No more chip truck
The answer was much simpler than usual: Look in the other bag. You see, my supper involved a large ham, and what better for the side than some mashed spuds (peeled and cooked, of course).
I had a mental image of me, peeling a dozen golfball sized smalls. A lot of effort, when the alternate of noodles would be so simple. Still, tradition… Out in the coldroom, I turned left instead of right, and there was a whole other sack filled with 20kg of new, BIG potatoes. Easy to peel, easy to cook. Done.
My bag of alternate chocolate choices seems to have passed muster. So far, I’ve had a couple of truffles, but the evening lies ahead. Celebration!
Discovered a whole other branchline of the larger family tree today. Cousins of a nephew; the usual game changer. Here’s the thing; I’m sure that none of those involved realize the intersection of their circles. That’s the fun factor kicking in (I’m easily amused).
My son brought to my attention about a culinary tragedy in my old neighbourhood. Can’t believe I actually said that… The city has been busily trying to harmonize the regulations that were left over after the “great fusion” from several years back. Lots of important regulations, like when you can park on snowy streets, or fill your pool, or build yet another shed in the back yard. One rule took better than 17 years to get focus: food trucks.
Specifically, the only remaining french fry vendor in the metropolis, the one that used to park at the end of our cross street. It has busily cut and fried better than “a ton and a half” of stock, every week, all summer, going back to when our kids were babies. And now, despite paying for their permits and obeying the rules, the owners lost their request for grandfathering. The truck won’t be back, and the frozen fries will continue to set off smoke alarms, all around the town.
