Spreading

There are many divisive topics of discussion. Politics is obviously the major area of activity, especially when you realise that 'politics' is not just anything to do with your government, but anything in life that has a meaningful impact on your your own life and those of the people you love (and, in the case of the abortion/sexual health situations, those of people who don't even exist yet. And may not).

Increasingly, people are becoming more and more overly opinionated about things that don't really matter, notably in the area of entertainment. And, for the record, I include all sport in that broadly-sweeping category. Why? Because when you get down to the basics, football (for example, he said, writing this on the day of the World Cup final 2014...) is not a job for most of the millions involved. And for those that are, so what? You are still only creating something to entertain the great unwashed masses (another quote mangled there*).

"I beg your pardon?"

Moving to the world of food (and I realise that some of you will now realise where this is going), it is oddly more cloudy. When you think about it, food is an essential part of life, so having an (informed) opinion about it can have a direct impact on the health of people that consume it. Eating something slightly out of date. Chili-eating contests. Fast food. Aspartame in diet drinks. Corn syrup in diet drinks. Marmite.

the offending article

Wait, what?

Some years ago, that reactionary and inflammatory rag of a newspaper known as The Daily Mail reported on a set of food products that were deemed in their pet scientists' (paid) opinions. Most of these foods were obvious, some of which I have listed above. However, tucked away in there was Marmite.

Horror of horrors, it seems Marmite is 11% salt! (full nutritional info here) That means that if you slather 100g on your toast you... wait, what? It seems someone has never eaten Marmite or has tasted it briefly and taken against it. In case you don't know, the black stuff is not for piling on like jam, Nutella, or peanut butter (blech). Seriously. If you tried eating 100g of Marmite in one go, you may as well call a priest for the lining of your mouth, as it would be stripped away like butter under a blowtorch.

This is where people get it wrong. Unlike the other spreads, Marmite is savoury, not sweet, and savoury generally means that it has more salt. Besides - have you seen how much salt is in bread? I bet you eat far more salt in that than you would in a single serving of Marmite.

Oh, and just for giggles, here is a link to a Daily Telegraph article commenting on how healthy Marmite can be.

As a company, Marmite are fully aware of how divisive their product can be. In fact, in Britain, a totally divisive subject is often known as a 'Marmite topic', and reactions to it range from this:

To this:

As I say, the company knows of this, and uses it extensively. In the past, they have gone for a 'political campaign' on behalf of the 'Love' and 'Hate' parties, but my favourite ads were drawings made of Marmite with the tagline 'you either Love it or hate it' (sic) scrawled on one side.

For the record, I hate Mr Bean.

In our house, the human population is split down the middle. I love it, Julie hates it, and we aren't going to let Roxy near it. Not if she wants to sleep in the same room as us.

It's fairly entertaining for me, as whenever Marmite is mentioned, Julie goes into a paroxysm of disgust. Some of this is a physical shudder, but much of it is a loss of sentence structure as she goes into a stuttering ramble mode.

The gag reflex

Say hello to Bongo

Bongo is a staffie/labrador crossbreed, and a rather handsome chap. One of many dogs at the Last Chance Animal Rescue centre, he is also a long-term resident (just as Roxy was). Indeed, every time that we visited the centre, we would make a point of dropping by Bongo's pen. A lively, happy chap, he always had two tennis balls in his mouth. If he happened to drop one, he would then chase after it, retrieve it, and get it back to its rightful place.

In fact, we would like to have taken Bongo on, but he's just too big and boisterous. I hope somebody does take pity on him.

I only mention Bongo because every time Roxy feels like playing with one of her tennis balls, both Julie and myself are immediately reminded of Bongo and the two-ball grin.

As my mother will know, normal tennis balls never last too long with a dog - they are chew toys when fetch time is over, after all. However, most pet shops stock a hardier breed of ball - just don't use them to play tennis, because they will hurt like hell if they hit you.

Mind you, even those balls will not last too long with a determined doggie. Roxy's current ball has developed a weakness, one which means that it sort of folds in on itself to a degree. Unfortunately, this means that a tennis ball which is only just on the right side of 'large enough' is now in danger of being a little too small for safety. Naturally, we are always aware of safety, and Julie happened to notice that Roxy was chomping on the ball a little too much.

That last bit was directed at a husband, whose mind was dallying in the gutter once more...

That said, I went looking for link or images of these tougher tennis balls. It looks like I'm not the only puerile person around...

Yawn porn

Roxy is a very affectionate dog, and misses us terribly if we aren't around. Dogs are very social animals in any case, and you aren't supposed to leave them alone or outside for too long a time. It must have been a lonely time at the rescue centre; three years on no family, just a rota of centre staff (who were wonderful) and an uncarpeted pen. This is why were indulge Roxy a little more than we perhaps should.

One of the ways we interact with Roxy is kissing - in the dog sense. If they lick your face, it is a sign of affection, and of admitting you are higher in the social standing than they are.

For the longest time, this was seen as being unhygienic and unhealthy. Now, while the first may be the case (until you have been woken up by dog breath in the morning, you may not agree), it seems that being licked by your dog is beneficial in many ways. It improves your mood - and the dog's; it helps with social bonding; it also can boost immune systems.

These days, kids are being wrapped in a sort of sterile bubble, not being allowed to play in in rough areas or rough ways. Lots of sterilised surfaces, sanitised this, anti-bacterial that. Unfortunately, this gives our immune systems nothing to do, and they dwindle through lack of use. This means that when something does come along which the system needs to face, it finds it is trying to fight a battle after the equivalent of military cutbacks has slashed its effectiveness drastically.

That said, Roxy can become a little too enthusiastic when she shows her affection - especially if you happen to mention the word W.A.L.K. On more than one occasion, I have been pinned to the armchair by 29 kilos of excited, slobbering dog.

Sunday mornings are a little different. We take a bit longer about getting going in the morning. A slow breakfast, followed by a cup of tea as we all sit on the sofa. Since it was morning, I was checking my phone for updates, fairly oblivious to the fact that there appeared to be a yawning contest taking place just to my left.

As everyone knows, it is almost impossible to keep from yawning once another member of your group has already done so. So it was that Julie and Roxy were taking turns in yawning, each apparently gaping wider each time - right up until I heard an exclamation from Julie.

Well, based on what I said about immune systems above, perhaps Roxy was just checking for cavities...

Not to be sniffed at.

One thing that all dog owners know is that unless their dog has been very highly trained, then a dog is a curious creature, and wants to investigate interesting smells.

'nuff said, right? Roxy is certainly no exception to the rule, and having almost total freedom after three years in a last chance rescue centre means that she will make the most of it. Especially since she is still settling in, and half-believes she might have to go back to the centre.

One of her regular - and favourite - strolls is along the promenade and past the pier. Just before the pier, the prom splits in two; one path leading up and past the pier's entrance, and the other continuing by the beach and going underneath the pier.

Taking the lower prom route, you start to get a long series of low walls, one of which surrounds a sort of picnic area. Obviously, many people sit on these walls, and on this particular day there was a family of parents and young children perched on the wall, munching on chips (British chips, made with thick cuts of potato and deep fried).

Roxy, ever interested in all the different smells, always makes a bee-line for the wall, and that it also bore people with food was simply a pleasant bonus. As she was sniffing at the wall, the family were making a fuss of Roxy, something that is usually welcome. However, with all the various odours, her canine attention was pretty much set to 'distraction mode'. So, while Roxy was amenable to being stroked, the most important thing was to check out all the interesting smells on the wall.

Moving along, Roxy started snuffling at a section of wall one of the women was sat on. I kept an eye out, because some people take exception to having a dog smelling their nether regions. It didn't help that the woman offered a dubious origin for a particularly interesting smell.

...sometimes, I need to engage my brain before sending messages down to the mouth...
Fortunately, the woman laughed it off.

I suppose it could have been worse...

Perverting a proverb

A friend of mine from the Magic-playing community was talking to me the other day about how he enjoys reading this blog (which made my day, believe me). He especially enjoyed, apparently, that a lot of what Julie says, and how she says it, mirrors his girlfriend's habits. It seems that she has a reputation for being a bit 'out there', and revels in it - to the point she will deliberately behave and speak oddly.

To illustrate this, Tom (my friend), recounted the tale of when he and Cass (his girlfriend) were playing a card game. He can't recall the game, not that it matters. It could have been Magic, Happy Families, Uno, or even just Gin Rummy.

Whatever the game, it was Tom's turn, and he drew a card. Unfortunately, it turned out to be something he most definitely did not want or need. Tom let out an exasperated noise and grimaced. Cass then assumed a comically lofty expression and berated him with this:

Obviously punning on the proverb 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth', Cass then enjoyed the sight of Tom laughing and spluttering.

For my part, I seem to be channeling a mix of Cass and Julie, because I was mixing both the original and Cass's version in my head and coming up with a mental image of a terrified and disturbed horse.

I'd rather crawl inside a tauntaun.

In line with British law (as seen in this Gem), we are good dog owners and don't leave dog poo for people to step in etc.

However, with the weather of late, it's a tad difficult to pick up dog poo with a flimsy little bag when the wind is doing its level best to rip said bag out of your hands and send it to the next county. Or country. We are lucky in that Roxy doesn't generally pull and is happy to stay where she is while we deal with the nasty stuff.

Another thing is that it's a bit nippy when you have wind, rain, and low temperatures combined. Especially when you had been wearing gloves up to that particular moment and now have to remove at least one to get the finger mobility needed.

Julie has managed to find a bright side to this, though.

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*Just in case you don't get the relevance of the title....  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXmp1hLK0tY

In a septic fish tank.

There are times when curiosity may not kill the cat, but it will certainly turn its stomach. Anyone who may have wondered what all the fuss was about with 'two girls, one cup' and googled it will know exactly what I mean. No, I'm not linking to it. If you are dumb enough to ignore the less-than-subtle warning signs I'm putting out here, then you can do it on your own.

And don't blame me.

My own, latest 'curiosity vs cat' moment came today as I was searching for an image to include with this post. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go back in time, quite some months now, to a point when Julie and myself were in a local cafe and looking at all the different food they had to offer. Julie was having a quick look at the 'specials' board* while I perused the main menu.

As I had my head down, and was trying to make up my mind between two very good options, I wasn't listening to Julie as closely as I could have. That said, it seems my subconscious is excellent when it comes to picking up on Julie's Gems...

Joking aside, I realised I have never seen this dish, let alone tasted it... You can see where this is going, can't you?

These, ladies, gentlemen and others, are quails' eggs. Either that, or an eagle has made its nest in the hand of a giant. You will note a distinct lack of aspic. This is for two reasons. First, I wanted to show the relative size of the eggs, as I'm well aware that a lot of people will not have even heard of them.

Second, I googled 'quails eggs aspic'.

Ew.
I had flashbacks to the time I inadvisably tried jellied eels.
To put this into context, some of you will be aware of my views on sushi. I would willingly chow down a plate of sushi before even glancing at anything that has been 'jellied'.

Excuse me, I think I need to go and rinse my mouth out. With Marmite.


* No, the classic 2-Tone band has not gone into catering.

Padding out the truth

I enjoy having a shower. We don't have a shower, but when we are anywhere that has a nice, powerful shower, expect me to only leave it when I am good and pruned. Put it another way; this is the kind of expression I have on my face when I'm enjoying a shower.

The closest I'll ever get to inner peace.

As I said, anywhere with a good shower is a good place for me to stay. And if that shower happens to be in a decent-sized cubicle (as opposed to a clinging curtain around a bath), then I am especially chuffed.

Once, Julie and myself were away for a night or two, so we stopped in a motel or similar. I noticed right away that there was a shower meeting almost all of my requirements for a nice, long soak. The only trouble with showers is that you have to stand up. If someone were to put something for me to sit on while I am under the shower head, then you would probably have to drag me out. With that in mind, I mentioned my need for shower seating to Julie.
Silly me.

I never did ask  for that seat...

Imagine that!

Hythe is a small town on the south coast of Kent in England. It's had quite a history, especially since it shares a proximity to mainland Europe with its more famous neighbour, Dover. However, for the purpose of our tale today, it is simply a nice place to visit, with a long seafront promenade. You can park next to the promenade and then just stroll along.

Just one thing needs to be noted, though. You see that low wall separating the road and the promenade? Well, there aren't all that many gaps to allow you through. Yes, there is a whacking great gap in the photo above, but believe me when I say that is a rarity.

When Julie and me arrived, I happened to park in a stretch that seemed to be slap-bang in the middle of a long walled section. Time to clamber over, then.

At this point, it should be noted that neither of us can be classed as 'tall'. I am 5'5", and Julie is a tad shorter. While the wall is fairly low, it also has a fair width on it, enough that you can't simply step over it. Well, we can't anyhow.

I've done a lot of clambering for one reason or another in my time, so I managed it easily enough - if not exactly gracefully. Just as I was straightening up, I heard a commotion and a muffled curse from behind me. I turned and found that my wife had gone for the 'straddle' option. Unfortunately, the wall was a little wider than she had allowed for and had proved to be a tad uncomfortable.

Or, as Julie put it...

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Baby, it's HOT outside.

For people who have been living on another planet for the last week or so, Britain is in the middle of a heatwave.

Similarly, those people may not have heard that Prince William (second in line to the throne of Britain) and his wife, Kate Middleton, are expecting a baby. In fact, said baby is a little overdue, as the original due date was for early last week. In fact, I was mildly thrilled to think that I might have shared a birthday with the third in line to the throne... Oh well.

Kate Middleton, pregnant and pretty.

As it stands, though, the baby, whose sex the royal couple are as of yet unaware, is overdue. Enough so that it is theorised (ie, gossipped) that Kate was induced. In any event, it was reported today that the royal mum-to-be is in labour in hospital (link to BBC article).

Meanwhile, in our own household this morning, I was enjoying a cup of tea, and Julie was scrolling through news stories and relating some of the headlines to me. Obviously, Kate Middleton's situation was going to be high up on the list...

...thanks for the image, love...

I say thee neigh!

A Thelwell pony, looking alarmed. Why? Read on.

On a recent visit to my mum, she, myself and Julie were sat around the table, enjoying a game of Scrabble. Julie noticed that I hadn't got my notepad with me and was quite pleased when I remarked in a jocular manner that I was giving her the night off.

Silly me.

Honestly, it must have been the most Gem-packed time I have ever known.

One of the hallmarks of our family Scrabble games is a penchent for - accidentally - going in a place that blocks the next player on. Mum is particularly vocal when it happens to her, and this occasion was no exception. I have no idea what I put down, but I was immediately labelled as a 'ratbag' and it was commented, with a very loud 'tut', that you "just can't choose your family, can you?"

Hot on the heels of this well-worn saying, Julie piped up, mixing metaphors and the gods know what else...

Well, you probably could, but that's not to say that you should.

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In case you weren't aware of his work, the equine at the top was sketched by a very well-known English cartoonist by the name of Thelwell. He was most famous for his cartoons of rotund ponies and little girls, which, when I say it like that, sounds like he should have been arrested...

Instead, I invite you to go look at the website and perhaps to google him.

The height of confusion

I've said it before, and I'll say it again - I would really, really like to have a dog. Unfortunately, what with one thing and another, it's just not feasible. For now, me and Julie will have to be content with making a fuss (or 'fondling', as Julie has referred to it) of other people's pooches. Living near the sea in a seaside town means having a promenade usually, and the one in Eastbourne is quite a good one.

It certainly is if you are a dog walker, anyhow. At any given time during the day, you will be sure of meeting at least one dog out for a walk. Some days, you can barely move for them. It's just as well that there are dog waste bins placed here and there. I just wished everyone would use them, not just some people.

This is the current campaign to get people to pick up the poo
http://tinyurl.com/dpfairy

Regardless of the muck, however, it's nice to see all the different dogs. Apart from the odd specimen, though, we tend to avoid the really small ones. Partly because they're usually the most belligerent, and partly because it's hard to take anything seriously when it looks like what is produced when a rodent has shagged a rainbow-coloured mop.

It's especially odd when the smaller dogs are being walked by larger people...

Like a boss.

As I said, we don't dislike all small dogs, just as we're not too fond of every single larger dog. My mother has a Jack Russell terrier, a breed notorious for being somewhat bolshy, but all Toby wants to do is sleep - preferably next to you on the chair.

On one occasion, while we were walking along the prom (tiddly-om-pom-pom...), one very friendly small dog of indeterminate origin was zig-zagging the path ahead of its owner, trying to say 'hello' to every single person it met. Of course, when it reached us, it found some people who were willing to pay it some attention.

Which is when it went berserk - with joy, of course.

Poor thing - we couldn't help but laugh at it. It was so happy right then that its tail was wagging at physics-bending speeds. Unfortunately, since it was also trying to jump up to us, that wagging just sent it flying off in random directions, like a badly-flown helicopter.

Julie was sympathetic towards the dog (while laughing her head off, naturally), pointing out that its size really didn't help matters.

Er... what?

Breaking up with broccoli

Disclaimer: this has nothing to do with the director of the James Bond films.

If there is a major difference between me and Julie, it's with food. While I'm not a vegetarian (I enjoy meaty foods too much), I do like vegetables - mostly. There are a number of exceptions - parsnips, Brussel sprouts, celery... the list is lengthy.
Julie, on the other hand, knows a few fruit and veg and sticks to them. Sometimes it's because she hasn't tried them and doesn't want to - maybe it's the way they look...

..er... quite.

However, there is one vegetable that definitely shows a split in opinions. It's my favourite and one Julie knows she doesn't like. It's also something that was on the menu when I visited my mum recently, as I told my wife when I called her.

Wow. Way to put me off my food, love...

A cheesy mouthful

Sometimes, things happen and you find yourself thinking, I don't want to know.

Imagine this little scenario, if you will.
You will walk into a room and find your housemate, naked, straddling his golden retriever. For a moment, you face betraying no emotion, you stand there. You housemate and his dog return your look. For them, surprise and embarrassment hasn't had time to register, and before it does, you calmly - but definitely - leave the room.
There's a decent explanation. Even as you leave the room, you know this. However, the situation has managed to affect your mind enough that, for some reason, you just can't think of one right now.
Some time later, while you and your housemate are watching TV, you broach the subject carefully, picking at the subject like you would try and scratch an itch around a scab or cut.

As it happens, all that occurred was that your housemate was just about to get dressed when his dog suddenly decided to see what the contents of an ashtray tasted like. His owner was understandably concerned for the dog's well-being and yelled for the dog to drop the dead ciggies. The dog, thinking that this was some kind of game, happily dashed out of the room and downstairs. And your housemate dashed after him, forgetting that he wasn't wearing even a single sock. In the front room, he finally managed to catch hold of the dog; gripping the retriever's torso between his knees, he bent forward to try and prise open the dog's jaws.

Which is when you walked in...
...and out again.

Have an embarrassed retriever in a baby swing.

For my part, I was already in the kitchen when Julie had her moment. The previous evening, Julie decided to drop by McDonalds on the way home from working at the hospital. I sat in the car while Julie went in a bought her food and a coke for me. The next morning, I went to the fridge for milk to put in my tea. In there, I saw that Julie had not been able to eat her burger - not even a bite.

Later that day, after that evening's hospital shift, Julie took the cheeseburger out of the box, put it on a plate and into the microwave.
After a couple of minutes - *ping!* - one superheated and unappetising bit of meat in a bun. Julie put the plate onto the worktop and turned the bun over. With some difficulty, I might add; all the cheese had melted and slid out of the bun and welded the whole thing to the plate. I grimaced slightly and turned away to the sink to rinse out a mug. When I turned back, Julie was picking at her food. She looked up, saw my expression and tried for an explanation.

Hmm, yes. Sometimes, it's best not to attempt an explanation. Especially if you have a tendency to pick the wrong words...

Moooooo!

The body is a wonderful thing. Rather like the age-old comparison with the apparent grace of the swan, there is so much activity beneath the surface that it would be fair to describe the human body as a battleground, one that will only be calmed when one side it vanquished for good. Sorry, but you know which side that is. As the phrase goes,

"Life is a sexually-transmitted disease with a 100% fatality rate."

Cheering, eh?

Let's steer things back to lighter matters.
Everybody likes a fart gag, don't they? Gaseous emissions have been a staple of comedy since time immemorial, but it's as much about timing as anything else.
Imagine a hall full of students taking their final exams. Despite hours or revision and weeks of preparation, it's turning out to be far harder than any of them had imagined. Half an hour in, and already, despair is setting in. The tension in the air is palpable. Then, from between clenched buttocks comes a noise, a sound like a cornet being blown to a tone of E flat. There's silence at first, then a muffled snigger. Soon, the whole room is full of students trying not to make any noise and failing dismally. However, the mood has been lifted and who knows - some of the students may have relaxed enough to improve their score.

"What you see might not be real" is a sculpture by Chinese artist Chen
Wenling. It's an unsubtle dig at the financial crisis. The bull represents
Wall Street, and the human is Bernard Madoff. He was convicted
and jailed for 150 years for being a Ponzi schemer.

Alternatively, let's pretend you are watching a sitcom. The main character works in an office. He's been stuck in a meeting for what has felt like the longest hour of his life. He has spent most of the meeting regretting the full English breakfast. It was tasty enough at the time, but it's given him some terrible gas. Finally, the meeting is over. He grabs his papers and dashes out for his own office. When he gets there, he bangs the door shut behind him, but doesn't notice that it has bounced open again. He leans his knuckles on his desk and carefully relaxes certain muscles. The resulting fart is loud, sonorous and meaty enough to be put into pies. Them, just as he sighs with relief, he hears the boss behind him, "I hope you feel much better for that." Oh bugger.

See? It can be humorous. Obviously, it can be taken too far. An entire programme of fart gags is a bit much (although Bottom seemed to get away with something very close to it for several series).

On the other hand, when you feel the need and you happen to be in public, it's really not done to simply let rip. In that case, one will surreptitiously glance about, making sure that the coast is clear. Only then will we allow ourselves to let something out. Hopefully, it will be as discreet as your attempt to clear the area.
Yeah, right.
Poor Julie, on this occasion, managed to create a passable impression of a foghorn. I was gasping for breath, I was laughing that hard, and Julie was laughing just as hard. Then, just as I felt I was beginning to calm down, Julie decided to justify herself.

And I was off again...

The epitome of 'sickly sweet'

Humans are weird.
I know about the whaling industry. I know that certain cultures enjoy eating whale meat. I also know that the blubber is used for cosmetic purposes. What I  didn't  realise was that there was another whale product used in the cosmetic industry. Now, if you read the title above, then you've probably got an uneasy feeling what I might be referring to.
Yep. Whale vomit. Apparently, it's quite the thing for providing a nice, gentle scent to a perfume.

Great gobs of whale sick. Lovely.

Feeling nauseous yet?
Here's something else to tickle your gag reflex. Not only is cetacean puke (allegedly) nice to spray on your lady's face, it's also pretty damn expensive too. With a nickname of 'floating gold', you can imagine how much people are willing to pay for such a seemingly wondrous thing.
How fortunate, then, that Ken Wilman's dog has a good nose.

Having unearthed what they both thought to be a rock, they soon realised was something completely different. Here's the story.
When we were reading about this, me and Julie were both bemused at the lengths people will go to for vanity's sake. And then we found out that Mr Wilman had been offered 50,000 Euros for his find by a French company.
Really? How much??
And of course, it set Julie to thinking...

Blech... Please never bring that up... I mean, raise the topic again.

The worms that turned... into something else.

Our family, as a rule, are very friendly towards wildlife. My mum has a large garden, and birdwatching is a hobby. It makes sense, then, to attract birds to the garden. At the far end, there is a pond, designed to attract various animals, insects and birds especially. One of my father's happiest and proudest moments was when a passing heron decided to drop in and inflict a massive casualty rate on the amphibian population. As I was quick to remind him though, just because the pond works for attracting wildlife, the bamboo he had planted nearby was very unlikely to tempt any pandas...

The more common means of getting birds to drop in is by a number of feeders, offering different types of foods. Seeds, nuts and fat balls.
Yes, let's get the sniggering out of the way shall we? This is what I'm talking about.

Balls of nuts, seeds, and or bits of various invertebrates, moulded into a spherical shape and held together by  fat.
Whenever we visit, we always try and take along some supplies, just so the birds don't go hungry. We're kind like that. However, asking for these supplies does tend to make for awkward conversations. Asking if someone 'wants fat balls' in a public place is guaranteed to earn you a nervous look or two.
Especially if you add the word 'Mum' to that sentence.
It's not all balls, though. There are also fat blocks, which are most usually filled with mealworms or insects. There are others, though. Some have fruit, some have seeds, but those aren't wanted.

Thus is was that Julie was out browsing some shops, and happened to go into one place that had a section for bird food. Once the obligatory muttered conversation about 'fat balls' was out of the way, Julie tried to find out just which of the different blocks on offer were the ones wanted by Mum.
And then the confusion set in.

I very nearly asked if they actually had blocks with ringworm, but then I decided I wasn't all that interested in finding out and rather hurriedly dropped the whole conversation...

Vegetarian Pork II - revenge of the pigs

WAY back when, in the dawn of our existence, before I started adding fun images to the Gems, Julie came up with a question about vegetarian pork. Little did I know that my darling wife was channelling a truth that was even stranger than fiction...

Ladies and gentlemen, I have the dubious honour of presenting to you actual vegetarian pork - but chicken flavour!

Courtesy of Lamyong, a company that specialises in vegetarian foods, this has to be the most confused delicacy in the world...

According to the product page, these are the ingredients:

Water, vegetable oil, textured Soy Protein (27%), whey protein, wheat flour, salt, soy sauce, vegetarian seasonings 

Contains soybeans, gluten and dairy. May contain traces of nuts and seeds.

Now, what gets me is that I showed the allergy warning to Julie, and she reckoned that they must come from the pigs' bones. Apart from the possible nuts, that is...

Pistachios; nuts, not seeds, but very possibly seedy.

Sorry about the delay, folks; I'm still trying to get back into the swing of things...

When my German friend came for a visit, he arrived bearing gifts - mostly food and drink. It turns out that he had also been informed by a mutual friend that I am rather partial to pistachio nuts, so he bought three bags for me. Two packs had the shells on, but one was salted and the other simply roasted. The third pack contained shelled pistachios. Shelled and skinned, but unroasted and unsalted.

(In answer to your unspoken question, yes, they are meant to be green.
They're also one of the healthiest nuts you can eat and they last ages.)

When I opened the pack of shelled nuts, to see such a vivid green was interesting. Julie was a tad perturbed, until I pointed out that was how they were when free of shell, skin and salt.

I tell you - I nearly choked on my nuts.
Um.
Perhaps I should rephrase that...

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For more information on pistachios, drop by this site.

Bonus post - cautionary canine creation

Yesterday, Julie was less than supportive of my desire to have a dog from a rescue centre. However, as you may recall, the topic arose because we had been discussing some distressingly poor examples of poochdom. The most common example was what essentially appeared to be nothing more nor less than a toupee with legs and teeth. Then there were the big, fluffy ones. Usually Bernese mountain dogs crossed with Alsatians or huskies and lumbering along with lung conditions that'd make hardened smokers wince in sympathy.

However, one dog topped them all. After a little searching, I reckon what we saw was actually a Mexican hairless chihuahua. I love the fact they had to add 'Mexican' to the description, considering chihuahuas are Mexican in the first place, being given the moniker after the town of the same name.

 It's an ugly little thing, for sure, but more than that, it's a pathetic creature. I mean, you have to remember that things like this are descended for wolves. That, ladies and gentlemen, is genetically so close to a wolf it's almost identical.
Looks nothing like a wolf, does it?
Or, as Julie put it,