More grossness in the kitchen

We have moths.
In our kitchen cupboards.

How did I discover them? I was reaching for a packet of brown rice that had not been used for some time. (Let's just say it was a healthy eating phase that didn't work out.) What's that in there? I thought. I shook the packet about a bit. And flitter, flutter....out came a handful of moths. They left behind little moth cocoons and moth droppings.

After a moment's retching and queasiness, I investigated some more. Cocoons, droppings (they might not be droppings, but I am in no mood to speculate, only to think the worst) everywhere, in lasagne packets, bags of flour, nasty nests in the meringue nests.

I have tried to purge what I can, but this morning I saw another one, flying out of the cupboard but beyond that I have been unable to locate the hostile's address.

It's like that Alfred Hitchcock film, The Moths.*

*I mean The Birds, don't I?

Emma does an impression of a sea-lion

Fish for supper night before last at Chateau Scho.

In the middle of the table is a dish for detritus - skin and bones and that.

Having eaten the meaty bit (it was trout), Emma reaches into the detritus plate, picks out the fish heads and pops them in her mouth. Munch, crunch, munch, crunch. She pauses to spit out the eyes.

Then she picks up the slimey scaley skin and in it goes. Chew, chew, chew, gulp.

Yummy!

tum-ti-tum

OK, what shall I write about today?

Well, congratulations, struggling author on getting a publisher for her book. If the quality of the book matched the quality of the blog, then it's about time. It has made me think of titles for the book I may one day write. So far I have come up with Picking Things Off the Floor and I don't want to look like Crystal Carrington: my hair and I.

Gloria is much better. Let's take a look.

Emma likes to look at people and call them either "man!" or "lady!" It can be sweet, except for yesterday when she pointed at someone and said "man!" when it was actually umm, a "lady!"

Last night I made a horrid-tasting pumpkin soup. Oh pumpkin, how I hate thee. You won't taste nice whatever herbs I chuck at you. (Though you make nice puree, which G wolfs down.)

That's all.