Sunday, 20 July 2014

Sunday: foggy, with more than a hint of garlic

It's been a very, very lazy Sunday. That's despite a 6-hour shift at work; I still got up at 8, made vanilla pancakes (which came out way too flat, as I didn't account for the vanilla extract) and strawberries with some epicly strong coffee and still had time to fart about for a good while. Work was frenetic; plenty of people bringing their kids in for a lovely little family movie - on which note if you have small infants that you need to entertain for whatever reason, do please go with Mr Peabody and Sherman; it's got plenty of decent jokes that parents will get but is equally full of kid jokes.

Please, please, please don't go and see Pudsey: The Movie. It is the most painful, most awful, most horrible movie I've seen in a long time. If nobody sees it perhaps it'll stop being shown and I can finally, happily, stop listening to the aggressively horrible end-credits song. Just hearing the first bar gives me cold sweats. Hideous.

In any case, after that mad-cap day (in which I saw the end of Dawn of the Planet of The Apes no less than three times, which has probably spoiled the movie for me forever) I came home to find that Beastie had prepped 60 cloves of garlic for dinner. Dinner this evening, friends and followers, was roast chicken with the aforementioned 60 cloves of garlic, carrot smash, roast potatoes, mangetout and warm tiger bread with some of those cloves squished into a garlicky paste. All of this with an excellent bottle of fitou and charming conversation which mostly revolved around the taste of human.

Pork or human? Doesn't matter. All tastes the same.
Also: it turns out I have not the first damn clue how to carve a chicken. It is the worst damn thing to carve because it's so tiny. Pork is easy. Beef is easy. Lamb is easy-ish, because they all come in massive great lumps that you can just slice away at. Compared to those beautiful, succulent meats, a chicken is the equivalent of threading a needle held by a 6 year old. In a darkened cinema, watching Pudsey: The Movie and trying not to chew your own ears off to stop the horrible noise.

Anyway: that much food means an awful lot of cooking, so here's what happens when you let me loose in your kitchen to cook Sunday lunch:

Pictured left to right: chicken, plates, casserole dish, 3 leftover potatoes wondering what they ever did wrong and the only part of Beastie that doesn't burst into sulfuric flames when photographed.
I can almost see how keen Mother is to have me back.

I've got the day off tomorrow, but I've also got wardrobes and a television screen coming so I'm going to set them up and then play Assassin's Creed for about ten hours. I've not played in literally two years, so ten hours may turn into ten days without a shower. If nobody's heard from me by next weekend, send help.

By the by, if you thought I was over-exaggerating about Pudsey: The Movie then I welcome you to sit all the way through the video below. All the way. Don't move, don't switch tabs or programs. Just stay here, focussed on this waste of bandwidth, film, talent, oxygen and electricity.

The torture starts at 0:23. Don't say I didn't warn you.