Behold the queen of procrastination

Tomorrow night about 25 people are coming to dinner. A Christmas in July when the food we eat in 36 degree eat in December is actually enjoyable and seasonally appropriate.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time – when I asked them all that is. But of course, then there is reality.

I have quite a penchant for list writing. No, not a bread, milk, butter list but strategic, thought out, precision lists. My shopping lists are broken down to dry goods, dairy, refrigerated goods, vegetables, fruit, entertaining, cleaning etc. My shopping lists are good.

When I entertain, the lists can be daunting for some, but I draw great comfort merely from their existence. This is important as unless I’m doing drugs (which I don’t out of pure geek-based fear I will get the bad batch and die a horrible frothing-at-the-mouth-soiling-my-pants kinda death) they rarely get adhered to.

So tomorrow’s the night – by tonight I’m meant to have made a pumpkin pinenut cheesecake w/ spicy pumpkin relish, quince relish and onion marmalade (to go with the ham), have sliced the potatoes for potato dauphinios and topped and tailed the beans for my beans tossed in breadcrumbs and garlic.

I haven’t done any of that. I haven’t even done the shopping to pretend I’m getting these things underway. Instead, I watched SVU and have channel flicked for the better part of an hour and a half. All the while thinking to myself, man I’m thirsty and gee I’m buggered. I should go to bed. I haven’t done those either.

So you see, my ability to procrastinate is impressive, even when its procrastinating out of something I love doing – cooking and entertaining. God knows what we’ll eat tomorrow night as I have a homeopath appt in the morning, then an appt w/ my psychiatrist on the other side of the city, then a trip home, a trip back to the city for an interview about Oscar at the Daily Tele and then home to start preparing for dinner.

I do like a last minute adrenalin rush, but what with the incubus and all, even I’m impressed with this one.

Cause for concern…

When I feel like a salad sandwich for lunch, actually order one and then… enjoy it.


Last Thursday, on meltdown day, a woman sitting on the window side of a seat on the bus, leant across the man sitting next to her and offered me a seat. He of course jumped up, and apologised that he hadn’t realised ‘my condition’.

So you can imagine my relief that the reason all those misogynistic bastards and skanky bitches who live on the Northern Beaches not offering to stand for me on the bus is not due to some moral highground that if I got myself pregnant I can damn well pay for it by standing for an hour plus commute each way every day, it’s not because of their natural predisposition to their character descriptors, its merely because they just think I’m fat.

What a head slapping moment of realisation that was.

Once more…

I prove my point about airshows and reliable tragedies…

Photo from SMH

Food really does cure all ills

A cold weekend is a good weekend I say. It provides carte blanche for unrestricted and comprehensive eating and ditto for cooking.

Saturday featured some pretty darn tasty spag bol and a choc self saucing pudding, the recipe of which originated from dear friend Sook and seems failproof and to easy every time I make it.

Last night featured left over spag bol. There had been intentions of making a lasagne, but by the time I made a Christmas Pudding for our no-we-really-do-have-a-life Christmas in July party this Friday, I was feeling a tad over it.

So instead, I whipped up a caramel self-saucing pudding thanks to fellow control freak Donna Hay in one of the Sunday paper mags yesterday. What a treat it was.

Then an evening of tele and – sigh – figure skating on ESPN.

Too good.

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