10 minutes of free-writing. No editing, save for fixing spelling-mistakes (most of which were made by iOS Auto-incorrect).

People walk around teapots. There is nothing wrong with that. Nothing to be scared or really, but they often skirt around the edges as if there is something sinister afoot As if maybe the lid is about to pop off and a hairy arm should shoot out and grab them, dragging them down into the bottomless pits of despair and endless cups of tea. Enter Bob, Bob is a dingbat. Bob enters teapot. That’s right. Off with the lid and he jumps straight in.  A coffee plunger is far more dangerous. Imagine hopping in to a coffee plunger . There’s plenty to drink,but then some smart-ass puts the lid on. Is it just me, or does the room seem to be getting shorter? They should execute criminals by coffee plunger. Squishy squashy. If they erect a giant plunger on a scaffold in the square behind the coffee-cart, it can serve a double purpose. People will come from miles around . “Hey let’s go the square and have an espresso while we read the paper and watch Roger-The-Rabid-Rapist get plunged”

Back to bob, well .. What can I say? He’s swimming in tea. It’s slowly tanning his hide. Have you ever been swimming in the sea when it’ full of seaweed. It’s horrible! Seaweed is so slimy, but one-time, we were staying at the beach and there must have been a storm out at sea, because masses of sea-weed washed up. Not just the small frilly stuff either. Great swathes of leathery plant, several meters long. My Mom is incredible right … She takes some of the big seaweed and turns it into sandals. Sandals, from seaweed. I wore them up the road to the store and back, and on the beach, but when I went into the water they went all limp and slimy and lost their shape, returning to drifting seaweed. What can Bob do in his tea-pot? There must have been in a great storm, considering all the tea-weed. Hey Bob?, Bob?, oh. Bob is living up to his name. Damn.

© Grumpy Axolotl.

To the Wagon

I let myself out of the open-plan office and trudged across the courtyard beneath an overcast sky. The woman in the coffee-wagon was chipper as usual, and I was the antithesis of that. I asked for a flat-White, though my mind said ‘fat-white’ for some reason. I hate the new coffee-wagon. It shakes when the occupant moves. I feel dizzy when it shakes in front of me. I’m often dizzy. I’m always tired. I used to have mochaccinos but now I have flat-whites. I can go to bed early and sleep right through the night. I think I have what they call ‘low-carb flu’. Kei te mauiui ahau. Should come right in a couple of weeks. New Zealand is in the Southern Hemisphere so Summer is icummen in. Sing kiwi. The days are getting longer. I didn’t need to buy a coffee when I could have made one in the office for free but sometimes it’s nice having a destination when going outside. The wagon sells pies and sausage-rolls in plastic packaging. One time, I tried a sausage-roll just to feel warm. All I remember is that it was really sweet and that just isn’t right. I look forward to the warmth of Summer.

Hit the floor

The coffee is always good there. Actually, it’s not very good, but it’s sweet enough that you can pretend it’s good. Never mind that though, I’m more concerned about the pie. Pies are the specialty of the cafe. That’s where you go if you want a good pie for breakfast. And it was a good pie, for a while. It had all sorts of stuff in it, like … ingredients! : scintillating steak, malevolent mushrooms, cunning camembert, bouncing bacon. Quite a mouthful, or twenty. The pie belonged to my friend, and she was fixing to enjoy her breakfast. Alas, she had only managed a couple of mouthfuls before inexplicably managing to flip the plate and drop the whole steaming kit and kaboodle onto the carpet. Splat!

That was last week.
This week was a little different; same pie, different scenario. The pie went down the hatch without a hitch. Satisified, the pie-monster reclined in the sofa to enjoy a book, fell asleep and dropped said book, knocking her full cup of coffee off the table and onto the carpet.

I wasn’t surprised to hear her say fuck!

Steak for Breakfast

I want a steak. I want a sizzling steak. A porterhouse steak. Thick and hot. Cooked on the outside. Moo in the middle. Yum!

No way will I settle for just steak. Whilst steak is indeed the centerpiece, ostentatious ornamentation is required for maximum satisfaction.

No longer quiescent, the onion quivers on the chopping board. The knife is coming. The onion is to be flayed, drawn, quartered and finally cast into a skillet of boiling tallow. Already the knife is hissing through the air. No escape for the onion. Off with the head! Off with the tail! The onion fights back, flooding the kitchen with a pungent scent, in a last-ditch attempt to remain whole. It is too little, too late. Layers of skin are now being peeled away from the core as the onion writhes in agony. Slice!, slice! Concentric rings hit the deck with a slap. Rotate. Slice. The knife is relentless. Onion pieces. Brutal and effective. Even the executioner cannot hold back the tears.

The crowd cheers for more! The mushrooms are next up on the block. Their crime? – Tasting bloody fantastic. The mushrooms are indignant, protesting they have done nothing wrong. The Mushrooms argue that they are grievously misunderstood, being neither plant nor animal. No, the mushrooms did not ask permission to pop up in the field, but they were providing a genuine service, tending to the quality of exhausted and depleted crop soil. The knife comes down, and the hapless fungi go to pieces.

The peppers have nothing to say but put up more of a fight, spewing poisonous seeds in all directions as they are guillotined. The seeds, no more than a momentary nuisance, are quickly swept away and the solemn butchering of capsicum flesh continues.

After watching this spectacle, the lettuce flops down, resigned to its fate, caring not to protest the inevitable. Nothing to see here. Move along, straight to the plate.

Now for the meat. Everybody knows the one best way to cook steak, yet there are almost as many one-best-ways as there are people. Growing up, I was told never to talk about sex, politics, or religion – unless trying to start a war. The cooking of meats could be added to that list. I have the perfect solution to that particular problem: The steak is cooked in the best way possible. (See beginning of post for hints)

Breakfast, yum!

Steak is not just a breakfast food, it’s truly a food for all occasions sans vegetarian conventions. It makes the perfect brunch, lunch, dinner, etc. When served for breakfast, complement with fine coffee, plunged or percolated.  A little sugar, milk, or cream to taste.
Keep the steak out of the coffee though: That’s taking it too far!