Now with added soot!

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.

Sizzle, sizzle.
"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?"
Nod vigorously.
"Really? Don't clean it?"
Shake vigorously.

Kindly, he puts it away. Memo to self: only grill haloumi on the left side.

THAT? BREAD? Don't make me laugh.

Hi. I'm Chelsea. I have a substance abuse problem.
It's the bread.

It's not like I'm a connisseur of those crazy light rye-sourdough-pastadura only slice on Wednesday loaves, or that I only eat homebaked bread. I like seedy bread. Soy and linseed, or four grain. Wholemeal's fine too. So long as it comes in a square (or has three squared sides) and will fit in the toaster/sandwich press, it's all good.

Which is why hub's purchase of some junky airy fricking CRUSTY white crap (which says a loud, clear HELLO concrete crusts post-toasting) which I can't cut into slices with structural integrity (read, it has AIR BUBBLES) has serious implications for my sanity. As in, goodbye sanity, have a nice vacation, I'll see you in a few months.

Of course, when the MAN handles the bread knife, he manages really nice, un-holey slices (because I already cut up the holey bit) .... until.

Butter.
Now, being something of a condiments nazi (ever tried spreading butter straight from the fridge? On room-temperature bread? No? Well, have a try and let me know how you get on.) I have my own butter. Pantry butter. Which, being pantry butter, is actually spreadable.

Not on this bread. Don't even mention the peanut butter. Having crunchy bits, that slice is tragic. The other sandwich (Promite, kind of like Vegemite but waaaaaay superior) is marginally better. And all the while I'm thinking Why can't you have just bought normal bread? You know, the kind we buy every other time we go to the supermarket? And if you thought "Hey, let's try this out!" then buy ONE loaf of this stuff and one of backup? You know? So if it just happened to be a load of airy white crusty crap it wouldn't be the end of the world?


I know what you're all thinking. Wow. She is so lucky. If that's all she has to worry about....
Actually, I feel the reverse is true. The one thing I might POSSIBLY be able to control about tomorrow is what goes in my mouth. The rest is really incredibly random. Which is why I like lunch to be a small pleasure in my day. I love nothing more than opening up the sandwich press on a small, golden, toasted piece of happiness. Knowing that my lunch will be good, will be under my control regardless of all the other random... well. The world could end tomorrow in an explosion of crumbs. You've been warned.

Armies of elves fuelled by sugar

Did I REALLY make all those tiny desserts? It's possible elves have been in my house. Or one of those terribly helpful and lovely humanoid aliens from Avatar. We've determined, by the way, that hubs is descended from those guys. He has just enough human to turn his skin pink and bring his eyes a bit closer together, but all the other stuff is right on track to be one of The People.

Hilariously, when we went to see Avatar on Tuesday night, we were handed 3D glasses. Now, hubs suffers from a lazy eye and I am so long-sighted in one eye and short-sighted in the other that my reading glasses give ordinary people migraines. So we weren't so sure that the 3D lark would work for us... I think we both had headaches by the end, but it was probably worth it. That or the kilo of sugar I'm managing to eat per day. Hard to be sure.

I'm currently reading book 2 for Neal Stephensons' trilogy The System of the World and will be tempted to continue doing so tomorrow. We have a breakfast with friends scheduled, which is desirable, lovely and wonderful, then a detour which will add about forty minutes to the trip to my parents' place (DAMN THEM FOR MOVING!) then dinner with half the hubs' family. Not so much my kind of day. Can I veto? I have a feeling today will require copious quantities of toast. Tripod is helping. Particularly their rendition of "I hate your family". A little editing would work wonders.

 Oh look, a mosquito. Because being plagued with red, itchy, revolting lumps will CERTAINLY make my day better. Or maybe I could pass it off as smallpox?

Oh, one more thing.

 Family: Christmas cards in the post: yes yes, very lovely, well done, horrifically organised, supporting charity of your choice who produce the damn bits of cardboard,  but you live ONE suburb away from me and I see you weekly: WHY did you MAIL it??? I'm just saying.

My smallpox is itching.