Wednesday, May 10, 2006

I am not like the other people.

One of the relics of my upbringing (wolves, Westmeadows, 1981-2003), is what some would deem to be a highly specific set of rules regarding the preparation of food for my consumption. I demand a level of consistency and specificity of ingredients that leaves most people with a bad taste in their mouths, and a fatty clot in their medulla. In a workplace such as the one I work in, I look forward to the meal of lunch more than a healthy female of my age and species should. I have been known to devote the entire hour that falls between eleven and twelve in the morning fantasising about a very specific amount of pepper being crushed over a very specifically chosen slice of organic truss tomato, which is placed on a wedge of not but the finest, creamiest, oldest brie or cheddar I can locate at the time, which is placed in turn on only the freshest and crunchiest of savoy biscuit - all for my carnal eating pleasure.

I have also been known to create on-the-spot a la carte menus from scratch, using non-traditional ingredients, when my hunger pang demands the perfect combination of flavour and texture to be satiated. It was at this very desk that I formulated the recipe that would haunt my gastronomic dreamscape for months to come - the Pepermint Cashew Green M&Ms Salad. Unable to satisfy myself within the boundaries set by what society defines as a regular salad, I decided to create a salad within my own boundaries. On reflection, when comparing both salad definitions side by side, whilst they are analagous in several ways, I believe that my creation has evolved dynamically to the point that it is in itself a new phylum of salad. Yet, to my dissapointment, my colleagues' reaction was mostly gasps of abject horror as they passed my desk, where I spent most of the afternoon head in troth, carefully devouring each morsel, pausing only to wipe a hoof across my sweating brow.

A recent development has occurred in our staff kitchen that has sent shockwaves through the office and my salivary glands. A small plug-in toasted sandwich maker, of generic brand orgin, has been placed next to the microwave for our use. I took to this new addition like a moth to a flame. An hour after it's arrival, I had returned from my local Leo's clutching a bag of tasty toastables. Within this bag could be found the peice de resistance - A 250gram tub of Western Star Butter. Ladies and gentlemen, I pity the fool who would use a butter blend, or - heaven forbid - a margarine or canola-based cooking spray, when preparing a toasted bread treat. And before you even suggest it, the thought of deeming this magnificent topping unspreadable by refrigerating it makes me want to regurgitate black bile as I write it.

So when I returned to the kitchen for delicious toasty number two for the afternoon, I found myself struck with nausea when unable to locate my Western Star. I could barely breathe as I opened the fridge door - and there it was, cold and brittle as a Galway pipe on the frosted shelf. I decided not to overreact - it simply would not be ladylike. I believe in peaceful protest, so I chose to stand in the centre of our foyer, puffing out my chest and throwing faeces at everyone who looked at me sideways, until the culprit was found. Then I had it - a confession from our receptionist. She had seen MY butter resting safely at room temperature in the kitchen pantry and taken it upon herself to make a decision regarding it's welfare. After returning my property to it's rightful home, I took issue with the culprit. And her motive - a fear of the butter 'going off'. I could hardly speak from rage. I explained to her that as an adult woman living in this technically advanced era, I was free to enjoy butter at any temperature with little fear of spoilage. Her response was to grimace, mouth agape, indicating that my lifestyle choice was abhorrent to her. And so be it. We are all own people.

But mark my words, I will find a way to make butter spoil rapidly. I will use an internet search engine if necessary to carry out this task. I will collect my rancid creation in a receptacle and bring it to work. I will then bide my time. And, at a perfectly chosen moment, I will spread the mould encrusted mess on to a plain Cruskit, and noisily devour it in her face. I will watch her dry wretch in a spasm of revulsion, and I will snort with laughter.

And then I will be happy.


Blogger FEMBOTanist said...

Western Star??? Are you not aware of the camembert of all fat-based spreads?

Pick yourself up some Girgar butter,and spread it on your soft and crunchies.

You won't be dissapointed.

11:46 PM  
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