- Our oven exploded last Friday. We were attempting to bake the perfect pork rashers, but its drippings inadvertently ignited a flame which eventually became a fire. Soon enough our flat was filled with choking smoke and we had to douse the oven with water. All this quietly occurred in under ten minutes - no dramas, no panicking, no screaming. Surprisingly, everyone (all seven of us) kept very calm and for a while there it seemed like everyone OD'd on downers. We dealt with the fire in an extremely business-like manner. I thought I was the only retard who was thinking about how we could possibly rescue the meat, but during our post-fire conference it was revealed that all of us were thinking the same thing. The whole episode ended with us still salvaging the burnt rashers and eating them with gusto.
- I have been eating so much meat (pork, to be specific) lately and I am terribly ashamed of myself. Yesterday I had a handful of bacon for brunch and an immoderate amount of roast pork for dinner. Today's meals were not much different. If this goes on I will surely go to diet hell very soon.
- My appetite is legendary. What girl can out-eat the men in her family? I am also my friends' designated leftovers-finisher. Food for me is not just a purely physiological thing; I seriously think it should occupy a higher position in Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Good food makes me sublimely happy. My personal vision of heaven is a place where I can enjoy all the food I want, without getting heart palpitations or puffed-up cheeks.
- Whenever someone would cook for me, I would always get that warm-on-the-insides feeling. I guess it makes you feel adored, somehow, because it is quite rare to have someone willing to go through all the painstaking trouble of making you a lovely home-cooked meal. Two people cooked for me last week. One is a good friend who would get horribly excited at the sight of me stuffing my face with her heavenly cooking. The other person made me a sumptuous Italian dinner. Such a sweet gesture, but a friend argues that men who cook for you tend to harbour hidden agendas. It's all quid pro quo, he says. He might be partly or wholly right, but my theory is that whoever exerts a significant amount of effort to cook for you would also be capable of wounding you emotionally at a later stage. Isn't there a saying suggesting that the stomach and the heart are connected somehow?
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