In about five minutes, we’re gonna start eatin’ each other

The effort of blow drying my [unwashed for five days] hair this morning nearly made me puke from exhaustion so I fell back into bed and failed to phone in to work to say I definitely would not be there. Again.

Instead, I fired up the laptop so I could see how much I was being missed and since my inbox was full of free Google news alerts (because we’re too cheap to pay for REAL media monitoring) that all related to bizarre Nigerian school scandals and a request from reception to find the missing laminator, I figure the world of work is safe without Super-Me for just one more day. Maybe two.

Besides, I have a doctor’s certificate for today, and there’s nothing worse than wasting a perfectly good sanctioned sick day by going back to work sooner than your doctor thought you would.

Meantime, while I showered and blow-dried and logged-on and blogged, my poxy children have taken over the lounge room and kitchen and turned it into the Noo Or-lee-ans Super Dome.

They have spread the lounge cushions all over the floor as makeshift bedding; they’re using beach towels as blankets; the big ones are ganging up on the little one and someone just yelled “Who stole the bread?”

The president keeps promising me the National Guard, but until they get here I am staying in my bed with my laptop, my sultanas and my .22

The real tragedy is that this Third World devastation could all have been prevented if I’d only acted on my normal emergency plan and put the remote control somewhere they could reach it. As it is, all they are left with is the educational programs on ABC and they’ve been forced to employ their native ingenuity.

Oh, the humanity!


Good grief Charlie Brown

did Prof repeatedly drive over a black cat while you danced under a ladder or something?

Say hello Pintersol my old friend. . . .

BTW – did you know an Ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain?

Chef noticed that it was a bit off that the pantyliner quirky facts were called “Odd spots”. Eww indeed. Better than “blood clots” I guess…

There is only one word that can fully impart the whatfreshhellisthis of my week-to-be


with apologies for gross misuse of extended headlines to crank up the impact of our latest viral attack.

rubbernecking tourists

if our government – one that is so committed to the financial bottom line, irrespective of its impact on people, the ‘Australian’ way of life and a sense of community (over a sense of pure, utter, selfish greed) – spends getting the IDIOT Australians who were anywhere in the vicinity of Hurricane Katrina out of the area, I will be even crankier than my standard 8/10 crankiness with the mere existence of Liberals-in-power.

Mourning appetite

There is nothing as discombobulating as losing either/or your interest (obsession) in food and alcohol.

I got quite depressed in my first trimester as nothing was palatable. Nothing. Not even a dry SAO. The thing that pushed me over the edge, was I lost my desire to drink as well. In a previous life, a bottle of sparkling shiraz would be lucky to get across the threshold unopened in this house, now, there are two bottles that have been sitting there for the better part of s.e.v.e.n. months.

Second trimester was marginally better, although the palate went a bit down-market in that nothing was really as delectable as a toasted cheese (plastic) and spaghetti (tinned) sandwich. There was also a love of pasta, but that is something pretty normal in my world.

Third trimester has expanded upon and relished the love of this pregnancy – spice. I’m talking hot curries, spicy Singapore noodles, chilli in anything. Oscar’s incubation was dairy focused, Felix was salt, this one is spice. Weird.

Anyway, it’s all gone south once more as I can’t eat anything without horrendous heartburn making me spew.

but, last week, on one of Jamie Oliver’s myriad programs, was a dish of marinated buffalo mozzarella – marinated in marscapone, with lemon rind, chilli and thyme. I begged Chef to go and buy the ingredients then and there, but to no avail. The next night I made it, and its been reproduced three times since. In one week. It goes a little bit like this:

Ciabatta bread – cut into slices, brushed with oil and toasted
One container bocconcini (or if you live in non-whitebread/skippy territory, then buffalo mozzarella)
one tub marscapone
a couple of lemons – juiced and zested
bunch of thyme
one long red chilli (not the birdseye ones and not the banana ones, the middle sized ones) de-seeded and finely chopped

Mix marscapone w/ lemon juice, salt and pepper, until it tastes really good and lemony – and is quite runny.
Tear the bocconcini into smaller pieces – smear over the marscapone
Top with chilli, lemon zest and thyme sprinkled over it
Lug over some extra virgin olive oil before serving, then put on the bruschetta-style toasted ciabatta and eat.

I should note here, that there is SO MUCH I could write on the rise of the conservative right religious movement in Australia, what the result of Hurricane Katrina says about the moral fibre (or lack thereof) of the US and its government’s contempt for the poor – and how telling it is that this city sits on the edge of America’s bible belt and yet, where is the Christian spirit now? and a whole lot more, but its so much nicer to write about food and the small things in life. Not brave I know, but my arms barely reach the keyboard now so really, anything is good.

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