A (really, really exciting) Interactive iSpy Activity:
Seven Things To Be Found Floating About Our Kitchen
If you weren’t already convinced as to which land mass I happen to be occupying, here’s a hint.
One can simultaneously toast/bake/warm/reheat/broil/grill eight pieces of bread in our flat at a time.
Coming from a country in which toast and tea is reserved primarily as food for the sick and bedridden (all right, potentially a wee bit of an exaggeration, even by my own standards, but we’re trying to get a point across).
I found that endlessly impressive.
Our flat is stocked with not only a toaster, but also a, and I quote, “toastie maker.”
Other popular outlets for toast preparation include the oven, in addition to the microwave.
However my flatmates have incessently shot me down whenever I’ve offered to just warm up a batch of microwaved toast for them, describing it with harsh adjectives such as, “stale” “rubbery” and “unappetizingly chewy.”
Pretty cruel critique when divulged in a British accent.
(North Americans, this is Scottish for, “broke” a friendly term with the 18-25 age group)
Nonetheless probably the most common cupboard landscape round campus halls is the very spitting image before you.
No one’s quite sure what this is. What it’s for. How to use it. Nor how it appeared in our flat.
So, we did what all other practical uni students would do in this situation, threw it in the drawer of wonders and waited it out till it proved it’s worth.
Which surprisingly came in an impressivly short amount of time the very next day, and the next day, and the next.
Seeing as it has no use, we have managed to use it for just about everything there is.
We’ve set this awkward stick to work grinding, crunching, stirring, smooshing, flattening, rolling, and wrecking general destruction.
Seeing Jonathan eating food is never an odd occurrence.
In fact, that is a very, very natural occasion in the kitchen of Flat 2, one that happens most essentially on the hour, every hour rain or shine, more rain than shine, never fail.
The only impressive, and therefore relatively odd happening in this photo is the way in which Jonathan is avidly (and may I note successfully) consuming a Tesco bought lasagna meal pack meant for four.
That gorgeous trophy of a college student’s dinner was devoured in one single sitting.
In a span of about fifteen minutes.
Only under the strictest supervision of peer pressure of course.
I could probably write a novel about the chickpea incident.
Screw that, I could write encyclopedias, as in multiple, about the chickpea incident.
Or at the very least a couple of semi-decent blog posts.
However I now present to you, the debut recounting of:
The Chickpea Incident; Abridged Version.
It has something to do with me coming home from lectures right about dinner time, absolutely starving as always, if I were a twelve year old boy, the hunger would most certainly be attributed to an inevitable growth spurt just minutes down the road of maturity.
But I fear I’ve far out-aged the good old days of growth spurts and must now face the reality that all that food I’m consuming really isn’t going to make me taller, and I’ve got nothing at all left in the world to blame my hunger upon.
Anyhow, it’s the type of evening when everything smells delicious, like really, really good.
And all I want is some sort of insta-meal to just appear before me, you know, the way that food would just sort of, materialize whenever mum was around back home.
Rummaging through the echo of my roomy kitchen cupboard, the results weren’t promising.
The options looked to be a can of beans for the third time that day, or the untouched economic sized bag of chickpeas I’d picked up from Tesco a couple of weeks back.
Chickpeas it was.
Now, I’m not really sure what a chickpea is, neigh how to cook it, the more important thing however, is that it was on sale.
And such a bargain it was (moment of nostalgic recollection).
With the simplest of calculations, I figured that the mere two pound investment would then feed me for the next couple weeks solid based on the size of that bag.
Besides, they were practically peas right, just like, attractive, womanly peas, “chick” peas.
After a short flat debate, I decided to treat them like pasta and throw them in a pot to boil, expecting, like pasta (minus the pest0), in ten minutes time I’d have a steaming plate, and fork in hand.
Healthy, nutritious, and delicious.
In hindsight, it’s almost adorable. How innocent and idealistic I was.
Ten minutes turned into half an hour, which turned into two hours, which turned into ten hours, which eventually became a twenty-four hour span, which is how I met chickpeas.
Thee absolute most high-maintenance pea on the planet, at the most aptly inopportune moment of college student starvation.
Only in a flat with medics do we have poetry and artwork regarding the corpse they’re dissecting in anatomy class gracing our fridge tops.
Expressing their deepest darkest sentiments about slitting flesh with scalpel.
Great. Sure works up the ole appetite.
The relatively gruesome result of what was, I believe, appropriately dubbed, “Epic Meal Time.”
It involved eight male freshers (scottish slang for first years), forty quid of meat products, and some sort of bacon weave, from what I could determine.
Feel free to skip over this next part under the pretenses of preserving your stomach if you wish.
However I feel it necessary to comment that this photo was taken the morning after, and moments following this endearing image of processed meaty goodness was captured, the contents of this picture were consumed, instead of Corn Flakes, for breakfast by my lovely male flatmates.
I’ve never known a better time for being vegetarian.