My better half has a real job. A real, serious, adult job. Not in the adult industry, but adult like earning enough to keep your overweight wife in the lifestyle to which she has become accustomed. (My chocolate addiction costs more than you could imagine)
My BH is the BIG boss (that wasn’t a fat joke, I just meant that my BH is the Head Honcho) at a BIG military base that includes looking after the grounds (including several sports fields with handsome, single – I assume – military personnel running around in slow motion with sweat glistening off their sculpted, tanned……. I’m getting off track.), a pool, a gym, security, the cleaning, accommodation, and several kitchens. When we met all those years ago, my BH was a pastry chef. It’s little wonder we got along so well – I LOOOOOOOOVE CAKE!
I work in the film industry.
No, I do not make a million dollars a year. Yes, I do know “celebrities”. No, I will not have them autograph something for you. Yes, there are a lot of premieres and red carpets and lunches with producers and directors, but mainly it is an office job. Lots of looking after high maintenance clients and making sure my boss is happy. The main benefit of my job is that I get to wear jeans to work. I know this might not sound super exciting, but to me, being comfortable is paramount. Especially at my size. I used to teeter around in sky-high heels, but since reinventing myself as Carnie Wilson before the by-pass surgery, my shoes have taken a sharp turn to very-flat-and-supportive-middle-aged-woman town.
Because of my daily casual attire, my BH doesn’t believe I have a “real” job. Apparently it is a “play” job. I get paid to gossip, drink coffee and socialise. Apparently someone at a bowl full of sour grapes. Technically, I *do* gossip and drink coffee (replaced now with peppermint tea) and socalise, but that is what I am paid to do. I found the perfect job. WINNING!
Anyway, back to the big important job at the military base. So, about 2 nights ago, the Bat-phone rings – it is always such a scary jolt awake when the phone goes off in the middle of the night! It turned out to be the Executive Chef calling in sick. Ok, lets be honest here. It was the Executive Chef’s MOTHER calling in sick on behalf of their offspring! At 4am. So, ever-responsible-adult-job-BH gets up, has a shower and trots off to work to cover for Mr Sicky.
As if being woken up in the middle of the night and not being able to drink a caffine laced sugary drink to keep you awake wasn’t bad enough, that particular morning there was a breakfast function for One. Hundred. And. Eighty. People. 180. Nearly 200 non-Cohen-ites who were banging on the door trying to break in for their hot breakfast like it was the Boxing Day sales at Myer.
My BH is perfectly qualified to cater to this group, however, this time, the Cohen Lifestyle Clinic decided to rrreeeeeeeeeeeally test out the commitment and motivation of the Little Chef That Could.
Let me tell you about the menu.
Eggs. Fine. They are included on the program. However, these were scrambled eggs, mixed with cream, and delicious flavouring. There were two other ways that the eggs were cooked, but I stopped listening after the creamy scrambled eggs.
Sausages. Greasy, fatty, yummy sausages.
Mushrooms. I could have eaten those – if they weren’t covered in truffle oil.
Hash Browns. Crumbled up potatoes dunked in the deep fryer until they are crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle. Amazing. Surely I could convince Margaret that Hash Browns are a vegetable!
Toast. Oh to have a piece of toast. Such a simple creation. So versatile, so comforting, sooooo off-limits.
Baked Beans. Beans, beans, good for the heart, the more you eat, the more you….. Well you get the picture.
Yoghurt and Museli. Yup, I’ll be happy to leave that to the people that think they are being healthy.
And last, but definitely not least. Bacon.
Soft bacon. Crispy bacon. Strips and rashers spreading their delicious, delicious scent all over the facility. Taunting BH, saying “EEEEEEAAT MEEEEEE”.
Now, I have heard from several reliable sauces (see what I did there) that BH did not even TASTE the food, let alone dive in to the vat of crumbly, greasy goodness and die a sweet, fat filled death like I am sure I would have.
As a chef, I believe that it is illegal not to taste the food, but it just shows to my that BH is supporting me all the way down to 47kgs. That is true love.