Sugar never tasted so good.

Please note that this is a follow up to an earlier post entitled IT'S A CRUST.

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We had plenty of left overs on Wednesday night. I'd made Chicken Cacciatore in the crock pot.
God bless the crock pot. My hero.

Left overs are not uncommon in our house. Not at all.

I believe that both sides of my family have donated to me what I like to think of as "the catering gene".
Both sides, mind you.
There are only 3 of us here, but there's always plenty for 6 should the need arise.

Perhaps this familial inclination to over cater has come about owing to larger families, or maybe on Dad's side because they ran a butcher's shop and restaurant in Slovenia at some stage.

But somewhere, sometime, a portion of a DNA strand mutated within one of my female ancestors whilst she was innocently crumbing only 10 kgs of schnitzel for 3 people and bingo, Simone was condemned to a fridge full of Tupperware for all eternity.

But who knows?
Apparently not Charles Darwin.
I stood on his grave at Westminster Abbey recently and I'm none the wiser for it.

Leaving DNA out of the equation, perhaps we're just a generous, extravagant people who can't measure properly.

So, as the boys were clearing up after dinner, I was filling lunch boxes for the next day.
I asked Yoga Boy if he would like one.

"No," was his flat response.

After a few seconds (I had my back to him), I had to reply with, "What do you eat for lunch?"
I wasn't having a go, I just had never taken the time to imagine what he would choose for lunch and considering the rest of his diet, I was a little scared.

To my utter amazement, his reply was, "A salad sandwich."

A salad fucking sandwich!?

"BULLSHIT!", I shrieked at the top of my voice, quite reasonably.

Now, Yoga Boy hasn't ever read my blog, so he had no idea why I would be so interested or shocked by his lunch order.
In fact, he must have been thrilled to finally be able answer me without mentioning Tim Tams when I asked him about his diet.

Jeff on the other hand, knew precisely why I was all atwitter and had a good chuckle at both of us, as he often does.

Imagine discovering that these things actually exist!
And worse still, that the yoga doing, chocolate eating demon from downstairs is the one ordering them.
It's just too much for me.

I told Adrian that next time he ordered this nutritional holy grail that he had to phone me so that I could be absolutely certain that this event was taking place and that there truly is such irony and evil in the world.

And there is.
And it's readily available from The Industrial Takeaway from 5am, 6 days.

In the end, we went one better than the phone call. ;O)

Sugar never tasted so good.

My brother.

My brother has seen a great deal of the world. Perhaps because of this, he sometimes sees things in a way I simply cannot. This makes it all the more special to me when we grasp the same tangent.

I've always liked Adrian's photographs. He has a way of catching the world napping and preserving those moments which require no explanation.

I happened upon some of his pics from his last trip to India and almost cried due to their charm and humour.
They are mostly of animals doing odd things.

Our appreciation of nature is really very similar I guess.
Although I do think he is more accepting of it's nasty side than I am.

If a gigantic bull (see first pic) happened to walk up to Adrian's front door, he would simply look right back at it and say, "Oh, hello", and go about his business, leaving the bull to go about his too.

Uncomplicated acceptance.

Meanwhile, I would be trying to name it, pat it, feed it and work out whether it would fit on the lounge or not.

I would call him Brian.
And I would cook him rice pudding.
And we would all squish up so he could fit.