The Juicy Bits
WARNING: This post contains items of a vaguely sexual nature, and may offend those of a highly sensitive and anti-heterosexual character.
Any men who have not yet figured out that the WOMEN have the upper hand or how life really works should not read any further.
If my daughter is reading this, DON'T.
Log off and go and make his tea; you really don't want to know what happens between your Mother and Me in the Hours of Darkness.
[continued from yesterday]
- removed the oven door and dismantled it into its component pieces
- removed all of the grill trays, drip trays and baking trays and sheets
- removed the top heating element
- removed all of the control knobs
- removed the cast steel trivets
- removed the burners and dissembled for more detailed cleaning
Everything was scrubbed, rinsed and dried
|Baby Oil always gives the best finish. Even on Stainless Steel|
Then exhausted from my labours, I had a long hot shower to remove the grease, and collapsed onto the couch to vegetate in front of the TV.
That was when it happened.
|Good for me|
Quickly draining my Guinness (priorities, always priorities) I shot through to the kitchen, grabbed the pot of milk which had just boiled all over the now non-pristine (actually black, sticky and steaming )cooker, and shoved it in the sink.
|Not Good for the Cooker|
And now we come to the Juicy Bit.
Having restored my natural superior balance in the Ledger of Life, (and waiting for the disastrous mess to cool down) I was watching TV again (with a fresh glass of Guinness in my hand) and became aware we were watching Master Chef New Zealand.
The instructing chef was showing the contestants how to cook and prepare some mussels (Excellent quality available in NZ).
He (Simon Gault) steamed them gently over some onions and white wine, and as they opened in the heat, he demonstrated how the gristly foot could be removed.
|Not what I expected|
At this point my beloved sniggled (a combination of giggle and snigger; a rare occurrence in itself) and she whispered, "It looks like a cl****is"
"What?" I couldn't make out what she was saying.
"It looks like a cl****is" she repeated.
For once I was thankful that my son (who has been at home, living with us now for 6 months) was engrossed in some god-awful exceptionally violent computer game in the corner, my expensive Stereo Headphones clamped to his skull, and couldn't hear a thing.
I wished I couldn't hear a thing.
I wished I hadn't heard what I thought I heard.
I wished I was in the computer game and being pulverised by a 30mm Rail Gun, rather than listening to my wife utter the word "cl****is"
Just in case you aren't sure what the word is, it's one of the "C" words that are not normally used in polite society. And it doesn't rhyme with PUNT. It rhymes with that lovely little inoffensive animal, "Slender Loris".
What could I say?
"Really Dear?" (I didn't add "are you sure?". Some things are best left alone.)
I think she's right you know.
Whatdo YOU think?
I'll never be able to look at a Bivalved Mollusc ever again.
Not unless the lights are off.
Maybe with some romantic music?
Next Instalment: The Juicy Bits get a hammering.