William liked cooking but the lessons with Uncle Frank were getting a bit weird.
Uncle Frank was a squat, balding little man with a strong Yorkshire accent; nobody knew why as he had lived his entire life in Thornbury. A firm believer in homeopathy he kept a Shetland pony overnight in the spare bathroom and smelled faintly of dung.
Each cooking lesson began with what Uncle Frank described as “the traditional abusing of the eggs” whereby Frank and William opened the fridge door to hurl oaths and abuse at the unsuspecting chicken by-products.
The main part of the lesson then usually consisted of William attempting to master the finer points of French cuisine as Uncle Frank shouted instructions from behind a door of tempered steel for, as he explained, “safety reasons”.
Today, however, was to be different.
“Lad,” said Frank proudly, “today we make pound cakes”.
Pound cakes, queried William.
“Pound cakes”, said Frank “hundreds of ‘em. In that way we can understand t' true nature of t’ pound cake.”
William thought Uncle Frank reminded him of that Asian bloke from the Karate Kid – provided the Asian bloke from the Karate Kid looked like a squat, balding Yorkshire man who smelled faintly of dung.
The following week William took up bass guitar lessons instead.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
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31 comments:
Right on.
Fucking eggs.
Eggs are evil and must be eaten.
I've always wanted a Shetland pony in my bathroom
Ew. Eggs. I'd yell abuse at them too. Smart man, that Uncle Frank.
Cripes, I hadn't realised there were so many eggophobes here!
The drawback, Squib, is that you would smell faintly of dung.
I would smell faintly of dung and Coco Chanel
Coco Chanel a bit on the whiffy side then, Squib?
I would smell faintly of dung and Coco Chanel
Ramon beat me to it Squib, I think Coco would be on the nose a bit. As an aside I read somewhere that she invented the bob by accident when a hair style or something went wrong.
And what the hell did the eggs do wrong? Besides coming first of course.
um...I don't get it
Coco's been dead for more than 30 years, Squib.
I suspect she's no longer fragrant as once she was.
I meant the eau de parfum, you fools
I got it squib. I also got Ramon.
I thought this was going to be a Bob piece, but no.
So, it's a political allegory, yes?
I meant the eau de parfum, you fools
I suppose that would be more attractive than "Rotting Corpse"
Eggs are evil and must be eaten.
I want to say something smart-assery about devilled eggs here, but I'm too lazy/tired/much of a numptie to think of anything.
By the way friends, I do make wicked devilled eggs (but not as good as my nan's). So I've been told.
I'm with Melba, Ramon. Is this some kind of gastronomised 'Animal Farm'? Is the egg Malcolm Turnbull? Or is Malcolm Turnbull a shetland pony that smells faintly of dung and Coco Chanel? Or are you saying that Squib is in fact Malcolm Turnbull?
Oh why, Ramon! Why can't Squib be Bob Brown!
On the other hand, is this just a story about a crazy uncle of yours?
I have no idea what this story is about.
It just popped, fully formed, into my head yesterday morning.
I might need to alter my meds.
It just popped, fully formed, into my head yesterday morning
like an egg, Ramon?
Melba and Kettle, I was also looking for hidden political messages. I almost googled 'Liberal Party egg abuse'
That happens to me all the time Squib.
You're a fellow scribbler, does that happen to you?
which one, Ramon?
Fully formed stories just popping into your head, Squib.
Just like eggs.
or perhaps in Squibs case, like Athena, Goddess of Wisdom
Not usually fully formed, no. Clearly my muse is a lazy bint
EO, are you suggesting I have owl shit on my head?
My problem is that my muse has ADHD, to the extent that she's bouncing on the bed at 3AM saying "oooh, oooh, why don't we do a post about giant shellfish".
It also explains why many of my posts have a slightly manic edge.
*ahem* deepest apologises Squib, if I have inadvertently implied you have owl shit for brains
oooh, oooh, oooh, giant shellfish! tell us a story tell us a story
What, Evil, you want the giant shellfish story?
Aphra will be pleased, she sulks when I knock back her suggestions.
Aphra....
Odd name for an imaginary freind.
Aphra is the name of my muse, Mr E.
She's currently in the spare room of my mind, eating peanuts, picking her teeth and wondering when we can have the first beer of the day.
A spare room in your mind?
Very classy!
All I have is old couch that folds out into a futon, left behind by some ideas I had the mid seventies.
EO, I forgive you
My muse is called Xanadu and she lives in a disco roller rink inside my hippocampus. It has blue carpet on the walls and ceiling
Mainly I don't like the way she sticks chewing gum behind her ear and leaves lolly wrappers lying around
I think you've got a dud muse there, Squib.
They don't make them like they used to
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