Guess what I’m nomming off a fork out of an artily tiny dish? Olives. This is something of a triumph. I never used to like ‘em. Neither did Helpdesk Man. This was once a relevant point in a Christmas gift episode which continues to puzzle me. Two years ago, Helpdesk Man’s sister rang me a few weeks before Christmas and asked “Do you like olives?”. “Not really”, quoth I. “Does Helpdesk Man?” she asked. “Nope”, I said. And what did she give us for Christmas? A big honking jar of olives. We get along pretty well, so occasionally in the stilly watches of the night this incident still haunts me. Anyway. A few weeks ago Helpdesk Man inexplicably developed a taste for the little blighters, and with the proselytising enthusiasm of the novice began berating me about my plebeian palate, lack of class and general unworthiness to consider myself any kind of a foodie. “Is it”, I said with a steely sneer, and not to be outdone by a man who spent his entire pre-married life unaware of the existence of non-packet custard, started nibbling at tiny slivers of olive in an effort to acclimatise myself to their taste.
Fascinatingly enough, it worked. I still can’t pop them whole into my mouth without my eyes watering, but eaten in ladylike (well, rodentlike) nibbles off a fork I can schlp them down with the best of them. Take that, Helpdesk Man.
And in order to give you a complete picture of the urbane sophisticatedness of a Smokey, I should probably add that I have a plastic bag over my head. It houses goo. Specifically, fenugreek. I’m fond of fenugreek in curries, but - call me a square if you will - it had not until today occurred to me to soak the seeds in hot water, grind them to a paste and smear them on my hair. Now it has. Mucilage, people. Fenugreek contains mucilage, which gives hair shine and slip and acts more like a commercial conditioner than most herbal conditioning agents such as apple cider vinegar and oils. Good stuff, no? And even if it doesn’t work, I’ll smell… exotic.
Oh, the party? We had it. Eleven people… slightly fewer chairs. Wouldn’t that make a great movie tagline? But we coped. I ended up making five kinds of ice cream: raspberry and white chocolate (schlp!), strawberry ripple (meh), mint chocolate chip (hmm), butterscotch caramel ripple with straciatella (ooo!) and double chocolate ripple (Helpdesk Man insisted). They were enjoyed, but I’ve been trying to palm the leftovers on unsuspecting family members ever since. Something about having five kinds of ice cream in one’s freezer is demoralising to one’s squish.
Miriam Says:
