Regular readers will by now be fully aware that I am married to a veterinary research histopathologist. This has its upsides (excellent carving and knife sharpening skills) and downsides (often has pig blood on face; more than usually interested in 'lesions', pus, etc). Our conversations often turn to matters 'scientific' (which does not include the incident in which I asked him if chickens hibernate).
Conversation 1
Scene: Dinner, Saturday night. We are eating Cornish hens, which are like usual chickens, but smaller and on our plates for us to carve ourselves. The pathologist is eating the leg. He pulls the leg away from the thigh. There is a white string. The pathologist holds it up to the light.
PATHOLOGIST: "See that? That is the sciatic nerve."
I am sick in my mouth.
Conversation 2
Scene: We are in bed. I am sucking NeoCitran (horse-strength) through a bendy straw and reading Barbara Vine's The Blood Doctor which is strange and, I suspect, may at some point involve human sacrifice. The PATHOLOGIST is reading The New Yorker. There is something in the book about dogs.
ME: You know dogs that've been neutered?
PATHOLOGIST: Yes.
ME: Can you get fake testicles to go in the empty pouches?
There is a long silence. The PATHOLOGIST sighs.
PATHOLOGIST: We've had this conversation before, you know.
ME: What? What? What do you MEAN, we've had this conversation before?
PATHOLOGIST: You know we have. I told you already. They're called 'neuticles', and they are very expensive.
I have no recollection of having had this conversation whatsoever.
We carry on reading. I slurp my NeoCitran. The cat coughs.
Monday, February 01, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I am slightly ill, but still (fairly) polite
I am ill enough not to go to work, but not so ill that I have to stay in bed sucking industrial-strength 'hot lemon drinks' (i.e., hot lemon crack) through a bendy straw.
The day has been spent half-asleep, doing some work and having some conversations and coughing in the way that makes you feel the bottom of your lungs are going to come out of your mouth, but without any phlegm in them.
Monkeymother, still fully in possession of her faculties despite a life-long battle with absinthe addiction and a penchant for earlier episodes of Crossroads, sends advice:
"I now favour weak tea with lemon and honey. Less acid. Put tea bag and slices of lemon in cup. Pour on boiling water (I know grandmother/eggs). Don't poke tea bag, just let it lie there and sulk a bit. Take it out. Poke lemon a lot and add fat spoon of honey. Much nicer."
She is correct! It is delicious and soothing on the monkey throat, and I shall drink it for the rest of my days, laced with a little cheap whisky.
Illness aside, things have been much as usual on the email front. On an average day, I get about 250 work emails (most of which say nothing), 20 nice emails, and about 100 emails from various things that I have unsubscribed to, including Your Pony and Catnip Weekly.
Prompted by this quite brilliant post by the fragrant and delectable Ms Baroque, I was more than usually sensitive to the tone of emails I got today. Most are charming: polite, to the point, brief, with a "hi" or a "thanks".
Some are not. For e.g., without giving the detail away, today alone I received some emails today that went more or less like this:
In reponse to 3 days of work by 4 clever people:
Hi,
All the work you send us was wrong. Here are my comments:
Slide 11: where did you get that information? Change it.
Slide 12: Did you make it up?
Slide 13: I do not agree.
Please change it where I have said. I do not have time to discuss any of it.
Thanks
Knobbo
Or:
What is this. It is wrong. It is not what I said. Who had this conversation. I want to know why it was had, when I said it was not necessary. I want your reply now. Who is to blame?
Or, worst of all:
Hi! I have done this work. [A 300 page Powerpoint deck is attached.] Please read it and let me know what you think by 11 - I have arranged a meeting with over 500 people and have to present it then.
Cheers!
Spanner
It is too much to bear! I shall lie down and cough and remember the days of faxes, letters, and good manners.
Pip pip!
NWM
The day has been spent half-asleep, doing some work and having some conversations and coughing in the way that makes you feel the bottom of your lungs are going to come out of your mouth, but without any phlegm in them.
Monkeymother, still fully in possession of her faculties despite a life-long battle with absinthe addiction and a penchant for earlier episodes of Crossroads, sends advice:
"I now favour weak tea with lemon and honey. Less acid. Put tea bag and slices of lemon in cup. Pour on boiling water (I know grandmother/eggs). Don't poke tea bag, just let it lie there and sulk a bit. Take it out. Poke lemon a lot and add fat spoon of honey. Much nicer."
She is correct! It is delicious and soothing on the monkey throat, and I shall drink it for the rest of my days, laced with a little cheap whisky.
Illness aside, things have been much as usual on the email front. On an average day, I get about 250 work emails (most of which say nothing), 20 nice emails, and about 100 emails from various things that I have unsubscribed to, including Your Pony and Catnip Weekly.
Prompted by this quite brilliant post by the fragrant and delectable Ms Baroque, I was more than usually sensitive to the tone of emails I got today. Most are charming: polite, to the point, brief, with a "hi" or a "thanks".
Some are not. For e.g., without giving the detail away, today alone I received some emails today that went more or less like this:
In reponse to 3 days of work by 4 clever people:
Hi,
All the work you send us was wrong. Here are my comments:
Slide 11: where did you get that information? Change it.
Slide 12: Did you make it up?
Slide 13: I do not agree.
Please change it where I have said. I do not have time to discuss any of it.
Thanks
Knobbo
Or:
What is this. It is wrong. It is not what I said. Who had this conversation. I want to know why it was had, when I said it was not necessary. I want your reply now. Who is to blame?
Or, worst of all:
Hi! I have done this work. [A 300 page Powerpoint deck is attached.] Please read it and let me know what you think by 11 - I have arranged a meeting with over 500 people and have to present it then.
Cheers!
Spanner
It is too much to bear! I shall lie down and cough and remember the days of faxes, letters, and good manners.
Pip pip!
NWM
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I apologise in advance to Mrs Patten, but cannot excuse the grapes
In the night, the dark thoughts come. Why am I in Canada? Why haven't I got a pony? What am going to do when I grow up? Why aren't I going grey (on my head)? What have I done with my English cheque book, why don't pedicures last, and why does my left heel hurt so very, very much?
But all this is as nothing compared to the new dark fear that gnaws at my toes whilst the pathologist slumbers: what if Marguerite Patten is super-'on it' with the internets? What if Marguerite Patten is bored one day and decides to Google herself? What if Marguerite Patten, author of 170 cookbooks which have sold millions and millions of copies across the world, television star, advisor and friend to many British housewives during the war and after it, reads my blog and is offended?
Mrs Patten, if by any chance you are reading this (you will be my fifth reader ever!!), I admire you very much. If I am rude about your recipes, it is not you: it is, or was, the food of the times (i.e., 1967) that we are being rude about. Your sausagey rolls are magnificent; the fruit with fish, not so. Margarine was king and garlic was not freely available anywhere when you were writing the recipes that crept onto my cards. Mrs Patten, the inevitable day will come with the pathologist plucks "Kidney Soup" out of the box. I will cook it, and I will eat it, Mrs Patten, and I will salute you with my spoon.
Interesting side fact about Maguerite Patten: the recipe cards I have are in American measures (i.e., cups), but are in French. That means that there was an entire edition made for Quebec only. I think this is quite impressive and probably quite a good indication of how famous she was. Or how terrible food was in Quebec as well in the late 60s. Maybe both.
But to business! What have we here? We have a strange evening, full of joy (sausagey rolls!), fear (sole poached for 15 minutes in white wine with grapes!), and finally confusion (a cake that does not taste as it looks).
Cooking by me, photography and commentary by the pathologist (transcribed word-for-word, as usual). Me, I speak in the italics. Here goes!!!
Roulés au jambon et au porc, aka ham and pork rolls
Imagine the most delicious sausage roll you have ever eaten, and this is what these are. I will give out the recipe if you want it. Easy if you can mince your own ham; not if you cannot. I can, because I am very fortunate. I would invent pique-nique opportunities just to eat these.
"They're delicious. What else is there to say?"
Sole Véronique, aka Sole Veronique
It is rare that I spit food out. It is also rare that you can poach any fish in wine in a hot oven for 15 minutes without doing it serious damage. If you do that to sole under which you have tucked some grapes, you should be arrested.
"You can chew it with your tongue. It’s sort of disintegrated. How long did you leave it? 15 minutes? Let’s try it with a grape. The grapes are firmer. You can just eat the grapes. What kind of sauce is that? It feels a bit like you’re eating fish Jello but it’s actually softer than Jello. [Squelching sound] I’m enjoying my old person’s meal. My no-denture-needed …. The grapes with it are just vile. Incomprehensible. If there is one word to define this dish, it is: incomprehensible. Or, if you’re more concise, just: why?
[Starts to sing]
“Pourquoi, Vénoronique? Pourquoi tu m’as fait ça?
[I ask if this is a song of Quebec.]
No. I just made it up.
At least you didn’t put too much work in it. Once again I must empathise with the poor fish who gets taken out of his depths thousands and thousands of miles away to end up in a plate that only inspires disgust. It’s very sad for the poor sole. I wasn’t thinking about the soul soul, I was thinking about the sole. Make of that what you want.
Reminds me of my aunt’s cooking."
Gâteau Renversé, a.k.a. upside down cake
Easy to make and what's not to like about making flowers out of dates and glacé cherries? Exactly. Sadly, however, all was not as it seemed.
“Might be extremely dry. Has that gritty feel under the knife. Oh dear. Reminds me a bit of last week’s adventure. It’s like there’s not enough fat or something in it. Maybe with a lot of milk. A LOT of milk. You cooked it upside down? It has a nice … um… how do you say … scrubbing action on the throat. It’s like if you’ve got any phlegm in there it’ll just brush it as you swallow.
I’ve got to have some milk. It’s not far from being OK, it’s just like she forgot one thing … one missing ingredient that’s supposed to make it into a cake … it’s a collection of very dry ingredients.
Imagine if it was the thickness she made. Did you do half the recipe? [No.] Then why is hers so high? It’s a mystery, isn’t it. Maybe you could write to her. She’s still alive, isn’t she? [I ask him why he is eating a second slice when it is so horrible.] I don’t know. It’s like a moth to the flame. I’m strangely attracted by its dryness. It’s like a black hole of fluid. It sucks away all fluid around it. A dryhole. That’s a bit dirty. It’s my self-destructive streak. Marguerite is bringing out my suicidal tendencies.”
When we have recovered, we will pick next week's recipes. I must confess I am looking forward to "getting down to it" with aspic. Fingers crossed!!!
Pip pip
NWM (and the Pathologist)
But all this is as nothing compared to the new dark fear that gnaws at my toes whilst the pathologist slumbers: what if Marguerite Patten is super-'on it' with the internets? What if Marguerite Patten is bored one day and decides to Google herself? What if Marguerite Patten, author of 170 cookbooks which have sold millions and millions of copies across the world, television star, advisor and friend to many British housewives during the war and after it, reads my blog and is offended?
Mrs Patten, if by any chance you are reading this (you will be my fifth reader ever!!), I admire you very much. If I am rude about your recipes, it is not you: it is, or was, the food of the times (i.e., 1967) that we are being rude about. Your sausagey rolls are magnificent; the fruit with fish, not so. Margarine was king and garlic was not freely available anywhere when you were writing the recipes that crept onto my cards. Mrs Patten, the inevitable day will come with the pathologist plucks "Kidney Soup" out of the box. I will cook it, and I will eat it, Mrs Patten, and I will salute you with my spoon.
Interesting side fact about Maguerite Patten: the recipe cards I have are in American measures (i.e., cups), but are in French. That means that there was an entire edition made for Quebec only. I think this is quite impressive and probably quite a good indication of how famous she was. Or how terrible food was in Quebec as well in the late 60s. Maybe both.
But to business! What have we here? We have a strange evening, full of joy (sausagey rolls!), fear (sole poached for 15 minutes in white wine with grapes!), and finally confusion (a cake that does not taste as it looks).
Cooking by me, photography and commentary by the pathologist (transcribed word-for-word, as usual). Me, I speak in the italics. Here goes!!!
Roulés au jambon et au porc, aka ham and pork rolls
Imagine the most delicious sausage roll you have ever eaten, and this is what these are. I will give out the recipe if you want it. Easy if you can mince your own ham; not if you cannot. I can, because I am very fortunate. I would invent pique-nique opportunities just to eat these.
"They're delicious. What else is there to say?"
Sole Véronique, aka Sole Veronique
It is rare that I spit food out. It is also rare that you can poach any fish in wine in a hot oven for 15 minutes without doing it serious damage. If you do that to sole under which you have tucked some grapes, you should be arrested.
"You can chew it with your tongue. It’s sort of disintegrated. How long did you leave it? 15 minutes? Let’s try it with a grape. The grapes are firmer. You can just eat the grapes. What kind of sauce is that? It feels a bit like you’re eating fish Jello but it’s actually softer than Jello. [Squelching sound] I’m enjoying my old person’s meal. My no-denture-needed …. The grapes with it are just vile. Incomprehensible. If there is one word to define this dish, it is: incomprehensible. Or, if you’re more concise, just: why?
[Starts to sing]
“Pourquoi, Vénoronique? Pourquoi tu m’as fait ça?
[I ask if this is a song of Quebec.]
No. I just made it up.
At least you didn’t put too much work in it. Once again I must empathise with the poor fish who gets taken out of his depths thousands and thousands of miles away to end up in a plate that only inspires disgust. It’s very sad for the poor sole. I wasn’t thinking about the soul soul, I was thinking about the sole. Make of that what you want.
Reminds me of my aunt’s cooking."
Gâteau Renversé, a.k.a. upside down cake
Easy to make and what's not to like about making flowers out of dates and glacé cherries? Exactly. Sadly, however, all was not as it seemed.
“Might be extremely dry. Has that gritty feel under the knife. Oh dear. Reminds me a bit of last week’s adventure. It’s like there’s not enough fat or something in it. Maybe with a lot of milk. A LOT of milk. You cooked it upside down? It has a nice … um… how do you say … scrubbing action on the throat. It’s like if you’ve got any phlegm in there it’ll just brush it as you swallow.
I’ve got to have some milk. It’s not far from being OK, it’s just like she forgot one thing … one missing ingredient that’s supposed to make it into a cake … it’s a collection of very dry ingredients.
Imagine if it was the thickness she made. Did you do half the recipe? [No.] Then why is hers so high? It’s a mystery, isn’t it. Maybe you could write to her. She’s still alive, isn’t she? [I ask him why he is eating a second slice when it is so horrible.] I don’t know. It’s like a moth to the flame. I’m strangely attracted by its dryness. It’s like a black hole of fluid. It sucks away all fluid around it. A dryhole. That’s a bit dirty. It’s my self-destructive streak. Marguerite is bringing out my suicidal tendencies.”
When we have recovered, we will pick next week's recipes. I must confess I am looking forward to "getting down to it" with aspic. Fingers crossed!!!
Pip pip
NWM (and the Pathologist)
Saturday, January 23, 2010
I try out some lines, most of which are proven to be unfunny
My loyal readers and fans will be more than aware of my ready wit, mordant turn of phrase, etc etc. Some may describe me as "hilarious", "very funny", "droll", "mildy amusing", etc. All this is fair and/or accurate.
But the truth is darker. The truth is this: there are some things I say once every few years (e.g. 3) in the hope that someone will find me as amusing as I find myself.
EXAMPLE ONE, first used c. 1987, i.e. the year before I went to university when everyone was on their "year orf".
Idiot Sloane/trustafarian with crap posh kid dreads: "So like, yah, I like, went to India to find myself".
Me: (pause in which I prepare myself for the genius about to spurt out of my mouth): "You can't have been looking very hard".
No-one laughs. I am surprised, as I think this is quite funny. I have since used this line five times. No-one ever laughs, apart from me.
EXAMPLE TWO, first used on Wednesday night; I have since tried it twice to no positive effect.
Me (flicking through ladies' magazine): If magazines worked, there would be no magazines. (I laugh for five minutes, shaking head at own genius.)
Pathologist (aka 'my husband'): Well, yes. Obviously.
Me: What do you mean, "obviously"? I think I am very clever, and also very funny! Don't you?
Pathologist: Are you stoned?
EXAMPLE THREE
I am generally pro-therapy (more than "pro", actually), but I am not pro- those people who have had therapy and then believe they are morally and intellectually superior to 'normal' people (i.e, people who have not had therapy).
Behaviour includes:
- Being a self-satisfied arse;
- Giving out advice that isn't wanted;
- Drawing hypotheses (that are wrong), then making a "really?" face when you contradict them;
- Doing the "I know what's going on here but you don't because you are not me!" face when you are talking about for e.g. your cat or a banana you once had that wasn't very nice;
- Being impertinent;
- Saying "my therapist would have an interesting point of view about that" when you do something innocuous, e.g. eat a pork pie;
- Saying "my therapist thinks..." as if it's going to cover up the fact the person in question is about to be a show-off, e.g. "my therapist thinks I am very talented";
- Doing a "wise monkey" face and looking at their drink when they are not centre of attention for 2 minutes;
- Quoting other people as if they are best mates with them, e.g. "well of course the Dalai Lama said...";
- Believing that having "been through therapy" = excuses all kinds of ghastly behaviour on the grounds that they "know themselves and aren't going to change".
I have been exposed to more than my fair share of these preening cockmonkeys over the course of my rich and fascinating life, and at some point or another they can't help but say something like this:
Arse: I know what I'm talking about, you know - I was in therapy for nearly fifteen years.
And I do not say, but wish I did (because in my head it is 'up there' with the magazine comment):
Me: You should ask for your money back.
In my head, this is the wittiest thing I have ever said, even though I have never said it!!!
Maybe things are worse than I thought, and maybe I should go on that Landmark Education weekend that all those interesting people have so earnestly recommended over the years after all. Or maybe I could stick hot needles in my eyes.
Pip pip!
NWM
But the truth is darker. The truth is this: there are some things I say once every few years (e.g. 3) in the hope that someone will find me as amusing as I find myself.
EXAMPLE ONE, first used c. 1987, i.e. the year before I went to university when everyone was on their "year orf".
Idiot Sloane/trustafarian with crap posh kid dreads: "So like, yah, I like, went to India to find myself".
Me: (pause in which I prepare myself for the genius about to spurt out of my mouth): "You can't have been looking very hard".
No-one laughs. I am surprised, as I think this is quite funny. I have since used this line five times. No-one ever laughs, apart from me.
EXAMPLE TWO, first used on Wednesday night; I have since tried it twice to no positive effect.
Me (flicking through ladies' magazine): If magazines worked, there would be no magazines. (I laugh for five minutes, shaking head at own genius.)
Pathologist (aka 'my husband'): Well, yes. Obviously.
Me: What do you mean, "obviously"? I think I am very clever, and also very funny! Don't you?
Pathologist: Are you stoned?
EXAMPLE THREE
I am generally pro-therapy (more than "pro", actually), but I am not pro- those people who have had therapy and then believe they are morally and intellectually superior to 'normal' people (i.e, people who have not had therapy).
Behaviour includes:
- Being a self-satisfied arse;
- Giving out advice that isn't wanted;
- Drawing hypotheses (that are wrong), then making a "really?" face when you contradict them;
- Doing the "I know what's going on here but you don't because you are not me!" face when you are talking about for e.g. your cat or a banana you once had that wasn't very nice;
- Being impertinent;
- Saying "my therapist would have an interesting point of view about that" when you do something innocuous, e.g. eat a pork pie;
- Saying "my therapist thinks..." as if it's going to cover up the fact the person in question is about to be a show-off, e.g. "my therapist thinks I am very talented";
- Doing a "wise monkey" face and looking at their drink when they are not centre of attention for 2 minutes;
- Quoting other people as if they are best mates with them, e.g. "well of course the Dalai Lama said...";
- Believing that having "been through therapy" = excuses all kinds of ghastly behaviour on the grounds that they "know themselves and aren't going to change".
I have been exposed to more than my fair share of these preening cockmonkeys over the course of my rich and fascinating life, and at some point or another they can't help but say something like this:
Arse: I know what I'm talking about, you know - I was in therapy for nearly fifteen years.
And I do not say, but wish I did (because in my head it is 'up there' with the magazine comment):
Me: You should ask for your money back.
In my head, this is the wittiest thing I have ever said, even though I have never said it!!!
Maybe things are worse than I thought, and maybe I should go on that Landmark Education weekend that all those interesting people have so earnestly recommended over the years after all. Or maybe I could stick hot needles in my eyes.
Pip pip!
NWM
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I join Facebook
After recent forays into Twitter, etc, I now feel confident enough to join Facebook. If you wish to be my pretend friend, you can do so by pressing on the button on the right.
So far, I'm liking it very much. There are A LOT of people on it who share my interests, and I am enjoying joining all sorts of groups and societies.
.
In a way, Facebook is like Fresher's Week, but unlike Fresher's Week, if you make a friend you then do not want, you can "defriend" them rather than have them following you about for the next three years. Brilliant.
(Possibly) your friend,
NWM
So far, I'm liking it very much. There are A LOT of people on it who share my interests, and I am enjoying joining all sorts of groups and societies.
.
In a way, Facebook is like Fresher's Week, but unlike Fresher's Week, if you make a friend you then do not want, you can "defriend" them rather than have them following you about for the next three years. Brilliant.
(Possibly) your friend,
NWM
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
YOU MAY ALSO LIKE
