Sometimes I am completely deluded. The upshot is that I am completely aware that I am deluded (just so you know I’m not crazy) but I just choose to ignore my awareness. One such instance where I delude myself is when I make or order desserts or cakes with any sort of fruit or vegetable in it, I convince myself that I’m being healthy and making a good choice. Surely ordering the berry tart is better than ordering the chocolate éclair right?….yes yes, I hear you all scoffing, wagging your finger at me telling me that they still have a crap load of fat and sugar, blah blah blah. As I said, I am aware I just choose to ignore.
Everytime I turn on the TV, the infomercial for the Instyler seems to be on. You know the one – the hairstyling tool that’s a combination of a curling/straightening iron with a brush attached. They seem to be really pumping the $ into advertising this little gadget given that it’s on pretty much every minute of the day – pity it’s crap.
Don’t you love it when every now and then social injustices right themselves? Unfortunately I can’t really entertain you with the details of the situation I encountered last week as much as I am dying to but let’s just say I left work last week doing one (or maybe several) fist pumps! Hells yeah.
Today didn’t start off that awesome as I had to get a test done at the hospital (nothing serious!) and I have a phobia of needles, but I was well rewarded when I visited my dad afterwards and received a lovely package of delicious purple figs that he had bought from his grocer. They had been picked straight from the garden of the grocer’s father, really folks, unless you picked these yourself…could it get any better?
I adore figs in every way shape and form. I love how they are so versatile and can be eaten as a savoury or sweet dish. I inherited my obsession with figs from my Mediterranean dad who was well into them way before they became fashionable on the food scene. I do remember though when I was a kid, I had a weird way of eating them. For some reason I wasn’t digging the texture of the skin and would just tear them in half, eat the sweet jammy insides and throw the skins away. My dad would throw his arms up in disgust at this fig crime I was committing. But now, things have changed, and my dad would be proud, I eat those things skin and all.