Never Ending Sorbet

As one of those people who likes to enjoy themselves in a kitchen full of ingredients and produce lovely things, I have a selection of gadgets that clamour for attention.

Though, sadly, no Kitchen Aid. Otherwise I would be just mixing stuff up all the time.

Carole bought me an ice cream maker a couple of Christmases ago. Because I love ice cream. Like to a ridiculous level. So it stands to reason that the way to my heart is via something which you either have to keep part of in the freezer indefinitely, or know at least 24 hours in advance that you want to make ice cream.

It has been used in anger once to make some ice fream that was both very nice and ridiculously easy. Cheaters ice cream, in a way, as its base was made with custard. But apart from that, nothing.

But I figured I’d change all that and start getting into using it. And I thought rather than ice cream, I’d endulge in some sorbet. After all the house is swimming in fruit because we’ve been infusing waters and making birchers and all sorts of fun things like that.

So I did a quick google for lemon sorbet. I figured go in at the lowest sorbet level I could think of. I found a recipe for it by searching for a lemon sorbet recipe. As you might, in fact, suspect.

But the first result I clicked on didn’t bring up a recipe for lemon sorbet. Despite it being entitled “recipe for lemon sorbet and berries.”

The recipe, which I remember clearly, was part of the American Food Network website. It was by Rachael Ray who is – according to the interwebs – a television personality, businesswoman, author and cook.

If all her recipes are like this one, I’m going to dispute the cook bit.

Lemon sorbet and berries has three ingredients. Two of them are in the title. One is mint. The recipe, and I shit you not, told you to put some berries in a bowl, top it with a servibg of sorbet and sprinkle with chopped up mint leaves.

That’s not a recipe.

I’m not having it.

It’s not a recipe.

It’s, at best, a serving suggestion.

You’d expect to see a picture of the finished thing on the sorbet container. And presumably, once you’d struggled to even imagine how to put something like that together, you would then take to the internet hoping that soneone could help you assemble such a beautiful dish.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to try and fathom out how to make this thing I’ve seen on a packet of fish fingers…

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Tipping Point

The old mattress has been consigned to a council skip.

Huzzah!

When you first look at the prospects of transporting a mattress in a car, your first thought is that you just can’t do it. Then you run through a variety of scenarios in which the mattress is in the car but the boot is held down with a poorly tied piece of string and the mattress is poking out of the back, like when you hang tires over the side of a boat to cushion it against the dock.

Or, if it’s the structureless form of our mattress, you just fold it up, wrap some rope around it and pop it in the boot.

I don’t think either of us were thinking that it was going to be as easy as it was. I think the fact that our old mattress was so incredibly shite finally paid off. All those nights of restless sleep with springs and whatever else jabbing us in the kidneys was worth it. Because all of those contributed to the fact that it just folded like a piece of paper.

I mean, it wasn’t all plain sailing.

My seat – the passenger seat – had to be pushed forward so that I was basically upright and about a foot away from the windscreen. If that. I was so far forward my seatbelt wouldn’t fasten and I spent the whole journey sitting on it knowing that if we did have an accident I would have been out through the windscreen before the airbag even had chance to go off, that’s how close to the front I was sitting. It’s one time I’m glad Carole doesn’t go in for any of those dangly air fresheners, because if she did it would have been slapping me in the face for the whole journey.

When we got to the tip, we unleashed the mattress from its stringy confines. And I left Carole to lift it into the skip while I gathered up the ropes and laughed at her.

We had to stop our tomfoolery, though, when a kind man offered to help as he thought we were genuinely struggling rather than just pissing about because you don’t often see larking around at the tip. We, of course, didn’t let him help – because we could manage perfectly well together, once I’d stopped laughing at Caz trying to manhandle it by herself.

Anyway, I’d clocked that the kind guy had some sort of massive heavy looking thing in the back of his car, and if we’d let him help us we’d have been legally obligated to help him and he didn’t look like he’d appreciate any nonsense from us.

Needless to say, we scarpered before he got to it.

Transparency

As Britain falls apart around our ears, with denizens of the underworld finding the courage to rise to the surface and tell everyone who looks wrong to go home, there are some things you can count on.

Like the weather.

Dark days are ahead, again, but this time I am referring to the light levels, rather than the collapse of civilisation and the need for all of the Shires to put forward two champions who will fight to the death.

It was sunny this morning.

It’s pissing it down now.

I didn’t bring a coat today because, well, it was sunny this morning and because according to the label my coat wasn’t made in the UK and I don’t want to draw attention to that, just in case it is targetted with disgusting laminated cards in two languages telling it to fuck off back to the wardrobe it came from.

What it means, then, is that I am wearing my work shirt. A white inexpensive because meh workshirt.

And if there’s one thing white inexpensive workshirts like, it’s turning transparent when exposed to water. Like they have been crafted from the same material used to build Wonder Woman’s Invisible Jet. Or I’m in a wet t-shirt competition at a holiday camp that has allowed boys in as well as girls and I’m giving them a damn good run for their money.

A wet shirt clings to the its wearer like a damp shower curtain to an unsuspecting bather.

So I feel quite lucky that I managed to get onto the bus with little absorption. Employing a crafty technique in which I hid in the doorway at work until my bus was almost at the stop by I tackled a bit of the rain.

And this bus is warm. So any residual water has long since evaporated. But getting from the bus stop to home is going to be a different story.

So if anyone happens to see me, please would you just kindly let me and pass…

 

There Ain’t No Party Like A Donald Trump Party…

Donald Trump, the first attempt at allowing genetically modified corn to live as a human, was in the UK on the day of the Brexit result. Which is to say, Friday.

He had come over for the opening, or re-opening I guess, of Turnberry golf course which his son, a man who’s name I have not looked up, had been in charge of. Turnberry, now known as the Trump Turnberry Resort in a just-trips-off-your-tongue kind of way was, of course, one of the places that Trump Snr, the straw-haired business scarecrow, had threatened to pull all his money out of when we – a nation built from a collection of races and creeds – tried to ban him for hate speech with an e-petition and probably an aggressively managed Facebook group.

Since then, of course, it’s come to light that the majority of the country are massive racists who feel that the leave vote has given them the confidence to say a variety of twattish things to a variety of different people because we have spoken and don’t want your kind round here. In our pure British country which has certainly not been invaded, and impregnated, by the Vikings, Romans and French. So trying to ban a spaghetti-haired megaphone for something we’ve managed to stun others with is a bit rich.

But anyway, Trump on his arrival to Scotland took to Twitter because if there’s one thing Donald Trump likes it’s sharing a view. Even if that view is entirely wrong and made up, but does consistently contain a cheering populace.

Scotland, he said, was full of people excited to be leaving the EU. They couldn’t be happier, he said.

Scotland, as a whole, voted to remain a part of the EU. If you vote for one thing, and thr result goes entirely the other way you don’t tend to jump up and down with joy. When Rosie Ribbons crashed out of Pop Idol, despite the best efforts of a ten pound top-up and my fastest texting finger, I did not immediately start celebrating. I was sad and remorseful knowing that by the year 2016 I would be 90% sure I dreamt her entire existence as mo one else remembers her.

And the leave vote was very much Scotland’s Rosie Ribbons. I’m not contesting Trump’s claim that the Scottish couldn’t be happier. Because they couldn’t. Their happiness is limited, like the top speed of a van on the motorway. But I am questioning the celebrations that Trump saw. Because he’s seen them before. And they weren’t real the first time.

As our human custodian of the first shredded wheat fled from the scene of 9-ll in his heletrumper, trumpcopter or whatever he might call it, he said – many, many years after the event – that he saw Muslims, Muslims as far as the eye could see, celebrating the disaster. Rejoicing in the fact that they had brought down these icons of the West.

He didn’t though, did he?

I mean, for starters, how did he know they were Muslims? Is that his special skill? He can observe a celebration at a distance and tell you, without a shadow of doubt, what religion the revellers are.

In much the same way as he was beseiged by the celebrating masses in Scotland, he was apalled by the seething throng of happiness during 9-11. Not enough to mention it at the time. But enough for him to recall it, with crystal clarity, when he most needed an example of the naughty Muslims.

It seems, and I’m going to make a sweeping generalisation here but what’s good for the goose and all that, whenever there is a key moment in history, Donald Trump will always see a party. ┬áHad he been around at the time of the Titanic sinking, one can only imagine he’s have seen tiny droplets of frozen water dancing a sea shanty, or the moon landing would have found him absolutely sure that he saw some small woollen mice living la vida loca and eating blue string soup.

I don’t doubt that there was some kind of celebration in Scotland on Friday. I just figure it would be after he left.

The SS Great Britain

It’s been three days since the Brexit vote.

And it’s been an interesting three days.

The EU seem incredibly keen on us activating – or whatever the term is – Article 50, which leads to the conscious uncoupling if the UK from the Union. But we don’t seem that fussed about doing it – David Cameron took Friday as an opportunity to say “you wanted this, you sort it” and pack us his bat and ball before headibg home, and the straw-haired presumptive future leader has said there’s no rush. And practically the entire Labour shadow cabinrt has quit in the last 24 hours.

We are in a rudderless ship drifting towards the choppy waters of shit creek and we don’t have anything that can get us out if it because of a prohibitive trade deal on paddles.

Farage – politics’ Master Bates the Seaman – however, is not allowed in on any of the Brexit discussions so is jumping up and down and making as much noise as he can anyway, while casually forgetting the comments he made in May about petitioning for a fyrther vote if the result was 52-48 in favour of Remaining (sonething he genuinely did do).

It’s also been a weekend in which nany of the Leave voters have come out to variously say that they didn’t realise what they were actually voting for, or even that Leave would win so they just voted that way.

A lot of the Daily Mail readers were shocked over the weekend by an article on how the leave vite will affect them, not realising that their pensions and investments would be affected, or that the immigration they held so dear would work both ways and their dreams of a holiday home in Spain were floating down the river.

And a man in Barnsley voted Leave to stop the Muslims coming in from Iraq and Syria so, you know, you’ve got to wonder if people actually knew what they were voting for. Which they didn’t. They just saw Nigel Farage’s yellow-teethef visigog in front of a picture if a long line of immigrants, remembered him saying something about then coming over here and doing our sex crimes and voted to Leave. Because if an Englishman can’t even do his own sex crimes because of bloody foreigners, then what has this country become.

I don’t agree with any of the Leave campaign. I very much don’t. And there’s a lot of evidence to suggest that a decent proportion of that 52% didn’t have a fucking clue what they were voting for. But they are very keen to tell us that the majority have spoken. Some of them monosyllabically, but they have spoken.

So let’s see where this ship of fools takes us, with Farage at the bow, arms outstretched, shouting that he’s king of the world… shortly before asking Boris Johnson or Michael Gove to draw him like he does those French Girls.