what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine if I can get it

Tôi mệt mỏi với việc nấu ăn của người phụ nữ. Hãy để chúng tôi thử một nhà hàng mới.

There is only so much of the human female’s cooking I can take.  I think the human male feels the same way, because he suggested we get take-out tonight.  Oh, he says its by way of “supporting local businesses” and “helping the economy,” but I am fairly certain he’s just bored with her culinary efforts.

He went online and pulled up the menu for a Vietnamese place we have not tried yet.  He put in a varied order and went to fetch it.  He should be home at any moment.

And here it is!  What did we get?  What did we get?


There could be anything in there.  It’s not moving, so I guess that’s good.

Hmm.  Styrofoam.  Still could be anything.


Aha!  Actual food.  Shrimp spring rolls with what is looks and smells like peanut sauce.


It’s hot out today, so it’s nice to have something cold.

And this is…


I don’t know what.  There’s a cut-up egg roll, some meat, some pickled vegetables, what looks like rice noodles, and some little fried-ish things on top.  And a plastic container of…  It’s the right color for motor oil, but I rather suspect it isn’t.

Ehehehe.  The human female, well aware of her innate clumsiness, has decided that she needs something larger than the styrofoam container to mix the the food and the sauce in.

She has invoked a mixing bowl!  It makes it looks as if she’s prepared to inhale a whole trough full!


Go ahead and muddle along with your sticks, mortal.  I’ve got a fork and can eat faster than you!

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Protecting You From the Most Important Meal of the Day

I stand amazed.  The human female has broken with the time-hallowed Inn Breakfast Ritual, thrown tradition to the winds, and passed up both the large round breakfast maker AND the Texas-shaped breakfast maker!  There will be no cakey little cubby holes to fill with butter and syrup this morning!

No, she has elected to go the protein route, filling her flimsy plate with eggs and bacon.


Sigyn is enthused.  And the Norns know I do like a good strip of crisp bacon.  But really, human, I am just looking out for you.  That is far too much bacon for one person.   Here, let me save you from some calories.


Oh, and I’ve heard orange juice is just loaded with sugar, and you could wreck your whole day by downing a glass.  Let me fix that.


You’ll thank me later.

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I Think I’m On To Something

More and more, I think I have chosen the right city to be my eventual capital.  Oh, granted, it is hotter than Hel in the summer, and the traffic is abysmal, and as far as gardening conditions go, it’s the armpit of the horticultural world, BUT…

..The pizza situation is improving.

One of the local markets has just opened a pizzeria just inside the front of the store.  There it sits, wafting its grease-and-garlic siren song right into the foyer, so that all of those mortals who are “shopping hungry” are immediately drawn by the nose to investigate the source of the ambrosial aroma.  Those who have not arrived hungry are rendered so with a few sniffs.  It’s all anyone can do to make it past the pizza to the produce.

Two other, stand-alone pizza restaurants have opened in the last year or so.  Both specialize in building pies on a thin crust, adding whatever toppings one desires, and baking them in a flash in an oven kept at roughly the temperature of the surface of the sun.

We’re’ trying out one of them today.  Since the local town council has made the nearby parking garage free and obviated the need to pay just to walk around this section of town, it seems like a good time.

The menu is pretty straightforward…


Though that gratuitous stray apostrophe is giving me hives.  I note that they list gorgonzola as one of the possible toppings. If I live on this planet for a millennium,  I will never understand the Midgardian fascination with weaponized cheese.  

No two souls will ever agree on what toppings should go on a pizza, so pizza-crafters will often divide the crust of a shared pie down the center and top the halves differently, with a sort of no-man’s-land in the middle.  Behold–the humans’ pizza is such a pie:


Chicken, spinach, artichoke, tomato, basil, mozzarella, and a nice tomato sauce.

There is a demilitarized zone separating the pro-mushroom camp (human female) from the anti-mushroom camp (human male.)  Norns defend any fungus unwary enough to accidentally stray over the line.  Such a shroom will be dealt with using extreme prejudice.

Which is why it will be so much fun when the male discovers the bit of basidiomycete that I’ve hidden under his copious artichokes.  He will glare daggers at the female and accuse her of disrespecting the culinary and matrimonial treaties, and she will accuse him of being a baby when it comes to members of Kingdom Fungi.

Then I will direct the female’s attention to the calorie counts listed on the menu and whisper in her ear that each delicious bite is in direct conflict with her desire to fit into her clothes without the application of grease and a shoehorn.

And thus what began as a pleasant, peaceful evening, sharing a pizza at an outdoor table while watching little children play upon the grass, will devolve into defensiveness, resentment, self-loathing, and my ability to snag about a third of their pizza for myself.

My work here is done.

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