Bitch on the Blog

May 25, 2017

Spoilt for choice

There is a regular program on Radio Four (BBC, Sunday morning) called Desert Island Disks. Someone of relative public interest is invited to talk about their life and, intermittently, ten pieces of music of their choice are played.  They’ll then be asked to choose one of them to take with them – don’t say the BBC isn’t generous – before being shipped away and with little hope to return. You are given the Bible. You may choose one other book and one (in numbers 1) luxury item. No, not me. I am not a luxury item. I am cheap.

It’s amazing what people will choose as their luxury item. For heaven’s sake – who needs silk sheets in the middle of nowhere? Take a Swiss Army Pen Knife instead. What would I take? I don’t know. It’s not likely to be allowed within in the parameters of the programme but most likely a never ending supply of my favourite fruit/vegetable. Which is … What? Trying to come to a decision will take some time – a most welcome interval to delay the evil departure.

So, what about you? What’s your luxury item, food or otherwise, to take to the desert island? Please don’t say a harpoon. Life doesn’t work like that.

Tom Hanks greetings, and don’t forget to squirrel away some matches and don’t let them get wet during your voyage,

U

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August 24, 2016

Food heaven

Despite what most bloggers wish to believe – none of you are saints, and even saints may have a mean streak.

My mean streak? It is a shocker if ever there was one. And I am not proud of it.

Before you hyperventilate in anticipation of my confession – do sit down at my table and enjoy (food cooked by me). And you will [enjoy]. What you don’t do, because thus disappointment lies, ask me for THE RECIPE. I know people think it’s the ultimate compliment. It isn’t. Trust me. It’s a gross intrusion into, nay violation of, my treasure trove. I will NOT give you the recipe. Come back again for more of the same – but don’t ask me for the recipe.

The above notion problematic in reverse – as I learnt as a young bride having landed on these culinary shores ca. mid 1980s. You enthuse over someone’s food; the host(ess), oh so polite and sweet mannered, will beam at you: “Would you like the recipe?” No, actually, I don’t. Naturally, I didn’t, and still don’t, say that. It’d be plain rude if I did. Instead of which you (that’s me) walk away feeling ashamed knowing full well that I myself would never offer full disclosure of my biggest successes. Though – mitigating circumstances – will give veiled hints how NOT to do it.

If none of you ever speak to me again – that’s my loss.

Hugs and hisses,

U

March 13, 2011

What a stinker

Filed under: Despair,Errors,Food — bitchontheblog @ 19:03
Tags: , ,

Good old as new Grannymar turned last Friday consortium’s obsession into Eternity. Which quickly escalated into the stomach turning Opium. I will try not to be unkind.

Opium, so Eighties, Dallas and Margaret Thatcher’s yuppies, and as the name implies a perfume only to be worn at night. When it won’t so much turn stomachs, as on. But, I agree: It’s heavy on the top notes. Eternity I will sniff out tomorrow on my way through town to get a measure of the woman (that’s GM). May I give all women, aspiring or not, one piece of advice: You never EVER give away the name of the scent you are wearing. NEVER, EVER. Even if it means you have to fork out for it yourself. Marilyn Monroe telling the world that she only wore Chanel No 5 to bed was forgiveable in those times of neither cheap nor easily available titillation.

I make Jean an Arpege. Whatever she says she is. BHB, don’t know. Difficult since I imagine she will try anything given to her – and probably has flasks from decades ago wilting in her drawers. Which reminds me, BHB, unless I have got date wrong: HAPPY BIRTHDAY and may you entertain me for many a year to come (how much more selfish can I get?).

U

PS Nose plays tricks on us. You can never smell yourself as others do. So don’t overdose on anything artificial. Particularly not when going for a meal – with other women for company.:The fog, an assault on your olfactory, will leave anyone in vicinity – not least the waiter –  nauseated, appetite lost before you’ve even glanced at the menu.

None of what I have said here applies to men. Men need all the help they can get from a discerning adoring female with a fine nose.

April 6, 2010

Cooking up a storm

Filed under: Food,Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 05:27
Tags: , ,

As my fan club, on either side of the divide, knows: I am critical. Never more so than when I myself am in the dock.

A surfeit of Easter and its attending culinary delights has led me to sad conclusion that whilst generous to a fault – no wonder I am broke, which at my age is a disgrace if ever there was one – I am mean in one area of my life.

I do not know why this should be so. But it is. I’ll stand by it despite the fact that some of my recent acquaintances of consortium fame seem to be shining lights in the face of adversity and all shortcomings of humanity, holding up their heads above water whilst, by law of physics, they too should be close to drowning at times. So, yes, you are  putting me to shame by virtue of your VIRTUE. Long may you maintain strength to  keep polishing your brass to gleaming point.

I stand by my bag full of flaws. I don’t even try to disguise them. Which is a flaw in itself.

Today’s insight into my workings, and I am NOT proud of it: I do not like sharing recipes of dishes I cook with astounding success. Why would I? So people can recreate them in the privacy of their own aga and bask in a glory which is not theirs? No. Absolutely not. A few days ago I discovered the secret of … Don’t ask. I am in rapture. And the only person I will bequeath my culinary insights to is my son. Just shows you: It pays to be my son.

Well, all you fountains of perfect human beings that you are, if you want to come for lunch or dinner please do. Be my guest. Just don’t expect to walk away with my secrets.

U

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