It’s me who cooks, i’m the chef chez Frogpool. Being 47 with an imminent birthday less than a month away, don’t worry I’ll let you know when, you would have thought I’d have some sort of grasp on portion control, christ I’ve been cooking for nearly 30 years now and yet still no matter what I cook, I will always over compensate; it’s better to have more than less but it leaves me with Leftovers. There’s other issues; i’m in charge of other stuff too like walking Benny and buying records I can ill afford. But my other biggie is the weekly shop which has grown and grown until it was just too much, the leftovers would develop their own leftovers, some would get frozen, some turned into curry and eaten and the rest frozen, some covered in foil and swallowed up by the darkness of the fridge, we need a new bulb, doesn’t everybody isn’t that what happens? I’ll put it on the list and then buy a multi pack which will give me bulb leftovers which will get swallowed up in the stuff drawer or the cupboard underneath the utility room sink, some even make it out to the shed where they will die a slow and corrosive death.
Lists, and records, organising drawers and cupboards, not finishing DIY jobs because the sandpaper I bought has dampened in the tool box. The tool box too bulky to fit in the house because we are filled with clutter. Years ago put all the books into boxes and stored them at my folks house, their big house which they are struggling to occupy anymore, they used to use all the rooms and gradually one by one are becoming musty and dare I say, damp. We could do with all that space and I have suggested swapping but that idea fell on deaf ears before they were actually deaf, they are now which is a shame. And with each passing month the hearing, the communication and the understanding dissipates in a Manner which is both shocking and predictably predictable.
I digress, purely to get the second prompt in, possibly. But the leftovers were not all being eaten, due to the regimented dietary habits of the kids, demanding the same week after week. I offer new and exciting dishes, they get rebuffed and then a month or so later my daughter comes back from a meal out extolling the wonders of king prawns and the beauty of a medium rare rib-eye. Its ok to eat this stuff out but not if Dad cooks it; it’s so unfair and that very sentence makes me sound like a child myself. Harking back to my childhood I know I was fussy and I know I was a pain to cook for, and now as a parent I understand how we tend to return to the similar limited menu, month on month.
But I also realise that shit happens and you just have to suck it up, not literally of course. But I wouldn’t change it and when I’m cooking for just the two of us I try to mix it up, keep things exciting.
So thet’s it, not so much an explanation of anything, more a stream of drivel, from my low calorie (600 ) day nutrient deficient brain. Tomorrow I plan to gorge myself on biscuits, but have to eat a leftover chicken chow mien made from left over chicken from the sunday roast, and also the Bhajis, which are 2 days past their best, but they smell and look ok, so i’m going to say they are ok. So all the dieting for today will be topped up tomorrow at lunch and then ribs and maybe a few chilled beers at supper time. I’m doomed to a wobbly waistline and my goal of beach presentability will become a pipe dream as my belt tightens, I take to wearing dark shape hiding clothes and the fat slips south rendering my body pear shaped as I become a living equivalent of the Worcestershire emblem, the Black Pear.
Best dash I’ve got to get up early, to get some milk (full fat; is there any other type?) for the morning tea, let’s see what Brexit holds for us tomorrow as if there isn’t enough to worry about.