Revenge is a dish best served cold

I like food. I like good food better. I like to enjoy my good food secure in the knowledge that I am not going to be poisoned.

There are some several things I particularly like. Fresh rocket salad with shaved Parmesan and balsamic vinegar. Quail now too, since Cheney's lawyer-shoot. Goat's cheese. Pancakes with crispy bacon and maple syrup. This last is the national dish in Canada. And that assertion caused a stand up argument with The Artist the other day. Apparently she knows that this is false and that no-body on the entire surface of this blue globe eats crispy bacon and maple syrup on pancakes and only complete sickos would even joke about it and therefore, the syllogism inevitably flows that I am a perverse lunatic. My attempt to reason was futile. My invitation to jointly consult the oracle of google was not RSVP'd. My declaration that willful blindness on her part was tantamount to moronic stupidity was perhaps heavy handed, and it's result was steadfast howling and tears in gratifying volume. A pyrrhic victory then. Just to fuck her up some more I said: "Well, I'm having it every day for breakfast this week."

Anyway, the foregoing is just by way of introduction. The first course in a degustation menu of food farce.

• Her gourmet fruit-juice (which I have been enviously observing) has finally gone off, unopened. The carton is bulging dangerously. On the day of it's hatching I will compel her to remove whatever pupae emerge. Pear flavoured face-huggers hopefully.
• My 85% chocolate has a large chunk missing. I wonder if the choco-thief (and these fuckers are EVERYWHERE) was suitably surprised. That shit ain't exactly sweet.
• Some idiot has bought frosties. Those fuckers are their own reward. God.

And now sir, some dessert? Oooh! But sir, eet ees onlee waff-er theen.

Honey. It is perhaps my favourite thing in it's purest form. There is manuka honey. I avow that manuka honey is magical, and has mystic properties. One can use it to control an undead army and blot out the sun. Another of my favourites, also from the antipodes, is Tasmanian Leatherwood honey. It is more potent than viagra and turns lead into gold. Best licked off golden haired virgins. The upper thigh area is de rigueur.

But recently I have been eating some French stuff, where the bees use sunflowers. It is a set honey and it is perfectly divine. Now the thing about set honey is that it is not viscous and translucent, but opaque and almost solid, usually with a creamy colour.

Now I came into the kitchen late on Saturday afternoon looking for my breakfast. It was a mess. Surprise sur-fucking-prize. I had, to the best of my knowledge finished the French sunflower honey. It was all gone. But as I stood in the kitchen blearily scratching myself I saw it there on the bench, quite clearly. With it's lid off.

Fucking chocolate larceny and now this!

I wondered if Pooh ever went postal. Popped a cap in Christopher Robin's ass, or something. Forced Piglet and Tigger into a deeply unnatural union at knifepoint. Plush snuff revenge for a lost love.

A pre-emptive strike was called for. I recklessly hacked off a chunk of sourdough bread belonging to someone else. Duke spoke in my mind:

Yeah. I know. I'm guilty. I understand that. I knew it was a crime but I did it anyway. Shit, why argue? I'm a fucking criminal.

Fuck the consequences - in the kitchen it is an eye for an eye. Consume the meagre remains of the honey, I thought, before them. They are watching, remember... Waiting. Eat the honey before they come back with the creosote. I spooned it on thick.

I lifted the bread, laden with luscious creamy goodness. In slow motion I looked down at the approaching precious morsel, slavering in anticipation of the sweet sweet motherload of French flavour. Pavlov's puppy ain't got nothin'. Behind the bread I saw, in slow motion, the carnage in the kitchen. Someone's been cooking pancakes...

The bread was in my mouth.

I saw a pan, thick with grease.

An empty sausage tray. Pork and sage. Nice.

I started to bite.

An empty bottle of cheap maple syrup.

Suffering fuck noooooo....!!! Not possible!

I spat out the foetid evil filth. Gagged. Retched. Something to drink. No- not the fizzy fucking pear juice. Cranberry.

Jesus.

I looked over the scene carefully. Some reprehensible, stupid swine had cooked sausages and pancakes. Not crispy bacon - sausages. Sausages and fucking pancakes is not the national dish of anywhere. Mebbe Poland, but that certainly isn't going to be confused with any culinary ratio decidendi carrying force in this jurisdiction. Sausages and fucking maple syrup is the last bastion of the most depraved lunatics of all. Worse than the coprophile or the degenerate donkey-fucker. Nothing that walks or crawls on planet earth eats pancakes, sausages and maple syrup.

That same gastronomic terrorist had then poured the cooling pig fat into my empty honey jar.