Slippers and cackling and cookery, oh my!
So I'm sitting here drinking strawberry milk (which is like alcohol, in a sense, if you're me and can get drunk on air) and half watching Black Books, and I just realised I have both feet crammed into one slipper.
I own a great many slippers. Two in fact. The other one is under the table and I'm too cold to move and too busy cackling at everything to actually do anything.
Yesterday I made a bacon bone soup, which tastes ohmygodsoamazing, and have discovered that apparently it takes me about four hours more than it should to cook soup. This time it was because I forgot the dried soup mix for the first three hours of boiling. I thought it was strangely thin, then figured out why and had to wait another couple of hours until everything was actually cooked. And the really silly part is that this happened last time too. Along with many, many other ridiculous soup making incidents.
First, the night before (having bought the bacon bones and a soup pack of veggies from Coles a few days ealier), I decided I needed more vegetables, so got some at Franklins while I was already down there. No harm done. Then, the next day when actually cooking the soup, I rang my Mum to doublecheck whether bacon bones needed to be cooked on thier own first (they don't). Then I discovered I had far, far too many vegetables. So, decided I, I would use the two smaller pots as well as the bigger one. But, after putting all the veggies in the pots, and adding the water, I found didn't have enough bacon bone to go around all the pots.
So I somehow got all the pots into the fridge, and hiked down to Broadway. The butchers there had hardly even heard of bacon bones, so I had to go into Coles. Now, the thing with Coles is, it's a bastard. Especially on a Saturday afternoon. It. was. chokers. What's wrong with all these people? Don't they have homes to go to? Do they have nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon than buy ridiculous food that they don't need and is probably slowly killing them?
So anyway. I'm in Coles and manage to snag a basket and elbow my way over to the meat counter deli thing. I wait around for a spare minion to serve me.
"What can I get you?" he says.
"Just some bacon bones please," says I.
"Bay-con-bones?" he says.
"Bacon bones," says I. "I have gotten them here before."
"Huh, right, bacon bones," says he, with the air of someone who has never been blessed with a serving of the greatest soup known to man, por sap. Then "Hang on, I'll just check..."
So it turns out they had no bacon bones. Right. By this point I was knackered. I had scurried from my place to Coles, beaten my way through fifteen billion annoying students buying noodles, ricecakes and chocolate, and my shoulder hurt from cutting up about thirteen kilos of vegetables. Also, everything smelt like onions.
So I wander around the shop for a while, figuring I was already there I might as well get some groceries. Upon hitting the gravy isle, I ring Mum again.
"Hello, [business name]."
"Hi Mum," I say. "Do you think little bits of bacon would go well instead of bacon bones?"
"What? Where are you? Are you still making that soup?"
"Yes. My stupid pot is too small so I'm making several little soups and I want plently of bacon. Coles have no bacon bones, would bits of bacon work?"
"You're at Coles?!"
"Yes. Bacon, will it work?"
"Um, maybe? It couldn't hurt.... Weren't you going to study today?"
"Yes. Yes I was. But then the soup decided to eat my life so I've not had much time. So I should go with the bacon, then?"
"You're already there, just give it a go, it's a good idea."
"Right, thanks."
"And let me know how it goes. I like the meat."
"Right, okay. Once I get out of this overcrowdded hell hole and actually make the damn soup! I'll be sure to let you know."
So, I buy the bits of bacon and several other heavy and inconvieniently shaped bits of rubbish (including probably some crockery. Because I always buy crockery when it is a really really stupid idea to buy crockery and when I've already got mountains of stuff that exists with the soul purpose of making you think your shiney new crockery is doomed), and trudge to the busstop. The bus takes ages. It's a busy time of day and about three buses go by that are too full before, after ten or more minutes, a bus with some seats finially comes. But by that point I'm already half way to the flat after getting sick of waiting. I know the bus finally came because it drove past me when I was juuuust too far from the next stop for it to do me any good.
I finally get home, arms killing me and me about ready to kill anything that gets in my way. I distribute the bacon and bacon bones as evenly as I can, and turn on the hotplates.
Everything is going well. Finally, my soup is shaping up.
But wait, what's this? There appears to be water all around the hotplate the largest pot is on. Hmm, that's strange, I must have spilled some. I wipe it up. More water appears. Quite quickly, actually. The pot's not boiling yet, where the hell is the water coming from? I check the base of the pot, there are no holes. I look closer, and see that, somehow, water is seeping through the base of the pot. My cheap as pot from the variety shop down the street is finally showing me why most pots cost more than twelve dollars.
I frantically pour the contents of the big pot (henceforth to be referred to as "the frigging bit of tin that must burn, burn like the soup-seeping piece of evil it is!!!!!") into any avalible bowls, turn off the oven, and storm out of the kitchen.
Some twenty minutes later, the following conversation happened:
"Hello, [business na--]"
"What's a reasonable price to pay for a pot?"
"...what? Where are you now?"
"K-mart. At Broadway. I need a pot. How much should pots cost?"
"Um, I'm not sure. I don't exactly buy that many pots. Why do you need a pot? What happened? Are you still making that soup?"
"Yes. The soup is still being made. The soup will not STOP being made. The universe hates my damn soup. AND WHY THE HELL DOESN'T THIS SHOP PUT PRICES ON ANYTHING AND I DON'T CARE IF PEOPLE HEAR ME SLAGGING THE SHOP OFF WHY ARE THERE SO MANY PEOPLE HERE ANYWAY DON'T THEY HAVE HOMES TO GO TO I HAVE AN EXCUSE I'M MAKING A DAMN SOUP!"
"Okay." She was laughing, laughing at my agony. Granted, I was pretty hysterical myself by this point, possibly with as much being so so very angry and tired and desperate as with humour. "Pots are probably anything from thirty to sixty dollars?"
"Good. Right. Because I have discovered anything under twenty can't handle actually being used in any significant way." I explained the seeping, she was puzzled ("Your pot was leaking?! How? How on Earth was your pot leaking? Were there holes?" "The water was too heavy for it, it seeped through the pathetically thin bottom. I want a pot with a centimeter of bottom metal!" "...that's actually the normal size." "...why the hell did you buy me a millimeter thin one then? You're a bad mother.") I found a pot I liked, raving in hisses into my mobile the whole time. Then exploded about the pot not having a price, and stormed off to find a working price-point. I talked to Mum - alternating between rages, jokes, and generally feeling sorry for myself and my wasted day - until I got to the register, and, to comfort myself, grabbed a cheap, comfy looking jumper off a hook before lining up. There was no way in hell I was going to try it on. I left with arms full of pot box.
When I got home again - walked home, not even bothering with the bus this time - I had to wash the pot before using it. Then I poured the contents of the two smaller pots and the three bowls into the shiny, giant, new pot, and let it cook. Leaving the enormous amount of washing up for later.
A few hours later, after glaring at the full sink before turning to the oven, I puzzled over why the soup was so thin. Then I figured it out and added the dried soup mix. By this point I was really hungry. The soup tasted bleh, so I had to add stock. All this meant about two more hours of simmering. I schlepped starvingly about on the couch.
When the soup was finally done, it was wonderful and fed me for several weeks. The used phone credit, obscene amount of washing up, and unbelievably sore legs seemed a bit of a high price for soup, even the best type of soup known to man.
So I consider me forgetting to add the soup mix this time a very very very tiny inconvenience in the grand scheme of possible soup related disasters.
I never have this sort of trouble with cakes.
I own a great many slippers. Two in fact. The other one is under the table and I'm too cold to move and too busy cackling at everything to actually do anything.
Yesterday I made a bacon bone soup, which tastes ohmygodsoamazing, and have discovered that apparently it takes me about four hours more than it should to cook soup. This time it was because I forgot the dried soup mix for the first three hours of boiling. I thought it was strangely thin, then figured out why and had to wait another couple of hours until everything was actually cooked. And the really silly part is that this happened last time too. Along with many, many other ridiculous soup making incidents.
First, the night before (having bought the bacon bones and a soup pack of veggies from Coles a few days ealier), I decided I needed more vegetables, so got some at Franklins while I was already down there. No harm done. Then, the next day when actually cooking the soup, I rang my Mum to doublecheck whether bacon bones needed to be cooked on thier own first (they don't). Then I discovered I had far, far too many vegetables. So, decided I, I would use the two smaller pots as well as the bigger one. But, after putting all the veggies in the pots, and adding the water, I found didn't have enough bacon bone to go around all the pots.
So I somehow got all the pots into the fridge, and hiked down to Broadway. The butchers there had hardly even heard of bacon bones, so I had to go into Coles. Now, the thing with Coles is, it's a bastard. Especially on a Saturday afternoon. It. was. chokers. What's wrong with all these people? Don't they have homes to go to? Do they have nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon than buy ridiculous food that they don't need and is probably slowly killing them?
So anyway. I'm in Coles and manage to snag a basket and elbow my way over to the meat counter deli thing. I wait around for a spare minion to serve me.
"What can I get you?" he says.
"Just some bacon bones please," says I.
"Bay-con-bones?" he says.
"Bacon bones," says I. "I have gotten them here before."
"Huh, right, bacon bones," says he, with the air of someone who has never been blessed with a serving of the greatest soup known to man, por sap. Then "Hang on, I'll just check..."
So it turns out they had no bacon bones. Right. By this point I was knackered. I had scurried from my place to Coles, beaten my way through fifteen billion annoying students buying noodles, ricecakes and chocolate, and my shoulder hurt from cutting up about thirteen kilos of vegetables. Also, everything smelt like onions.
So I wander around the shop for a while, figuring I was already there I might as well get some groceries. Upon hitting the gravy isle, I ring Mum again.
"Hello, [business name]."
"Hi Mum," I say. "Do you think little bits of bacon would go well instead of bacon bones?"
"What? Where are you? Are you still making that soup?"
"Yes. My stupid pot is too small so I'm making several little soups and I want plently of bacon. Coles have no bacon bones, would bits of bacon work?"
"You're at Coles?!"
"Yes. Bacon, will it work?"
"Um, maybe? It couldn't hurt.... Weren't you going to study today?"
"Yes. Yes I was. But then the soup decided to eat my life so I've not had much time. So I should go with the bacon, then?"
"You're already there, just give it a go, it's a good idea."
"Right, thanks."
"And let me know how it goes. I like the meat."
"Right, okay. Once I get out of this overcrowdded hell hole and actually make the damn soup! I'll be sure to let you know."
So, I buy the bits of bacon and several other heavy and inconvieniently shaped bits of rubbish (including probably some crockery. Because I always buy crockery when it is a really really stupid idea to buy crockery and when I've already got mountains of stuff that exists with the soul purpose of making you think your shiney new crockery is doomed), and trudge to the busstop. The bus takes ages. It's a busy time of day and about three buses go by that are too full before, after ten or more minutes, a bus with some seats finially comes. But by that point I'm already half way to the flat after getting sick of waiting. I know the bus finally came because it drove past me when I was juuuust too far from the next stop for it to do me any good.
I finally get home, arms killing me and me about ready to kill anything that gets in my way. I distribute the bacon and bacon bones as evenly as I can, and turn on the hotplates.
Everything is going well. Finally, my soup is shaping up.
But wait, what's this? There appears to be water all around the hotplate the largest pot is on. Hmm, that's strange, I must have spilled some. I wipe it up. More water appears. Quite quickly, actually. The pot's not boiling yet, where the hell is the water coming from? I check the base of the pot, there are no holes. I look closer, and see that, somehow, water is seeping through the base of the pot. My cheap as pot from the variety shop down the street is finally showing me why most pots cost more than twelve dollars.
I frantically pour the contents of the big pot (henceforth to be referred to as "the frigging bit of tin that must burn, burn like the soup-seeping piece of evil it is!!!!!") into any avalible bowls, turn off the oven, and storm out of the kitchen.
Some twenty minutes later, the following conversation happened:
"Hello, [business na--]"
"What's a reasonable price to pay for a pot?"
"...what? Where are you now?"
"K-mart. At Broadway. I need a pot. How much should pots cost?"
"Um, I'm not sure. I don't exactly buy that many pots. Why do you need a pot? What happened? Are you still making that soup?"
"Yes. The soup is still being made. The soup will not STOP being made. The universe hates my damn soup. AND WHY THE HELL DOESN'T THIS SHOP PUT PRICES ON ANYTHING AND I DON'T CARE IF PEOPLE HEAR ME SLAGGING THE SHOP OFF WHY ARE THERE SO MANY PEOPLE HERE ANYWAY DON'T THEY HAVE HOMES TO GO TO I HAVE AN EXCUSE I'M MAKING A DAMN SOUP!"
"Okay." She was laughing, laughing at my agony. Granted, I was pretty hysterical myself by this point, possibly with as much being so so very angry and tired and desperate as with humour. "Pots are probably anything from thirty to sixty dollars?"
"Good. Right. Because I have discovered anything under twenty can't handle actually being used in any significant way." I explained the seeping, she was puzzled ("Your pot was leaking?! How? How on Earth was your pot leaking? Were there holes?" "The water was too heavy for it, it seeped through the pathetically thin bottom. I want a pot with a centimeter of bottom metal!" "...that's actually the normal size." "...why the hell did you buy me a millimeter thin one then? You're a bad mother.") I found a pot I liked, raving in hisses into my mobile the whole time. Then exploded about the pot not having a price, and stormed off to find a working price-point. I talked to Mum - alternating between rages, jokes, and generally feeling sorry for myself and my wasted day - until I got to the register, and, to comfort myself, grabbed a cheap, comfy looking jumper off a hook before lining up. There was no way in hell I was going to try it on. I left with arms full of pot box.
When I got home again - walked home, not even bothering with the bus this time - I had to wash the pot before using it. Then I poured the contents of the two smaller pots and the three bowls into the shiny, giant, new pot, and let it cook. Leaving the enormous amount of washing up for later.
A few hours later, after glaring at the full sink before turning to the oven, I puzzled over why the soup was so thin. Then I figured it out and added the dried soup mix. By this point I was really hungry. The soup tasted bleh, so I had to add stock. All this meant about two more hours of simmering. I schlepped starvingly about on the couch.
When the soup was finally done, it was wonderful and fed me for several weeks. The used phone credit, obscene amount of washing up, and unbelievably sore legs seemed a bit of a high price for soup, even the best type of soup known to man.
So I consider me forgetting to add the soup mix this time a very very very tiny inconvenience in the grand scheme of possible soup related disasters.
I never have this sort of trouble with cakes.