Post by bisdu on Jul 15, 2013 13:10:43 GMT 1
Well summer is eventually upon us at last, and as the population in general is hurriedly getting out the loungers and the sun tan lotion I shall be heading off to the chemists for my annual supply of immodium.
I don’t know why it is but the moment the sun shines, everybody’s (and supermarket managers) thoughts turn to barbeques.
This might be fine in places like Australia, where there is a frequency of sun and a general mindset for outdoor living, (and no, I didn’t mention a less refined palette) but regrettably this way of life does not translate well to those of us here in Western France or the UK.
And why is that, you might ask?
Well the blame – at least in part - can be laid at Brittany ferries door, or more specifically to a complaint known as “The University of Brittany Ferries syndrome.” This is because men – it is always men – who in their normal daily lives, find themselves totally unable to “boil an egg” suddenly find that, miraculously, they have acquired the skill to cook a meal for thirty-five, using nothing more than a piece of charcoal and rubbing 2 sticks together.
Dressed in a pair of khaki shorts they will don the special bbq apron - the one with French maid with the big tits stamped on - down a couple of beers, take command of the bbq tongs and become master of the universe
And while the wives do all the hard work (whilst getting none of the credit), creating rice dishes and pasta salad and desserts and other stuff, the chap will set about his task, normally before the coals have reached optimum temperature. Knowing nothing about food – other than how to eat it - he will pile the contraption with meat of all kinds and we will know that the cooking process has begun as flames rocket skywards and the smell of burned flesh permeates the air.
Whilst this is happening, guests will mingle, children will run about like wild horses and the dog will skulk around the bbq in the hope of snaffling something that might roll off.
Then, the cry of “ready” will go up and at this point you are invited to line up and make your selection, usually from a choice of two kinds of meat. The first of these is the “black one” – this is meat of unknown origin, hard and burned to a frazzle on the outside, not cooked at all on the inside, or, you can opt for the second choice “the crunchy one (often sausages) which have rolled off the grill into the coals and are coated in ash which has been surreptitious scraped off (or not depending on how many beers our chef has now consumed.
Balancing a plastic glass of wine in one hand, a a ubiquitous fork and paper plate with the burned offering in the other, you realise that God in his infinite wisdom was remiss in forgetting to provide you with an extra hand so you could transfer the food to the mouth. Inevitably the red wine ends up down the front of your top.
Some hours later you make your way home trying to decide whether your first priority should be to put your blouse in soak, rummage about in the fridge for something edible, or to dig out the immodium ready for the inevitable.
However, just as a footnote – if anyone is thinking of having a barbeque – please don’t let this observation put you off inviting me – quite frankly – barbeques ; I love them.
I don’t know why it is but the moment the sun shines, everybody’s (and supermarket managers) thoughts turn to barbeques.
This might be fine in places like Australia, where there is a frequency of sun and a general mindset for outdoor living, (and no, I didn’t mention a less refined palette) but regrettably this way of life does not translate well to those of us here in Western France or the UK.
And why is that, you might ask?
Well the blame – at least in part - can be laid at Brittany ferries door, or more specifically to a complaint known as “The University of Brittany Ferries syndrome.” This is because men – it is always men – who in their normal daily lives, find themselves totally unable to “boil an egg” suddenly find that, miraculously, they have acquired the skill to cook a meal for thirty-five, using nothing more than a piece of charcoal and rubbing 2 sticks together.
Dressed in a pair of khaki shorts they will don the special bbq apron - the one with French maid with the big tits stamped on - down a couple of beers, take command of the bbq tongs and become master of the universe
And while the wives do all the hard work (whilst getting none of the credit), creating rice dishes and pasta salad and desserts and other stuff, the chap will set about his task, normally before the coals have reached optimum temperature. Knowing nothing about food – other than how to eat it - he will pile the contraption with meat of all kinds and we will know that the cooking process has begun as flames rocket skywards and the smell of burned flesh permeates the air.
Whilst this is happening, guests will mingle, children will run about like wild horses and the dog will skulk around the bbq in the hope of snaffling something that might roll off.
Then, the cry of “ready” will go up and at this point you are invited to line up and make your selection, usually from a choice of two kinds of meat. The first of these is the “black one” – this is meat of unknown origin, hard and burned to a frazzle on the outside, not cooked at all on the inside, or, you can opt for the second choice “the crunchy one (often sausages) which have rolled off the grill into the coals and are coated in ash which has been surreptitious scraped off (or not depending on how many beers our chef has now consumed.
Balancing a plastic glass of wine in one hand, a a ubiquitous fork and paper plate with the burned offering in the other, you realise that God in his infinite wisdom was remiss in forgetting to provide you with an extra hand so you could transfer the food to the mouth. Inevitably the red wine ends up down the front of your top.
Some hours later you make your way home trying to decide whether your first priority should be to put your blouse in soak, rummage about in the fridge for something edible, or to dig out the immodium ready for the inevitable.
However, just as a footnote – if anyone is thinking of having a barbeque – please don’t let this observation put you off inviting me – quite frankly – barbeques ; I love them.
