There are three things I hate in this world.
One is people who try to tell me how to live my live, taking the position that they know better than me and what they do is far superior to what I get up to.
It’s elitist bullshit propagated by wanna-be dictators with an over-inflated sense of their own worth and a desire to convert everyone to their ways, just so that the jumped up clowns can look in the mirror and tell themselves how wonderful they are.
Two is wankers who throw the word moreish about as if they are clever.
They’re not clever at all, and they can’t even speak the English language properly. Moreish? What’s that, someone who comes from the Moors? The murderous psychopath type like Myra Hindley and her psycho boyfriend Ian Brady? I mean, FFS, if you think something is delicious and you want to guts some more of it because you’re a glutton, just say that it tastes good and you’re going to fang on some more of it because you’re a brain-dead, greedy pig.
That’s my biggest hate of all.
People who want to mess with your spuds.
We’re not morons. We all know how to cook a potato, and what tastes good and what doesn’t, and we don’t need some moreish wanna be food nazi to tell us how to eat them.
Mashed spuds, mixed butter, salt and a bit of milk, and pounded until there are no lumps in it is good.
Chips fried with fresh oil are too, especially with a decent, but not over the top lash of salt. Real, not chicken. Chooks lay eggs, not sodium, any idiot knows that.
Roast spuds cooked right and covered in gravy are a cracker, hash browns are pretty good with bacon and eggs, and if you’re in a hurry boiled spuds rolled in sour cream will do, but as delish as each of them are, Brekky Creek spuds in alfoil with all the business are the best spuds of all, but they’re a luxury not a staple, not unless you are a well-to-do barfly or you work there anyway.
Potatoes of any description doused in maple syrup are simply ridiculous.
Maple bloody syrup! What are we, Canadians or something? Puh-lease.
The Courier-Mail’s unidentified staff writers – who probably are bloody Canadians, or illegal immigrants working for 3 cents a word cash in hand as stringers for Rupert – can go and stick their opinions of how well I’m doing isolation and their moreish wanky Maple Syrup right up their arse.
I’m off to KFC for a family sized chips, with gravy.
You don’t find heaven in a maple tree.