Category — gross stuff

Hosting a dinner for a couple of friends isn’t terribly hard, but it does require some preparation.

For instance, this Saturday I decided to test out a recipe that I wanted to make for two friends coming over this coming Friday. We have an awesome night of board games, dinner and hanging out planned.

The recipe is called Sirloin Roast Wrapped in Bacon. How can you go wrong with such a recipe? Roast beef? Good. Bacon? Awesome.

So, Joe and I went out and I bought all the ingredients we needed and I have to admit, as I was preparing the roast – slathering on the Dijon mustard, carefully wrapping the roast with bacon (the kind with 25% less salt too – I am considerate of my guest’s arteries) – I felt a surge of as yet unearned pride. There I was, making a meal that would say: “I am an adult. I can host a successful dinner. I am awesome.” A montage played through my head: my guest’s eyes rolling up in their heads in ecstasy as they took the first bite. A ringing of wine glasses as they toasted my prowess in the kitchen. Admiring and envious looks.

Yes, I do have quite the imagination.

I slid the roast into the oven, marveling at my own handiwork and within 30 minutes, I could smell bacon and a hint of the Dijon mustard in the air. I congratulated myself; if the smell was anything to go by, this was going to be great.

Fast-forward to nearly 2 hours later.

The timer on the oven has buzzed; I open the oven door and when the fog clears from my glasses – there she is: the bacon wrapped roast. I break off a tiny piece of crisp bacon. It is perfect.

With great care, I remove the roast from the pan. I take out most of the toothpicks I used to hold some of the bacon and cut in with my sharpest knife and try a little of my masterpiece: it is not good.

The marbled fat that I somehow missed seeing when I purchased the meat is rubbery and disgusting. The Dijon mustard has added a sludgy texture that is reminiscent of flavourless mud. The bacon seems bland and a little soggy. The meat itself is dull – I might as well offer my guests waterlogged wood chips covered in filth and fat.

I have failed.

In fact, dinner was so bad that we ate almost nothing of it (while attempting to watch the movie Trick ‘r’ Treat which was nearly as bad as our dinner) and we tossed most of it straight into the garbage; it was that unsalvageable.

As I was washing the dishes, I saw the whole thing in a new and rather dismal light. I don’t even like Dijon mustard – it doesn’t belong on any food ever. I knew this and still used 1/3 of a jar on the roast. That bacon has 25% less salt – to hell with healthy arteries, everyone knows salt adds flavour! The toothpicks made the roast resemble Pinhead from the Hellraiser movies and it tasted gross!

My confidence in my cooking skills took a dive. My faith in the god-like abilities of bacon to make everything awesome wavered. I felt something like despair. I should have known that a recipe that came with the roasting rack might suck. I mean, it was a $14.00 rack for god’s sake. I doubt Gordon Ramsey would have clipped the it from the package and stuck it in his recipe box like I did.  I should also have known that buying a roast at your local Save On Foods might not be as good as say a butcher’s cut of roast. I might have been able to get the part of the cow that wasn’t riddled with fat if I’d gone to a butcher.

And then I remembered I had beer in the fridge.

So I had one, and I thought some more about my failed adventures in roast beef. Perhaps I wasn’t a failure after all.

I did learn the value of a good cut of meat and I did save my guests from having to eat a disgusting dinner (plus forcing them to choke it down politely because they didn’t want to hurt my feelings) – I hadn’t failed at all.

I just wasted some money and time and made my husband eat a crappy dinner…for the second night in a row…

And then I remembered I had beer in the fridge…

I am participating in CurlyWurlyGurly’s theme posting challenge for June: The WORST candy in the history of mankind has to be Hershey’s Eat-More bar.

The Eat-More bar is supposedly a “chewy dark toffee, peanut and chocolate” bar. But what you never hear about is how these bars are made – well, I am spilling my guts to the world now. No more secrets! This is how Eat-More is manufactured:

1. Go to work at candy bar factory.
2. Pick up random bits of toffee, peanuts and chocolate on the bottom of your boots.
3. Scrape boots off into the Eat-More bucket at the end of your shift.
4. Grave-yard shift workers press it into bars and sell it.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s an economical and environmentally friendly method for making candy, but even if their boots are clean; do you really want to eat candy that was on the floor? This defies the five second rule and is, quite frankly, unhygienic.

I did try to get a picture of it, but it sensed my great dislike for it and would not allow me to take its photo. All the photos were blurred and in one, I’m fairly certain I saw a cluster of peanut bits shaped like Satan. But, I am not one to disappoint my readers and I discovered the Candy Blog has a very nice and in-focus photo of it.

Besides which, the candy looks rather like a shiny turd with peanut bits embedded in it and this is a G rated blog. Someone has to think of the children.

My father would tell me I am a cretin for not loving these bars. He claims they are tasty, they keep the mail moving (though how that much sugar translates into fibre I will never know) and the number one reason to love Eat-More bars (according to dear old Dad) is folding the wrapper like so:

I tried eating a little piece of the bar – after all I have broadened my horizons somewhat since I was 7 years old – but, my refined adult palate wholeheartedly rejected the candy and went running straight into the arms of a 3 Musketeers bar.

Dad, if you’re reading this, I’m sure it’s Mum’s faulty genes that dictate my hatred for this candy. I still like beer if that helps.

I learned today that I have limits regarding PDAs – and now I must share it with the Intarwebs and give you something to giggle about:

I went to my local DeSerres store today for some blank cards and clear bags for the fabulous stick people creations that are going to make me tens of dollars.

Anyway, I got the cards and the bags and was waiting for the #10 bus when I saw them – the couple that helped me find the outer limits of what I can just shrug off when it comes to PDA.

He was an older guy, probably early 50′s and she was mid to late 30′s – she’s wearing black high heels, black capris with a shiny belt and a black sweater. I watched him put his hand on the small of her back. Fine – that’s sort of sweet, but then! oh, then – he slipped his hand down the back of her pants and started visibly brushing his fingers across the crack of her bum! IN PUBLIC!!

She kept walking and he kept wiggling his hand down her pants and I couldn’t stop staring – which caused a few people to look at what I was looking at and then quickly avert their eyes.  I finally lost sight of them behind a Brinks truck and that broke the spell.

If Joe ever did that to me I’d tear his arm off and beat him with it. Arm around the waist? Fine. Holding hands? Sweet. Putting your hand down the back of my pants and grabbing my ass – NOT COOL.

Have I missed something? Is exploring your honey’s bum crack the latest way to say I love you?

What do you think? Am I a shriveled up old prude? What are your limits on PDA for yourself and other people?