Ever since my wife abandoned me for Duane, her croquet coach, my mealtimes have been miserable.
Maude was a real goer in the kitchen. Absolute dynamite. So I am accustomed to sitting down to an excellent three-course tea.
Dumped, and knowing little about cooking, I bought recipe books by super chefs like Jamie Oliver and Tinkerbelle Snout. But they serve only to discourage.
Every recipe I set out on falls flat on its souffle — I get halfway through and find I’m missing four exotic herbs and a half pint of coconut milk.
Also, I’m short on kitchen gadgets. I don’t have herb scissors, a meat barometer (sic) – and what is a Sushi Bazooka?
I tried to sign up for My Food Bag, but they don’t deliver to my address. I’m tired of spaghetti on toast. Please help.
Arthur, Maori Hill.
Sorry about the croquet coach. I’ve heard they are finks. But you’re being pathetic about your tucker. Sadly, a man who tires of spaghetti on toast has tired of life.
You must get a grip on yourself. Use your imagination. Try spreading your spag on crumpets. Or buy Heinz instead. Add a half spoon of Marmite. Buy the tins that surprise you with buried sausages.
And brighten your dish by serving it with fine wine.
I can’t find a Master of Wine who has opined on the precise match for a tin of Watties. But you couldn’t go wrong with a chianti (but it must be classico), a Veronese valpolicella, or perhaps the well-reviewed Mongolian 2010 Chateau Hanson. (Seriously). Crafted by Gobi Desert peasants, it has a $500 price tag, and experts agree its worth at least $50.
My Food Bag knocked my delivery address back too. It’s odd because Nadia Lim lives just up the hill.
Dear Uncle Norm,
Commerce Minister Faafoi has dropped the news that managers of Default KiwiSaver Funds have only two months to dump investments in fossil fuel companies.
He didn’t clarify what will define a fossil fuel investment.
Typically (for this Government) this detail comes later. But he did insist this "ethical investment policy" wouldn’t hurt the 700,000 Kiwis with money in the funds.
Where do such fossil fuel bans end? Should they include the banks who lend to miners, to dig more holes?
And Fonterra, whose cows belch methane. Let’s see – what about Z Energy’s service stations? They sell clouds of carbon as surely as dealers sell smack. And this naughty Government owns 51% of Air New Zealand whose every flight spews carbon.
Politicians shouldn’t use our savings to further pet policies.
Do they next ban KiwiSaver investment in companies that don’t meet union pay demands, or fail on gender quotas?
Might we be forced to invest in their financially doomed "Grand Plans", like Auckland’s airport light rail?
Roger. C/O Petroleum House.
You could give the Government credit for negotiating funds management fees down, which is seriously helpful. But yes, this money is not the property of the Government. It belongs to the individuals. Some would be happy invested in fossil fuels, and others not.
Minister Faafoi and friends are entering distinctly dodgy territory because the eventual fine print of this "ethical" policy can only be a mess of compromises. The matter was far better left alone. But meddle they will.
Dear Uncle Norm,
I’ve decided to get myself a puppy. Are there any particulars one should take into account when purchasing a bulldog?
Marigold, Mornington.
I rely on the advice of the children’s writer, Roald Dahl. During a 1940s posting to the British embassy in Washington, a friend asked the creator of Willie Wonka to mind his bulldog, Winston.
Dahl soon discovered Winston was imperiously flatulent, and wrote bitterly to his mother about the problems this imposed on a dogsitter. His list of trials was long, so I summarize.
Winston broke wind without regard to time or place.
In the mornings, he let loose in both bathroom and bedroom. At work, Dahl was diminished in his secretary’s eyes when, during dictation, Winston (hidden under Dahl’s embassy desk) uttered a bottom burp.
The bulldog cut another at lunch with Brazilian VIPs; then gassed the elegant red despatch box which held Dahl’s correspondence.
Come supper with Norway’s Crown Prince Olav and Princess Martha, Dahl left the offender sulking in his car.
But the royals insisted Winston be brought inside.
"He spent the rest of the evening slinking round the room casting lustful eyes at the Princess, and belching," Dahl complained.
Then came the inevitable bomb — but an unexpected let-off for the author of The Vicar of Nibbleswicke.
"They thought it was the Norwegian ambassador," Dahl told his mum.
"Never get a bulldog," he advised.
So Marigold — a spaniel perhaps?
- John Lapsley lives in Arrowtown.
