Sunday, October 2, 2016

Sweet, To Taste It ...

By which I am, of course, referring to this, which is absolutely excellent hot or cold. It's the sort of thing I make for myself when Margo is away, because it involves pastry. But be warned, caramelised onions are sweet, which may surprise some.

So anyway, the week started off really well when I went out to take the two big morons out for their walk one evening and I could not help but notice that the front right tire was completely flat. Rare are the cars these days that have a full-sized spare, so I had to put the dinky little galette on and, whilst I wait for the tire to be repaired, am thus obliged to drive around at a speed not exceeding 80 kph. Which is a) boring and b) surprising, because even at that speed I was not being overtaken when I went in to the market at Carcassonne this moaning. No wonder I bitch.

Having a puppy is very much like having a small child: you tend to become obsessed with bowel motions. Every time I come back from taking Widdling Emma for a walk I must report each dejection in detail and when, the other morning, I came downstairs to find not a single puddle of piddle nor pile of poo in the verandah, I rushed back up to write a letter to the local rag.

I should probably not have done that, for she took advantage of those five minutes of absence to make a veritable lake by the front door, but it's a start: those of you who childless live just can't begin to understand the excitement.

(Also, whenever we meet Angela and Martin, who have Emma's sister Manon, before we can proceed with other topics of conversation there are certain niceties that must be respected.

"Hey! I took Emma out this moaning and she had a crap just outside Cash and Terry's front door!".
"Damn. Manon didn't make it past the doormat. But there was no piddle on the carpet! And she slept through the night".

We don't have that many friends anyway, and now people seem to be actively avoiding us.)

Of course, that would be the day the weather broke, and after three months of drought it fair pissed down. But by the time I'd cleaned up Lake Erie there was but the occasional drop, so off we went - and got to about ten minutes from the house when the heavens opened again. Now you may not know what happens around these here parts when it rains heavily: let's just say that the phrase "flash flood" is possibly inadequate. Also, all the culverts are blocked with bits of crap that've blown in there over the summer, which does not help, but mainly there's an awful lot of water falling on hard dry slopes that has to go somewhere.

Which meant that we struggled uphill back to the house with about 5cm of water slooshing along the road: not that little Emma minds that one bit. In fact, I'm pretty sure she was looking about for deeper bits to go jump in, to get seriously damp.

Indra and Jara, on the other hand, were totally unimpressed. As were, I imagine, the vignerons, because it fell right in the middle of the vendange. Mind you, it had all dried out the next day so I guess there was no great harm done.

Anyways, Saturday we is confiding Emma to Angela and Martin, and Jara and Indra to the kindly care of Cash and Terry, before loading up the car with vast quantities of wine and heading off to see our friend Mad Karen, who will be celebrating her 50th birthday in her convent in Seyssel.

Having made it back from that, we took little Emma off to the vet on Monday for her first round of booster shots. And after the obligatory "Ooh she's just so sweet what a lovely healthy happy puppy" came the bit I really did not want to hear: "She's only 8.5 kg, I'd be surprised if she gets to weigh more than 35". Her mother was - mostly - spaniel: I suspect that Martin and I might have to go off and see old Charles and have a serious talk about child-support payments due from his enormous black Labrador.

Occasionally, as some sort of punishment for my sins, I do follow the American political scene and I've not been able to help but notice the gesticulations and brain-farts of Lamar Smith (whom God preserve), Republican of Texas and chairman of the House Science committee. (Which seems a bit like putting the fox in charge of the hen-house if you ask me, but then, the Murkins didn't.)

Not, it seems, content with issuing subpoenas left right and centre to the scientists at NOAA, who'd had the temerity to suggest that perhaps, if you measured it against the proper baselines, climate change was more significant than previously thought, he is now doing the same to the Attorneys General of a number of states and the SEC, who are looking into the admittedly murky affairs of ExxonMobil. (Admittedly there is a bit of consistency there, as the grounds for both actions are that First Amendment rights are imperiled. Well, colour me shocked.)

Whatever, I guess that issuing a subpoena to an actual AG might, on dim reflection, have seemed a step too far, for he called in a brace of lawyers to supply some legal justification. Which is what really interested me, if you must know, for one of these legal eagles rejoices in the name - and this is, apparently, true - of "Ronald Rotunda".

I mean really, people, what is going on here? At least Willy Wonka had the excuse of being a fictitious character, and everyone knows that Ronald McDonald is some sort of pervert killer clown, but can you imagine anyone - anyone at all - who a) having had the misfortune to be born one, would keep a surname like "Rotunda" and then b) having for reasons unimaginable decided to stay a bandstand, call their child "Ronald"?

I don't know about you, but personally I find that it beggars belief. (On the bright side and totally in keeping with the principles of nominative determinism, the guy seems to favour rather psychedelic bowties.)

Anyways, must go: we've yet another party to head off to, to celebrate the end of the vendanges, and I need to make a quiche.

No comments:

Post a Comment