Banana skins

Anyone of a squeamish disposition do look away now.

I used up potatoes last night to make soup – just for myself; would never offer experiments on the squeamish or anyone else. It was awful. In fact, it was so awful I am now considering starting a blog on cooking never to embark on. Don’t know what went wrong but splutter I did. In the privacy of my own company.

That’s neither here nor there. Mistakes happen. My motto: Live for a long time and repent at leisure.

However, NOW I am left with a rather large quantity of very liquidy inedible soup to be decanted into a plastic bin bag. I have lived long enough to know that that bag will leak on its way down to the waste disposal. Please don’t tell me to use a lot of (un)read newspaper print as a base: None around. Being of my disposition this causes me anxiety; not because I mind mopping up spillage on my way back up  the stairs –  having already just now cleaned bathroom to my usual high standards – but because I do not wish to be found mopping by either neighbours or son returning any moment soon. Other people get so very easily embarrassed. Inconvenient to ME to say the least. Normally I’d just let fester that which goes wrong till it solidifies; thus so much easier to dispose off, unnoticed: Unfortunately I need that particular pan to make a cheese sauce. NOW. Wish me luck. Should you never hear from me again it’s because I slipped on the remains of what was meant to be a divine potato soup. Please do bring cheese at my funeral.

U

Dragging my feet

Sometime back in April (25th -  to be precise) over at Magpie’s blog  we discussed the swimming prowess and restistance of fleas to death by alocohol poisoning. Laboratory animals were mentioned, Magpie showing himself singularly unmoved by the plight of any.  A view which,  no doubt, he shares with many other teachers.

And this is one of the reasons why I love Bike Hike Babe, and I quote her comment:

“I caught a mouse by its foot in a mouse trap. I set him loose.”

At first the statement sounds simple and factual. It isn’t [simple]: Jean-Paul Sartre would have gladly limped to his grave if only he could have come up with something as profound. For the sake of my own thought process (and it won’t work otherwise – so please do not disillusion me, BHB) I assume that BHB (or, more likely, her husband) laid the trap - purposely setting out to fight the cheese robbers. However, like in a Hollywood movie, the mouse (played by Tom Hanks) then did NOT have its neck snapped, merely his foot clamped. Along comes the good fairy (that’s BHB during a full moon) and foils her household’s initial plan. Think about it. Aesop (him of the fables) couldn’t do better.

Somewhere under the wandering stars there will now be a homeless mouse with a bandage walking across an American prairie, supported by a crutch, tears in its eyes remembering that lovely smiling silver haired lady who gave it reprieve. Mice’s attention span being short let’s hope it won’t forget all about her when happening onto the next bit of cheese. That’s where Sartre comes into the equation.

U