Archive | June 2019

Utilitarian birthday presents

Mr S and I have a favourite lunch when we go on picnics. Hard-boiled eggs, sliced, on fresh bread rolls, preferably damper or baps, with mayo, salt and lettuce.

We won’t have eggs mashed up. No. No way. Yuck. Too mushy. Too gluggy. Eggs have to be sliced. Why Aussies mash the eggs, I don’t know.

Our egg slicer died and we had difficulties finding a replacement. Cutting with a knife just isn’t the same, but we’d been making do for several years. Every time we’d pack for a picnic, we’d remember we wanted an egg slicer.

The day before my birthday last week, I asked Mr S if I had a small surprise to go with the big gift which I already knew about.

“Just you wait,” he said. Which told me there was a surprise.

Come the morning, my surprise was still in the box that it had been mailed in. And inside was the bubble wrap. And inside that was this:

An egg slicer. Made in Germany. Metal. Each strand individually tensioned.

I love it. I love that it shocks people when they ask what I was given.

So two questions:

  • Where do you stand on utilitarian gifts?
  • Do you slice or mash your eggs for egg rolls or sandwiches? And why?

A post in which Lucinda discovers fortified wine and gets Mr S to throw something away

After bringing up the alcohol yesterday from The Yucky Place, today I decided to check out the price of all the bottles, and see if anything was worth trying.

One bottle was Liqueur Muscat, what we used to call Port in Australia, except, like we can’t use Champagne anymore for sparkling wine, we can’t say port. A little research found out some very interesting things, like liqueur muscat is unique to Australia. Up until the 1950s, Australians didn’t drink wine, only fortified wine. Luckily, post-war migrants introduced us to table wine, as it was called to separate it from fortified wine.

Liqueur muscat is a dessert drink – very sweet and very strong. Over 17% alcohol. Not for quaffing; more for sipping.

So in the tradition of a Sunday pre-dinner drink, I had a tipple with Mr S.

Mmm, sweet, like medicine used to be but without the yuck of medicine, slightly coffee, caramel, and what is that? That taste I can’t identify?

Sultanas.

So I like it? Yes-ish. Like sultanas, which I can eat occasionally and which sometimes I just want, but then while eating am not sure I like what I’m eating. Definitely small glass drinking. And only one small glass.

While sipping, I got Mr S to agree to throw out his pool towel. It’s torn and full of holes and worn through everywhere. Can I bin it? Yes, but I thought you were going to use it to cover the worms. I don’t think it is full cotton, look how it is wearing with the weft and weave still intact, cotton doesn’t do that. It is meant to be 100% cotton. Yes, but look. Yes, very strange. So can I bin it and give you a replacement? Yes, ok.

And out from the linen press comes a very old and worn towel. Ah, an old favourite, says Mr S.

One less thing in the linen press. Towels seem to breed in our house.

The yucky place

I went down to the garage yesterday to try a little more decluttering and rubbish disposal while Mr S was out.

I know I said I’d put up some photos so you can see before and after but I can’t. I just can’t. It’s not only cluttered; it’s plain filthy.

Mr S has already put stuff back into the place I decluttered. But I ignored that.

I looked to another bit. Mr S won’t throw away anything he has ever owned. He has two old bags he used for work. He is using a new backpack but he tossed the old ones in a pile of shit, well for you know. Just in case. Just in case when the current one dies, he has a spare. But he’ll just buy a new one and put the current one on top. It’s really that he can’t be bothered AND he can’t let anything go.

I went through the two bags. Found over $120 in coins. And about $50 in NZ notes. (I know he’ll claim it is secret money for emergencies but who has time to wade through piles of shit in an emergency?)

Then I sorted through the pile of alcohol. Much of it in gift bags that were rotting away – it’s damp down there. Mr S gets lots of gifts. People like him. All that is nice. They buy him alcohol, knowing he likes a drink. But like all of us, he has his own taste and a lot of what he receives, he doesn’t drink. Bottles of port, whiskey, arrack, rum, Guinness, sparkling wine (how did that one not make it to me, you ask. Cause Mr S just piles his gifts in those reusable shopping bags and empty beer cartons), wine, more whiskey, bourbon. He won’t let me regift it, but shhh, I gave two bottles to The Dreamer to give as a gift to a friend of his. You know, I’d rather people didn’t give Mr S gifts. Maybe I should get the message out that he likes sparkling wine. Then I could drink it and we’d have no clutter and save money. (Hint hint, Top Chook!)

OK, it is not all his. I found half a dozen bottles of wine I bought before I stopped drinking white wine. God knows if they are still drinkable. Won’t be me that tries.

Piles of empty, torn beer cartons and gift bags went into the recycling. And a heap of rubbish went into the bin. The alcohol I salvaged has come upstairs. I will dole it out to the offspring or regift or remind Mr S to drink rather than buying more.

Honestly if it doesn’t get drunk, and our house caught on fire, the arson squad would be called ’cause the firies would think we’d poured on accelerant.

Some of the bottles I salvaged