The sausage casserole that was BANNED for life

Cartoon chef holding a casserole

“It’s just a sausage casserole. I swear it!”

Warning:  This post contains a seemingly x-rated image – but it’s really a sausage casserole!


I froze.  My new young husband was choking, red faced and making the noise our cat makes when hacking up a hairball.  But this was no hairball, this was my sausage casserole!  I unfroze and leapt towards him, thwacking him on the back between the shoulder blades with the heel of my hand.  Thwack,  Thwack.  He stilled for a moment.  “Is the casserole nice honey?” I asked hesitantly, trying to smile, which resembled more a grimace.  We all know that God didn’t bless me with the cooking gift.

He raised his fingers and started pulling a long clear looking thing out of his mouth which must have been flapping down the back of his throat.  He kept pulling, and pulling.  It was kinda long.  He held it up in front of me.  Oh, it definitely didn’t look good.  He glared at the long transparent object dangling from his fingers with a look of sheer horror.  He turned to me, the limp “thing” swinging from side to side as he raised it up even higher.  My eyes followed it.  Left.  Right.  Left. Right.  “What.   Is.  This?”  he asked. “Well, I know it doesn’t look like it should be in there…” I stuttered.    “Why is there a … condom … in my dinner?” he asked.

Oh my dear goodness gracious me!  It did sort of look like one of those.  I had a flash-back to the recipe.  Oopsie! I realised I should NOT have skipped the step where is said to partly boil the sausages  which would cause the skins to loosen and they should be peeled off before adding to the casserole dish.

“It’s a sausage skin!” I proudly announced.  If I looked confident maybe he would think it was part of the recipe.  But no.  I was banned from EVER cooking a sausage casserole again.

20 years later

It was time I jumped back on the sausage casserole band wagon.  We had two strapping sons now with big appetites and I was a lot more confident in my cooking, despite my kinship with kitchen disasters.  To get around my life-long ban from cooking sausage casseroles I would be “clever” and cook a – CHIPOLATA CASSEROLE!  {If it was really a sausage, it would be called a sausage, now wouldn’t it?}

The aroma from the slow-cooker which had been on for 8 hours was absolutely mouth-watering.  I knew my men would be impressed with my culinary skills this night.  I had cooked enough to feed our family for two nights.  Clever me!

A work colleague popped into my home for a meeting and we sat at the bench top.  Even he couldn’t resist the tempting sausage-scent and asked if he could peek under the lid.  Like a couple of naughty children we lifted the lid – and I’m not sure which one of us was the most embarrassed!  I shut the lid quickly and felt my face heat up and my glasses fogged.  He burst out laughing and said if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he would never have believed what he’d just seen.  I swore to him it was just my secret Chipolata Casserole!

Later that evening it was time to dish up my feast.

x-rated looking sausage casseroleMy husband and our boys, aged 20 and 18, were crowding the bench like hungry cave men, bellies grumbling.  I paused with my hand on the lid, hoping it looked better than the last time I peeked.  I ever so slowly lifted the lid.

Three men jumped backwards with pained expressions on their faces.

I lifted the ladle and they backed away even further, all muttering at the same time that they were not hungry any more.  They all refused to eat my Chipolata Casserole!  I don’t know why, it was mighty delicious.  It fed me for days.  They are traumatised for life.
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site

 

 

The terrible joke they played on Nanna

Angry old woman cartoonMy children could be little horrors at times!  Especially when they teamed up and wreaked havoc on the world.  My poor mum, their Nanna, didn’t realise how “good” they were at it until her false teeth became their victim…

When they were little boys, aged 6 and 8, their Nanna was babysitting them while I worked late.  She’d made them a nice dinner and cleaned up my kitchen.  The best babysitter! Unfortunately, she got a bit of food stuck in her false teeth and couldn’t get it out.  It was aggravating her so she asked the boys if they had a spare toothbrush anywhere.  “No Nanny” said grandson.  She explained she needed something “like a toothbrush” and 8yo remembered the nail-brush, which was good at cleaning things, so they ran to fetch it for her.

The little inquisitive boys followed their Nanna into the laundry.  She popped her false teeth out into her hand and started scrubbing them vigorously under running water with the nail brush.  The boys started giggling their little heads off.  Nanny loved the laughter and presumed they’d never seen false teeth before.  She was so wrong!  They started laughing, louder this time, cupping their hands over each-others ears and whispering, as little children often do.

Nanny asked them what was so funny.  They just laughed louder!  Her Nanna-radar was beeping that something didn’t seem quite right.  Surely their laughter should have eased up by now.  She put her false teeth back in and turned to the boys, hands on hips, and asked them to fess up.  “Ok boys, tell Nanny the truth.  What’s so funny?”

Oh, the little angels could hardly contain themselves.  “Well, out with it!” demanded Nanny.  Through fits of laughter, 6yo said “Nanny, you are so funny?”  “Why? Surely it wasn’t that funny, was it?” she asked.

“Yes it was Nanny … ‘cos that’s the brush Daddy uses to get the dog poo off our gumboots!”

The little horrors broke down into hysterics again.

Nanny rushed back to the basin and washed her false teeth with soap and water, muttering under her breath!

Prologue:  Nothing much has changed with those two sons of mine over the years.  They have been completely exasperating at times with their antics.  Those same little boys are now 20 and 22 years old.  Their favourite victim now is their Dad; with Nanny coming in a close second!
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site

 

The problem with big boobs and sunbaking

Cookie crumbs end up in cleavage

For Women Only

Big boobs, big bums, big thighs and bold personalities are a Maltese trait. And it’s also what I’ve inherited from my ancestors – as I discovered this month when holidaying in Malta.

I’m not really one for swimming and sun-baking, probably because I’m not stick thin and am quite self conscious in bathers. But I love what I’ve discovered about the Maltese women and the way they embrace their bodies – especially in swimwear. They don’t give a stuff about what anyone else thinks! I really wish we had an attitude like this in Australia. I really wish “I” had an attitude like this.

Sitting on the gravel and rocks on the sea edge I was enthralled watching these women. Would I have the courage to throw down my sarong, bask in the sun and embrace my shape in my new bathers? I wasn’t quite sure.

I saw so many different shaped and sized women. Massive women – that must have been a size 30 – in bikinis! Their bums would have been the size of my coffee table back home, and their stomachs hung so far over the top of their bikini bottoms that from the front, you couldn’t tell they even had bikini-bottoms on. And do you know what? They didn’t care! They were having fun and embraced their curves, and fat, and rolls. I wished I could be like that.

There were women as white as snow (like me) through all shades to the deeply bronzed. From reed-thin to morbidly obese. From toned and firm to flabby and wobbly. I noticed some of the bigger women were firm, and some of the skinny women were flabby. It really was a mixed bag of body shapes, sizes and colours.

I needed to “toughen up Princess” and throw down the gauntlet! To stop stressing about what I looked like in bathers and enjoy my holiday, milky-skinned-flab and all. I untied my orange floral sarong, threw it to the side, and felt the Mediterranean sun on my skin for the first time.

And – it was time to get a sun tan! To go from milky-white to maybe … a deep beige??

For a whole week I spent at least half an hour a day sun baking and my skin eventually went from white to a light freckly caramel tone. I was so pleased with myself {smug look}. I got quite sun-burned one particular day, and when I got home and looked in the mirror I had white lines across my neck. It looked like someone had tried to slit my throat numerous times – with white chalk! What the hell had happened??

White lines along tanned neckI couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I freaked out. Had my saggy 50 year old neck lolled downwards causing a crease that the sun couldn’t penetrate? I tried to re-enact all the different ways my skin sagged to work out how the white lines appeared. But I couldn’t.

I did notice however, that when I was swimming, my big-buxom-bosoms had a bit of trouble submerging into the sea water! Could it be that when they were floating on the surface like buoys they were actually pushing my chest skin upwards causing the creases? Maybe. So when I was swimming next I tried to push the bloody things underwater to get sun on my neck. It was a losing battle! I tried to duck underwater to get my face wet at one stage but because of my two power-floaties I couldn’t get the top of my head underwater! I had to get my sister to put her hand on top of my head and bleedin’ well push me under! My boobs must be air filled! No chance of drowning here. But still, I couldn’t account for how the white lines appeared.

I dragged myself out of the sea water and reclined back on my beach towel amongst the other bodies vying for a tan. It was then I had my epiphany! I have very nice bust-supported bathers. My boobs do not sag at all in them! When I was reclining my orbs reached towards the heavens above like twin mountains – then it happened.

As my head hit the sand, my boobs lost their centre of gravity and tilted towards my neck. The freakin’ things practically landed on the sand above my shoulders. When they tilted backwards on their axis my chest skin “gathered” and my creases were created up near my neck! This is what happens when a big busted women lays back too far in “E” cups! Yes, E cups. E = enormous, or elephant!

Then, when I stood up, they came crashing back towards earth like a couple of meteorites, pulling my neck and chest skin taut again. Mystery solved!

Oh crikey. What chance did I have?

I needed to change the way I sunbaked from now one. There was only one way that worked. Sitting up and reclining to about a 45 degree angle so “gravity” kept my boulders headed more towards my feet, rather than towards my head.

So how does a big-busted women sun-bake? Why … vertically … of course!

The crazy chook with insane eyes

Quote FOR FAST ACTING RELIEF TRY SLOWING DOWNDo you know that crazy-confused feeling where you run around in circles like a chicken with it’s head cut off chasing its tail?  See how confused I am!  You know what I mean, right?  And when the episode has ended you wonder what just happened?  This is me.  Really, it is.  It has begun.

My first episode happened not long ago.  I was home alone, grateful now that my sons and husband were not witnesses to my madness.  It all started with the ringing of my cell phone, or mobile phone (as we call them in the Southern Hemisphere).

Gazing at my aging reflection in the bathroom mirror I heard the familiar tinkling of my cell phone in my bedroom.  I walked to my bedside table and reached out – but the phone was not there.  It started ringing in the bathroom.  “I must be going insane” I chuckled to myself, returning to the bathroom and walking a bit faster this time.  I checked the vanity.  No cell.  Feeling only slightly perplexed I heard the familiar ring in my bedroom once again.  For a split second I wondered what eerie force was at work in my home as I hurried back through my walk-in robes into my bedroom.  I scanned the bed this time.  No phone.  Is there a pesky poltergeist at play here?

Waiting with anticipation for the next ring I honed my mother-ears towards the next ringing to gauge the latitude and longitude of said phone.  {ring ring}  My head spun around, eyes focussed.  “It’s in my robes” I deducted and I lunged towards the jacket I’d worn yesterday squeezing the pockets.  But alas, within a few seconds, I heard it ringing behind me again.  Aha!  I’d finally worked it out.  My phone was in the study, which is opposite my bedroom.

I stomped to the study, quite fed up with myself, eyes crazily scanning the desk, around the computer, under papers, searching.   {ring ring}  This can’t be happening.  It was behind me again, back in my bedroom!  I ran back now, knowing the phone would flick to voicemail soon.  Moisture was gathering on my brow and my frustration thermometer was rising.  My head snapped to the right, eyes honing on the sound as I heard it ringing in the study again. “WHAT’S HAPPENING?” my internal voice screamed to myself.  What strange powers has my cell suddenly accumulated that it can disappear and reappear at will?

But this time I stopped.  I stood still.  I closed my eyes and bowed my head in utter concentration.  And I listened.  It was like slooooooow motion.  My breathing calmed and my heartbeat slowed.  {rrriiinnnggg rrriiinnnggg}

I heard it.  I felt the vibration.

In the back pocket of my jeans.

I just missed the call.  I sat on my bed.  Home alone and confused.  Was this the beginning of the loss of my mind?  I was almost 50 at the time.  Was I over the top of the hill descending down the other side into middle-age and menopause … and madness?  Is this menopause?  I hoped so, because if not, it just might be the beginning of insanity or dementia.
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site

 

Ode to fat-lady-cankles

ugly witch crone on a broomstick

I thought cankles were only for old hags
For obese, ugly crones and nags
But I’ve got them now
And I feel like a cow
And my feet look like water filled bags!

NO! … I’m having my first episode of “cankles”
Those rotten and fat swollen ankles
I’m really peeved off
As they’re massive and soft and
I can’t wear my flip flops or sandals.

According to the info on Google
The fluid retention can be crucial
It’s from the aeroplane ride
28 hours inside
And not walking but sitting
Ohhhh … it’s brutal!

I say … “BE GONE! You disgusting fat ankles”
Find someone else and bless them with cankles
I don’t like you at all
And I’m actually appalled
That I’m now the old crone cursed with “CANKLES”!!!!

fat foot cankleOh dear Lord … help me. My ankles have been kidnapped and been replaced by cankles!

I got onto Google to see what it said about cankles …
“Definition: a woman whose fat and swollen ankle merges unattractively with that of the calf”

Really??? Cankles??? ME?????

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

© 2015 CEW

Does Malta’s monumental erection make the cut?

What erection define’s your country?

As an Australian, we are quite proud that the Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge are architectural monuments that represent us worldwide. China has the Great Wall {which I’ve been told can be seen from space}, France has the Eiffel Tower and the USA has the Statue of Liberty. {I bet you thought I was going to say Bill Clinton then, didn’t you? Ummm, when I say erection, I actually mean monuments that have been erected, NOT, well, you know…}

I’ve started my vacation in the Mediterranean island of Malta, which is a small island not far from Sicily and Italy. It’s my heritage and one I quite proudly want to investigate and learn more about. I had heard about a strange looking statue that was erected in the centre of a roundabout and greets visitors just outside the airport.

Statue looks like erectionI mentioned it to our taxi driver, who quite excitedly knew what I was talking about, and suggested I grab my camera ready to take a photo. He said “I keep driving round and round for you to get good photo”. As we neared the roundabout I saw a round-looking head-like statue peaking up above the tree fronds. My first thought was “That can’t be right.” We drove closer and closer and I really couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My dad was sitting in the front seat with the taxi driver talking in Maltese and they were both laughing hysterically. I managed to get an in-focus photo of the “projectile” as we kept driving round and round it.

To this day I can’t really believe what I saw – and what I photographed. But the eye doesn’t lie.

Rising from the earth is a giant erection of, well, it would seem, an erection.  Whatever it is supposed to be, has anyone told the Maltese people that it looks kind of like, well, a you-know-what?

Maybe Sigmund Freud would say Malta has “little” country syndrome. And is trying to make a statement about small things. I really don’t know.

Should Malta be defined by this monument?  You be the judge.

© 2015 CEW

I married a scary sleepwalking zombie

Zombie sleepwalker in front of moon“My name is Cathy and my husband is a sleepwalker.”  Sounds like a confession, doesn’t it?  But he’s not just a sleepwalker, he’s also a sleep eater!  I’ve discovered that sleepwalking and sleep eating are related.  {What a shame there’s not a sleep cleaning disorder.}

My first encounter with his sleepwalking was like a combined scene from the Walking Dead and Shrek.  It was a dark and stormy night, just after the midnight hour {now it’s sounding like a horror story}.  As a light sleeper I felt him get out of bed and walk out of the front door of our home.  I sat up with the realisation that he’d just gone outside.  I scurried barefooted onto the porch in my shorty-nighty … peering into the inky night {I’m setting the scene for you now}.  But I couldn’t see him anywhere.  Maybe he heard a prowler and he was going to investigate.  This scared me as he’s a lover, not a fighter!  I walked further outside, shivering, arms clasped across my stomach.  I heard a noise coming from the side of the house.  I tip-toed and peeked around the corner, heart drumming against my ribs.  There he was, standing with his nose almost touching the bricks and scratching them with his hands.  I asked him what he was doing.  Eerie silence.  I approached him and asked louder this time “Sweetie, are you okay?  What are you doing?” 

Donkey saying Dont you be lookin at me girlHe stopped scratching and turned his head slowly to look at me, Zombie-like.  With the muted glow from the streetlight illuminating his face I saw that his wide open eyes were looking straight through me.  With a monotone voice he said ever so slowly “Getting a drink, fat ass.”  I looked over my shoulder hoping there was an overweight donkey standing behind me.  No such luck.  It was just he and I.  He turned back to the bricks and began scratching again.

I had heard that you should never wake a sleepwalker, but I didn’t know why.  So I reached towards him and tugged on the collar of his pyjamas, which after a few attempts prompted him and he went inside.  I didn’t sleep at all that night because he didn’t come back to bed.  He went into the lounge room and laid on the floor, crossed his arms across his chest like a vampire nesting in his coffin, raised his feet up to rest on the coffee table and he slept soundly.

His sleepwalking continued over the next few years.  He would wander around the house, raid the fridge of any chocolate he could find, then fall asleep in a chair.  We had our two little boys now and moved into our new home at the end of a court.  I was still a very light sleeper and, for the second time in our marriage, I heard the front door open and he was off again!  As I darted to the front door I saw him on the front porch.  He was stark naked staring down the street and he began bellowing our cats name in his booming voice “WINKY!  WINKY!”  I couldn’t grab his collar this time, so I reached out and grabbed his … ear lobe, and led him back to bed.

In the morning when I was making our coffees I found his dressing gown rolled up in a tight ball sitting inside the kitchen sink.  Cat biscuits were strewn across the benches.  I went to our bedroom, looked down at him, poked him awake and said “Do you know what you did last night?”  As he roused, his lips started twisting and pulling in all directions.  “Are you having a stroke now?” I asked with sarcasm.  “Ewww, what’s that taste in my mouth?”  I couldn’t help but smile as I divulged “Oh, that would be the cat biscuits love!”

As our boys grew into their teenage years their Dad’s sleepwalking became a cause for excitement and adventure.  Some nights if one of them heard their Dad walking around the house they would wake the other and film his antics with their mobile phones.  I threatened them with violence if I found out they had ever uploaded them on YouTube.  On one such night I awoke to the boys giggling like a pair of schoolgirls standing over our bed, hands over their mouths stifling their laughter, watching their Dad balancing a big marrow on his stomach.  {A marrow is a big green vegetable that I was going to stuff with mince and cook the next day.} 

Their adventure this night was to discover their Dad lounging in his recliner and they convinced him that the marrow was our cat.  Each time they went to “pat” the marrow, their Dad would slap them and tell them to go away.  Finally fed up, he stood, cuddling the marrow securely to his chest and lovingly took “her” back to bed with us.  I awoke with the marrow snuggled down warmly between us.

The boys love that their father is a sleepwalker.  And true to their word they have not uploaded any clips onto YouTube.  They’ve fed him dog biscuits after convincing him it was chocolate, filmed him throwing the kitchen sponge around the house as if it was toxic and much more.  But those videos do make a showing and are highly entertaining at family gatherings.

How do my sons and I cope with a chronic sleepwalker?

We go on the journey with him and enjoy the adventures as a family. 

And I wouldn’t change it for the world!
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site