For today's delectation allow me to present the chicken and leak pie. Yup. Only three dollars. I've just about accepted that my battle with the misused and abused apostrophe is lost, but since when did spelling become the new leprosy?
I have a mild haloumi addiction which may lead to a parting of the ways. My husband is considering the purchase of his own jaffle maker. His n' hers: can you imagine? Imagine: me, pottering about in my kitchen, happily assembling a tasty jaffle (they're a complete meal, shut up) with a side of super-tasty haloumi.
Well, I already have a smoking hot grill surface at the ready; why use a frypan for a measly two slices of the cheese equivalent of crack cocaine? EXACTLY. Besides, residual haloumi grease? BLISS on the exterior of your gourmet toastie.
So I prepare, amble away, and am completely dumbfounded when husband extracts paper towel from cupboard and starts to scrub away at our well-used little jaffler. You all heard my screech of dismay, admit it. I mean, there goes all the FLAVOR (he called it carcinogenic soot, but I beg to differ).
Fast forward to tonight: he offers to make me the sandwich (in the shiny new thingamajig he scrubbed clean), possibly so I can't grubby it up with my greasy cheese. I graciously accept. Little does he know that I will covertly (actually, not at all covertly) chop a few chunks of cheese and grill them in the (well, it's still hot. Shame to waste that heat) jaffle iron.
"What are you cooking now?"
"Nothing..." (shifty eyes)
"But I can hear it sizzling!"
"It's a special type of nothing that sizzles?" (Yeah, I'm SO good at thinking on my feet.)
He shakes his head sorrowfully over the new encrustations of grease.
"Do you really want me to leave it like this?"
"Really? Don't clean it?"
Kindly, he puts it away. Memo to self: only grill haloumi on the left side.