Archive for September, 2011


Tuesday, September 27th, 2011

My neck could wring like that of the girl from The Exorcist.

Fuck you, super-flexibility.


Adventures in Cooking, Pt. 25453

Tuesday, September 20th, 2011

You know, I cannot fathom potatoes. I mean, why are they again? Sure enough, I appreciate the taste of mashed potatoes and potatoes fried in a pan (not to be confused with the phenomena called “french fries”, because french fries these days have little to none to do with potatoes), but honestly, plain boiled potatoes?

It takes a bloody big effort to make edible food out of potatoes to begin with. You peel them, then you slice/cube/cut-in-wanted-manor them and then you most likely boil them, which in turn takes weeks. And you end up with hands that are covered with starch and have to be washed with a lot of soap and a near-boiling water. And then in a nutritional sense you end up with a thing that doesn’t taste like anything and isn’t that nice to chew on.

I hate potatoes mostly because I’ve had my share of accidents with them. I once cut my hand so badly cutting a raw potato that the woman behind the counter in the local drug store almost fainted. And there are the proverbial elementary school SURPRISE!!!1 -potatoes. You know, the kinds that seem to be wrapped in a potato coloured rubber skin and once you penetrate that membrane you end up with a half-centimetre thick edible part which in turn covers the pitch black inedible, unspeakable horrible something in the middle of the thing.

And just now I managed to defy laws of gravity by accidentally tossing a potato in such a way that even the masters of snooker couldn’t imagine. I suppose it didn’t want to be cut, since it tried to dodge the blade by slipping from my hand with a speed that I assume just barely didn’t break the sound barrier (if it did, people of The Hill, i apologize for my fleeing tater). It went from the point marked with a black X to the wall, bounced up on the stove, ricocheted to the side of the fridge and bounced by the oven handle to the floor. Thus:

Honestly, I was so dumbfounded by the Amazing Travels of the EverPopular Potato that it took me like a minute to even manage a O_O .

Naturally our floors are always in such a clean condition, that I merely pulled up an “oh bugger “-face, rinsed the potato and brutally murdered it. It will (hopefully) become a part of mashed potatoes and fishsticks. And I just remembered that there is a now probably mummified piece of another adventurous potato under the dishwasher.

And that is why I hate potatoes.