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) :
- 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
- 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.