Beware the ides of March, thanks to Clooney and company its no longer just a historical and Shakespearean reference, but even the new generation knows that the ides of March (the half division of March) means trouble; just ask Julius Caesar...poor son of a bitch. And so I found myself in a bit of trouble this morning while making breakfast. After day 13’s nutellvis and yesterday’s bacon marmalade experiment, I decided to return to savoury oats. My usual double espresso latte macchiato was still too hot to drink, and as I returned the milk to the fridge I noticed the juice boxes that I keep on hand for my niece and nephews. Although I think they amount to no more than sugary garbage, they do limit spillage in my admittedly non-kid-friendly home. I reached out to grab one and took some sickly pleasure as I pierced the foil opening with the pointed straw. What possessed me to want one so badly? I’m convinced it was the evil of the ides of March that overcame me. I took a long sip of the poison from the box and was immediately knocked back to reality by the sickly taste…this stuff was terrible. The good people at Coca-Cola hadn’t even bothered to try and hide the fact that it tasted like medicine. You could have replaced it with Triaminic and I wouldn’t have noticed the fucking difference. Which is to say that I would have gagged all the same due to my severe aversion to cough syrup. A quick swig of my hot coffee erased memory of the “Juice Blend” experiment and I squirted the rest of it down the sink and swear that I heard the telltale hissing and boiling sounds of acid working its way through metal. I wonder what it had done to my stomach?
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| Carefully disguised boxed poison |
My oats were accompanied by sliced and fried home-made sopressata, the portion of which would have probably cost me $20 were it placed on top of some thinly stretched cooked dough covered in tomato sauce with a little bit of cheese. To the delicious mound I added some toasted pine nuts, olive oil, the now familiar Turkish spice blend, and a drizzle of truffle oil. Not your typical morning meal to be sure.
Since there were no leftovers for lunch, I returned to the food court for some honey pork and noodles. It’s strange, in Asia the predominate meat on offer is pork, but at the Asian restaurants near my workplace, they only seem to offer one or two items. One has to trek out to Chinatown or the depths of Markham to get a truer experience; I might just have to do that so I can get some deep fried intestines and pork blood jelly.
On my way home I stopped at my neighbourhood butcher to pick up a pig’s head. Sam and the rest of the guys at Totera Fine Foods had taken an interest in my Month of Pork. They thought the whole thing was both humorous and delicious, but mostly humorous. I suppose they were wondering what kind of lunatic engages in such a mission; not because it’s strange (these guys make their living on meat), but because they know that the purported evils of pork are unfounded. In fact, Sam admits to not liking chicken.
Dinner was out of my control, but I was in good hands. The Ides of March also signals the birthday of my nephew and my whole family had gathered at my parents’ house to celebrate. Everybody knows about my dietary requirements, so special arrangements had been made. Everyone else had steak, and I had sausage and tenderloin. This must be like what a vegetarian feels like when they’re surrounded by omnivores…like an asshole. I felt bad refusing the steak, but I was on a mission. Besides, it wasn’t the kind of steak that I’m used to anyways.
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| The steak I had to refuse |
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| Sausage and tenderloin |
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| Birthday Cake...Mmmm, sfoglia, my favourite. |
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