Simply Unspeakable

I've wanted something disgusting since the weekend. I want a pie. Not a chunky-gourmet-tender-pieces-of-lamb pie. Not even the exquisite organic chicken and leek pie that I pick up from Organica and throw in the oven when I just can't be bothered cooking.

Digression 1: This obviously means that I am not a Real Cook. Real Cooks would tell me that I could whip up Spaghetti alla Olio in the time it takes the pie to heat. True, but I suspect a Real Cook also wouldn't eat satay sauce from the jar with stale bread, call it dinner and go to bed.

No, what I want is the standard, fast food, Aussie pie. Sloppy filling, ground bits of indistinguishable meat, commercial-tasting crust. I can't believe it, but I DO. Even all the raves at the Inaugural Great Pie Roundup haven't been able to change my mind. And this is the odd thing. I don't like beef. I hardly ever eat it - maybe 2 or 3 times a year and even then it's usually organic steak, cooked at home. At yet, everything in me yearns for the most appalling of scraps, from goodness knows where, minced up and covered in slop. Dear me.

Digression 2: I haven't eaten a regular meat pie for at least 17 years. A bout of vegetarianism makes it remarkably easy to chart these things, particularly as once I had exited from meatless exile I had a decided distaste for this kind of food.

I suspect it might be the prevalance of footy finals on the weekend which brought the classic pie to mind. Speaking of which, earlier the Figman flew interstate to meet up with some mates and watch their team unexpectedly be in some sort of final. This was very spur of the moment and when he rang me, I did some quick calculations in my head for airfare and accomodation and said "Fine. But I want a new vacuum cleaner".

Digression 3: For fear of sounding all housewifely, I must admit that I do not vacuum. I have probably only vacuumed once in the last 3 years. (Fortunately Figman sees it as some sort of masculine duty). But I was sick of the sight of the old one, held together with packing tape and spewing forth more dust than it collected.

I went on with my shopping and then idly went over the sums again in my head. Hang on. I texted him back "And a Kitchen Aid".

Underhand you might say. A dirty trick to play on a sports fan. But as the wise Melissa at the Traveler's Lunchbox would say "it is better to be the owner of a KitchenAid than a nice person"!