Optie has honoured me with a Versatile Blogger Award, for which I am very grateful, thanks Optie. The way this works is that I accept the award and pay it forward by nominating 15 bloggers for the award. I can’t possibly do this as there are far more than 15 bloggers whom I adore and think of as extended members of my family, and with whom I have shared almost 5 years of my day-to-day existence.
The second condition of accepting the award is that I disclose 7 things about myself. I don’t know that you all don’t already know everything there is to know about me, but here goes:
I don’t speak Italian.
If I did, I’d be able to conjure up all manner of lovely stories about the origin of food names. The pasta I used in this dish is called ‘Strascinati Pugliesi’ and I, drawing a logical link with the English word ‘pugilist’, immediately thought that the ‘pugliesi’ must mean ‘of the boxer’. I further imagined, rolling my tongue around both the pasta and the word, that ‘strascinati’ must be ‘stretched nose’. Ergo: ‘stretched nose of the boxer’. Witness this misshapen oblong and you’d have to agree that my logic was sound.
Anyhow, no matter what the noodle is called, I made a dish of baked pasta; with pork sausages, paprika and chili.
I always make enough of a dish to serve as two meals.
One is for my supper and the other for lunch at my desk the following day. Many of my colleagues buy their lunches from a local restaurant or from one of the many takeaway franchises nearby. As I get older, I am becoming very frugal and am content with my home-made lunches.
I have become the unwilling owner of a pigeon.
This may well be payback for the 13 dead pigeons I cooked not long ago. This live one was hurt when one of the dogs got hold of her and Our Alice brought her into my courtyard to convalesce. My uncle pronounced it a male, but was proved wrong minutes later when my feathered friend laid an egg. She’s completely ignored the egg and has taken to following my around from room to room, pooping as she doddles along and never taking her eye off me.
I don’t own a television.
I sometimes consider investing in one, but the thought of how many books I could buy for the price of a TV set always makes logic prevail.
I enjoy a peanut butter and chili sandwich.
Many people find this very odd, but see nothing strange in eating a bowl of peanut & chicken curry.
I learned this week, courtesy of Facebook, that I am a librocubicularist.
My spellchecker is balking at this, but I am assured that it is a real word. I revel in my librocubicularism; living alone means I can be as self-indulgent as I wish and take tea and biscuits in bed along with my books.
I don’t own a rabbit these days.
Big Red Betsy has gone to a petting zoo, where she has the run of a lovely big pen and lots of rodent friends. On arrival there, she promptly mounted another bunny and the bloke who runs the place has renamed her Big Red Robert.