After watching Ratatouille with my children yesterday, which was incidentally a welcomed respite from the unrelenting loop of Barbie DVD's which perpetually echo off the walls of my living room sounding like the fucking glee club on crack, I was quickly able to ascertain that the evening's fare would consist of just that - RATATOUILLE!
One of the main characters of the film, Anton Ego the food critic, triggered my need for this rustic dish of roughly chopped vegetables (peppers, eggplant, tomatoes, onion et al) with a smattering of herbs (parsley, basil, thyme) after his hardnosed facade yielded to a plate of food which had been prepared by a fucking rat. Where once sat a bitter and cynical conniseur of fine dining, sneering at every item of cuisine placed before him (he very much reminded me of me), was now an animated sprite of a man, spooning food into his mouth like a fucking lunatic. He...was....LAPPING IT UP!
Hmm. That's a bit of me, that is, I mused whilst beckoning for my wife to come hither.
I paused the movie so she could perform a thorough inspection of the dish.
"That food. My plate. 8pm. Don't be late". I was concise with my instructions.
And with this I journeyed to the local pub for an aperitif.
Yes, I rather think a bit of this should hit the spot:
However, my aperitif, which is traditionally several bottles of award winning ale with a stealthy slurp of Ya-Dong woven into the ensemble, this evening flourished into a full-scale fucking riot of a piss-up. The shopkeeper, who had been fortunate enough to come into a rather substantial amount of currency due to his recently established Viagra purveying venture, was serving myself, and several other regular patrons, nips of alcohol like his life depended on it. He was in such a good mood that you would've thought he'd just had the best session of pelvis jousting in his life - which made me think had he washed his hands - and then I started getting disgusted.
I arrived home several sheets to the wind and was subsequently informed that Ratatouille was regrettably not on the menu this evening as the required ingredients weren't present at the local market. To be honest, I cared not. I could've eaten a fucking frozen pizza at that moment in time and still been sufficiently moved to make 'nom nom nom nom' noises.
However, all was not lost. A Sunday roast of sorts had been prepared; roast chicken, grilled tomatoes and onions, hash browns and a rich pepper sauce.
Salivating, I removed it from the oven and procured a knife and fork before adjourning to my usually seat on the balcony.
I was in the process of revving up the cutlery when a misplaced elbow up-turned the whole fucking lot into my lap.
Initially, I attempted to eat it literally straight from my lap but it became most taxing and inconvenient, particularly because I was trying to watch Hell's Kitchen on my computer at the same time, so I reluctantly scooped it up en masse with my hands and dumped it on the plate.
Bon appetite..
Another culinary fuck-up.