When terribly simple becomes simply terrible

I am a fan of the potato bake. It's simple and delicious and involves cheese. Yesterday, however, after a rather blah day, I decided to zhoosh it up a little. Mainly because we had other veges in the fridge that need devouring. So it became a potato, pumpkin and eggplant bake. Which probably would have still worked but then I decided to add a layer of sliced tomatoes. And then Kajal asked for a layer of peas and at this point it would have been churlish to say no and green is such a pretty colour anyway, no? So in it all went, over went the cheese sauce and into the oven and we wandered away to watch something trashy on the telly because even really sophisticated women such as ourselves occasionally feel the need to stare aimlessly at a box in the corner of the living room.

Some time later I wandered back to check on my precious and discovered after opening the oven that our three smoke alarms all work very well. The bake was overflowing, the oven was smoking, but even more alarming - the delicious cheese sauce had curdled. It was still edible but only really if you managed to forget how a proper potato bake dances on your palate in a saucy and bewitching manner.

Oh god it was so SAD. I can only blame the tomato. Or the peas? Eggplant? I refuse to blame the potato or pumpkin. They are blameless victims. This is even worse than the time I discovered that hot porridge, milk and a kiwifruit are not a delicious combination because chewy milk is never nice.

Food for thought

I gave myself mild food poisoning - mushrooms, why must you turn on me like that, cruel - yet oddly attractive because I know smurfs live in some of you - little bits of fungus?

Since the departure of Nic'n'Kajal, we have tried to use their room as a brothel but no one would come - I think our surf nerd theme, complete with authentic sand and sci-fi/fantasy novels of the non-erotic kind may have not been sexy enough actually. So we allowed a Canadian to come and stay. His name was Ian, which actually makes up part of Canadian, so we just called him that: Canadian. Possibly not very friendly of us, but we made up for that by drinking all his beer. In return he cooked us dinner. My personal favourite was rasagne. Lasagne that needed another layer. What better than leftover risotto? And it was really good, so, hey, I probably shouldn't have mocked it so much. However, he also introduced us to clamato juice, which isn't necessarily a beverage I will be rushing out to buy if I ever make it to Canada, so maybe the rasagne mocking was for the greater good.

Canadian left, and our livers started to recover. Until we let the Chilean move in. Likes a drink does the Chilean. He also cooks well. He made a sort of shepherd's pie, although with hard boiled egg under the mash, which I thought was both odd and disgusting because I see no purpose for hard boiled egg in a perfect world. However, the rest of the pie was delicious. But when I took a piece, the Chilean did tell me that I could add either salt or ... sugar.

Sugar and hard boiled eggs make poisonous mushrooms appear quite attractive.

Less OMG, more OMP

In yet another thrilling example of how I am that much better at just living the dream* than most folks, but especially you, dear reading audience of seven, I have managed to burn myself - which I realise at first may not seem spectacular BUT - I now have a somewhat wonky and 10% incomplete letter P burnt into my left hand. I have no idea how I managed to do this but I am in no doubt as to it being proof that even when I fuck up - I come up trumps.

Also, new informative thing - don't fill up a water bottle in the dark. Because you will burn yourself and then have to go to bed with a both a hot water bottle and a tea towel full of ice, which sort of cancel each other out.

* I am actually not sure I want to live the dream after last night's one where Fi's brother Gary accidentally killed someone by throwing a spade at their head and then we all had to help hide the evidence.