This week I attempted to make Snails in Pots, a recipe by Mr. Floyd. I am struggling with Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddock’s culinare because she keeps rattling on about rations and a war. What rations have to do with war I have no idea but there’s no excuse for meany type Scroogeness in my book.

During this cat week I yet again fell off my helter skelter, and having reached the coconut matting at the bottom I thought I was going to end up on the merry-go-round. But thanks to She I managed to claw my way back up the curly slide, much to the annoyance of the queue of Scrambled Heads waiting to go down. I have been quite astounded at the care She has shown me since my ‘Mr. Pig induced accident’.

The cat week started badly when I became wedged in the cat door. I do not and can not understand why this happened, dear readers. The only thing I can think of is that all the rain we’ve been having has probably shrunk the cat door. The reason I say this is because I got caught in it the other day and it caused pink ruffle to shrink and I am finding it quite tight around my belly.

Anyway, I digest. Back to Mr. Floyd’s recipe. I collected a bucket load of snails from my garden because I couldn’t see the point in buying them when I have free range ones on my doorstep.

Now here comes the tricky part. Mr. Floyd says it’s very important you make sure the snails are starving. I thought the easiest way to tackle this would be to lay them all out on a large baking tray and ask them how they were feeling. I waited a few cat minutes but couldn’t hear anything, not a squeak from any of them. Wondering if they might be deaf I fetched my megaphone and tried that. Yet again, there was nothing. After some time I got the feeling they had all made a pact not to speak to me which was not surprising seeing as I was going to eat them.

I soon realised hostage style tictacs were needed so I volunteered Mr. Pig to help me. We borrowed a small chair from my friend, Sindy Doll and placed one of the snails on it. I cleverly thought of the idea of putting him in the sitting room in order to make him watch the entire series of Delia Smith’s Christmas which I have on DVD. My genius in this thinking was the programme would make him so hungry that he’d be forced to shout out ‘I’m starving!’ which would cause the others to follow.

Mr. Pig and I structurally placed a table in the doorway between the two rooms so we could view all our hostages while we occupied ourselves with a game of Monopoly. I soon got fed up with this when Mr. Pig started his nonsense, all because he wanted to be the car and not the iron as I’d told him he had to be. Mr. Pig has aspirations above his station at times and needs to be put in his place especially when it comes to playing parlour games. Anyway, I fought the urge to put him in my toasted panini maker and press the lid down really hard while waiting for it to heat up (rule number 42 of the Guinea Pig Anger Management Code) and decided we should play Operation instead.

After two cat hours of Operation and several urges to wire Mr. Pig up to the actual game I realised the snails must be starving because they hadn’t eaten since their capture that morning, so there was no point waiting any longer.

In Heinz sight I should have bought some cockles and used those instead because I now think snails have a sacred aura because there seemed to be some sort of karmic force at work.
I am blaming Mr. Pig for what happened next because it was his idea to put them in the fryer instead of a pan of boiling water as Mr. Floyd suggests. Due to my ravernousness I agreed with him thinking they would be tastier if they were crispened first.  Unfortunately my fryer didn’t like the tray load of snails including the one now educated in the culinary works of Delia Smith, and it exploded.

The upshot is, I now have paisley patterned patches of pink skin showing through my ginger fur, no eyebrows, eyelashes or whiskers and I look like an in-patient from the Tiddly Winks Scrambled Head Home. How the snails survived I will never know but they were catapulted from the fryer and made their way slowly out of the open back door.

What happened to Mr. Pig, I hear you cry! Well, he wasn’t there during the explosion having told me he had to get back to his caravan to meet Eileen and wouldn’t be able to help me any further with Mr. Floyd’s recipe. He came back as soon as he heard what had happened and tried to tell me that my scorched and oil splattered kichen was very ‘shabby chic’. I’m afraid I broke number 84 of the Guinea Pig Anger Management Code and wedged him in an empty toilet roll holder, popped him in a Jiffy bag and posted him to a local Chinese Takeaway.
I mustn’t grumble because due to She looking after me I have managed to stay on top of my helter skelter. I’ve even begun to change my mind about Vomit because she’s been ‘getting’ me luxury foods from She’s freezer which I am forbidden from going in. Vomit’s got a deft paw for picking padlocks.

Anyway, after my ‘Mr. Pig induced accident’ I would suggest not to bother with this particular recipe.

I must dash because my Take The High Road DVD box set arrived this morning and I’m eager to make a start on it while I eat the cheese and prawn volley vaults I made this morning.

Your Bestest fluff

Wilfred

Piss. S. In case you’re worried, Mr. Pig returned to his stupid caravan a couple of days later completely unharmed. He attempted to deliver some out of date Maltesers as a way of an apology. I covered him in Pedigree Chum and launched him into the garden next door where a well known cur called Basil lives. This particular act isn’t listed in the Guinea Pig Anger Management Code so therefore I am not breaking any of the 254 rules. I hope he can run in his new flipflops.

I decided to come out of my barracks because I’d finished all my boxed dvd sets and eaten my way through the entire contents of She’s forbidden freezer, fridge and cupboards. I was bored and there didn’t seem to be any sign of the Evil Ones so I lifted the blockade.

Many of you have expressed your distress and panic at my decision to postpone my cookery lessons which has propelled me to resume my project. I will still continue with my twinkly poet laureate career because as some of you pointed out, I am multi talented. So I am.

Unfortunately I am unable to make what I planned last week for various seasonal reasons which I will explain for those of you such as She who thought I may have used underpaw tictacs.

Souffle de Truites as you are already probably aware contains a trout. These strange and complex individuals require tickling before they are caught and this can only be done from May through to August, past this and they simply aren’t in the mood.

There is a river near to my cottage and even though it’s September I trundled down there to see if I could talk them round. I took Mr. Pig with me because he’s useful for carrying equipment and food because he has one of those shopping trolleys on wheels.

When he called round for me we stared at one another for quite some time because he was wearing a dark green body warmer and a flat tweed cap. He looked ridiculous and I could feel The Urge rising again dear readers and I wondered if I’d ever be free of it. He knew what I was thinking because he began that twittering noise he makes when he’s nervous and started hopping from flip flopped foot to flip flopped foot. The urge to put him in the jug of my coffee perculator and turn it on passed because I tried my new tic tac of counting to a hundred. It worked and we set off for the river.

Not long into our walk I began to wish I’d put him in my bread making machine, (I’m curious to know if the yeast will have any effect on him), because we had to stop several times. First of all he wanted a wee and he insisted on finding somewhere secluded so we ended up walking cat yards into the woods because he kept squealing that someone might see him. Then he got chewing gum stuck to one of his flip flops and he whinged about that. Then he was pelted with conkers by some squirrels, (guinea pigs and squirrels hate one another due to the squirrel community taking over the multi trillion pound Nobby’s Nuts empire) and then he tripped over due to his sticky flip flop and grazed his knee.

After much wittering I emptied the contents of my bait tin, popped him in it, secured the lid and zipped him up in his shopping trolley. I was quite proud of myself because it stopped me committing the Guinea Pig Anger Management rule number 124 which involved binding him to a twig and throwing him into the river to see how long it would take him to escape, or not as the case may have been…

A strange noise caught my attention as I skipped along, trolley in paw and basked in my guinea pig free moment. Every time I stopped the noise ceased, so it did. I bent down and inspected the wheels of the shopping trolley and there on the spokes were some slugs, lots of the little eejits. I moved the trolley and heard the noise again and I was sure it was the slugs causing it. It was a kind of flickery wooshery sound, so it was. I unzipped the bag and released Mr. Pig, my curiosity to know what they were doing on the wheels of his trolley was too much for my inquisitive nature.

It turns out they’re used as spokey dokeys and are all the trend. Mr. Pig informs me they glow in the dark and look very pretty. I was quite impressed by his geniusness.

Anyway, we didn’t stay at the river for very long because as I suspected the trout weren’t in the mood for tickling and mainly just wanted to pass the time of day. I found them quite boring to be honest because they don’t half repeat themselves and it was causing Mr. Pig to start his nonsense so I decided it was time to go home. I was in desperate need of a spam fritter and a cup of Bourneville. I’ve stopped taking the Slim Fat and it’s making me really hungry.
What about the Oie Farcie aux Marrons and the Mousse au Chocolat Basque, I hear you cry! Firstly, geese are extinct this time of year. They have to go into hibernation with their chestnut stash in order to prepare themselves for Christingle so I am unable to demonstrate this dish at this time of year. As for the chocolate mousse, it’s a little bit ‘last year’ so I decided not to do it. You don’t want to serve dishes that sound like they’ve come from a 1970s kuiche hotel menu and I am here to make sure you don’t make fools of yourselves!

Instead, I decided to make Gougere Bourguignonne, which roughly translated is a cheese doughnut. It’s so easy! All you need is a packet of pre-made short crust pastry. Roll it out into two long strips. Put all your favourite cheeses on one of the strips, top with the other one, join the two ends together to make a ring shape, bung it in the oven and hey presto you have your Gougere Bourguignonne. I added a little surprise to mine which went down very well with Lettice and Ethel who were my tasters for the evening. Vomit and I crept down to Mr. Pig’s caravan to see if we could find his shopping trolley and lucky for us he’d left it outside. I stole the spokey dokeys off the wheels and ran back to my cottage while Vomit replaced them with jelly babies which she stuck on with super glue. He won’t notice because he’s stupid.

Anyway, I put the spokey dokeys in the Gougere Bourguignonne and then we turned out the lights to see if they glowed through the pastry. They did and it was delicious dear readers! I think the French would be proud and feel very honoured that I am revolutionising their slightly dated culinare.

A quick word of warning to you regarding the Evil Ones. They returned to my cottage that night with a vengeance! They have bought themselves plastic wings and can fly dear readers! We are plagued with them late in the evenings and have to blockade the windows and doors. Apparently, according to She they are not flying spiders but something called Daddy’s long legs. She is either touched or has been on the sauce again. Never did I hear such ridiculousness.

Anyway, I must dash because The Real Housewives of New York is about to start on the picture box and I’ve just spotted Lettice lifting my bumper bag of Cadbury’s Curly Wurlys from my pantry.

Your best fluff,

Wilfred

Piss. S The flying spiders gave me an idea for Mr. Pig but I have to tell you it didn’t work. I thought he might find it quite useful to fly because he seems to struggle to walk anywhere without having a trauma. To help someone to fly dear readers is a gift. So I carefully removed the wings from my Christingle Fairy and attached them to Mr. Pig with an elastic band. Then I aimed him from the top of my outhouse roof. Unfortunately he landed with quite a thud shattering Christingle Fairy’s much loved glass wings. I think maybe he should have taken his flip flops, body warmer and cap off beforehand because they probably anchored him down.

My cat week went from bad to worse after the cursed claw crime. I had to have it removed with a surgical instrument and have my head bandaged up. Lettice kept quoting lines from Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol because she says I look like the ghost of Christmas past.

Things got steadily worse when SHE decided to bring what can only be described as a Scally Cat into MY cottage. She is calling it Gracie but I am referring to it as Vomit because it’s the size of a fur ball and I yack those down the cat loo. How dare SHE call it Gracie after my poor dead Granny Grace! SHE says she’s naming it after her Granny but it’s not, it’s my Granny. The ‘Yes She Is’ and ‘No She’s Not’ argument continued for more than a cat hour until I eventually slipped right off my helter skelter and landed on the coconut matting at the bottom.

This is not good, dear readers. It happened to an aunt of mine in Northern Ireland and she couldn’t pull herself out of it and ended up being sent away to the Scrambled Head Home and finished her days playing Tiddly Winks in a rocking chair.

Anyway, I’m afraid I turned to the sauce. I stormed from MY cottage with a bottle of Pimms and went to Mr. Pig’s caravan to tell him of my di-lima. He really is very understanding. He played Neil Diamond’s greatest hits which he knows is my favourite and we had a game of Kerplunk. He started a little bit of his nonsense by seeing how many marbles he could get in his mouth at once so I decided it was time for a game of Battleships which always seems to calm him down due to the fact he doesn’t really understand the game.

We were interrupted halfway through when Mr. Pig’s ‘friend’, Eileen who is from a neighbouring caravan, arrived to take him out to dinner. We chatted for a while and then Mr. Pig began his nonsense again, which I think was put on because he wanted me to leave. Anyway, having slipped into the depressions and being in quite a severe mood I decided to go home because I was feeling an urge coming to put him in the plastic Kerplunk tube, including all the sticks and marbles. The urge became unbearable when I noticed he was sporting some flipflops in place of his sandals, which Eileen was clearly impressed by.

I got back to MY cottage to find Vomit in one of MY cat beds in front of MY picture box and to top it off she was eating some spam fritters from MY pantry.

I felt the coconut matting prickling my unmentionables so I opened a bottle of Spiced Rum and played The Smiths until I felt like taking MYSELF to the Scrambled Head Home. This is not good at all, dear readers – I had dramatically fallen into the depressions and even Ethel couldn’t cheer me up with a rendition of Madonna’s number one hit song, Holiday.
The next day I had the poorlies. This mixed with the depressions caused me to turn to the salted foods and I spent hours eating Frazzles, Dairylea cheese triangles and dozens of picnic eggs. But, dear readers, through my desperate and tragic circumstances I have managed to produce a miraculum invention. I have invented Norfolk Pasties With An Irish Twist!!

It happened by pure chance! I had run out of the salted foods and was craving some pastry so I decided to pull myself together and make a few of my lovely pasties. So I prepared some with beef, swede and potato and I also made some containing chocolate and banana just in case I fancied something sweet. They weren’t made to my usual standard because I had the poorlies but this is where my genius comes in. All the pasties burst open in the stove, merging all the ingredients together. Being in an ‘all hell and no notion’ mood I scoffed down the whole lot and it tasted delicious and that’s when the idea came to me! I am now making pasties with beef, swede and potato in one half and chocolate and banana in the other. They are like an entire meal in a pastry case!
In another miraculum genius moment I came up with the idea to sell my pasties to Mr. Waitrose so he can market them in his shops. Mr. Pig suggested I sell Mr. Waitrose the recipe but I won’t make enough money that way and the pasties have to be made by me because otherwise they won’t be Norfolk Pasties with an Irish Twist, because I AM the Irish Twist, dear readers. If they are not made by me then they’re not the genuine article. Mr. Waitrose will love the idea and I will be rich! This recipe is far more interesting than anything Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddock and Mr. Floyd have ever come up with! So, I am back on top of my helter skelter! I have picked the coconut matting from my unmentionables and been resurrected into my usual twinkly, marvellous ginger self.

I must dash because I can hear Vomit in my pantry and I am awaiting a very important call from Mr. Waitrose.

Your bestest fluff

Wilfred

Piss. S. My pasties ARE Norfolk Pasties with an Irish Twist and NOT Cornish Pasties as suggested by Mr. Pig. I’m afraid I broke my Guinea Pig Anger Management rule number 28 and he’s currently swinging by his flipflop clad feet from the light pull in his stupid caravan bathroom.

I was going to cook all of the above, so I was, but I’m not now and you can blame She for that. I, dear readers have had to barrack myself into my sitting room because my cottage resembles a scene from one of the Harry Potter films and we are besieged by spiders which I am referring to as The Evil Ones. They’re everywhere! I can’t sleep for fear of them tormenting me and I can hear them walking around in their charity shop shoes. She won’t allow me to prangle them to death and after a long argument and a grapple I decided there was no other option than to barrack myself in what I consider to be the most safest and comfortable room in MY cottage.
I can’t move into my outhouse because Mr. Pig and Eileen are back from Peru, and using it temporarily until his new caravan arrives. In order to release himself from his hostage situation Mr. Pig had to buy 250,000 Old El Paso Fajitas Dinner Kits. They arrived two days after he did and have filled up my shed. I didn’t use any of the 254 Guinea Pig Anger Management Rules. I used one of my own because I happened to be tidying round when he made his announcement and I was holding an empty kitchen roll tube which I was about to put into the recycling bin. Instead, I popped Mr. Pig into it, climbed on top of the outhouse roof, took a deep breath and blew very hard. I was surprised at how far he travelled.

Anyway, I am quite happy in my barracked room and have managed to catch up on my sleep and my boxed set of The Waltons. I did panic slightly when I ran out of food but Vomit has been rather good at ‘getting’ me everything I need and is also keeping me company, occasionally by playing my favourite parlour games, mainly Mastermind and Draughts. I have to frisk her of course when she comes in and out in case she has any of The Evil Ones about her personage.

I did have to take drastic measures regarding Miss. Havisham and she is currently shut in the small cupboard under the stairs with a bottle of Port. I have Duck taped the door so she and the Evil Ones can’t get out. Even with her shaved body she’s still drawing them to her, I think it’s the smell of antique attracting them to her, that and the Pledge I used to polish her with before putting her in the cupboard. Spiders are reknowned for their love of Pledge and Mr. Muscle.

All in all it’s going quite well. I don’t have to do any housework, I don’t have to talk to anyone I don’t want to and I can watch whatever I want on the picture box with whom ever I want.
Anyway, to make up for my lack of genius and expertise this week I’ve used my creative surge to write you all a poem. I am, first and foremost a very talented writer. For those of you who weren’t aware I put this on the camp stove in order to teach you all some culinary etiquette. I don’t mind making these sacrifices for those of you of who are backward in the art of cookery.

I must just tell you that it IS a poem and NOT a prelude and IS my own original work and NOT copied from a Mr. Wordsworth from The Pond District as suggested by SHE. When I get out of my barracks I am going to seek law advice from Mr. Inspector Morse about suing SHE for slanderousness. She has also accused me of lying about what I was going to cook this week for my culinary blog. BUT I WAS going to cook Souffle de Truites followed by Oie Farcie aux Marrons followed by Mousse au Chocolat Basque, so I was.

Here is MY poem and I hope it boosts morelles for anyone suffering from The Evil Ones as I have this cat week.

Pond District – A poem by Mr. Wilfred Ginge

If it wasn’t for this
The one, when we were,
Walking up the cliff in Pond District,
Where I looked over yonder at the twinkly river
Whilst chit chatting with other fluffs.
Hark! A mouse!
Where?
Just there, with flip flops on
We spared him his all but tiny life.
He scampered down yonder with his sun lotion and towel
The sparkly sun began to fall as we drank sauce and ate Frazzles.

I am very proud of my work and will not allow SHE to prangle my creative talents and so I have decided to follow my twinkly career as a poet. I need a short satanical from cooking because my baked beans are shiny from burning them on the stove.

I must dash because Mr. Mark Spencer is delivering me some luxury food and I’m hoping he’s going to accept some Old El Paso Fajitas Dinner Kits as payment.

Your best fluff,

Wilfred

Piss. S I know you probably think I’m very unfair to Mr. Pig but I have had a lifetime of him and his community camping with their caravans in my garden. I am all for Guinea Pig Rights and Freedom and fully understand their genetic need to travel and their closetphobia but I will openly admit I am a Socialist NIMBY. So, in order for Mr. Pig to enjoy his Rights and Freedom he will have to endure some of the 254 Guinea Pig Anger Management Codes.

This week I have been invited to take part in Come Dine With Me, organised by Mr. Pig. He says he’s going to film it and send it to channel 4 Studios. I persuaded him to film it over one night instead of a whole cat week. I can’t be doing with going to a dinner party every night of the week, I have too many picture box programmes to watch. Mr. Pig being a Guinea Pig is typical of his breed and is very greedy. He had suggested we hold one every night for two whole cat weeks. I told him that if he did, I for one would not be attending and being aware that a party isn’t a party without his star guest he eventually agreed I was right.

We changed the rules slightly and asked all the guests to cook and bring a dish of their own which we could all taste and vote on at the end of the evening. It was all to be hosted in Mr. Pig’s caravan.

Lettice, another cat who lives in my cottage was invited, along with Ethel. No one else could attend so it was just the four of us which, as I said to Mr. Pig was the correct amount for the programme and too many guests would only steal his lemon light.

Let me tell you a little bit about Lettice. She is very large and flambouyant and she likes to sing a lot. She’s generally quite loud and I avoid her as much as possible. She’s nice enough but can be very bossy and obnoxious - personality traits which I do not like to see in anyone. So I wasn’t relishing spending the evening with her. The greed of her and Mr. Pig meant I was probably going to come home very hungry. Personally, I don’t think Mr. Pig picked very good guests but I must let him make his own stupid mistakes.
Anyway, I decided to make Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddocks Blankmange. After studying the recipe for a few cat minutes I decided to replace some of the ingredients with a packet of Angel Delight.

The recipe was a bit fiddly and took me three whole cat hours because you have to wait for it to set in the fridge. I was exhausted, dear readers and glad I wasn’t cooking anything else.
I decorated the top of my Blankmange with a pot of silver balls. I had some chocolate buttons to go on the top but having counted them I found there was an odd number and it would have ruined the pattern, so I ate them.

Unfortunately the evening didn’t start too well. As I was leaving to walk to Mr. Pig’s caravan I had a little spat with Lettice. She’d stolen some of my three cheese and anchovy paste pasties out of my larder. When I confronted her she blatantly lied and said she’d made them herself. I told her she was cheating and wasn’t capable of producing such culinary delights and she hit me.

The upshot was I left my cottage to go to Mr. Pig’s dinner party with one of Lettice’s claws wedged firmly in my forehead. She had the cheek to scream at me that it was my fault she’d broken a nail. I’m afraid I showed her the middle baked bean of my left paw and quickly left my cottage.

The whole evening was a disaster after that and I’m blaming the cursed claw which I couldn’t and still can’t get out of my forehead. I am having to wear pink ruffle around my middle because my head hurts so much. I have to say it looks rather fetching and draws my stomach in quite nicely.

It was extremely cramped in Mr. Pig’s caravan because it is filled with all his catering equipment which he is going to use for his new cafe. I don’t know how he thinks he is going to make a success of it when he can’t even lay a table properly for Channel 4 Studios. There were no candelabrum, no napkins with silver holders, no silver chargers, no silver and pink twinkly, sparkly things and no crystal glasses. Just placemats, paper plates, plastic cups and cutlery. I was disgusted and nearly walked out there and then. Mr. Pig knew I wasn’t impressed because he began chattering his teeth, which he sometimes does when he’s nervous. I busied myself adjusting pink ruffle while I tried to squash the urge to pick him up and wedge him in one of his caravan windows.

He rectified the situation by producing Coquilles Saint-Jacques and I’ll take my pink ruffle off to him, it was superb. The only critisism I have is that he used clams instead of scallops and what puzzled me further was that they were served in the scallop shells. I quizzed him about where the scallops were and he pretended he didn’t hear me and struck up a conversation with Lettice. I knew he’d heard me because he began to swing his legs which caused his sandles to bang against the table. It’s one of the things he does when he’s about to start his nonsense.
We avoided Ethel’s contribution because she’d brought a packet of Findus Crispy Pancakes, having completely misunderstood the concept of the rules of the game. But I was elated when she commented that the pasties that Lettice had brought tasted just like mine. Lettice began to sing some sort of Opera rubbish to drown out what Ethel was saying but I knew everyone had heard. She always sings when she’s not centre of attention.

My course was eaten last and everyone seemed to enjoy it apart from Lettice who kept making wretching noises.

I decided it was time to go home when I had endured almost a whole cat hour of Mr. Pig spitting the silver balls from my dessert, across the table. I’d told him four times they were edible but he insisted on pinging them from his stupid gob like a deranged pixie. I didn’t wait for my score and Mr. Pig had forgotten to record the whole thing for Channel 4 Studios anyway, so I left. I had to, because I could feel another urge coming on to put him down his portable loo and watch him spin round the bowl as I pressed the flush button.

I must dash, I have to go and have the cursed claw removed and my head bandaged up.

Your best fluff

Wilfred

Piss. S. You must never ever act out your Guinea Pig visions because they never forget a wrong doing and they’ll call on their vast Guinea Pig community and you’ll end up with a caravan ambush in your garden. If you need help controlling your urges you can go on a Guinea Pig Anger Management Course. There is also a Guinea Pig Anger Management helpline. You can email me for details.

One of Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddock’s specialities was her Crappe Suzette and it is the recipe I tried out this week. I’m not sure if her method is correct, so I have changed it accordingly.

First I need to tell you about my ghostwriter who lives with me rent free and whom I refer to as She due to a very nasty incident involving a trip to the vets and a very intrusive examination which I am still unable to talk about.

She has been clearing out some of her rubbish and I thought I’d sort through it before she bagged it up and sent it off to the Smelly Shop. I’m glad I did, dear readers because I have discovered the most amazing intervention for culinary cat chefs all over the world! It is called the pink ruffle. You can get them in all colours but I like the pink ones best because they go very well with my ginger fur. She being ever so slightly ‘touched’, which is why I don’t take any notice of what she says, has told me they’re used for ponies tails. I can’t be doing with her nonsense so I am choosing to ignore her. Let’s face it, anyone who lays in a large cat bowl full of water to read a book every evening isn’t quite all there.

These pink ruffles are quite clearly sweat bands invented for cat chefs like me. They fit perfectly around the top of my head and look very fetching. The only little flaw with them is that they squash my ears up together which impairs my hearing slightly but I’m sure you can get them in various sizes.

Anyway, back to Crappe Suzette. I have asked my friend Ethel to come and taste my recipe because I think she’s a good candidate for food tasting as she doesn’t really talk much. The lights have been switched off in her loft space, if you know what I mean but she likes all kinds of foods and isn’t too fussy. I haven’t asked Mr. Pig to join us because quite frankly he is getting on my norks. He is making plans for an extension so he can open a roadside cafe. As though anyone’s going to be remotely interested in his frightful culinary disasters.
Ethel sat at my kitchen table eating some fish paste volley vaults I’d made earlier and I began preparing the Crappe Suzette.

I made up the pancake mixture with milk and eggs. I didn’t bother with the flour because I feel that it is used by unimaginative chefs in order to bulk out food and is therefore pointless.
After you’ve made the pancake mix, set it to one side and make a start on the filling. I didn’t use orange or CaCa liquer because nobody likes it. I used a bottle of chocolate sauce instead. To the mixture I added some Pimms but you can use anything you’ve got in the cupboard. Raz mataz you have the makings of Crappe Suzette.

In all honesty I think Mrs. Fanny has got the recipe wrong because they weren’t really like pancakes, they were more like omelettes. Anyway, I persevered and made batches of them as she states in her recipe and then, one by one I placed them back in the pan to heat up with the chocolate sauce. They were most satisfactory.

Unfortunately, Ethel didn’t get to taste my chocolate omelettes because she had one of her ‘moments’ after catching her reflection in the window of my microwave and frightened herself. Her glasses are part of the problem because they make her eyes look much bigger than they really are and she says they magnify everything into tarantula sized proportions and it scares her into a trance.

I was getting a bit miffy with her nonsense and I wanted to watch ‘Help Me I’m Stupid Because I’ve Bought A House That’s Falling Down’ on the picture box so I decided to put her outside. I placed her on the mat and left her staring at the front door. She was still there when I looked in the morning. I had to ask Mr. Pig to come and remove her in the end because I was fearful of her getting in the way of the postman.

Anyway, I must dash, Sid from India is at the door with my takeaway chicken pakoras and University Challenge is about to start on the picture box..

Your best fluff

Wilfred

Piss. S Don’t try and flambe your Crappe Suzette whilst wearing your pink ruffle. Mine caught fire and has singed some of the fur on my forehead. I am unable to leave my cottage for the foreseeable future.

 

Today I am sharing my experience of cooking Civet de Lievre aux Spatzle (Hare in a Jug with tiny dumplings otherwise known as Hare in a Punchbowl).

This is a Mr. Floyd recipe and you will need three or four bottles of wine and not two as stated in his book. Firstly put the pickled onions, gherkins, carrots, garlic, Frazzles, herbs and anything else you fancy in a jug and stir. Alternatively you can do what Mr. Pig and I did and use a punch bowl.

Mr. Pig is a Guinea Pig who lives in a caravan in the field at the bottom of my garden. I occasionally ask him over for dinner although not too often because he can be a little strange and quite greedy. Too much of his nonsense and I get an overwhelming urge to drop kick him down the garden which isn’t the way to treat a dinner guest dear readers.

I digest. Add a bottle of red wine and three cat pints of Kirsch and not brandy as Mr. Floyd suggests. Hares are partial to brandy and you risk losing your marinade.

The next part is tricky and is the reason why Mr. Pig and I used a punch bowl instead of a jug. You have to get the Hare in the bowl which sounds simple but all depends on what mood he’s in. We thought he was going to be tricky at first because he refused to get in the jug telling us he’d binged on Caramac’s and Space Raiders all week and feeling slightly rotund he felt the neck of the jug might be too tight and give him an embarrassing muffin top. And as he quite rightly pointed out he needed to relax and feel like he was bathing.

He gladly got into the bowl just before lunchtime which was an excellent result because it meant he’d be marinading for nearly a whole cat day.

He was very amiable about the whole arrangement and even asked if I had a portable Jacuzzi pump because he said the bubbles and vibration would make his thighs nice and supple. I was very pleased because Hare’s are well known for their obstinacy and cantankerousness.
This gave me plenty of time to make the dumplings. Don’t follow Mr. Floyd’s recipe, I suggest you get a bag of Aunty Bessie’s dumplings and put them in the fryer. I know this is a slightly more labour intensive method but it’s well worth it.

Feeling extremely famished Mr. Pig and I decided to eat the dumplings as a starter so we went out into the garden and had them with our first bottle of wine.

Having eaten our yummy dumplings we went back indoors to open the second bottle as stated in Mr. Floyd’s recipe and deal with the tricky stage of asking the Hare to kindly get in the stove. But when we arrived back into the kitchen we found the Hare had removed himself from the bowl and was drying himself off with my best tea towel. I asked him what he was doing thinking that maybe he needed the cat loo and hadn’t wanted to do it in the marinade but at first he didn’t answer me being too busy propping one foot and then the other onto the edge of the bowl so he could carefully dry in between his toes. Then he asked me if I had any talcum powder he could use to which I shook my head at him unable to speak I was so gobslapped.
He thanked me for the lovely time he’d had in my Spa Therapy Bath and how he felt detoxed already but he had to go because he was due down The Mucky Duck for a pub quiz and wanted to give his skin time to de-wrinkle by sunbathing in his garden for a while before he went.

Before we could say anything he’d rushed out of the door, across the garden and over the top of Mr. Pig’s caravan leaving a dent in the roof caused by his lardy stomach and fat thighs.
When we looked in the punch bowl we found he’d left a very nasty layer of scum and not only that he’d eaten all the ingredients and helped himself to the rest of my Frazzles because there were empty packets littered all over the floor. On further inspection of the bowl (Mr. Pig and I were wondering if we could bottle the marinade and have it for one of our future tea lit soirees), we noticed several small poos floating in the top.

This caused me to have a little gag and cough up a small piece of an Aunty Bessie’s dumpling I’d just eaten and Mr. Pig began grinding his teeth which he does when he’s about to start his nonsense. We both stared at the bowl in silence for a while as I tried to work out how I was going to salvage the evening and suppress the urge to drop kick Mr. Pig across the garden and see if I could land him in the new dent in his caravan roof.  I think he knew what I was thinking because he busied himself in my freezer looking for something he could put in the oven for our supper. He decided on a packet of beef burgers and I began  preparing a new marinade. Frozen beefburgers turned out to be a very satisfying alternative in Mr. Floyd’s recipe and I highly recommend them.

If you do decide to have a go at Punch Bowl Hare then I suggest you make sure he is wearing pants or at least a thong.

Must dash, I’ve got some spam and prawn pasties in the stove and Come Dine With Me I’m A Know All is on the picture box.

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred

Piss. S. Rabbits could be another alternative to Hare. They are well known for their lush behaviour and are likely to drink the contents of the bowl which would marinade them from the inside out making them fairly drunk which should stop too much trip trapping about getting into the stove.

My name is Mr. Wilfred Ginge and I am a very famous, handsome ginger cat from the Mcginge clan in Northern Ireland, I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I will be sharing my extensive culinary knowledge and experiences by attempting and sampling various recipes from cooks such as Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddock and the like and reporting on the results. I will also be giving useful household tips for those of you, like me who have baked beans on your paws instead of fingers.

The first recipe I experimented with on my culinary journey was Bisque D’homard (Supreme Lobster Soup) which is a recipe from Mr. Keith Floyd. It was a disaster and unless you live in an area where there is a friendly lobster community then I would try the Crabe Gratine Diable instead. Crabs are lazy arses and quite happy to get in the hot ‘bath’ without too much trip trapping.

My first tip is never ever converse with your lobster. I had a particularly obnoxious one and he lured me into a false sense of insecurity by offering me a glass of brandy which is supposed to go in the soup. When I refused he guilt tripped me into granting him his last wish and told me it was considered rude within the lobster community to refuse a death bed aperitif and would bring me bad luck, so I joined him. He then began a heated political debate about drag net fishing and I became totally distracted.

After one and a half cat hours I tried to be assertive by telling him his ‘bath’ had almost reached simmering point but he distracted me with the ‘olive oil or butter’ debate and another brandy.

Realising I must take control of the situation I asked him, not unreasonably, to get in the now ferociously boiling pan of water. He became tricky announcing he wouldn’t be getting in the ‘bath’, the steamer, the deep fat fryer or the blender. I attempted to tackle him but feeling fairly fandangoed on brandy he mistook my lunge for a dance and began click clacking his arms to the music, (I had Neil Diamond playing in the background).

Anyway, the upshot was he ate what he called the ‘crudies’ which were in fact the vegetables for the soup, finished his drink and asked me to call him a taxi. I’d had enough of him by this time and I wanted to deep fry the fish heads that Mr. Floyd tells you to discard and eat them in front of the picture box without him trip trapping in my ear so I did as he requested.

By the time his taxi arrived I’d missed EastEnders and had to make do with Holby City Happy Hour which translates to two cat hours of misery. I was none too pleased. The whole evening was a disaster and I ended up with the poorlies the next day and a touch of the depressions having drank too much brandy.

My final tip for this recipe is not to bother. Soup, after all is boring.  Anyway, I must dash, ‘Flashing in the Attic’ is about to come on the picture box and my spam fritters need to come out of the fryer.

Your bestest fluff, Wilfred

Piss. S Prawns, being gobless are mute and can be easily speared with kebab sticks without becoming too tricky before hand. A good substitute for lobster.