The 3 P’s of Italian Culture

With month-end pressure at work, and the fact that we’re leaving for a one-week mini holiday tomorrow, I decided to just post one of Sir’s demented mails to prevent my blog from getting cobwebs…..

First, Sir received an email from ‘The Canadian’ about an article written on the hysterical 2012 boycott against Woolworths for their alleged racist employment policies:

Guess you guys living there are aware of the intensity of this boycott … are you all complying to it and not going to Woolies for your chicken or your cappucino fix?  Sitting on the other end of the world, I’m not sure what is really happening – but it does sound like a good ‘fight’ to fight from here … but what are your views?

Let me know … and say Hi while you’re at it!  Would be interesting to hear from you all …

THE CANADIAN.

To which Sir responded with his usual diplomatic flair:
Who has cappuccino at Woolworths, I ask with tears I my Navy Blue eyes? Shit my eyes are not really blue, so I will rephrase that. …with tears in my daughter’s navy blue eyes…..NO fuck why should she shed any tears at all because of Woolworths.

Fuck delete the first line altogether! I mean I could delete it myself, but I just don’t see the point, besides it’s my funny way of protesting. So there Mr Woolies take that…

I have two views on this all, and I would like to tell you that Woolies was selling Pasta at R16.00 a packet, so fuck the Capuccino and fuck the chicken – at that price I am in no way taking a stand against the hand the feeds me, so to speak.

Pasta, Parmesan, Parma Ham, never ever fuck with those three things. Also, don’t fuck with the wife of very big dudes, it can be sore. Unless of course you can distract the bastard with a morsel of any of the Divine “P,s”…I strongly suggest a couple of slivers of Parmesan in a pocket can be a life saver. The Pasta (Spaghetti) can be a cool weapon, Rigatoni, not so much, unless you are fast and clever and can make a whistling sound with them (like blowing into a bottle), so it acts like a Police Whistle. It is obvious this should be a raw Rigatoni as a cooked one flops around a little like a spent penis…..and is hellish hard to blow into……(also like a spent penis).

Parma Ham is probably the kakkest weapon of the three but has other endearing qualities. Have you ever been at a Cocktail Party, a little drunk and slipped on a piece of Parma Ham the fell to the floor? I do not know why cartoonists use the old cliché “Man Slipped on a Banana Peel” thing, when Parma Ham is the obvious choice??

Also, reading the article below I do not know what this fuckwit means by saying “We are going to eat you for Breakfast??  I mean dude are you boycotting them or are you still going there to get those lekker free Range Eggs, that neither Pick and Pay nor Checkers seem to have?

Know what I can say…….., black, white or coloured, Woolworths trains their staff fucking well, and in my mind that is truly ’empowering people’………so if it is so easy, I would simply go into competition with them.

Just remember little things like Pasta price rule the world…..not this drivel…


L
ove and kisses
Sir

 


Wave to the Greek Friend

I have created this section to post random whackjob letters and emails written by Sir, which I’ve managed to save over the years. I’ll post something every week, time permitting.

The following is a letter Sir wrote to a Greek friend of his in 2008:

Hello,
My dear friend of Hellenic descent, I write to wish you a good 2008, where money of a serious currency finds you; sexually you find satisfaction like a goat shepherd with a large and willing herd, and healthwise you start to look like those happy fucking families in vitamin advertisements.

All that said and done, I am afraid some chastising is in order….. A few days ago I saw you and your father driving in that old Mercedes Sports car of yours that one only really sees old 60’s porn stars still driving, wearing bad sunglasses and a lot of gold. Of course, at first I was embarrassed and I  thought of ducking under my steering wheel to avoid eye contact but this would have been a silly move as avoiding the incautious manner our minibus mass transporters drive could also have been stupid.

So I decided to brave embarrassment and waved proudly at my old friend, who not only is deaf but evidently equally as blind. I did not notice you waving a white stick in front of your lame steed, so I surmise you drive with the trusted bump and avoid method.

I also sadly noticed (since watching CSI MIAMI and its spin offs I have developed a gift for picking up on detail) that your once jet black hair is splashed with a white grey, but I shall not comment further.

You were no doubt in deep conversation with old pops, presumably bitching in that hideous guttural language of yours about crime, Jacob, Thabo, and of course our good friends ESKOM. How I remember those days when we used to have braais at your place and the whole hairy-backed family would break out in hating our esteemed politicians and the countless criminals, your mother occasionally going off at a tangent and proudly showing her pace with Weber’s newest and latest spare part.

We, (my fine wife and I) also had the scourge touch us…. Carnivores as we are we decided to go have a bite at The Hindquarter in Craighall, and we sat down to order food and generally be merry, I went to the gents and donated some of my finest urine, shook the little man, washed diligently (hands), wrestled with the paper towel as the air drier was being held to ransom by ESKOM, and in my usual debonair way left the gents, walking into utter chaos.

One look at my wife I noticed something was amiss and also the subtle words of my lady..”GET THE FUCK DOWN SHIT IS HAPPENING HERE”, made me realize the situation was not exactly lending itself to culinary pleasantries. In my absence 4 or 5 armed Neanderthals came in, pistol-whipping staff and patrons taking bags, cell phones, jewellery etc, beating an elderly woman and fleeing, shooting at a car complete with two kids, thankfully missing.

As you can imagine this left us perturbed, my wife in particular, who is a quivering mass of nerves, which  in a strange way is quite funny because she is a little chubby and the quivering often makes me chortle which makes her furious. On the upside this shivering and quivering makes for very good sex, and thank God we have purchased a VIBROSHAPE BELT to counteract these movements for eating and other such activities.

However I do think we should actually meet soon, I swear to speak slowly and clearly, and am brushing up on my sign language.

I hope this email finds you well.

LOVE AND KISSES

SIR

Attempted murder amongst friends

I did some housekeeping on Facebook last week. I only check in occasionally, usually to catch up on the antics of friends in Australia, New York, London, Canada and Saudi, so I don’t pay attention to messages and notifications. My Facebook ‘friends’ are people who are too far away to pop over for lunch on a whim, or they’re bloggers and authors whose work I enjoy reading, or they’re family.

Lucky for me I took a massive pair of hedge clippers and cut the family tree down to a mini Bonsai some years ago and the secateurs are always nearby in case any branches need further cutting or stabbing into place.

Onto the messages, where I came across this one from someone I was friends with in my early twenties: “Hi Desire. I sent you a friend request two years ago and have been sending messages ever since which you’ve ignored. You’ve also not accepted my friend request. May I have an explanation?” Yes you may potential stalker. Because fuck you. I hope your natural eyebrows have grown back by now.


Most of my friends are 40-something and could not be bothered with Facebook so catching up with them requires more than just logging in. I like spending one-on-one time with friends, (and like the same thing with Sir for different reasons), at most perhaps meeting 2 friends at a time, because they’re all so different and fulfil very different ‘friend needs’.

When girlfriends get together in big groups, it usually ends up as a husband/boyfriend bashing feast, something I’d rather avoid. One bad word said about your spouse will be remembered forever by your friends, so I’m not an eager participant in these groupie things. Getting together as a big crowd with spouses in tow are truly rare events because suddenly everybody (or just that one somebody) becomes a potential husband-snatcher, or as is most often the case – the men drool like rabid Rottweilers over the hottest girl in the group. Admittedly, even I drool. (Come to think of it, since the last big crowd social Sir has employed a standard response to any invitations of this nature – “Fuck. Right. Off… Fast.”).

Generally though, large groups of women getting together is just a bad fucking idea, too many catty claws and the inner bitches are let off their leashes, it’s like Hormone Soup from Hell.

My friends are all so completely different that I cannot imagine all of them being in one place together at the same time. They range from the delinquent sisters (not my sisters – they’re bitches) who make you howl with laughter until everything hurts, at one extreme; to blonde power-house shrinks who often bury their faces in their hands and sigh “Oh Dessy!”, real ladies at the other extreme.


There are the friends Sir and I have accumulated over the past 17 years as well, people we decided score A+ on the Fucking Awesome scale who’ve been adopted into our “Epic Lunch Friends” club. Some of them are professionals we pay for services rendered strangely enough, but their awesomeness demanded that they be classified as “Friends of Sir and Desire” as well as deliverers of services.

But, we also have acquaintances. And people we ‘have’ to socialise with. People we encounter at social functions but would never dream of adopting as real friends. Because they use the word ‘summer’ as a verb, and that pisses on my battery in a really bad way. I cannot stand stuck-up people. I cannot stand people so devoid of humour that they pencil laughter-times into their diaries and do it in private because a good belly-laugh is deemed so uncouth. Fuckers.

Sir and I tend to stick together at these events and whenever we get a private moment out of earshot we discuss the other guests’ bad breath, or what wild animals their genitals probably look like or whether they’re personal friends of Herman the Haemorrhoid. Some of the stuck-ups are nice people though, even more so when you’ve all shared a good laugh at their expense when they blew a big snot-rocket onto their perfectly tailored jacket. It’s the ones who cannot laugh at themselves or anyone else I cannot stand. My favourite people are those who laugh their arses off when someone else falls on theirs. There’s nothing funnier than people tripping and I feel a kinship with anybody who appreciates it as much as I do. I also like people who appreciate sarcasm, because it really is the best defence against idiots.

Alas, there have to be stuck-up, miserable, sour people in the world, so that the rest of us have something to mock the shit out of. Sir and I can pull off ‘classy’ really well. We surprise those who invite us and have panic attacks for weeks beforehand worrying about how we might embarrass them. At my best friend’s wedding, we were seated at the “delinquents’ table”. Best wedding ever. We had such a good time with the delinquent sisters, and made new buddies from another faraway place. The wife had a shaved head and she had us believe that she just liked a breezy scalp and only at the end of the evening did her husband, an author, let us know that she had shaved her hair off for Cancer Shavathon and he was in fact a car salesman. A damn good one I suspect.


One of my best friends is a lot older than me. I think her first pet was a dinosaur. She is 70. She retired last year. She’s become a real downer. She bitches at me constantly because I do not own or want a wedding ring, or engagement ring for that matter; and I don’t use face creams. I think getting my face creamed counts. Oh and she gets really uptight about the swearing. We bought her a big vibrator for Xmas one year, but she actually reported back that it was too big. I think the thought was way way more important in this case.


My best friend Ho and I go back some thirty years. One boring afternoon after school, we were about 14, we each ‘engraved’ a heart on our left hands with twigs. I picked my scab – Ho didn’t pick hers. Mine scarred. I still have that heart-shaped scar on my left hand, and I’m rather fond of it. The only other things I have clung to sentimentally for more than a couple of decades are a cowbell I got from my friend Michelle before she left to go and study in Switzerland, and a keyring I got from Lou, now an attorney in New York and one of the awesome people I keep up to date with on FB. I still use the keyring today and although keys have come and gone, my keyring has never changed.


But back to my bestie Ho. We went to Modern Dance classes together where every Monday we’d crack up at our loudly cracking knees, adding some additional beat to “Flashdance” and really pissing off our dance teacher (who was from the ‘seriously sour’ class) who must have been so glad to finally see the back of us three years later.

We also took French Kissing lessons together. Our friend Lisa, who attended a Catholic school, (say no more), used to slip us tongue and teach us technique in the afternoons before she had to rush home for her obligatory ‘rest’ period. I’d accept a friend request from Lisa. Girlfriends are really important for our sexual development and confidence. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I just realised that it was also a girlfriend some years later who taught me the skill of the perfect blowjob. That is pretty disturbing because I’m not into girls, but they do teach well don’t they?!


Then there was the attempted murder.

We were 15. Ho, Lisa, Sam (voted most likely to become a high-class hooker) and I were all in my bedroom. Sam and I were lying on our backs across my double bed, with Ho sitting at my head and Lisa sitting at Sam’s. We were getting facials. I thought Ho’s face was hysterically funny from this angle, and burst out laughing. Ho promptly dropped a cotton wool ball into my mouth.

Which I inhaled.

And it got stuck in my throat, absorbing everything and turning into a little superglue ball that wouldn’t budge. I could not get enough air into my lungs through this obstruction. I panicked. I tried to scream. I tried to cough. I got dizzy. No…….. air. Ho threw a glass of water at my gaping mouth. It felt like a lifetime and like mine was about to end, with a fucking pink ball of cotton wool in my throat. And suddenly I coughed it up. Finally. I had a really sore throat for days afterwards. And that’s how I nearly died.

I seriously hate facials.


Today’s recipe, was Monday’s dinner. Poussin Veronique. Or if you prefer…… Veronica’s …………. Baby Chicken. It’s like Rosemary’s Baby, or not even close. And since I promised after the last post to redeem myself with something a little more tasteful this week – here it comes (no swearing – you giggle at “poussins” your problem; no sexual innuendo, not even in the chicken’s endo, no facetious comments) :

 

POUSSINS VERONIQUE


 

Ingredients:

  • 2 Double Poussins
  • Handful of fresh thyme
  • 2 Tbsps Butter
  • ½ Cup Dry White Wine
  • Rind and Juice of ½ Lemon
  • 1 Tbsp Olive Oil
  • 1 Heaped Tbsp Flour
  • 1 Cup Chicken Stock
  • Medium Bunch of Seedless Grapes, Cut in Half
  • Salt and Black Pepper

     


 

Method:

  • Preheat oven to 180⁰C.
  • Place herbs inside the two poussins (…………….. sigh)
  • Heat half the butter in a casserole dish and brown the poussins on all sides. Add the remaining butter and the wine, season to taste, cover and cook in the oven for 20 to 30 minutes.
  • Remove the poussins, and with a pair of kitchen scissors, cut them in half, removing the backbones. Keep the liquid in the casserole dish.
  • Arrange in a shallow ovenproof dish, sprinkle with the lemon juice and olive oil, and place under a hot grill until lightly browned.

     


     

  • For the sauce – mix the flour into the butter and wine mixture in the casserole dish and whisk ensuring there are no lumps. Blend in the stock, and bring the sauce to the boil.
  • Season with salt and pepper to taste, add the lemon rind and grapes, and simmer for 5 minutes.

     


     

  • Spoon the sauce over the poussins and serve immediately, with baby vegetables. And little cute baby carrots. And petit pois. That’s what people who use the word “summer” as a verb call baby peas.

     


 

THE BARON RECOMMENDS:

Poussin always goes very well with a Chardonnay, but a medium-bodied red such as a Pinot Noir, a soft Merlot, or even a Chianti works well too.

This Post is Below the Belt and Offensive to Camels

My best friend Ho and I ventured out of our comfort zone on Saturday for a spot of shopping at a glass wholesaler, and we were, as usual, boisterous and red a lot of the time. If people could have heard the running commentary and opinions pouring out of us on Saturday they would have set angry camels on us! You just know you’re in foreign territory when the GPS bitch’s pronunciation of road names makes you howl with laughter and encourages many wrong turns just to hear the next insane name pronounced.

On our way back we decided to ditch our original lunch plans and pop into an interesting looking foodie spot which was obviously very popular judging by the huge number of cars in the parking areas. We were also joined by Ho’s mom, Doris – not her name, we just call her that. Walking through a lovely garden to the main restaurant, we heard a donkey braying. The three of us decided that this might be quite an adventure after all, and we entered the restaurant, which was open and airy, and there were lots of different areas with tables in the vast gardens as well.

I looked around at the people and wondered if we’d stumbled into auditions for a remake of Deliverance. Doris wondered how many people there owned banjos, and my friend Ho was hissing “Piet, los jou sussie uit!” (Piet, leave your sister alone!) The whole place was surrounded by some farmyard setup, and the people there might have mistaken us for local wildlife because we were like deer caught in headlights. We accepted a table in a corner inside, from where we had a full view of everything and everyone. And things just went downhill from there.

We ordered a bottle of champagne immediately. The waitress, obviously surprised and more accustomed to orders for beer by the quart, asked if it was a special occasion. I said “Yes, US”, and my friend Ho told her to just ignore me and that we were celebrating her birthday, which we totally fucking aren’t doing until late May thank you, but she felt that was the most gracious way to answer the waitress instead of explaining that it’s just our tipple of choice. Our Ma-Moer-Vir-Pa-Juice. (MOER (slang) as defined on Wiktionary : To hit someone very hard).

The big-hair lady from Coco Bongo the week before would have felt right at home here – the big up-out- and all over the place hairstyles were abundant. A really interesting-looking crowd walked in and straight through to a big reserved table in the garden. One of the women in the group looked super-scary and possibly halfway through a gender reassignment process – we tried not to openly stare in case we antagonised the local wildlife into a confrontation but Just. Could. Not. Stop. Staring. Then I hear Ho grunt under her breath “Hey, I wasn’t born this way I was moered this way!”.

How I managed to stay seated and upright is a mystery. Too much to take in. Too much to be afraid of. Too many fanfuckingtastic insults slipping off our tongues and laughter verging on hysteria. We just managed to compose ourselves when I heard Ho say “Ah no fuck here come the Flintstones.” I looked up to see all the waiters heading to our table with a big plate of ice cream and a sparkler! Yay for Ho’s birthday!!!!!! They sang and clapped and EVERYONE looked! AND, they sang the Spur birthday song. WTF! Get your own birthday song! By now Ho just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

Just when I thought we’d hit the lowest low, things got worse. A lady walked past our table laughing and greeting someone entering the restaurant. My jaw dropped and I turned to Ho and said “Holy shit she has such a dreadful overbite she could eat an apple through a tennis racket!”.

Ho stared for a minute, tried to imitate the look and said “How the phuhk doeph she phold towels?!” I’ll give you a minute. Picture it. Folding towels. I am truly so sorry.

According to 1000 Ways to Die, a person actually CAN die from laughing. Fuck that was close. I believe it.

And then it was time to visit the farmyard. We played with the donkey and whispered obscenities to the goats. But the camels were special. Fugly. The fuck I gave went that way but here’s a camel’s arse:

And new furry friends and camel toes…

Ho decided to try and feed one of the camels and warily approached in ninja mode. I looked at the camel’s gaping mouth, and then at Ho, and in a whimpering voice I said “Ho, I think my dad’s come back as a camel.” It was hometime. (Two years before his death, my dad had all his scary smoker teeth extracted to get dentures).

As we walked out we passed a few crowds trickling in, and the men all had bigger boobs than the women! Quietly chanting “Jerry! Jerry!” we made our way out of Springer-ville and back to civilisation.

I am truly sorry if my post offended anybody, and if it has, I hope you find the X in the top corner of the screen. And don’t forget your banjo.

Because this post is really lower than a resting camel’s testicles, the recipe this week is for my special Penis Cookies (and Bikini Bum Cookies!). I made these for Doris for Mother’s Day before, and for Snaphappy to take to a bachelorette party last year. You are of course free to cut your cookies in whatever shape you wish, perhaps angels.

PENIS AND BIKINI BUM COOKIES

Ingredients:

  • 125ml Butter (again – the REAL stuff, the good shit)
  • 250ml Granulated Sugar (not castor or icing or whatever they call cocaine nowadays)
  • 1 Extra Large Egg (I can recommend a farmyard you can get these from..)
  • 1 Tablespoon Milk (May need 1 more) Seriously – the bracketed info is not me being facetious. More milk may be needed.
  • 5ml Vanilla Essence (or a teaspoon of Holy Water if you haven’t got any – because then they’ll be evil crappy cookies)
  • 630ml Cake Flour (don’t compact it please otherwise it really becomes like 800ml which is just a fuckup waiting to happen)
  • 10ml Baking Power (helps the penis rise to the occasion, and keeps the bums perky and uplifted)
  • 2ml Salt (I think all penises have some salt?
  • Icing pens in various colours, and small decorations. (It definitely states PENS).

Method:

  • Using an electric mixer, beat the butter until it is pale and creamy. Add the sugar and beat until it is well blended with the butter.
  • Add the egg, milk and vanilla essence and mix well. You may want to grab a wooden spoon and continue by hand because the mixture is going to start getting quite STIFF.
  • Sieve all the dry ingredients together, and add it to the WET mixture. (The obscenities come naturally in this recipe don’t they?). Mix everything together really well, wrap in clingwrap and put in the fridge for half an hour before rolling out the dough.
  • Preheat the oven 180⁰C.
  • Roll the dough out to about 4mm thick, and then cut out whatever penis cookie shapes you want. For the bikini bum cookies, use a heart-shaped cookie cutter, and then just slice off the bottom third of the heart – turn it upside down and hey presto! Arses everywhere!
  • Place cookies on a baking sheet about 2cm apart, and bake for 12 minutes or until golden brown.
  • Allow to cool and serve dusted with icing sugar.
  • For the bikini bums – use icing pens to draw a simple bikini outline, and fill in with various coloured icing pens, or make your own by mixing about 1 cup icing sugar, 1 tbsp soft butter, 3 tbsps milk to form a thick but runny icing.

Eat as many cookies as you like – I don’t think kissing arse makes you fat and Sir always says – “You can’t get fat from eating too much penis Cookie!”

I shall try to redeem myself with a slightly more tasteful post next week.


Too much wine, too much hair and a wheel of cheese

On Saturday morning more than a dozen family members boarded a flight to Thailand, where Sir’s nephew will be getting married next week. Sadly, Sir and I are kinda Thai’d up with the businesses which we cannot just abandon for a waltz in Phuket. Thankfully the whole family arrived safely in Thailand and the pilots had no desire to participate in any hide and seek contests.

The night before, we went to dinner with my stepdaughter Snaphappy and her boyfriend One-Bean (because he’ll put a single bean on his plate to give the impression that he eats veggies). We had such a great evening I woke up the next morning with three new laughlines, a headache and stiff stomach muscles from laughing way too hard and way too much the night before.

There was live entertainment (as opposed to what? Dead entertainment?) at the restaurant and the group of crooners was actually very good. During a sublime rendition of Frank and Nancy Sinatra’s ‘Something Stupid’ a magician from the Congo appeared at our table. I’m sure he didn’t just appear straight from the Congo at that second like magic, but I’d already had two glasses of wine by then and believed anything was possible. My one glass of any alcohol probably equals any normal person’s one bottle, so I was as giggly as I was chatty.

How cool is this magician? (Lighting did not lend itself to great or even average photos I’m afraid!)

I loved his tricks making things disappear because I could shout ‘It’s in your hair it’s in your hair!!! Which of course it never was. I wondered if the missing front tooth was the result of a magic trick that didn’t work out quite right. I suspect the tooth is somewhere in his hair. I wonder if he needs a pillow when he sleeps. Sir was blown away when Hairman did some trick where his phone ended up inside a balloon…. Squeezing big things through small tight holes will always hold a piel appeal I suppose.

During the magic time, an apparition with some serious fuckoff hair walked past and I thought Motley Crüe was arriving to take over the entertainment. I wouldn’t blame the wine entirely – check it out –

Hey! The 80s called and they want their hair back!!

I am Cher she had just been out of the dating / socialising / blow drying game since the mid eighties. Hopefully someone gently lets her know that teasing is out, and no means no. Nowadays I suppose playing hard-to-get is no fun because the guys are not as pushy and determined as they were a couple of decades ago (I say a couple because I was definitely still a virgin until the late eighties so wouldn’t really know). So if you’re into a guy and hoping to bump uglies with him, Sir would say “Just COMMIT to the moment (doesn’t’ matter that he says this to me when I contemplate risky manoeuvres on the road – same principle), Dab your ankles behind your ears and go for it!”. OR you could do as Caron (Will & Grace) would say – “Point your heels to Jesus and think of handbags!”.

Anyway, Snaphappy and I ended the evening with a shot of tequila to test her breathing method to prevent the post-shot-shudder some of us get from a hit of strong alcohol. I laughed so hard my lungs even left me temporarily, in disgust.

When we got home later I had a mammoth air-boxing psychowave battle with something flying around which I could not pinpoint properly. When I realised it was a microscopic little moth a Chuck Norrisesque battle ensued to cause the little fucker’s demise. Sir did a brief interview, shoving a remote at me for comment. I was so caught up in the moment I wanted to flick my nose with my thumb and spit a big shiny gwelly right there on the floor.

And on that texture and colour, it’s on to this week’s recipe.

 

Boozy Camembert in Phyllo


Ingredients: (Serves 4)

2 Camembert Wheels, quartered. (It’s actually halved, but then some morons will cut it in half like you would do for layer cakes, and I just don’t feel like explaining that you’d end up with big flat thin discs of cheese……… so. BUT if you get it, then totally, cut in half. In fact, do that, otherwise it complicates the rest of the recipe)

40ml Port OR Sherry OR Balsamic Vinegar

40ml Olive Oil (hope you don’t get suckered into buying the shit that is cut with motor oil and paraffin)

1 Tin of Cranberry Sauce (Total waste because you are only going to use 4 tablespoons of it, but if you’re up to it you can totally leave some ideas for the leftover cranberry sauce in the comments section)

Freshly ground black pepper

Phyllo pastry – 12 squares approximately 18 x 18cm.

Melted butter. A lot is always good. And I mean BUTTER. Not that anaemic shit for lowering cholesterol and running on the beach with a healthy heart.

I’ll make up for the lack of good pics by just dumping a LOT of pics…………

Method:

Preheat oven to 180⁰C.

Start with a sheet of phyllo, brush generously with melted butter, layer with a second and third phyllo sheet, brushing each with melted butter.

Please a camembert half in the centre, and stab the top of the cheese like a crazed lunatic. No don’t. Be gentle, just make a few delicate little incisions. Drizzle 10ml of the port or sherry or balsamic over the cheese followed by 10ml of olive oil.

Season with freshly ground black pepper, and top with a modest tablespoon of cranberry sauce.

Bring the corners of the phyllo pastry together and twist it into a little parcel around the cheese. Brush generously with more melted butter and place on a baking tray.

Bake in a preheated oven at 180⁰C for 20 minutes or until the pastry is golden brown.

(If the camembert is very ripe and runny, put it in the freezer for 20 minutes before starting assembly).

Serve immediately.

 

 

The Baron Recommends:

The boozy camembert is a bit of a conundrum, but I would say that a light fruity red or even an off-dry white should accompany the balsamic vinegar option, and that some of the same port or sherry used in the other versions should find its way into the crystal…

(Lots of crystal here -) And is that MY martini glass full of flowers?

(PS – I have finally updated my “About” page)

And finally finally – anyone know what HTML code I can use to just permanently change the font and font size for my blog? Right now, at the beginning of each paragraph I am using <span style="font-family:Arial; font-size:14px;">

Tedious.