The Curry from Hell

I am feeling very sorry for myself this morning. The Flea is totally unsympathetic.
"Its totally self-inflicted," she remarked this morning while I was looking for sympathy.

I cooked last night.

As a rule, I am a good cook, even if I say so myself. Normally the whole family loves my curries. Last night was a little different. Not even my son, who has a cast-iron mouth would take more than one bite. I was quite pissed-off at this display of ingratitude.I slaved over a hot stove, etc

I was also quite pissed, while I made supper.

Which explains the lack of enthusiasm from the family. I will admit that using a large, no, enormous spoon to measure out the curry powder, was maybe going a little overboard. (Well, I could not find a teaspoon anywhere).

The curry was warm enough to bend a fork. I thought, after taking the first bite of the lamb curry, that flames were coming out of my ears. I looked in the mirror. No Flames... just lots of tears.

The Flea called Mr Delivery and had pizzas delivered.

I was damned if the curry was going to go to waste. I offered Joe, the cocker spaniel a bite. He just looked at me. 'Fuck you', I thought!

I WILL eat the curry myself. All of it.

I needed frozen toilet paper this morning. Or ice.

The Flea ignored my screams from the toilet.

Clan of the Cave Man

There was an old song by Jonah Louis, ‘you always find me in the kitchen at parties’. I always wind up, tongs in hand, next to the fire when having a braai. The Flea says I am just being full of shit. She says all men think they are the original caveman. Uggh! Oook! Drag those knuckles on the ground! As a caveman, we are blessed with instincts...we can cook meat. On a fire. With a stick.

The Flea can be a sarcastic bitch when she wants to be. Don’t you, sweetie?

Anyhow, being full of shit,as well as being a typical South African male, I know that everybody else fucks up the meat on the braai. I, on the other hand, am Grog, caveman chef! T-bones, chicken, ribs, boerewors, chops, if its braaied by me, you will eat it and enjoy it! I like eating steak cooked so rare that if taken to a good vet, it should take a day or two in the ICU for the cow to recover.

Too many people eat overcooked meat. My sister in law insists on eating extra well done meat. What a waste!. I keep threatening to take a boerewors shaped stick of charcoal, shove it in a roll with All Gold tomato sauce, and see if she can taste the difference.

Cooking vs Takeaways

My baby sister is a busy woman but a lazy cook. She is a project manager who has to check her schedule for a space to allocate ‘mommy time’ to her kids.

Her motto in life :’cooking is for those who can’t afford takeaways’.

I can sort of understand that comment, if the takeaways are edible, and nutritious. I once pushed her wheelie bin outside for the trash collectors, and saw the contents. Six empty pizza boxes, several KFC packets, and loads of Steers takeaway cartons.

Pizza, fried chicken, cheeseburgers and chips. Sound nutritious to you? I love a King Steer burger as much as the next guy, but will be the first to admit they are low on the value chain as far a healthy diet is concerned. Don’t even talk about the crispy taste of Kentucky Fried Chicken,! Just ignore the oil and salt. Pizza, thin crust, double cheese, extra everything. Have a double dose of cholesterol and fat!

So my sister wonders why she has to buy bigger clothes on a regular basis. I told her it is the Vanish she throws in the washing machine… it must shrink her clothes. She should sue. I am still waiting for the penny to drop that despite the incredible shrinking clothes, she has to buy larger and larger outfits.

My baby sister: smart, hardworking, but dumb! You can’t but help love her, even though I sometimes hope she was adopted. Or maybe I was..

Fishy story

I am not a fisherman. Never have been, never will be. The only time I could catch a fish is if the damn thing was depressed and suicidal, and could manage to strangle itself in my fishing line.

AS a rule I never put a hook or bait on a line. As I said suicide would be the only way I could catch a carp! What is more, if you shuffle the letters around, you get: c.a.r.p. = c.r.a.p! That is what the damn things look and taste like. I like my fish in bite size chunks, with batter and chips! Already cooked!

I do however; have three brothers-in-law, two of whom are fishing fanatics. (The less said about the third brother in law the better.) I therefore am regularly invited to go murder innocent carp. I do my best to have a convenient something on the go when a fishing weekend is arranged. I am sometimes caught without an excuse, which results in my less than enthusiastic participation in their fishing trips.

Let’s discuss the arrangements for a fishing trip.

Firstly, all the guys need to be advised of the proposed fishing weekend. SMS’s fly around the countryside. Much plotting and lying to wives is done to ensure that those men in the dog box can get a weekend pass out. (It does not say much for the relationships between men and women in this country to discover how many guys live semi-permanently with their hounds.)

Secondly, a venue must be found. This issue is more often than not easily resolved. We will go to the last place we went to! Easy! Unless some bright spark has been fishing in a new “undiscovered dam.” Much discussion about facilities, do they bite, what is the cost and most important, how far do we have to drive. Once thing you must realise: Fishing involves driving long distances to places even God has forgotten he created. Well, maybe the Devil remembers them, as most of them are infested with mosquitoes. Lots and lots of mosquitoes!

So, number three. Who is sleeping where? Everybody has to cater for himself, but not everybody has got a tent. Did I forget to mention the tents? Yes, that kind of fishing trip. In tents. On the ground. With the ants. You would think this to be a minor issue. You do not realize that there are unwritten rules here. The snoring fraternity is quickly identified and banned to a separate tent. Preferably far away from everyone else. Some will sleep in the back of their bakkies (pickup trucks to you ignorant foreigners), not willing to trust the weather. As one of the delinquents that snore, I have gone so far as to buy my own two-man pup tent, allowing myself to snuffle and snort to my hearts content. I can even fart without somebody throwing a pillow at me! Cool!

Number four: the food, and the alcohol. No, let me rephrase that, in order of importance, the booze and then the chow! More of the former and less of the latter!

Each guy must cater for his own booze. My brothers in law had to repack the double cab twice to fit all the cases of beer in. When all the beer was loaded, there was no place for the meat.

Meat! Almost a small cow’s worth. A fishing weekend consists of a non stop braaiing and boozing. The only time you can see a slack time in the braaiing is about 4am in the morning, when the drunks pass out.

When it came to breakfast, I realized why I am always invited to come along. I make breakfast. Nobody else is in any condition to make food, or wash the utensils from last nights barbecue. As the only semi-sober body available, as well being the only man there who dislikes cooking in carbon-encrusted grids and pans, I wind up washing the bloody things. The other lazy son-of-bitches will eat anything cooked on anything with anything. Not for me... I HAVE SEEN TOO MANY CASES OF GYPPO-GUTS!

Fishing...no thanks, I stop at the Pick and Pay on the way home on Sunday afternoon, buy a box of hake fillets, take a picture of my 'catch', and boast about the one that got away!