God's Conveyor-Belt

Y'know, sometimes, it really doesn't suck being married to a cookaholic.

It leads to days like this, when d got her cook on, which meant when I stumbled out of bed, scratching myself, she was all sweetness and light and ran down a menu of some of today's available special ingredients.
Of course, I'm a rampant Neanderthal with the palette of a British bachelor, and I was just out of bed, which is how I ended up with an omelette, hot dogs and...ahem...'English' muffins.
Sat on my ass for quite a while today, during which time, d made lobster and scallop papardelle, a lemon chicken and a gorgeous slow-braised pulled pork roast with her signature 'sexy spicy South American rub...'

Actually, I'm making this sound like an unusual day. Pretty much, it's any weekend day.

Not that I've eaten all that today, you understand...it just means that whatever she decides to cook tomorrow will be for...erm...sometime next week, when we're done with the protein-fest.

The irony of this is that, with the exception of the papardelle, none of this was scheduled for today - the thing that was scheduled for today is missing one vital ingredient, I'm told, so that's pretty much being queued up on this culinary version of God's conveyor-belt for future presentation.

Like I say, reaaaallly doesn't suck, this life.

Of course, d does make a semi-valid point with her semi-grin: "Any wonder you were twenty stone?"
But the bigger point of course is that no-one's forcing any of this stuff down my neck, and she'd be just as happy making sensational saladfests for me if I asked her for them.

In other news, tried de-caff again today. Still, in defiance of science and rationality, can taste the diffrerence, but let's face facts here, it tastes more like coffee than fruit tea tastes like tea, so yes, I'll drink it and be happy. But yes, there are a long line of hairy, sweaty Real Valleys Men shouting at me in my head every time I sip it, and especially when I order it, becaue I can't yet shed the feeling that it's somehow contemptuous, rather than hip and 21st-century metrosexual, as d, bless her, tries to tell me it is. Like many things on this journey, it's a necessary step, rather than a pleasurable one.

Also, did a stupid thing - took another sneak peek, which made me put a big-ass plaster over the thigh-burn and get back on the bike and cycle for twenty miles. Pretty much enflamed the damn thing and began work on a whole other burn a little further down the leg.
Tomorrow - bigger shorts!

So now it's nearly 11.30, and my ass is about to fall out for the second time this hour, so I reeeeealllly have to get off this machine right now.

"So," said d, "D'you want some toast?"
Annnd the conveyor-belt starts up again.