Simon Pearson - minor9th.com

Chocolate iPad, anyone?

posted in Computing, Food

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Kay had one for her birthday:

Read the full story at Stef’s blog

La marché française

posted in Food, London

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On the last weekend of July every year, there is a French market in Ealing. Today I bought some pain a l’oignon, as last year, because it’s right nice.

So I put my GCSE French to good practice by asking for the bread in (crap) French, asking how much it was in French, and thanking them for the bread. In French. And every single one of their responses was in ze finest English.

Fair enough, thought I – perhaps they’re just trying out their English on me. Until, that is, housemate Jess visited the same stall separately to buy pastries and conversed cheerily French with the ladies! I guess I just don’t look or sound like a linguist. This does not bode well for a planned 10-day stint en France next month…

That’s all. It’s been a hectic month, and more interesting, word-worthy things have happened, but I have a bee dans ma bonnet about this one…

London in the spring

posted in Food, Life, London

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23°C in Ealing today, so the first 99 of the year was consumed.

Things I noticed whilst buying my sugar high:

• A medium 99 with a flake and a little bit of strawberry goop now costs £1.60.
• Ice cream men all look the same: curly mullet and massive hands.
• Strawberry goop still not on sale as a delicious treat by itself apart from in supermarkets (where it’s not the same anyway) Darn.

Do forget your toothbrush

posted in Food, Life, Travel

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Americans replace their toothbrushes on average only 1.9 times per year. Grim. But how often do they go out of town, even for a day or two? Forgetting your toothbrush and having being forced to buy a new one might end up solving all sorts of problems to do with plaque nasties.

Just a post-travel, pre-Easter-chocolate-fest thought…

Dreaming of a Green Christmas

posted in Food, Life

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Each year, my dear mother makes ever-more-inventive attempts to force me into eating a fistful of brussels sprouts as part of the Christmas day festivities. I don’t know about you, but I’m not a fussy eater. I’ve no qualms about devouring oysters, and I’ll happily quaff a kumquat mojito, but the prospect of munching soggy, fart-flavoured balls does not light up my tree.

This year, presumably to save me from tears, she’s upped the ante by chopping them up and hiding them amongst walnuts and bacon butter (care of Asda). I don’t care whether they’re smothered in honey, wrapped in tinsel or crushed up in jam – they still look like tiny alien brains and I do not want them on my plate.

If their appearance and taste weren’t bad enough, we know all too well the lethal effect they have on the sensitive bowels of the older generation. The average age of Christmas diners in our house this year is nearly 50. People of Wrexham take note – it’s going to be a breezy evening.

If you share my pain, you’d do well to do some sprout smashing. Vegetable therapy at its best.

Proof of the pudding

posted in Food

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Making Christmas pudding, on Flickr.

I’ve been busy in the kitchen…

Hungry?

posted in Food, Web

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You will be…

I’ve got my eye on warm avocado salad with spicy chorizo, spider web chocolate muffins and caramelised onion and feta pizzas. Yum.

Endless love

posted in Food, Life

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Overheard in Tesco last night:

Woman 1: I’m can’t decide what to do about John when I’m away. I think I should get him some ready meals…
Woman 2: Hmm…
Woman 1: Should I get him Finest?
Woman 2: … No.
Woman 1: No, I don’t think so either.