Good morning kiddies. Welcome to today’s long-distance learning lesson. We are going to learn how to help Mummy in the kitchen, so later when Mummy gets out of bed, she will get a big shock.
If you are too small to reach the kitchen sink then perhaps you could get a chair from the dining table and stand on it at the sink.
Fill the sink with water. I hope you know how to stop the water from running out of the sink. Excellent!
Now we are going to learn to wash the toaster. Toasters are full of crumbs and are yucky. Put the toaster in the water. Give it a good scrub with the brush. Don’t forget to put some detergent in the water. When it’s as clean as you can get it there will still be some dirty marks on the toaster but don’t worry about them.
Next children we must learn to dry the toaster. Find an electric outlet, it doesn’t have to be in the kitchen, and plug it in. Don’t forget to switch it on.
Now and again it’s fun to have a guest blogger, so I have invited Scholastica to post something on my blog today. Scholastica is a pseudonym for Vonnie Blotchard. Scholastica is a name which has overtones of scholar and elastic. In other words, Vonnie is a flexible student of life. She is open to new ideas and ways of doing things and expanding and contracting thoughts.
Only the other day she posted on her own blog – which has subsequently been removed – a method of killing quivering moths that might come fluttering into your living quarters at night when you’ve left the light on. It is a merciless method intended to teach the moth a jolly good lesson and involves a pair of tweezers and a broomstick. Brilliant!
Also on her blog Scholastica sometimes lets her twin brother Benedict, who goes under the name of Imintofootball, post a blog on her blog which I must admit is very kind considering the nonsense he comes up with.
Scholastica on the other hand is thoughtful yet wildly inventive. That is why I invited her to do a posting on my blog. She has spent a lot of time thinking about it. She is a master – or rather a mistress (perhaps even neither one nor the other) – of Obscurantism. If you don’t know what Obscurantism is then you will know once you’ve read Scholastica’s wonderful contribution. Take it away, Scholastica!
Blabbercation on the windy trail of life.
Well done, Scholasica! See! I told you! If anyone has any comments about her contribution please leave them on this blog and not email or text Scholastica personally.
I said at the start that it was fun now and again to have a guest blogger. But it’s more than fun. Possibly for some of you more dreary readers it can be a life-changing experience. To have said “Blabbercation” rather than “Blobbercation” or even “Bloggeration” or “Buggeration” is a feat in itself and shows the altitude to which Scholastica these days flies about in. Elastic scholar indeed!
You will no doubt be disappointed that these guest bloggers on my blog are very rare. It’s getting harder and harder to find a good blogger these days. Too often bloggers post nothing but twaddle.
Clyde and Patricia were not a couple. In fact they had never met. In fact they lived in different towns in different parts of the country.
One day Clyde decided to go online and try to find someone interesting he could chat with and perhaps fall in love with and spend their lives together. Patricia did the same thing. They both registered with the same online dating organization. It was wholesome and genuine.
Patricia spent an enjoyable evening chatting with a man called Herman, and Clyde spent an enjoyable evening chatting with a woman called Claudia.
Things warmed up a bit over time and Patricia and Herman would spend every night chatting; the same for Clyde and Claudia.
Patricia asked Herman if he wanted to meet, and Claudia asked Clyde if he wanted to meet. It was always less suspicious when the woman asked because one never knows with men asking to meet whether they’re predators or not. Upon being asked to meet was when Herman and Clyde both got up and ran, because Herman’s real name was David and Clyde’s real name was Michael. Both had posted photos that bore a striking resemblance to a relatively unknown model whose photograph had been scanned out of a fairly dated women’s magazine.
So to cut to the chase, Clyde and Claudia have never met, and Patricia and Herman have never met. Nor have Clyde and Patricia ever met. Nor have David and Claudia nor Michael and Patricia. Nor for that matter have David and Michael, nor Patricia and Claudia.
These days, Michael is living with Veronica, David is living with Denise, Claudia is living with Charlie, and Patricia is living with Jethro. Charlie and Jethro used to be known online as Selwyn and Bruno. Perhaps you have run into these people over the years?
Ivan was a weedy little man and Sheila was buxom. After seventeen years marriage Sheila decided that enough was enough and wanted a divorce.
“Enough is enough,” she said.
“Enough of what?” asked Ivan.
“Enough,” said Sheila.
There was no reason for a divorce except Sheila wanted change. After seventeen years the humdrum-ity of life was calling for a change in direction. Ivan was at first mystified and then angry. All papers and things were filed. The divorce came through. Sheila moved down the street in search of the great tomorrow.
The next day Ivan won a hundred and twenty-four million in the lottery.
Letitia’s nine-year-old son, Jason, was a brat. It was a quality he had inherited from his mother. Jason’s teacher (currently on strike) had described Letitia as “the meanest, nastiest mother I have ever encountered in my thirty-two years of teaching.”
Indeed, Jason had inherited every inch of his mother’s nastiness, and not an ounce of his father’s niceness. His father visited once a month, for an hour only. That was all that Letitia allowed. The father was there, said Letitia, to “pay the bills and stay out of our life.”
How the tables turned when Paddy came into a considerable fortune! The ink had hardly dried on Paddy’s newly-created will, leaving all to Jason, when Letitia conceived a plot. Next time Paddy visited she would poison him.
Letitia shared her plan with Jason. “You want to be rich? Let’s not hang around. Let’s get rid of him. Here’s the plan…”
Jason was to offer his father a cup of coffee. He was to put the poisonous powder into his father’s mug along with the sugar.
Jason took after his mother – the meanest, nastiest mother ever encountered. When his father visited Jason prepared the coffee as instructed. He gave his mother the special mug.
Norma had a saying which she oft cited: I’ve buried three husbands you know. If the truth be known, all three had died unnatural deaths. They had all been murdered.
Norma was exceedingly rich. She lived in a big house (these days alone). Her sole interest appeared to be her two pet canaries. She had a yellow canary and one with bits of yellow but it looked more like a sparrow. Only the yellow one ever sang, and usually with a melancholic air.
Norma had tried to breed them but she wasn’t sure if she had two girls, two boys, or one of each. Whatever the case, neither had made any attempt at making a nest.
Norma belonged to the local Caged Birds Association. There she met and befriended Gordon, mainly because she thought he might know how to sex birds. He did, and so Norma invited him to her house. Well! One thing led to another, and before you knew it they were married, and Gordon’s two pet canaries went into the same aviary as Norma’s two. In the blink of an eye one of Norma’s and one of Gordon’s were creating a nest together.
Norma was delighted with the success of her breeding program! So interesting! There were four fledglings! All grew into a bold yellow and sang with a melancholic air. They were a great consolation to Norma when she came to bury her fourth husband.
Thanks so much, Kitchen Cheffie, for yesterday’s fabulous recipe on your website. I used it for dinner last night and everyone loved it, including hubby who doesn’t always eat everything I cook. He’s such a fussy eater! I have never tried Chicken Stew with Duck Confit and Cabbage before. It’s a winner.
As I have said many times before in the comments on your blog, we like to eat healthy. So I omitted everything except for the water and cabbage. Besides, I didn’t have any chicken in the house. Your recommended cooking time was far, far too long and I ended up having to puree the cabbage into a soup because it had disintegrated too much. Seven hours at a low temperature is way too much. Also the yellowing outer leaves of the cabbage discoloured the finished product a little.
Another reason for adapting your recipe was that I didn’t know what Duck Comfort was. You need to explain things sometimes for your readers. I presume it’s some sort of “comfort food” so that was another reason for omitting that ingredient because of unhealthy overtones!!!!!!
I likewise wondered why you cooked it in the oven when the stove top would have been sufficient?
All in all, a wonderful recipe. It’s a keeper. One funny thing happened which I shouldn’t really tell but I simply must! The cabbage was home-grown, so when I took it out of the oven after seven hours there had been a good twenty or so earwigs hiding in the cabbage. They were cooked along with the cabbage! Let’s hope there were no slugs. Next time I’ll cut the cabbage up first – maybe into quarters. The earwigs didn’t matter in the long run because after I pureed everything no one noticed them.
Andrew was not a great fan of creamed corn. He found it too sweet. He didn’t mind shucking the corn and de-kernelling it. Then it was the simplest thing for his mother to make. But as for eating it… Goodness! Andrew thought it would be easier to eat a bowl of raw sugar.
His mother served the creamed corn as a side dish and Andrew had a spoonful to be polite because his mother had gone to a bit of trouble, both in growing the corn in the garden in the first place and cooking the creamed corn. But sweet! Andrew always felt a bit sick.
Sometimes his mother would make corn fritters with the creamed corn and sometimes she would bake a dish of it with grated cheese on the top. She was so proud of her corn in the corn season and corn was served one way or another at almost every meal.
Things got so bad that Andrew began to wonder if he hadn’t developed an allergy. When he had a date with Angelina he would pass on mother’s corn before going out. He was very much in love with Angelina. He knew she was to be the one for life! He didn’t want to spew his mother’s corn all over the seat of the car. Tonight Angelina had invited Andrew for the evening meal. She wanted to show off her culinary skills! And guess what they had?
“The secret of making irresistible cream corn,” said Angelina upon enthusiastically placing dinner on the table, “the secret is to put several heaped spoonfuls of sugar in the mixture. It makes it much much sweeter.”
Angelina’s creamed corn was ten times sweeter and sicklier than Andrew’s mother made. Andrew loved it. In fact he had a second helping.
I’m not sure if the huge international following of this blog uses the term “Peggy Squares”. In New Zealand the term goes back to the early 1930s when a six-year-old girl called Peggy started knitting squares (6” by 6”) and getting her mother to darn them together to make blankets for the poor during the Great Depression. It caught on. Every girl and boy in the country began using mother’s unused wool to knit Peggy Squares.
I grew up knitting Peggy Squares. Most boys of my generation did. Boys knitting was commonplace until it was associated with girls only. Sexists.
I THINK that Peggy Squares are different from Granny Squares which I believe came later and are crocheted. Is this right?
Anyway – Peggy and Peggy Squares true or not… every country claims the origin of most things except viruses.
It was 1932. Tommy was seven. He had knitted three Peggy Squares and was taking them to school to go on the pile intended for blanket making. An old spinster aunt called into Tommy’s house. “What are you doing knitting? It’s woman’s stuff,” said the aunt.
Tommy never knitted again. Funny how one little comment can force the whole world into a box.
Lucas had never been popular. At primary school he had tried to buy friends by giving them sweets and cookies; all without much success. At secondary school his attempts at friendship became more expensive; it was sodas and cigarettes. Later he resorted to drugs – not big time drugs – but bits of stuff here and there.
These days he’s rather rich. He’s twice divorced. He drives a fancy car and lives in a fancy house. The house has a tennis court and pool. He neither plays tennis nor swims but who cares? Who cares when you have a gardener and a couple of servants? No one knows exactly where his money comes from.
He still doesn’t have any friends. He says he doesn’t need them. His favourite saying, as he gads about in torn shirt and comfy jeans, is: When you’re as rich as I am you dress how you like.
All that was last week.
This week he got shot in the head. Police said they thought he had mafia connections. They’re not doing much about it because nobody cares. Few attended his funeral. Who would want their name taken down by an undercover agent?