Fruits for our Labours

Fruits for our Labours

Another Zambia piece. I will eventually do other things.

I only managed to take a couple of pictures of food while I was in Zambia. One was of Christmas lunch at our host home, a spread of potatoes, pasta, chicken, salad, and cake. The other was… well, see for yourself.


Killing a xenomorph isn’t nearly as hard as all those Alien films make it out to be[1]. Predators are just a bunch of posing hipsters, to be entirely honest. You don’t need head lasers or stealth fields or anything to hunt down one of the slimy buggers, and then, once you’ve tracked it to its lair and given a decent clonk on the head, the eggs make for pretty decent eating. Not a great omelette, but add an interesting tang to a carbonara.

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The Good Househusband: Scones


Welcome to what should become a semi-regular feature in which I cook stuff and then write about it. Suggestions on what to make, tips, and alternative recipes are all very much welcome. The events page of your local council newsletter is not.


Ah, September. The turning of summer to autumn, heralded by the browning leaves, the ripening crops, the terrified, pimply teenagers leaving home for the first time, and painfully overwrought metaphors about aging.

That is to say, universities start back in September, which means a new intake of first year students. At this very moment, thousands of scared, housebound agglomerations of acne and neuroses are venturing out into the world. Some are no doubt eminently prepared.

The thing is, though, I was an 18 year old boy at one point. And based on that anecdotal evidence, goddamn, 18 year old boys are awful, awful people. So I reckon it’s probably safe to assume the worst.

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