When the overindulging chickens come home to roost...

Two boiled eggs and unlimited cooked spinach for lunch?  Surely, someone’s idea of a joke.  A humourless troll, perhaps. 

But no, that’s what lies before me, the deep green shreds of spinach counterfoil to the rich yellow and blinding white of the soft boiled free range eggs nestled on top.  Laughing.  At me.  Really, who eats this stuff?

Another life lesson wrapped inside a foolproof, can’t-go-wrong 13 days to lose a minimum of 9kg metabolism diet.  Thirteen days.  I can do that – I survived pregnancy and raising two boys, for heaven’s sake.

Oh, no alcohol.  Minimal coffee and tea. No salt, chilli, gum.  No cheating – as soon as you do, stop immediately as the diet won’t work and you’re wasting your time.  Hmm.  This is a serious commitment.  I’ve ALWAYS cheated and picked up where I left off again. 

Still, a comrade has survived her first week, lost a chunk of weight, is feeling good and the diet reports on social media (always such a reliable source of factual information, don’t you think?) say the weight shed remains shed.  Confuddling the metabolism seems to work.

Today is the day and I leap onto the scale early, smugly confident that whatever the reading, it’s already history.  Gosh, can that be right?  Numbers I’ve never seen before (and not in a good way) stare accusingly from the display.  No matter, the weight loss will be even more spectacular.

 

Breakfast is…a cup of black coffee.  Easy, that’s my favourite morning brew.  But only one?  And it is to be savoured, as lunch is a long way away.  So delay, crawl back into bed (easy, a throbbing head and sore throat announced themselves at dawn) and put off this culinary treat as long as possible.

There’s no avoiding lunch, though.  Somehow, this colourful mess has to be glugged down.  As much cooked spinach as I like?  I don’t.  I’ve worked out why this regime works – unlimited quantities of disliked food = eating as little as possible. Fooling my stomach into pretended satiety rather than receiving more food it can’t bear.

And in a few hours I have dinner to look forward to – as much grilled steak as I like.  My idea of hell only one level above unlimited spinach.

It’s going to be a devilishly long two weeks. 

The Burning Issue

Hot on the heels of the Burning Hat incident, another one took place closer to home. Two fiery events in one week – what are the odds?

Wednesday night, clutching glasses of red wine and a pizza we snuggle up in our adorable Casterbridge Cinema to watch Mr Turner.  A drawn out, beautifully shot, wonderfully acted turgid piece of cinematography that presumes the viewer is intimately familiar with this apparently peculiar, if brilliant, artist’s life.

We weren’t, and by all accounts neither were many patrons but anyhow, that’s neither here nor there.  It merely sets the scene – we were locked into a cinema seat for 2 and a half hours watching a bizarre story unfold before us, understanding little and struggling to make sense of any of it.

A familiar mental playacting scenario began, perfectly synchronized with the opening credits.  Did I turn off the gas hob?  We all know how this goes – just at the point of no return a devilish sprite whispers doubts into our thoughts. Garden hose?  Tap?  Stove?  Lock the front door?  The car?  And of course, we always have completed said task so thoughtlessly, the action doesn’t dent our consciousness.  A lesson in being in the moment, which we rarely are.

Brushing the sprite off with a mental laugh, I remembered clearly lifting the lid on the chicken korma to toss in some vegetables, thinking that they’d meld beautifully as the dish slowly cooled while we were away.  Of course, the hob was turned off.  Just another one of those self-doubt moments.  No way am I clambering out of my chair and driving home to check.

The welcoming stench of burnt curry greeted us as we tumbled through the kitchen door hours later.  Never mind being turned off, the flame was at full throttle!  That was no devilish sprite, it was a guardian angel trying to save me from myself, to no avail.  Yuck, the reek of charred food lingered for days, despite fragrant Yankee candles placed strategically throughout the house. 

Of course, this korma is a Karmic symbol of a meal dispute between Him Outdoors and moi.  He can’t eat spicy food, and I’d endured enough boring cuisine.  So he was free to eat leftover stew, while I was indulging in a tasty dish.  As it turns out, neither of us ate a hot meal that night – he’d donated his meal to the gardener’s lunch, and mine was charcoal.  Cheese and pickles then.

Footnote - Clearly, the lesson hasn’t imprinted sufficiently.  So engrossed in jotting down this tale, I completely forgot the soup left simmering on the stove. To the open-mouthed stupification of Him Outdoors who rescued the blackened mess and is not one to believe in lightning striking twice! Yet another fine mess I’ve made, Stanley!

Burning the Baobab...

We've all got one - a friend who's a constant source of entertainment.  To whom the impossible, improbable and unlikely seem to be irresistibly attracted. And thank heavens for that!

I have a very dear friend - highly intelligent, ever helpful and the kindest heart imaginable but oh, dear, never a dull moment in her life and consequently ours.

A few months ago, she broke several land speed records and pushed up the collective blood pressure of Airlink ground and cockpit crew.  And yes, here's another story from her collection.

Roadtripping through Kenya, Him Outdoors and I stumbled upon the perfect birthday gift for said friend (someone highly knowledgeable and passionate about nature, flora, the environment, trees and insects)  -  a floppy sunhat made from Baobab bark.

A precious Baobab tree in leaf

The hat safely made the long journey back to White River and was received with much appreciation by the birthday girl.

This is as good a time as any to mention that in addition to her stupendous knowledge of nature, Friend also enjoys juices extracted from juniper berries and grapes, particularly the bubbly kind.  And she owns a magnificent silver bowl, ideal for chilling many bottles of fermented juice.

And so it was, our infamous Uplands Festival and an emergency 911 call was made to Friend from our stand - the sweltering winter heat (31 deg C!) was putting our bottles of delicious bubbly under pressure, more ice and the large bowl needed, stat.

Dropping her beautiful rust-hued Baobab hat into the bowl, she placed it carefully into the back of her car, leaving the rear door open.  In scorching sunshine.  And went back to dilly dally inside the house.  


Some time later, while locking the kitchen door, Friend became aware of an odoriferous reminder of winter around here - a forest fire fume curled it's way around her nose and she was saddened that fire season had arrived again.

Imagine her surprise when she turned and saw spirals of smoke emerging from her Prado - a fire in her car?

Ahem, yes.  Silver bowl.  Bright sunlight.  Huge heat. Combustible material - tree bark.  End of hat. Seriously.

Please be advised that no bottles of bubbly were wasted upon fire control during the making of this story.

And please, dear reader, take heed and never, ever, put your bark hat inside a silver champagne cooler and leave it in the sun. Consequences there will be!