Not A Problem

Back when I lived in Johannesburg, I never lived anywhere that had air conditioning because, quite frankly, it wasn’t necessary — you’re hot, you open a window.  Maybe turn on a small fan if there’s no breeze, but there was always a breeze.

Because of that, I had to keep my butter in the fridge because otherwise it would spoil very quickly.

Now?  Forget it:  with a/c and a constant (cool) temperature, I always leave the butter out (covered, of course) because I hate tearing up my bread with stiff, cold butter.

Apparently, this is a thing.

WE have all been storing butter wrong – and we should make a very quick change to revamp our use of the dairy delight, according to one campaigner.

Joelle Mertzel is the leading the charge to change the way people treat their butter – insisting it should be kept out of the fridge. The 49-year-old says that butter does not have to be chilled – and can instead be kept happily on the counter for weeks on end. Joelle, a mum-of-three, from California, has even commissioned lab tests to prove her theory.
And she is campaigning to make the American government change their butter guidelines. 

Keyword:  guideline.

In other words:  who cares what the .dotgov “recommends”?  Remember when the Food Pyramid was their big deal?  And, as we all know, the pyramid has been proven to be totally fucked up, like oh-so many government “guidelines”.

Methinks the Californian woman has too much time on her hands if she’s bothering with this shit.

In passing, I should point out that in my house, no pound of butter has ever lasted longer than a few days before being consumed, so the whole issue is moot.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll make myself a sarnie.

New Devilment

…I mean development. As though Twinkies were not bad enough, the Hostess Baking Company has launched Bouncers.

“Wait, Kim… you mean like bouncing boobies?”

No.  I mean mini-Twinkies presented in sealed three-packs, but glazed — as though regular Twinkies were not sufficiently enticing.  (They kinda do look like mini-boobies, though.)

Of course, this being a full-service blog, I had to test them (so that my Loyal Readers won’t have to).

Verdict:  more than two (their “suggested servicing size” is three) will leave you “OMG-I’m-gonna-hurl” nauseated.

I had six.  Because Science.

Through Fresh Eyes

So Beloved Granddaughter has left us (along with her lovely parents) and gone back to Seffrica sob sob.

While Over Here, of course, we showed them around and tried to see the country from their perspective.

While they truly enjoyed themselves — I mean, Buc-ees, who could hate that? — there were some blots on the landscape, and here are the three most egregious:

1 – Waffle House Sucks

It used to be the place where America had breakfast on the road, and where we could be assured of an inexpensive meal drawn from a dizzying choice of meals.  Now?  I won’t be going back.  A cut-down, tiny menu (fallout from Covid, by the way), no longer inexpensive, and to be honest, the food was terrible even by WH’s standards.  (More on this later.)

2 – Sports Merchandise Is A Fucking Ripoff

We got to babysit Beloved Granddaughter while her parents went to watch a Dallas Mavericks game, which they enjoyed immensely — although bewildered by the spectacle.  The next morning, I went to Academy to buy them some Mavs stuff for souvies.  Did I?  Like hell I did.  $30 for a cheap (made in Third World Country #7) t-shirt?  $50 for a ditto sweatshirt, $25 for a cap?  WHO ARE THEY KIDDING?

3 – Light Beer Is Not Only Piss, It’s Also A Rip-Off

Son-in-law tried three different light beers (Bud Light, Miller Lite and Michelob Ultra), and declared them all to be shit beyond words.  (I could have told him that, but he wanted to “try the American experience” — his words —  even though I warned him against it.)  The nadir of all this came at the Mavs game, where he paid $10 for a cup of the aforesaid Michelob Ultra.  His description of American “light” beer cannot be repeated here, lest it offend my Readers’ sensitive feelings, and he is the politest, most Christian young man I’ve ever met.

Bonus:  Even Cheap Food Is Overpriced

Breakfast at IHOP:  $90 for four, excluding tip.  $12 for a stack of pancakes?  What the hell has happened to us?

Quite apart from poverty issues, it’ll be a LONG time before New Wife and I eat out again.  The prices aren’t just high, they’re a fucking insult.

Food Break

Reader Mike L. sends me disgusting stuff like this — ugh — which forces me down a branch line of thought, basically to help me get rid of the taste of vomit.

I spend a lot of time talking about how much I love Britishland foods (fish & chips, meat pies, sausage rolls etc.) but I have to say that I’ve also come to love me some Tex-Mex dishes, e.g.:


And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the kitchen.

Coup De Grâce

I said yesterday that the three-day orgy of food (a.k.a. family Christmas feasts) was over, that I’d eaten enough for twelve Ethiopians and drunk enough for four Irish navvies, etc. etc. etc.

I lied.

Or rather, I forgot that we’d promised to take Brother-In-Law for some Mexican food for lunch yesterday.

And that we’d planned on dinner with Doc Russia and his exquisite wife later last night.

So of course we did both:  quesadillas, fajitas, chimichangas and so on, accompanied by the usual margaritas (at Gloria’s);  and beef short ribs, pineapple sponge cake with ice cream, and whiskey plus red wine (at Doc’s).

I now look and feel like Monty Python’s Mr. Creosote, understand how an actual python feels when it’s swallowed, say, a large pig, and I have lost the will to live.

Here’s a picture of a gun to keep you all happy:

And please excuse me while I go off and groan for a few hours.

Blown Out

Aaaaargh.  Thanksgiving, schmanksgiving;  when it comes to extended gluttony (at least in our family), nothing begins to compare with the Three Days Of Christmas.

Christmas Eve “snacks” (if you can call a long dining room table FULL of finger foods and a huge charcuterie board “snacks”, plus of course booze);  Christmas morning brunch (full English plus cinnamon rolls, and mimosas);  and then the pièce de résistance, the Boxing Day Roast Beast, with enough wine to drown a walrus.

I don’t want to see any food until at least tomorrow, and not even a sniff of booze until New Year’s Eve.