Spark In Darkness

He has a network of friends who work in various food service industries – butchers, abattoirs, someone who does something unspecified with fish. No doubt there are others. While I appreciate the yumminess, it does mean there is food shopping going on I am unable to supervise.

And with the holidays coming up, it is the season to eat until we explode in big messy chunks. There's a lot of feasting, a lot of hosting and enough left overs to last until February, it's always how we keep the holidays.

So high quality but heavily discounted meat is definitely high on my bonus list

Beloved buying it though?

His message (he is now out of contact as he always is when he suspects I may Ask Questions) tells me he spend "over £100".

"Over" is a vague word. Over can mean a lot. Over could mean we have a new mortgage. 

But it's not actually the money I'm too worried about - yes, despite Beloved's previous... issues. I am concerned that if he has spent a copious amount of money on high quality HEAVILY DISCOUNTED meat that that means he has bought a lot of meat

The man who bought the 22lb Turkey

The man who bought the 8 whole chickens

The man who bought the 5lb ball of mince

I fear there may be a whole cow in my kitchen with Beloved next to it saying "at least it's dead!"

I fear even more there may be a whole cow in my kitchen, with Beloved next to it saying "it's alive so it's fresh!"

Don't get me wrong, i mean he has managed to stick to this obsession for years now - that's almost unprecedented with him! Normally his attention span wanes 12 minutes after he's found out how to load the credit card with useless things we'll never ever use (like his tropical fish which are still in our living room and he still has little to do with them). So a hobby that lasts this long? Excellent!

And he's shockingly good at it- at least, so I can guess from the actual harvests he produces which is a) bountiful b) tasty and c) not mutating into evil monstrous plants that try to eat us. Now, my gardening prowess involves going to a wonderfully "wild" (i.e. "completely ignored") part of the garden and sitting down with a book (sitting on a blanket or bench - not on the actual GROUND with the DIRT and the INSECTS!) and I would actually rather murder the neighbours and be covered in arterial spray than get covered in dirt and fertiliser - so I admit some level of being impressed by this.

So this is all of the good, yes? Well, yes. It's just... too much of a good thing hits at times. And in July and August we have the SUMMER FRUITS DELUGE! Cherries, Strawberries, Raspberries, Brambles, Gooseberries, Black Currants, Red Currants (what do you actually DO with these anyway?).

Last year I made a lot of jam. Which we still have because we don't actually eat much jam; I gave some away but everyone starts to get that "looking for the exits" look because they fear I may press more fruit preserve on them. Also, jam is one of those things that you never ever wants to eat again once you've actually made it (and realised that it's actually 50% sugar. You thought you were eating healthy fruit? Ha! You might as well crunch your way through a bag of caster sugar).

And yes there's loads of cakes and pies you can make with fruit - and we have, all the lovely things. But there comes a time when you've eaten the 9th creamy, meringuy fruity desert that you just crave chocolate. Or treacle. Or cheese. Or anything without berries. 

There is one solution to this inundation - ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream. Exactly how long can ice scream freeze anyway? I worry about the ice cream. Ice cream always seems to be something that is oddly random compared to most of what we make - there's always chance of us producing odd, pykrete like blocks of indestructible yumminess

So... either I have a freezer full of tasty, fruity ice creamy goodness

Or I have the makings of a Summer Fruits Aircraft Carrier.

And gooseberries. Why do we grow this many gooseberries? Does anyone truly love gooseberries this much? I don't know what possesses him, I mean between us we eat just about everything. We're not fussy eaters, we'll try anything 3 times (the first two times it could have just been cooked badly. Third time and still awful? Yes, that's just awful). and usually like what we eat - yet he has this truly magical talent for producing large amounts of the few things we don't love: Gooseberries, Kale, broad beans and worse.

It's a special talent.

Me: beef wellington, wine sauce, sauteed spinach, sauteed potatoes and cauliflower puree. Also pate, crisp bread and cake.

Beloved:.... Marry me.

Me: I already did

Beloved: That's because I'm awesome and have super power of foresight.

Me: And saw this meal?

Beloved: Exactly.

Me: But you haven't eaten yet, it could be awful?

Beloved: if it is then I would have foreseen it and wouldn't have married you so you wouldn't have cooked it.

Me: So... if this meal is bad we have a paradox?

Beloved: Yes, the whole timeline will collapse and the world ends.

Me:... I better check the seasoning then.

Beloved: uh-huh. OR the Doctor will come and put things right and we can them ambush him and become Companions

Me: Do you think he'd take us?

Beloved: he took Pond.

Me: Gods no - I'm not getting all excited hear the Tardis arriving, running out and seeing the 11th doctor. That'd be cosmically unfair.

Beloved: then you better check the seasoning - end of the world or being stuck on the Tardis with Pond and Not!Tenant.

Thankfully for the world (and our not becoming the first companions to murder the other companions, imprison the doctor and repeatedly kill him until he regenerated into Tenant again) the seasoning was perfect.

 Your own parents implying you’re a danger to children is… not an easy thing to swallow. Especially since we were both pretty much convinced they didn’t have a problem in that area. Turns out hypothetical jokes go out the window when possible reality looms (not that it is, but they thought it was). It just got worse from there, it’s like a decade of carefully bottled bigotry broke the dam and splurged everywhere.

It was bad.  His parents way of dealing with this “let’s pretend it never happened and never talk about these things again” isn’t sufficient to mend any rift – and agreeing to disagree on whether or not we’re child abusers is not on the cards either.

 To rub salt in the wounds, Beloved’s sisters are working over time… to make excuses. They’re not saying what the parents said was right, but they are brushing it off, downplaying it and generally jumping on the “la la la la didn’t happen!” train to eternal family peace. I know this train, it runs regularly in my family.

 It hasn’t been easy for Beloved.

 To this add that I have resolved to remove things from my life that aren’t helping – urged by Beloved with his usual good sense but a whole new level of impatience for homophobic bullshit. One of those things is Not!friend who is a good friend of Fs but, frankly has had years of driving me up the wall. I could list the many times she has annoyed, offended and infuriated me but that’s a post in itself; in a nutshell, she is the epitome of the straight woman who thinks gay men (no, sorry “the gays”) are cool, fun toys and pets for her amusement, she has no sense of boundaries, is incapable of treating gay men as individuals and believes her oh-so-coolness makes her a member of the community happy to speak at length (and in judgement) of things she knows fuck all about, complete with slurs that “totally don’t matter because it’s me” -  and she never ever learns no matter how many times she’s been told she’s out of line.

 We dumped her which was a relief – but she still hovers around like a freaky freaky stalker and she’s been giving her friend F endless grief because of it. I sympathise, it’s not a nice situation for F to be in – but nor am I  - are we - going to listen to apologetics from F about Not!friend nor am I particularly thrilled with F for basically tricking me into social situations with Not!friend. F has had a front row seat to a lot of Not!friends antics for a long time now and I am… saddened that she thinks I should brush this constant aggravation aside or that it isn’t that much of a problem.

 I’m saddened because F was one of the few straight people who was in my “safe” box… now, I’m not so sure. Beloved isn’t as close to F as me but he’s similarly vexed and I spoke to him about how my trust of F had been damaged. And he asked me if he’d come out – I said she’s straight and he said, basically, that I should have known  better than to consider her safe in the first place.

 Which isn’t very like him. Very like me, certainly, but not so much like him.

 Beloved has always had a talent for deciding someone or something is no good for him and then removing them from his life entirely; in some ways he’s always had an even lower tolerance for homophobic bullshit than I have. But he’s always been more… affable about things, less suspicious, less cynical. That’s always been my thing. I expect the worst and am grimly unsurprised when I’m inevitably right. Beloved hopes for the best and when he’s wrong, he shuts it down and moves on, hope relatively untarnished; he bounces back. He doesn’t go in expecting the worst, he doesn’t consider open trust naïve – or didn’t. But if this straight people are untrustworthy then who can he trust? I don’t have an answer for that.

I don’t know… is it weird to have wished that my husband could have remained more hopeful than me? Was it really silly to expect Beloved to be relatively untouched when I’ve always said before that it’s nearly impossible to be GBLT in this world and not have your illusions irreparably shattered? It’s not that he wasn’t painfully aware of homophobia before – far from it, like me he is no stranger to violent attack and discrimination and a whole lot of intolerable bullshit – but he came through it still bright, still positive, still open, still willing to trust and extend a vast benefit of the totally undeserved doubt. No matter what the straight world threw at either of us, he always kept his hope and a general positivity.

 Are they solely responsible? No, this is very much the last straw on top of many other straws – but the camel’s back is now broken and I’m not sure it will ever be fixed.

We will, for the moment, leave aside the fact I didn't ask him to, that he didn't know what I intended to cook, what vegetables I intend to use (if any) or even, really, whether the vegetables he was chopping even remotely go with each other, let alone anything else I intend to cook. Also, of course, "chop" and even "peel" can mean many things depending on what veg you're cutting and for what recipe

I mean, I wouldn't mind if he'd chopped an onion. The chances of me not frying and onion in butter and garlic no matter what I'm cooking is pretty remote. All food starts with chopped onion, butter and garlic. Well, almost.

But, no, I will leave that aside. For now.

But I do object to him chopping the turnips

Because we do not have turnips.

We do have pomegranates.

I think you can see where I am going with this.

I... can't quite fathom how one mistakes a pomegranate for a turnip.

I'm also not sure why, even if shocked to find your "turnip" contains a multitude of ruby red seeds, it is quite necessary to spread those little seeds everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. 

Oh, and if he'd checked the oven he would find the chilli, nicely slow cooking away, already made and in no need of any vegetables at all

No turnip needed

And most certainly not needing pomegranate. 

I don't know whether to declare eternal love and a promise to accommodate any and all kinky requests forever (once I've finished playing) or to curse him out for destroying my time when he KNOWS i'm busy, damn it.

Can I do both?

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Must resist.... muuuuuuuuuuuust resist the shiny. I have work to do! Work! No games! WORK!

Ah hell, I'm screwed.

This is how he terms it.

I think of it more him buying a list of things he wants to eat and expects me to make. He resents this interpretation of events.

And yesterday he found a recipe for a kind of Brioche (French faffy bread of faffiness that is faffy) and the recipe for it is even more faffy than your average faffy French recipe. Supposedly it’s sweet, rich and very very light. Now I’ve made brioche before and it didn’t even remotely resemble this recipe

Because I looked at the recipe and saw “500g flour, 250g butter, 5 eggs” and declared that it isn’t bread, it’s cake. It’s cake with yeast in it. It’s cake without enough sugar. But it’s still cake. Twice flour to fat and lots of eggs = cake batter. It’s a sponge cake pretending to be bread. It also has 140ml of milk which, with the eggs (let alone the butter) is a metric fuckton of liquid.

But, fool that I am, I agree despite it taking 2 days. And I try to knead it. Oh how I tried.

I would not wish kneading this stuff on my worst enemy. It isn’t bread dough. It’s porridge. Cement porridge. It’s a batter. It’s the gloopiest, stickiest, nastiest stuff you ever did do battle with. You could build buildings with it, it resembled sawdust suspended in vomit, it looked like something they serve you for breakfast in Scotland, it grabbed hold of spoons and wouldn’t let go and if you go it on your hands then, suck it up because you ARE losing a layer of skin. In frustration I corralled the sticky mass into a food mixer and, something I hardly ever do, tried to get it to do the kneading. And the motor nearly burned out. This stuff nearly killed my mixer. It still has sticky goo invading its crevices. A long, hard rehabilitation awaits before it can rejoin kitchen society

The funnies part was when Beloved read aloud the instructions to “tip it out onto a lightly floured surface and shape into balls”. After trying to murder him (damn he can move fast when he wants to), I made a hasty dam to stop the substance from oozing off the counter top.

After wrestling it into the oven (not a cement mixer which may have been more appropriate) and cooking it we did end up with something that very closely resembled bread!

And we cut into it and it was so incredibly light – you could cut it with a butter knife.

BECAUSE IT IS CAKE

It’s unsweetened spongecake with a crust and a bread-like flavour. It tastes like bread, it has the texture of cake. Which is, apparently, correct – but but but why would anyone want this? Why do you want bread with the texture of cake? Why do you want crumbly bread? WHYYY?

And why would you spend so much time and energy making bread with so little substance? Why? Because this is French cookery for you – endless faff for damn little reward *harrumph*

It is a little redeemed watching Beloved try to make sandwiches with it.

In defence to the recipe, I have found 2 issues that are Beloved’s fault:

Flour. He assures me he hasn’t mixed up my flour containers and put the wrong kind in the wrong tub. He swears he hasn’t. He’s also a lying liar who lies. Because that “strong white bread flour” had wholemeal in it.

Butter. When I say “I need 250g softened butter” he interprets that as “250g of spreadable alleged-butter”.  Which doesn’t solidify when fridged of course.

Being under the weather I couldn’t face cooking – odd I’m not nauseous or not hungry, but I am hellaciously exhausted.

Which is a problem – because there’s WANTING to eat, yet not being able to cook and facing… Beloved’s offer to cook instead.

There follows the sudden moment when I desperately try to think of what is in the freezer – surely there must be something ready made? Something I’ve already cooked that Beloved just needs to defrost and warm up? Something he can’t ruin too much? Maybe…

It’s like a scene from a horror movie where the protagonist is desperately trying to remember if they’ve locked all the doors, or think of a way out or where there’s a weapon and in a panic they just can’t remember and the monster – the horrific ghastly monster – is just getting closer!

And I have to remember exactly what I’ve frozen – I mean, I know I HAVE frozen meals because I always do… but if I say “yes I fancy lasagne” and it turns out that I haven’t frozen a lasagne, Beloved will then attempt to make a lasagne. The very idea makes me want to cower in terror.

I could say “go see what I’ve frozen because you cannot cook and will kill us all if you try!” but then he will INSIST on cooking to prove that he CAN cook and then he will EAT whatever he cooks and declare it delicious even though it’s a complete and utter lie and the toxic slop can’t even be fed to the cat without us being arrested for animal cruelty. Then I go without food and have to put up with Beloved making himself ill.

So I declare I will cook. A creative lie helps allay suspicion – cooking helps me relax, cooking will take my mind off things, cooking will be good for me! Ha - better for me than poisoning at any rate

Except exhaustion means I don’t do the sensible thing and go rooting in the freezer early enough to defrost and I eventually roll into the kitchen only when too hungry to do anything else (and Beloved was making threatening moves in that direction).

I could have ordered take away, but Beloved lived on it while we were away and looked faintly green at the suggestion.

So… cheese. Screw it, cheese, crackers, fruit and bread (that which is still fresh). We always have immense amounts of cheese lurking in the bottom of the fridge, in the salad crisper to make sure anything green and leafy and healthy is aware that this is a calorie loving household and not to get too comfortable.

Ok not the most involved of meals but we love cheese and eating up some of the vast stock isn’t a bad thing. Except... the brie

 I don’t know where this brie comes from but we always have this massive wheel of brie. Now I’m not against brie, we both quite like brie. A little brie now and then is a good thing. A little – so why do we always have this huge great wheel of cheese that could feed half of France? I would accuse Beloved but I can’t see him getting enthusiastic enough about brie to buy this – if it were cheddar or wensleydale, yes – but not brie. Maybe we have a crafty cheesemonger who can manipulate him into inundating us with unwanted French cheese? Beloved swears it’s not him and I know it’s not me – so if no-one is buying brie where does it keep coming from? Do we have a secret brie mine? The brie elves visit? Or maybe it’s breeding….

 Then there’s the eternal stilton. Now this, I do know where the Eternal Stilton comes from. My uncle – who has given us out own bodyweight in stilton every damn Christmas ever. He does the same with everyone, I don’t think he has ever given anyone a gift that wasn’t a metric fuckton of stilton. His kids first birthday? Stilton. Wife’s anniversary? Stilton. Daughter’s wedding? Stilton! I think he must have shares in the dairy.

 Sure it’s nice in a few recipes – but how much strong blue cheese can you just eat? It’s not like you can put it in sandwiches!

 Even if we liked stilton, this package is too much. No-one likes stilton this much. It’s not actually possible to like stilton this much. Eating this much stilton would actually kill someone. It doesn’t help that it’s in a ceramic container so doesn’t rot and reach a point where it can be thrown away – especially since, as it’s blue cheese, it doesn’t really go off anyway

 But it does get more… pungent. It is now locked in its little ceramic box and… we dare not open it. And if we dare not open it, we cannot check it to see if it is time to throw it away. But the ceramic lid fits really tightly. It’s sealed, I think.

So it remains, in the cheese drawer. Tightly sealed. Watching. Waiting. One day it plans to escape.

 And then may the gods have mercy on us all.

So Beloved and I are having a brief little tussle.

 We have a doorstop in our kitchen. And I hate it.

 Firstly, you have to understand I like my barriers. I hate open plan. I like my walls. I like closed doors. I like curtains drawn. I like a house to be made of lots of little boxes that can be nicely sealed away from the outside world. And a door’s default state should be CLOSED.

 I also cook. I don’t want the door open when I’m cooking, smoke and grease and cooking smells permeate the house and sink into the soft furnishings. This is common sense.

Beloved leaves doors open. This annoys me, I’m constantly closing them after him and plotting revenge

 But in the kitchen? He uses a doorstop. WHY?! Why would you want to prop the door open?! He claims it’s because he often has to leave the kitchen with hands full of plates and pots. This is not an excuse, the door is easily opened and he does that maybe once a day. But he uses the stop, which I have to fight with and kick across the floor several times a day. And the times I’ve stood on it in bare feet

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it

 And now I’ve thrown it away

 An hour before the binmen came. Beloved couldn’t rescue it. We now don’t have a doorstop.

 VICTORY!

 I emerge victorious from the field of battle, battered and with sore feet, I did prevail and the doors are now closed.

 Beloved is now amused. Beloved is plotting revenge. I will be ready for him.

Beloved: *smells cooking* ooh what's for dinner?

Sparky: Chicken.

Beloved: Again?

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