Don’t think me mad. I am not. Or no madder than to be expected once you have left the relative safety of your mother’s womb.
I don’t know why, and this is why I am throwing myself at your collective shoulder, I do have a distinct horror of curdled milk. A fine cheese maker I’d have made.
In decades I haven’t curdled milk but this minute I did. And before Looney and any scientists among you say anything, I know it’s NOT me who curdled the milk. The milk curdled all by itself. Shows you what an awful position to be in when you are the middleman. The facilitator. The one with the pan. The milk. And the means to heat it.
Gravely and in grieving, yours,
How many years and onions does it take of cutting them (sliced, cubed) before you stop crying in the process?
I have my uses/come in useful.
Today, no shit, a neighbour (in terms of evolution she could be my daughter) knocked at my door. She was devastated. Once you get to bottom of hysteria all is well. She had no one, not even her brother or my son come to think of it, but me to turn to. How sweet is that? Thus I killed a mouse – in her kitchen. As Sundays go this one, well, let’s just say nature takes it course (or should that be “cause”). Yuk. At least it [the mouse] was small. And I didn’t hang about to relieve it of its misery.
Life is too sunk to attempt a souffle.
The Artist at work
Don’t say I don’t do pretty. And no, I will not give step by step instructions of how to fillet a sardine.