So there I was at 10.45 last night, slobbing in front of the television and thinking about wending my weary way to bed, when I noticed my beloved working in the kitchen.
'Hey beloved', I said, 'wither goest thou?' (that's not true, you asked what the hell I was doing in the kitchen at that time of night - Jan)
Anyway, it turned out that she was cooking something for breakfast the next day. Bloody hell, it wasn't even Christmas! Nobody cooks things at that time of night for the next day, do they?
I tossed and turned all night in fevered expectation. What the hell could my beloved be going to produce that involved so much preparation?
This morning I found out. Her favourite magazine arrived yesterday and on page 101 she had seen a Quinoa pudding with cranberry compote and she was preparing the Quinoa (pronounced Keen-wah for all you less culinary types).
Now far be it for me to be ungrateful, but this stuff is full of sugar. Not really what I should be eating at all given my diabetic state (you still haven't figured out that she's trying to kill you, have you? - Ed) but it did taste good. It's a sort of fruity rice pudding, but better. I told told my beloved that I liked it, which probably means that, like my mother, she'll now serve it up every day for the next six months. Ah well, it could be worse.
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