Disaster Chef

I’m thinking about starting up my own new reality TV show. It will be called ‘Disaster Chef’.

Rather than having would-be chef contestants and a bunch of ‘expert’ judges, my show will feature me as the main contestant and some of the people I have attempted to poison over the years with my cooking as the judges/jurors.

So where did this idea come from? Well, there I was in the kitchen the other day, trying to make something yummy - yet sugarfree - (yes, I know that sounds like something of an oxymoron, but bear with me) for my houseguests.

You see, I was dumping sugar as part of my latest sugar-free diet campaign, to which everyone else in the household (or who will listen) is being forced to subscribe – whether they want to or not. When I get on a bandwagon, I become almost evangelical in my devoutness - meaning I am currently the Jimmy Swaggart of Anti-Sugarism. (Although minus his millions and his orange-skinned wife, of course).

But before the culinary ‘creation’ could start, I had to scour the town in search of some ‘dextrose’ powder, a form of glucose which, according to my Bible…. I mean the sugar-free diet book, is ‘allowed’ as a replacement for the dreaded white stuff.

This proved to be quite a challenge but, eventually, in the home brew section of my supermarket, I found a Dextrose/Maltodextrose compound which I decided would suffice and rushed hastily home to my laboratory…I mean kitchen…to get cracking on my sugar-free cheesecake.

All was going well.

I’d managed to make the ‘base’ and started on the filling. Along with mixing cream cheese, lemon, dextrose and lemon rind, this part of the recipe required that I ‘heat two tablespoons of water’ and then add three teaspoons of gelatine, stir til dissolved then remove to cool.

A little voice suggested that, once cooled, this little concoction would be the consistency of rubber, but I dismissed it. Surely the recipe knew more about these things than I, so I just did what I was told. Perhaps it will dissolve when mixed with the filling? I thought hopefully.

The filling looked yummy and I was feeling very confident that I had a success on my hands (a rare feeling for me, I admit). Of course, my confidence was grossly misplaced for, as you will have guessed by now, once I plonked my little lump of rubber in the mixmaster bowl I realised (to my horror!) that the rubber was now being chopped into a million rubbery little pieces which were now permeating the entire bowl of filling!

But never one to give up easily, I grabbed the bowl and starting diving in with my fingers to retrieve as many lumps as I could get. I then mixed some more gelatine and water, plonked it in the mix, noticed it was now too sloppy, added another block of cream cheese and some more of my new friend, dextrose, and hoped for the best.

To overcome the fact that there were still a million small lumps of gelatine in the mix, I cunningly chopped up a few strawberries and threw them in so no one would notice the other lumps.

It was a master stroke, and I’m happy to report that the cheesecake was eaten with gusto (apart from the fact that the base was the consistency of week old cement and I think a few fillings and/or teeth were lost).

Anyway, hence my idea to start my own television series. After all, I am more than qualified as a Disaster Chef extraodinnaire. And my kids have even offered to be the Judges.

(I just hope they ain’t ‘hanging judges’ or I’m a gonner for sure!)

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The Perfect Crime

Once again I am going to tell you a story about my friend Jemima and her husband, Big Ted (they of the jumping dance in the African Serengeti story I told you some time ago).

Well this time, our intrepid travellers were traversing the Victorian Great Ocean Road in a campervan.

After a wonderful evening of wining and dining with friends, Jemima and Big Ted headed for bed. Some time later, after Jemima was fast asleep, Big Ted, feeling a little the worse for wear, decided to head for the communal toilets.

Once there, he began conducting his ablutions when suddenly he felt woosy and lightheaded and fell swiftly to the concrete floor in a faint – whacking his head on the hard floor as he went.

He was out for the count (for who knows how long?) but when he finally came around he felt decidedly better, apart from quite a nasty cut to the back of his head.

After inspecting his head in the mirror and washing off the blood, he decided he was okay to head back to the campervan. But then he noticed there was blood on the floor from his cut and so, being a thoughtful chap, he setting about mopping it up with some cleaning gear he found in a nearby cupboard.

A few minutes later, satisfied that he’d cleaned the floor to a good standard, he carefully rinsed off the mop, replaced it in the cupboard and headed back to the van. There he quietly climbed back into bed beside the still sleeping Jemima and went straight back to sleep.

In the morning, he gave Jemima a full account of the night’s unusual events which, in hindsight, he thought was rather funny.

Jemima, conversely, was horrified!

Not only that Big Ted had fainted and injured himself, but also because he hadn’t woken her to tell her what had happened. He could have died in his bed, she said, and she wouldn’t have known anything about it!

Worse still, she suddenly realised, once they did an autopsy on him they would have found he died from a blow to the head but, of course, there would be no evidence anywhere to explain what had happened (because he’d cleaned it up carefully himself, hadn’t he?)

Jemima would, no doubt, have ended up as the prime suspect in a murder trial and all because Big Ted was such a thoughtful, tidy chap!

Forensics would have been scouring every square centimetre of the van in search of the claw hammer or iron with which the heartless shrew had clomped her unsuspecting man (presumably for his money, because she had that evil look about her, didn’t she?)

Meanwhile Jemima would be sitting in some stinking police cell with tear-stained face and bulging sleepless eyes, pleading her innocence (albeit on deaf ears).

Well anyway, fortunately it all worked out well and no such police investigation was required. No thanks to Big Ted and his tidy, thoughtful ways!

(I’ve always thought tidiness was over-rated and now I know why!)

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Spinal Tap Tap

Now, if you’re a chiropractor (or someone else who has a special interest in the care of spines) you might want to look away now.

For I’m about to own up to something that is likely to be very much frowned upon by people who have no doubt studied for years in their specialist field and didn’t just stumble across their skills by pure accident (like moi).

You see, the spouse, having quite seriously injured his spine in his teenage years, has suffered terribly over the years with back pain and headaches. He’s tried all kinds of treatments to reduce the pain; from physio, to acupuncture, to ‘cupping and spooning’ (don’t ask), to drugs (legal ones!) to deep tissue and Thai massages and even once had a needle inserted into his neck to supposedly ‘kill’ the nerve that was causing the pain. This resulted in numbness in his neck for about six months, but the niggling pain persisted so, clearly, they’d killed the wrong guy!

Well anyway, all this pain and suffering has meant I’ve become quite the masseuse over the years. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve rubbed and prodded that man’s back, I’d be living on the French Riviera.

Initially my feeble efforts didn’t yield too much relief for him and usually resulted in stiff, sore hands and fingers for me. But after both of us were treated by a wonderful ‘deep tissue’ masseuse for some time, I gained a bit of know-how in reducing tension in his tight muscles (using my elbows) and can now actually help.

Our trip to Thailand also benefited his sore back. Every day he would pop down to the Thai ladies in their beach massage shack and come back a new man. I think the girls actually enjoyed the challenge of working on this person with such a high pain threshold, and they twisted and elbowed him and walked (literally!) all over him. I picked up some new techniques from them which I’ve been using on him since our return. (Not walking on him, obviously. Tough he might be, but Hercules? Nah).

Additionally, after being a long term chiropractic patient myself, I’ve also noted with interest some of my chiro’s special techniques and terminologies.

But maybe I’ve now gone a bit far with my ‘home schooling’ on all things spinal. Yes, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing; especially when your ‘patient’ is lying on the lounge room floor; ready to sell his first born for a Panadeine Forte.

There I was, jamming my elbows mercilessly into his back when he said:
“How about giving my spine a bit of a push down – like the chiropractor does? If you could just get it to move a bit, I reckon it would help.”

I nervously agreed (yes, this is the scary bit, folks) and placed my hands one on top of the other on his spine in the designated spot and gave a quick ‘jab’.

Crack! Went his spine - much to my surprise - and I jumped back in shock.

“Omigod!” I cried, worried I’d done some permanent damage.

“Nice!” he cried triumphantly. “It feels better already!”

“Aren’t I clever?” I thought and began mentally writing out my chiro bill.

Well, anyway that was a few months ago and I’ve ‘treated’ him a couple more times since -- to quite good effect too, if I do say so myself.

But I realised I had stepped over the mark when this morning I again managed to move his spine a little and found myself making a wannabe-chiropractish little comment; “I think it was that damn ‘T-12’ vertebra again!”

We both realised what I’d said and burst out laughing.

Something tells me I’m getting waaaay too big for my chiropractic boots, so you’ll be pleased to hear I’m now hanging them up!

(Did I hear you say “Phew!”?)

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So Long and Thanks for All the Tummy Rubs

Back in 1984, author Douglas Adams wrote the fourth book of his ‘Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy trilogy’ (yes, I did say fourth book, so if you’re not familiar with Adams’ work, you will deduce that he’s something of a joker).

Anyway, this book was titled ‘So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish’ in reference to a message supposedly left by the dolphins as they departed Planet Earth before it was demolished to make way for a hyperspace bypass. (FYI: We are apparently now living on an alternate earth to which we were transported without our knowledge before our other planet earth was destroyed).

Well, anyway, the implication is that the dolphins saw the writing on the wall. Well, they are pretty smart creatures. After all, don’t they always look happy? And why wouldn’t they be, when they get to swim and play all day and people admire them, scratch their bellies and throw fish to them? Certainly doesn’t sound like much of a tough gig to me!

Well, anyway, the dolphin thing came to mind the other night as I was sitting watching TV with a great lump of Scruffy Dog positioned awkwardly on my lap while I stroked his head and scratched behind his ears. I thought to myself, “This dog has the life!” If I dared to stop stroking or scratching, he would gently take my hand in his mouth and ‘insist’ that I get back to my job.

Thus, it occurred to me that perhaps I am not his ‘Mistress’ after all. In fact, I started to wonder if, quite to the contrary, I am actually his PET? And a rather well trained pet at that!

I pondered the way dogs greet each other and wondered if perhaps, like the dolphins, their communication is way more sophisticated than we know.

As they sniff each other’s posteriors, might they really be having an inaudible discussion on the vagaries of ‘pet’ training?

“How’s your human doing?” Jake the Staffy might be saying to his buddy, Deefer the Beagle as they both cock their legs on a tree. “Got him trained up yet?”

“I’m working on it, Jake -- but he’s a tough one. Mind of his own! Got him opening the door for me on command, though. And, he’s getting the hang of ‘throw the stick’. But there’s a lot more work to be done. Might take him along to one of those pet obedience classes, actually.”

“Great idea. I once took my girl there and she caught on really quickly to the ‘give me treats if you want me to do something’ lesson. The look on her face is priceless when I ‘sit’ on command. Haven’t the heart to tell her I was planning to sit anyway but, hey, she gets a kick out of thinking she’s in charge, so why spoil her fun?”

“Ha ha! That’s hilarious, Jake. Well, must go! Gotta have his ‘walkies’, you know. Yes, I know you and I prefer to think of it as our ‘cardio vascular workout’ but, let’s face it, we need to keep the language simple for this lot. That’s why I usually stick to ‘woof’. It’s about the only thing they seem to understand.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Not the smartest breed on the planet, but at least they feed us twice a day, scratch our bellies, give us the odd bath and vaccination and get us out of the house every morning. So we can’t complain. Too bad they have to go to work every day to support us. But hey, I guess that’s what pets are for! ……….

Nice collar, by the way. Are those diamonds real?”

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Li’l Vampires?

The other day I was surfing the internet looking for ideas for curtains for my lounge room. After browsing several home interior sites I finally found what seemed to be a stylish site with some very nice, elegant ideas.

As I trawled through the photos on the site, I noticed that one picture showed a baby of around eight months in the foreground, sitting on a sofa.

“How cute,” I thought, assuming that perhaps the owner of the company had, like many a proud parent, decided to show off their offspring. I was a little surprised that they had chosen their business site to do so but conceded that there are many advertising photos on the internet of real people. Besides, I thought, many people are drawn to babies, so perhaps it wasn’t such a bad marketing ploy, after all.

But as I continued to scroll through the rest of the photographs, I came across the baby again. This time it was a close up. He or she was smiling cutely but there was something disturbing about the image.

When I looked closer I noticed the following words emblazoned in red writing across the baby’s tiny white singlet: “I’d rather be drinking blood”.

Now, forgive my bewilderment but, at what point in a marketing campaign might one decide that a photo of a small child wearing a tacky and potentially offensive singlet might send sales skyrocketing?

I’m imagining a bunch of trendy curtain-design people hunched over a worktable, sifting through dozens of photos when suddenly one of them has an epiphany;

“I know!” he shouts, ‘Let’s include Mini Me Dracula drooling and wearing a distasteful little shirt. Surely THAT will get the curtain-buying punters in!”

At the other end of the marketing equation, can you visualise the curtain-buyers embracing this quirky little advertising stunt?

“Oh, look, Sebastian. This evil-looking child who prefers drinking blood looks just perfect against those amazing plantation shutters. I simply must have them.”

Shhhhrighhhht.

Surely the twits must have realised that not everyone would take kindly to the image? So why on earth include a photo that could polarise – and in many cases actually turn away - potential customers? Not to mention, that they portrayed their own child in a bad light.

It just made no sense, but then again, I have come to realise that some parents are quite odd. On the one hand they say they want the absolute best for their kids; but on the other hand, they don’t seem to be very clear about what, exactly, that is.

Surely, even posting a normal photo of one’s child on the web should be given a reasonable amount of consideration, let alone posting a child wearing a slogan with offensive and/or evil connotations.

Anyway, even though I realise my non purchase will not even be noticed by the vendors, at least I’m satisfied that Vampire Boy’s thoughtless parents won’t be getting my curtain business any time soon.

“I’d rather have bare windows!” was my response to their website and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.

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The Naughty Finger

You know how in the cartoons when a character hurts their finger, it’s animated into this huge, red, pulsating digit? (I’m visualising Fred Flintstone going “Yeeeeeooooow!” as I write).

You do? Well that’s me right now. Except, if I’m totally honest there’s really no huge, red, pulsating finger, just rather a poor excuse for a cut on the end of my ‘pointer’ which has been giving me absolute grief for days.

And I’m getting no sympathy from my dog, Moses, either as it was an attempt to swat him that caused the injury in the first place. In fact, I can almost hear a smug little doggie “serves you right” as he reminds me that he was just trying to ‘help’ me when my finger connected rather sharply with some woodwork instead of him.

But the reason I am even writing about this is that it’s almost as if this sore finger has its own dastardly agenda. Whatever I’m doing it seems to find itself in an awkward (read ‘excruciatingly painful’!) spot.

I have a shower; it clunks itself on the soap tray. I try to dress; it gets itself caught in the elastic of my undies. I rummage through the cutlery drawer; it finds a couple of loose spoons to wedge itself between. I flick on the car blinkers; it goes one step further and whacks the steering wheel. It’s on a mission to make me notice it!

“Look at me!” it seems to be saying. “Don’t just go about your daily life like a normal, pain-free person. We have an ‘injury’ here, woman! Suffer!”

My handbag is like a mobile torture chamber. A simple search for the car keys has now become an exercise that must be planned with military precision. Firstly, the bag must be placed on a flat surface.

Then, using LEFT hand only (the non injured hand), items impeding the view of said car keys, are removed one by one. At NO point whatsoever in this delicate operation is the right hand permitted to engage in the activity. That is, until my mobile starts ringing in the bowels of the bag and ‘Old Righty’ goes into auto-response and dives foolishly into the fray.

Result? Me hopping around, waving my sore finger in the air like a mad woman and trying to stop myself from turning the air blue with expletives ….. and a missed call.

“Was it really worth it?” I ask Old Righty grumpily (yes, now I’m even talking to the thing). “You’ve just set your healing process back by about three days, I reckon.”

Old Righty just gives a sickening throb and says ‘Whatever’. He’s had his fun.

And then there’s night time. You wouldn’t think one could continue to injure one’s finger in bed, would you? But yes, that’s exactly what I can do.

After several pain-wracked moments of arranging myself under the covers, I attempt to roll on to my side, only to find Old Righty’s having none of it. He’s decided to wind himself defiantly into the corner of the sheet where he stays until he is ripped forth by the momentum of me doing my beached whale impersonation.

“Yeeeeeeeoooooow!” hollers Miss Flintstone as her pulsating, red, swollen digit wins again.

I lie there for the next several hours with my hand in the air in an attempt to keep the blood from flowing freely into the end of the finger.

“What the hell are you doing?” the spouse inquires after waking to find me looking like a zombie-fied, horizontal goal umpire.

Well, anyway, I think Old Righty might have won, afterall. I reckon it could be a trip to the doctor for some antibiotics in the very near future.

“I told you so,” says Old Righty, smugly admiring his latest bandage.

Argghhh! There’s nothing worse than the finger of scorn!

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Location! Location! Location!

Isn’t it sad that the older we get, the harder it is to keep fit, healthy, trim, taut and terrific.



The kilos pile on at an alarming rate, the muscles hurt for days after a bit of exercise and the wrinkles and grey hairs seem to be competing to see which can multiply the most in the shortest space of time. Even the brain cells seem to be winding down. What was that other thing I was going to mention? Oh I forget…never mind ……...it might come to me in the morning……



Yes, it hardly seems fair that the human form seems so hell bent on dilapidation. After all, it’s not like most of us don’t take care of ourselves. We eat our fibre, drink our water, eat fruit and walk the dogs. What more do we have to do?



I mean, if I was a house, I would simply be in need of a renovation and some cashed up property mogul would come along and weave some creative magic on my tired façade. Some render here, some new stumps there, an electrical overhaul and a new roof, perhaps.



Or better still, wouldn’t it be great if I could just flog off the old body and upgrade to a new “residence”?



I can just imagine the advertisement for that!



For Genuine Sale



Renovators Delight

Female Human Body

Circa 1960

Solid construction

Rustic charm

Some ornamental features



Give the old girl a new lease on life!



Yes, buyers, this yesteryear beauty may be in need of renovation, but with a little TLC, some spakfilla, a good paint job (and perhaps even some minor earth moving equipment), she could be given a whole new lease on life!



The following minor defects have been identified:



• Sagging awnings

• Creaking frame

• Cracked external cladding

• Leaky plumbing

• Loose wiring

• Faded roof tiles

• Bats in the attic



So Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! buyers.



This little beauty won’t last!



(Inspection by appointment only. Bring wine)

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