"I show you how to make this!" blurted Bruno excitedly. He'd just come roaring into the kitchen from the gym and had tossed a bag of ingredients onto the counter. My Portuguese housemate had had a spring in his step ever since he started working out a month ago. That was alright with me. I'd been quietly enjoying my own dinner before the ambience of the evening was slaughtered by the unexpected cookery lesson but it came as no surprise. It was the price I paid for eating in the kitchen.
The amateur chef smushed up all his mincemeat with abandon, handling the cooker knobs with his raw meat-covered fingers, while I sat there quietly horrified. I wondered to myself how the bastard could afford gym membership in the first place. It seemed to do him the world of good, although I couldn't quite work out how one was supposed to relax in a jacuzzi that was open to members of the general public.
Take a load of mincemeat, smush it with an egg and some onion. Lay it out flat on tin foil. Put ham, cheese and spinach on it. Roll it into a tube. Wrap bacon around it. Bake it for an hour. No wonder he needed the gym. The guy knew how to cook a few things though. It was clear that for him, making dinner was an end in itself.
I wonder if extroverts subconsciously decide to be loud as a way of drowning out discontent. I wonder if introverts subconsciously behave quietly because their minds are busy trying to drown it out inside their heads. Either way, it's a noisy world.
No comments
Post a Comment