn’t already know about this, of course).

The Vikings Are Coming!

Well, so much for sleep – I’m too excited.  Erik & Annette* will be here this afternoon, dragging suitcases bulging with Danish candy and Akvavit.  We’ve missed them so much there is a very distinct possibility of a spectacle in the Kiss and Cry.

They’ve come all the way from Denmark to help us celebrate The Viking’s descent into Grumpy Old Viking-hood.  He’s been practicing for several years now and I think he has it nailed, just in time for his 60th birthday.

For now, I need to finish getting the house cleaned and I’m expecting shouting and crying and a loss of the will to live.  You know – the usual emotions that precede just such events.

I feel several stiff drinks in the works later today and Hygge.  Lots and lots of hygge.

Go ahead and leave The Viking birthday wishes in the comments.  I’ll read them tomorrow at the party!

*Erik is The Viking’s brother and Annette is his beautiful partner.

It’s Nearly Christmas….

It’s nearly Christmas, and I’ve noticed that there are literally thousands of articles listing Tips to make it through the Holiday Season with your sanity intact.  So I thought I would add my list to the Ad Nauseam because who doesn’t like Tips?

Tip 1.  Don’t knock over your tree.  And if you DO knock over your tree, blame it on the cat(s).  And if you don’t have a cat, blame it on good-looking, single neighbour (your partner will be distracted by you spending alone time with a good-looking neighbour and totally forget you knocked over the tree).

Tip 2.  Don’t get too drunk.  Nobody likes a sloppy drunk who pukes in the Eggnog Bowl and calls your Mother Chewbacca the Wookie.

Tip 3.  Never arrive at an Event empty-handed.  Storming out after someone insults your kid is more dramatic if you take the gift too.  Shout how expensive it is as you make your epic departure.

Tip 4.  Shovel the snow from your sidewalk.  Nothing makes Grandma crankier than wading through ankle-deep snow to get to the house and you definitely don’t want her calling you a Wanker all day long.  That’s the kind of name that sticks forever.

Tip 5.  Make your own Cranberry Sauce.  Nothing says Love like manual labour and nothing pisses off Aunt Cheryl as quickly as pretentious up-staging.

Tip 6.  Manage your outfit carefully.  Not too flashy or attractive because there are bound to be family members who will remember nothing of the day except the fact that you wore sequins.

Tip 7.  Bring slippers.  Some floors are fucking cold and by the time you can make your escape your feet may have developed frostbite.

Tip 8.  DON’T BRING LIME JELL-O SALAD!!  It’s gross!  Jell-o was never meant to hold vegetables, it’s a crime against humanity.

Tip 9.  Pre-drink.  Have a couple stiff cocktails before you arrive or everyone arrives at your house.  It never hurts to be half-tanked.

And finally……

Tip 10.  Help with the dishes.  Nobody is cheerful after stuffing themselves with 8 kg (17.5 lbs) of artery-clogging Christmas food and a bucket of booze.  All the safe conversations are over and now it’s time to bring up past humiliations, like the time you didn’t shovel the snow off your sidewalk for Grandma, and/or predictions of future fuck-ups.  Just help with the dishes and go home.

If you have other great Tips that help you survive, please let me know.  I’m working on a comprehensive pamphlet.

And now…..

May your Christmas be filled with love and laughter.  May you all be kind to each other because there are those who have no love or laughter.  Heal hearts, spread joy and think of your Beloveds that can’t be with you.

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The Day of the Monkey Wrench

When I make mashed potatoes I don’t make just a little bit.  I make a massive pot of them because who doesn’t love left over mashed potatoes – Croquettes, potato pancakes, shepherd’s pie?

About a month ago, I made a lovely beef roast with mashed potatoes and other good things.  The following evening we had the leftover beef with re-heated mashed potatoes and leftover gravy, etc.  I was on track to use all the potatoes in a total of 4 days, except someone threw a Monkey Wrench into my plans (I don’t even remember exactly what that monkey wrench was anymore though) and suddenly those mashed potatoes became a problem.  And part of the problem was the fact that we have two refrigerators – one for daily stuff and the other for drinks mostly but also leftovers in larger containers.

On the Day of the Monkey Wrench, I probably thought they would keep for an extra day.  But the day after that I totally forgot about them.

Two days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I went to the spare fridge for a drink and “Shit!  I completely forgot about the potatoes!  I should use them up tomorrow for sure.”

Three days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I came home from the grocery store and opened the spare fridge to put in some drinks and “Shit!  I completely forgot about the potatoes!  I’m not sure if they are good anymore because of the cream and butter.  Well, I don’t have time right now to toss them out but I will get to it in an hour or so.

Four Days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I never opened the spare fridge.

Five days after:  I opened the fridge, “Fuck!  Someone needs to throw them out before they get nasty.

Six days after:  The Viking opens the spare fridge,

“What’s in this big pot?”

Me:  “Mashed potatoes, dammit!  I’ll be there in a minute to throw it out and wash the pot.”

Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I go for a drink.  Ugh!!  Those potatoes are probably working on becoming a science experiment and I’m just not up to dealing with that today.  I’ll handle it tomorrow.

Eight days:  The Viking notices the same pot in the same position.

“Have you completely forgotten these potatoes?”

Me:  “Shit!  Yes!  I’ll be right there.”

Nine days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I find the pot and moan because it’s got to be gross by now.  Maybe if I wait little longer The Viking will take care of it.

Ten days:  I purposely refuse to see the pot when I grab a drink.

Eleven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  Ditto.

Twelve days:  Ditto.

Thirteen days:  Ditto.

Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen and Eighteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  Ditto.

Nineteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:

The Viking:  “Fucksakes!  Is that still the mashed potatoes?!”

Me (slightly hopeful that he’ll throw them out and wash the pot):  “Yes!  I keep forgetting about them!”

Twenty days:  I hear something whispering my name from the spare fridge.  It doesn’t sound like something nice, more like a hiss of malevolent evil.  I ignore it.

Twenty-One days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:

The Viking stops by the spare fridge and says,

“Do you hear something?”

Me:  “Ummm…..no.  You must be hearing things.”

Twenty-Four days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: The Viking comes in the house and says….”*A friend from Denmark is going to be in Calgary this weekend.  I’ve invited him and his co-workers for dinner.”

Me (surprised and already getting anxious):  “What?!  You invited them here?!”

Him:  “Yes.  I haven’t seen Soren for years!”

Me:  “Fuck.”

Twenty-Six days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I have no idea what to make for dinner for the Danes.

The Viking:  “Clam Chowder.  They would really like it.”

Me:  “Really?  How can my land-locked clam chowder compare to Danish Right-out-of-the-Ocean Clam Chowder?”

Him:  “Trust me.  They’ll like it.”

Twenty-Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I need that mashed potato pot for the Clam Chowder.  Sigh.  It’s going to be so gross.  Nothing smells worse than rotten potatoes…..except maybe a dead body but I’m only guessing because I’ve never smelled a dead body.  Wait.  There was that dead mouse and it did smell pretty bad but I think the potatoes are going to smell worse because there are more potatoes than one dead mouse.

Apparently, The Viking didn’t feel the need to take care of the mess so I had to.  I pulled the neck of my shirt up over my nose, squinted my eyes and hauled the pot from the fridge.  It was worse than I thought – they had turned all brown and green and made my eyes water.

I suck at keeping the refrigerators organized and free of science experiments.

As for the Clam Chowder.  I spent several hours frying bacon, cleaning, peeling and chopping veggies, making broth and taste testing it.  I was like Gordon Ramsey but with far worse language, knowing one tiny mistake could ruin the entire thing.  When I thought it was pretty good, I called for The Viking to do a taste test.  He sipped it, sipped it again and pronounced it good with just a touch more salt and pepper.  But……

Him:  Where is the corn?

Me:  Corn?  You don’t put corn in Clam Chowder.  But now that you mention it, it would probably taste good.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any corn at the moment.

Him:  Where is the red and white stuff?

Me:  Red and white stuff?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Him:  Crab!  Where’s the crab?

Me:  You don’t put Crab in Clam Chowder.  You put Clams in Clam Chowder.

Him:  You made some soup once for me and Adam and it had corn and crab and shrimp.  I thought that’s what you were making.

Me:  That’s not Clam Chowder, that’s Seafood Chowder!  I didn’t think you even cared much for that.  You said, when I specifically asked, “It’s okay.”  Which is the same thing as saying “It’s passable but just barely.”

Him:  I liked it!

Me:  That’s not what you said!  You said, “It’s O.K.A.Y.”  Which isn’t the same thing as “I like it”!

Him:  For fucks-sakes!

Me:  Did I just spend all day making Clam Chowder for Danish experts and you wanted Seafood Chowder?  Geezus!  Do I need to start all over?!”

Him:  NO!  You don’t have to do a fucking thing!  This is fine.

Me:  Gawd save me!  It’s FINE?!  That’s it?!  FINE?!

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And that’s why I needed to start drinking 4 hours before the Danes were due to arrive.  Being drunk is the only way to put a pot of ‘fine’ in front of experts.

*What the fuck!?  Why is this quotation mark going the wrong way?!  I’ve tried to fix it 8 times already!

Precision Ketchup Application Device

You might not know this, but Ketchup has become public enemy #1 around here.  Well, not the Ketchup exactly, but the squeezable Ketchup jug.  I don’t know the person who designed the squeezable jug with the bum-hole in the lid, but he/she should know that The Viking isn’t a fan.

Obviously, French’s or Heinz’s jugs weren’t designed for Vikings.  There’s no finesse, no attention to detail, no compliance to Danish standards.  How is The Viking supposed to put the exact amount of Ketchup on his Hot Dog with a brute jug that is designed to put the maximum amount of Ketchup in the shortest amount of time?  It takes significant force to open the bum-hole and then Ketchup explodes from the jug like it was launched from a fire hose.  That’s no way to apply a delicate amount of Ketchup.

A Danish Hot Dog is a masterpiece of flavors, from the wiener to the sweet pickles to the deep-fried onions.  A massive glop of Ketchup completely ruins the delicate balance and makes The Viking shout and occasionally throw the entire Hot Dog in the garbage while verbally abusing the designer of said Applicator at the top of his lungs.

The Danish Hot Dog requires a warm, crusty bun, an authentic European wiener, a consistent, thin line of Ketchup down the center of the wiener, followed by a thicker but still consistent line of Remoulade.  Finely chopped onions top the condiments, then Agurkasalat (Danish sweet pickles and only Danish sweet pickles) and the fried onions crown the masterpiece.  Any slight anomaly is an epic disaster.  The onions must be chopped incredibly fine, the Remoulade at the peak of freshness, the bun crusty – not soggy (dear Gawd, no sogginess!).  It’s a complex and finely tuned balance.  Putting a man on the moon is easier than making a perfect Danish Hot Dog.

Necessity is the mother of invention though, so The Viking pondered the situation for several years until one day a light bulb appeared over his head while we were having lunch.  He was violently shaking the Remoulade container to get every last bit of the delicious condiment out of the small, perfectly round hole in the lid.

“Waaait a minute!  That hole is the perfect size for Ketchup Application on my Hot Dog!!  What if we washed out the Precision Remoulade Applicating Device and made it into a Precision Ketchup Applicating Device!?  Not only is the hole size perfect but only the slightest pressure provides a glorious line of delightful Ketchup.”

And…..he doesn’t have to verbally abuse the bum-hole anymore.  It’s a win-win.

On the other hand, I admired the person who invented the plastic jug with the bum-hole lid.  I washed it out and saved it for future use.  That future arrived yesterday when I made a lovely salad and Cider Vinaigrette.  I immediately thought of the decommissioned Ketchup jug as the perfect vessel for my Vinaigrette.

I dished salad onto my plate, gently added grated, 2-year-old Canadian cheddar and picked up the Precision Cider Vinaigrette Application Device.  I squeezed the jug softly, careful to not over-vinaigrette.  Nothing came out.  I squeezed it just a touch harder.  Nothing.  I added more pressure.  That damned bum-hole was tight!  I was getting nervous so squeezed just the slightest bit more.  Suddenly, the bum-hole opened, a beautiful arc of Vinaigrette launched over my plate, over the table and laid down a precise line across the kitchen floor.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!”

Oops!  The Viking, sitting in the family room with his plate, heard me and wanted to know what was wrong.

“Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Just eat your dinner.” 

Because there is no fucking way that I’m going to let him know what a damned catastrophe that stupid Ketchup jug is!  He’ll laugh for most of the coming week!

The moral of this story:  Jugs with bum-hole lids are never to be trusted.

Who’s In Charge Around Here, Anyway?

Sleeping peacefully.

Bladder:  Um…..I know you’re sleeping and I don’t mean to be a bother but I’m very full right now.

Me:  Really?  I’m having a great dream.

Bladder:  Yes, I know.  It’s just that the kidneys are being totally douche-y.

Me:  15 minutes.  Just give me 15 more minutes of sleep.

Sleeping.

Lower Back:  Can I bother you to change your sleeping position?  This one is killing me!

Legs:  And punt the cats!  We’re getting cramps.

Neck:  I could use a change, too.  You don’t want to be a Pain in the Neck cliche.

Bladder:  I can’t wait anymore!  If Nose decides to sneeze, you’ll have to bring in a HazMat Team.

Me:  For fuck’s sake!  Fine!

Go to the bathroom without opening eyes and then back to bed.

Feet:  Nice!  The bed is still warm.

Brain:  Remember that time when your sister broke your new Barbie’s legs?

Me:  That was like 45 years ago and you’re bringing it up now?!  Go back to sleep!

Trying to sleep.

Brain:  You know, that Barbie was your favorite toy.

Me:   Seriously!  I don’t give a shit about a fucking Barbie doll.  Go. Back. To. Sleep!

Brain:  It’s 8:30; you should be getting up anyway.

Me:  No, it’s not!

Left Eye:  He’s right.  It is 8:32.

Me:  Fuck!  I’m getting up.

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  Why isn’t there any coffee in here?!

Me:  I’m working on it, already!  Shit!  Now I forgot how many scoops I did.

Brain:  Don’t ask me.  I’m still pissed about your Barbie.

Flops in computer chair and scrolls through FaceBook.

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  HEY!  Where is the coffee?

Right Ear:  I haven’t heard any burbling or grumbling from the coffee maker.

Me:  I’m going.  I’m going.

First slurp of coffee.

Mouth:  Oh my gawd that tastes good!!

Stomach:  Finally!  This whole thing works better when The Viking gets up first.

3 hours later.

Stomach:  I’m finished with the coffee.  How about a Sausage McMuffin with Egg and no cheese?

Mouth:  I second that motion!!  I fucking love those things!

Brain:  If you left now, you could be home with a dozen Sausage McMuffins with Egg and no cheese in 15 minutes.

Me:  Nope!  I will not think about that delicious sandwich – I’m trying to lose a few pounds.  We are going to have an apple and a piece of aged cheese.

Mouth:  I do like the apple and cheese thing but, to be honest, I like the McMuffin better.

Me:  WE ARE NOT GETTING SAUSAGE McMUFFINS WITH EGG AND NO CHEESE!

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  Well, now I don’t have enough room for a Sausage McMuffin with Egg and no cheese.  That’s very disappointing.

Mouth:  I’m disappointed, too.

Brain:  Me too!

Me:  Whatever.

3 hours later.

Mouth:  It’s been a while since you’ve eaten.  Any chance of getting that McMuffin?

Me:  Nope.  You have to wait for supper.

Stomach:  Aaaagh!  But I’m hungry!

Brain:  Did you hear that?!  I think a Dodge Diesel just started up in your stomach!  You shouldn’t eat trucks, lady!

Me:  It’s not a truck – it’s Stomach being crabby.

Brain:  I don’t like that sound.  It annoys me.

Stomach:  I’m starving down here!  Do something, Brain!

Brain:  I’m trying but she is being obstinate.  And my thinks are getting slower.

Stomach:  This is an urgent situation.  I have to pull energy from these fat cells just laying around here.

Me:  That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day, Stomach.  Also….you all are just Hang-gry.

2 hours later.

Me:  Brace yourselves – it’s dinner time.

Mouth:  Yes!!  Finally!

Mouth:  Uh!  What was that?!  That tastes like a vegetable!

Stomach:  What?!  A VEGETABLE?  What kind?

Mouth:  I think it’s a carrot.

Stomach:  I thought you hated carrots.

Mouth:  I DO!  She’s become evil.  It’s carrots but it has butter, which I like, and sesame seeds, which I like.  I don’t know what to do.

Stomach:  Spit it out!  Hurry!

Brain:  No can do!  I’ve been brainwashed since childhood to never spit out food.  That would earn me a finger thump on my head from Dad.

Stomach:  Gawd!  You are such an ass!

Ass:  Leave me out of this.  It’s not my area.

Brain:  I can’t help it.  Dad had big fingers and those thumps hurt like hell.  I’ve been programmed to avoid those situations.  It’s a Pavlov’s Dog sort of thing.

Mouth:  Somebody make up your mind.  I can’t just chew this shit forever.

Stomach:  Intestines, big and small, prepare for invasion!  We have Carrots!

Mouth:  Holy Fuck Fuck!  Aaaa!  There’s cabbage, too!!

Stomach:  Cabbage?  What the hell is she doing?  Abort!  Abort!  I will send that shit right back at you, Mouth.  Cabbage ferments into methane gas and makes things unpleasant down here.

Mouth:  I can’t.  I’m already swallowing.

Stomach:  Shit!  I’m sending this straight to you, Intestines.  It’s a nuclear bomb for me.

Ass:  Would you please stop with all the ‘Shit’ references?  I’m trying to sleep here.

Intestines:  You won’t be sleeping for long.  Cabbage and carrots are heading your way.

Ass:  What’s the ETA?

Intestines:  Gas will start arriving within the hour and the carrots and cabbage within 3 hours.

Ass:  Really?  How exciting!  I love gas, especially cabbage gas.  It ferments quickly and I can play with it for hours and hours – even after the cabbage and carrots arrive.

Stomach:  This isn’t my area.  I’ll leave all that to you and the Intestines.

3 hours later – pre-sleep review.

Brain:  So, that was a terrible day.  The only one happy was Ass.  We have only one chance left to get any enjoyment before we sleep.

Mouth:  Do you have a plan?  Please tell me it’s a Doughnut Plan.

Brain:  Nope.  It’s a Potato Chip plan because we have those in the cupboard.  I can put the thought into her head and if Mouth starts to drool a bit and Stomach grumbles, there is a good chance we can put a stop to the ‘Diet’.

Me:  Shut up!  Y’all are the reason we’re fat in the first place.  It’s time to pay the piper.

Brain:  Does that mean there is more cabbage and carrots in the near future?

Me:  Yes.  And it’s your own fault.

Brain:  Why aren’t you blaming Eyes?  They are the ones that are always too big for Stomach.  We have no control over what you eat.  That’s Hands, Eyes and Mouth’s doing.

Me:  Wrong.  You, Brain, are in total control of cravings.  That makes you the Evil One.

Brain:  What?!

Eyes, Mouth, Stomach, Intestines and Ass:  Bastard!

Me:  All of you – quit your whining and go to sleep.  If you’re good, I might entertain the idea of French Toast for breakfast.

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Friday Fictioneers – A Banana Fell Out Of The Cage

I finally found some time for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  The picture for this week’s challenge has been provided by J Hardy Carroll.

 When I was a kid I went to a Circus Carnival with my parents. I saw a pair of Siamese Howler Monkeys in a cage behind the Big Top.  Each head controlled one arm.  The left side was Frank and the right side was Sinatra.  

Frank stole Sinatra’s banana so Sinatra howled in Frank’s ear.  Frank gave the banana back to Sinatra but as soon as Sinatra had the banana, Frank howled in his ear.  Then Sinatra slapped Frank and Frank slapped Sinatra and the banana fell out of the cage. 

The inspiration for my post is from Genius Funny Man Tim Conway and his Siamese Elephant skit on the Carol Burnett Show.  If you haven’t seen it, I’ve put the link below.  It’s not great quality which is a shame – the better links were blocked in my country which is another shame.  For the Siamese Elephant go to 2:00 in the video.

Want to read more 100 word stories?  Push the button.