If we are what we eat, I’d like to be a cream pie. Tart? Uh. Cream? Because it’s such a comfortable food.
A woman I worked with once was called The Lentil because, well, she looked like it. She also ate them with everything. Except maybe not cream pies – not that she ever let anything come out of her lips. It had to be raw, preferably red – they go down your esophagus faster – and would never have been within reach of non-biology. She had come to work with her eco-friendly, ergonomic non-plastic container, with the image of a freedom fighter on it. No, I’m not bitter, although I bet his lunch was.
Like a good apple, people seem halved when it comes to what they eat. Region Media the myth is that an employee regularly eats a chook for lunch. The entire hook, everything but the feathers, mainly because it doesn’t come with feathers.
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At other workplaces, I remember co-workers eating nothing every other Thursday on a full moon in a leap year or, if they decided to splurge, two crispy pieces of cardboard decorated with dry grass, or at least that was what it looked like. For me, this is what office dogs prefer, so I usually have bones.
In real life, movies and my dreams, it’s amazing how people react to food. What they let run down their throats, what must stay on the plate, what will never embellish their kitchens. I’m from the school where the ovens are the best place to store knits, and judging by the number of new homes in town that don’t even have kitchens, I’m not the only one. Cold, without said mesh, but not alone.
I love the idea of just calling dinner. Have something hot and fabulous delivered to your door that you don’t have to cook. The only problem is that more time will probably be given to how it looks on the plate than how it tastes. The smears are apparently large, ideally on the plate. Julienne chunks of carrot less than a centimeter from their life, strips of white meat that look like the fingers of a sloth and where carb is a four-letter word.
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But you can compose just about anything. Food from places where you thought only loaves and fishes – and never as much as you want – were on the menu.
The problem is that when you live in the bush, the only thing that comes when you call for dinner is still alive. Usually lambs with a death wish.
But it does offer a good excuse as to why your dinner party for guests isn’t as splendid as they might expect. It’s not like you can just walk into town to buy something that will make everything you do taste like it was supposed to in the first place. If your chook tastes like tuna, or vice versa, blame it on the rain. It still works in the field (b).
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As we come to the end, let’s finish with – you guessed it – dessert. Cream tartlets, of course. One of those sickly yolks with a soggy crust. Thanks but no to the Portuguese variety, they always look too puffy (read burnt) to the point of upsetting your digestion.
Original article published by Sally Hopman on riot law.