The Flabbergasted Rutabaga and other tales

Last night, we hosted what was ostensibly a George MacDonald-themed party. Turns out, we only talked about old G. Mac for about ten minutes, but they were a fruitful and titillating ten. Conclusion: we should probably all have read something of his either a) at all ever, or b) within the last four years or so. But the NEXT Georgie M. party will be something to remember, we nodded and beamed at each other in reassurance. I’m sure it will be.

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I may or may not have been the only Scottish-blooded person there, but we had a faux Englishwoman and a couple of Canadians, so we were close. I often think that any muddleheadedness of mine can be directly attributed to the various nationalities warring within my person. How well have the English, Scots, German, Polish, and Potawatomi people gotten along, historically speaking? Exactly my point.

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Though we may have failed in the discussion section, we outdid ourselves in the food department. You should have seen our spread of UK-like food. (You would have, too, if I had taken more than one food photo. Tough luck.) The Sickly Child and Death’s Head brought Shepherd’s Pie, the Canadians brought…what did your husband call that again, A.? Leicester Cobbler?…something that could VERY WELL I’M SURE have been part of British cuisine (and was delicious – I ate half), and I made Cornish pasties. The T’s brought a lovely salad, which wasn’t strictly British, but was nonetheless appreciated. Harp and Killian’s were well represented. I also broke out two of my hoarded Crunchie bars (purchased in London), letting everyone know exactly how generous and authentically British I was being.

“Oh, Crunchie bars?” said S., with a careless wave of the hand. “Yeah, I used to love these growing up. You can get them all over Canada. We can bring you a box next time we go home.”

!

O, Canada, how I pine for thee! Home of my forefathers and mothers, great frozen wasteland that’s only partially a frozen wasteland, land north of us that we really don’t think about that much! I’m going to take a more active interest in my Canadian heritage from this point forward. Now that I have a vested concern in the blessed place.

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The rutabaga: I’m getting to the rutabaga. It was more flabbergastING than flabbergastED, to be honest, but the latter sounds better than the former. It’s also more likely to make it on my list of potential band names.

The Cornish pasties were stuffed with potatoes, onions, rutabagas, and Black Angus beef. I’ve never cooked with rutabagas before. I wasn’t sure how to begin. They sure are ugly sonsabitches, aren’t they? I took one in hand to consider the problem but came to no feasible conclusion. I delayed; I procrastinated; I hemmed, and I hawed. The rutabaga taunted me with its rubbery, purple skin and elephantine lumpiness until at last, fearing defeat, I took my vorpal Japanese potato peeler in hand and cried, “Dark and sinister rutabaga; have at thee!”

It fell at a stroke and never spoke again.

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~ by themeansister on March 1, 2009.

7 Responses to “The Flabbergasted Rutabaga and other tales”

  1. Don’t forget the Harp! Yum…

  2. Oh, wait, you didn’t….whoops. 🙂

  3. I DID neglect to mention that you brought it, though – thanks again! It was scrumptious.

  4. Nice British literary references. To dine will be an awfully big adventure.

  5. Wot, no roast beef and Yorkshire puddings? No toad-in-the-hole? And you call this a British-cuisine evening? 😛

    Although I tip my hat to the Cornish pasties. My mum used to make them fairly often. And Crunchies are a dime a dozen up there, but it’s all aboot scarcity, eh?

    I still have my family smuggle in bottles of Roger’s Golden Syrup…cor, luverly, that! 😀

  6. We were going to have toad-in-the-hole, but The Sickly Child pronounced it too gross to eat. Yeah, you Canadians should do a better job at importing your sweets. I’m suffering here!

  7. I find the Sickly Child’s lack of taste disturbing.

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