Tag Archives: leftovers

Damn her!

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Last weekend we invited the husband’s 4 sisters who live in Maine to a barbecue/pool tournament/behold the majesty of the Barn Mahal man cave/ party. It was a good time… except for one dastardly deed. You see one of his sisters brought this:

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After I specifically said we were grilling filet mignon… she had the audacity to contribute to the feast.

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A dozen lobsters, fresh from the ocean that morning. Damn her rotten black soul!

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I had to watch those succulent creatures being disbanded…

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Dropped in the pot…. ( Only 2 inches of water please. We steam, not boil )

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Covered with a lid ( And a brick. They tend to buck when dying. Hell, wouldn’t you? )

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Oh, the horror!

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The horror of watching everyone tuck into the delightful crustaceans I can no longer eat.

It was Hell. Pure, unadulterated Hell.

😫😫😫

The only pleasure I took was not being able to find our crackers and picks. Substitutions had to be made.

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Good thing the tool box was close by.

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The husband was schooled at the pool table by two of his sisters, which I thought was fitting punishment for consuming and enjoying lobster in front of his now allergic wife.

But once the party was over, the mess cleaned up and everyone went home… what was almost worse than watching everyone eat them?

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Seeing the two leftover red beauties every time I opened the fridge the next day and knowing I couldn’t make a lobster roll.

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Hell, I tell you.

It was Hell.

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Cultural differences.

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I read an article the other day that made me chuckle.

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The list was long, but here are a few highlights.

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Yikes. I am in no way, shape or form a penny pincher…. ( the jury is still out on arse ) but I always box up my uneaten goodies. This has nothing to do with being cheap and everything to do with not wanting to cook dinner the next day. Of course we’re talking about English food here, so it really isn’t a surprise no one wants to bring that home.

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Okay, I’m doomed. We spent 18 years in the south.. and smothered with sausage gravy is my very favorite way to eat biscuits.

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Fanny means vagina? I had an aunt named Fanny. (crazy, but true) Then again, she was a nasty old biddy who should have embraced her latent homosexuality instead of living alone and miserable all of her bitter loveless life… so, okay.

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Side note… Googling ‘Aunt Fanny’ makes me realize I am woefully out of touch.

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It’s beginning to look like I won’t be able to cross England off my bucket list. I drink fresh brewed unsweetened iced tea every day, winter, spring, summer and fall. Why do Brits have such an aversion to ice?

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Oh good grief. I’ve always used spunky as an adjective. Looks like I’m going to have to rethink that…

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Uh oh.

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