So OK I was cleaning up the kitchen last night, after I wrote that post actually. I hate that; when I forget that it was me who cooked dinner and therefore I have to clean up the kitchen. (Do you have that rule? Because we cook almost equally, it works out better not to have to clean up another person’s mess. It also means you can’t get shitty with the person who left the mashed potatoes lurking in the pot to harden to a solid mass; because that person was YOU.) Anyway, I wandered into the kitchen, went “oh bugger” because there was crap everywhere, and noticed a sort of delicious chickeny smell. Why would that be? Oh, because I made risotto, using chicken stock, and the now-empty saucepan I used to heat the stock up in was still sitting on the gas hob. On low. For over four hours. Ah. So that pot is now filled with baking soda and water, in the hope that the Magic of Baking Soda will remove the charred remnants of chicken stock burned deep into the saucepan. I rely quite heavily on the Magic of Baking Soda. Also the Power of White Vinegar.
Actually, speaking of, I have a related laundry story. I know, it’s all domestic and shit over here! But a couple of weeks ago I was pulling washing out of the washing machine, and as I pulled a shirt out, there was An Odour. Not a pleasant one. I stood there blankly for a minute, trying to figure out what it was and where it was coming from. You know what it was? It was FISH. A definite, strong, fishy smell. I started pulling items of clothing from the washing machine and smelling them, much like a bloodhound on CSI. And a few items later, the smell increasing in potency with each piece I pulled out, it was determined that the smell was concentrated in… a pair of Mr. T’s work trousers. Why? How? What… what? I couldn’t even focus; the smell of fish was everywhere, my vision had narrowed to one blurry point and I was finding it hard to breathe.
When Mr. T got home, I confronted him with his Piscine Pants of Doom, hollering, “SMELL! SMELL THEM!” (Actually, now that I think about it, he didn’t even blink at being forced to smell his own clothing. I should think up more bizarre things for him to do.) Being the great judge of flavours that he is, he couldn’t even pick up that it was fish. Then he flat-out denied that it could be fish. How could it be fish? It’s fish! With pants! Pants and fish don’t mix! Then I showed him this odd yellow crunchy plastic stuff in the pocket… oh. Oh yeah. Now he remembers. He remembers putting the trousers on in the morning. He remembers not having time to take his fish oil capsule. He remembers PUTTING IT IN HIS POCKET as he left for work. And he doesn’t remember ever eating it.
A fish oil capsule. I have no words.
Those pants are fucked, basically. They’ve been washed four times, and hung up in the rain/wind/hail/sleet for weeks at a time on the clothesline. Every time they dry, the smell of fish returns. Not even the Magic of Baking Soda and the Power of White Vinegar COMBINED has worked. Any suggestions? Bueller? Bueller?
OK now I have detailed my domestic shortcomings… a picture! This is from my trip back to New Zealand in Easter, which was mid-March. What can I say, I don’t clear off my memory cards that often. Again, suck it, dead hard drive! You’re not the boss of me!
This is Mr. T’s sister with one of his nephews. They’re identical twins, so if they’re not both in the photo, neither of us can tell which twin it is. We think this might be the Fat Twin (whose name starts with F) but it is just as likely to be the Little Twin (whose name starts with L). Hard to say, and I don’t think you guys can help me here.
I posted this because I made the bib he’s wearing. In fact I made approximately 30 bibs for these babies, as apparently most bibs are quite small and the huge size of this one was a hit. It does have a gorgeous fabric on the front, but he’s wearing it towelling-side out, due to his unfortunate habit of being sick on it. Babies. No respect for craft.