It’s not what you eat
This evening, I’ve had several trivial food items come across my plate, so to speak. Since nothing of note happened in the world today (if you can’t trust Fox, who can you trust?), I’m going to offer them up. Tasty morsels, so to speak, although, like cheap Chinese, you may be hungry in half an hour. Not my fault; I was forced to remove all of the trans fats.
The lovely local dish, poutine, has a name filled with history it would appear. A researcher at Laval University has found more than 2400 separate references in “the literature”, going back to a time when people wore fur because they could. Now, there is some disagreement on whether this dish is the national dish of Quebec. My wife believes in something known as Paté chinoise, but I much prefer cheese to canned corn. Both are calorific and quick to prepare. Only one requires the assistance of the McCain brothers in procurement.
While trying to provide a rapid meal for son #1 who has to work this evening, I went up the hill to everybody’s favourite chicken palace. Which was closed, because they’d run out of wings and things. First time I’ve ever seen a fast food place closed for the day (on a holiday evening, to boot) because of supply problems. If I was the manager, I’d be very, very afraid. No bonus for you, old buddy.
The local sub place now has more bread types than they do varieties of processed meats. I’ve made bread, and adding a bit of spice or ersatz cheese doesn’t make it into a new variety. Although, in reflection, neither does changing the name make processed meat taste any better or add any nutritional value. Thankfully, they do add a healthy supply of fodder to the sandwich line (lettuce, tomato, onions, peppers, pickles, olives, etc.)
At home, I missed the meal of the day, which involved some sausages and rice that had been prepared, by me, in my absence. Isn’t LOW a wonderful burner setting?
That’s it. That’s all. The holiday weekend is over and I must go to bed, to sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, there’s the rub, for in that sleep must come the rude awakening of my trusty alarm clock, which has been on duty for more than a quarter of a century now. Thank you, Mr. Radio Shack, where’re you may be.
