Firstly (and that's the second time this week I've started with that word) a word of warning. If you are cooking jacket potatoes, and the temperature dial on the cooker goes up to 250 and then switches to GRILL - make sure you don't turn it too far. In about 20 minutes you'll be wondering what that burning smell coming from your oven is, and will then curse loudly when you realise your mistake.
Tomorrow: Why a toaster in the bathroom is both convenient AND dangerous.
Right, on to today's post. I have to be quick as I've got a lot on tonight. I've got to write this blog, and do some Sign Language revision. I've not been doing it for a while, but as I'm going to evening classes in September I want to get this online course under my belt. On top of that, I want to watch the Newcastle vs Man Utd match - I'm hoping that Newcastle can beat Man Utd as that would be a massive boost to Arsenal, who were their usual rubbish against Liverpool. Apologies if this post is patchy, I've got lots of little things to say, and one bigger thing.
Living by myself means that stuff like milk lasts a long time. I get through 4 pints in a week if I have cereal every morning, and have lots of cups of tea. Sometimes, I will take longer to use the milk up, and as a result get slightly suspicious of the milk as I get closer to the bottom of the plastic carton. Now this might be psychosomatic, but often when I pour the last of the milk into my tea it looks like it's coming out lumpy - as it would if it had gone off. Generally this occurrence is followed by a check of my tea to see if any telltale white lumps float to the surface, and a cursory sniff of the milk carton. I don't know why I bother sniffing the milk carton AFTER I've poured the milk - I'm hardly likely to pour the milk, see the floating white blobs of badness, sniff the carton and then say to myself "oh, it is off!" and then still drink the tea (whilst trying not to vomit).
Although, I do on a regular basis take a cup of tea to bed and forget to drink it - that is, until the following morning.
We all know the urban myth about eating cheese late at night makes you have nightmares. It doesn't - it's a fallacy (is that the right word? I always worry that I'm using the one that refers to the Penis). What it does do, is give you cheddar breath, and that means no kissing anyone. Unless of course the person you intend to kiss has been eating Branston Pickle, raw onion, ham, or Marmite. or anything else that goes nicely with cheese.
If you haven't tried cheese and Marmite - you should.
There should be more food myths, something like these:
Eating Yogurt late at night makes you sleepwalk. If you eat too many Bananas, the overdose of Potassium will change the colour of your eyes. Spicy foods limit how high you can sing. Broccoli is poisonous to Albinos.
The potential here is limitless. Parents could use this system to get picky children to eat the foods they don't like - "You don't like Spinach? I knew a boy down the street who used to run all day, but he didn't like Spinach either. Then one day - both his legs fell off. He never ran again. You like to run, don't you?"
I'm sure it would work.
It will be 12 years this May since my Dad died. he died on the 17th May - three days before his birthday. I've been told by members of my extended family that I am a lot like him in my mannerisms and personality. Some say I look like him, but I'm not so sure. I've certainly inherited his sense of humour but will never be as great a man as he was.
There is something else of my fathers that I have inherited. This may sound a bit weird, but I've inherited his smell. I'm not talking about the smell of sweat or anything like that, but he had a smell, a scent might be a better word. I remember sitting on his lap when I was small and just hearing him and smelling him.
Now, I have the same smell - not all the time, but every now and then. I noticed it tonight as I was getting changed out of my work clothes. Whenever I smell it, I smell my dad and it's like I am small again, sitting on his lap, or giving him a cuddle.
For all children, it's always too early to lose a parent. When my dad died, I was 28. I had my own place, a full time job, great friends - but I still needed him. His job wasn't finished, and it still wouldn't be finished today if he were alive. I miss him each and every day - but the fact that I can still smell him brings me so much comfort and happiness.
One last thing. I've just run the spell check and the word Yogurt doesn't look right to me. I've spelt it again with an extra "H" (yoghurt), but that looks wrong too. If I have spelt it wrong I apologise. I should have used "cream".