The cult of the fancy blender

A strange cult is recruiting members amongst the women folk where I work.  So far, to the best of my knowledge, men seem largely immune to its siren song, but one-by-one women I know are being seduced into its clutches.

They call their idol “Thermomix”.

As far as I can tell, it’s an exceptionally fancy food processor that doubles as a mixer, an actually-quite-speedy slow cooker and an icecream maker (“doubles” may be the wrong word).

People I know and respect are gushing about this thing as if it the saviour of cooking.

I don’t think I’m in any danger of joining the cult, though.  For one thing, I am exceptionally tight-fisted when it comes to things that aren’t musical instruments or bicycles.  I just have real difficulty parting with sums over $250 for any one toy.  As Thermomixes cost decidedly more than that, I think I’m safe.

For another, it seems to me that Thermomixes take the cooking out of cooking.  

I mentioned this to a cult member, and she assured me one is still "cooking" when one uses a Thermomix, but from what the cult members say when they get together, it's a bit like they've hired a maid to do most of the work for them.  They cut up a few onions to pretend they're still taking part of the cooking process, and then take the credit for what comes out the other end.  But who's actually doing the cooking here?

I know I’m not much of a cook.  I rarely get the opportunity when I'm living at home, and when I'm living by myself I tend to gravitate towards stir-fries, stews and pasta.  Occasionally I'll get fancy and make an omelette.

Basically, my idea of a perfect meal involves chopping up a small number of ingredients and stirring them around a pan for short period of time.  I enjoy cooking simple meals, and I enjoy eating simple meals, so it all works out, really.

A device that relegates me to being the kitchen helper while it gets on with the cooking doesn't seem like a great deal of fun to me - and if I want to cook an omelette, let's be frank:  I'm just going to ignore the dang thing and cook a normal omelette.

The Laziest Person in Lazy Town

Here is one of the great paradoxes of children’s television:  Sporticus is the laziest person in Lazy Town.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Lazy Town, it’s a weird show set in a town populated by puppets.  No one seems to have a clear reason for doing what they are doing, so the whole thing is a bit mysterious, but here’s the basic set-up.  Stephanie (not a puppet) moves in with her uncle (a puppet) and discovers that the town is full of kids (all puppets) who don’t know how to play outside.  She sets about creating a better play culture.

"Wtl5" by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia 

There is a villain, Robbie Rotten (not a puppet, but wearing make-up that makes him look a bit puppet-like), who doesn’t like hearing kids play (no one knows why) and keeps coming up with ridiculous schemes to get them to avoid kicking a football around together.  There’s also a hero, Sporticus (not a puppet, and also known as 10 but no one knows why), who lives in an airship and comes down into the town to help the kids thwart Robbie Rotten’s plans and jump around and dance.

Sporticus is supposed to be the embodiment of physical activity, while Robbie Rotten is the embodiment of laziness.  Sporticus is constantly jumping around and playing with sporting equipment.  Heck, the man can’t even walk anywhere – he has to backflip.  Meanwhile, Robbie Rotten sits in a comfy chair and scowls at things that interrupt his nap.

However, when you come to the crunch, Robbie Rotten is actually the most industrious and active person in Lazy Town, while Sporticus is uber lazy.

Okay, sure, Sporticus opens the door with a high-kick and commutes from his airship to town by pedalling some sort of flying bike, but he doesn’t actually *do* anything.  Most of his day-to-day needs are handled by his ship, and he just presses a button or barks a command.  If he wants an apple, he doesn’t even bother walking anywhere to get it.  He just shouts “apple!” and holds his hand out expectantly.

Meanwhile, Robbie Rotten actually puts in a lot of hard work to accomplish what he wants.  If he wants a trap in the ground, he picks up a shovel and digs it himself.  If he thinks building a wall will stop those pesky kids from playing, he actually builds a wall – all by himself, moving the large blocks into place with his own hands and using a trowel to put it together.  And it’s a good wall, too.  He could just slap up some bricks, but instead he builds a proper stone wall with a gatehouse and parapets.  And he accomplishes this overnight!

Sporticus may jump on the buttons in his air-ship rather than just pushing them with his hand like a normal person, but that doesn’t discount the fact that he is pressing a button instead of walking to the kitchen and making his own breakfast.  As for Robbie – he actually gets involved and does stuff.

For my money, Robbie Rotten is the better role model if you are trying to convince people to be active, rather than lazy.

Bring back the buckler

Negrini's Buckler

I started this year with great plans to get more involved in fencing.  I was going to make a more concerted effort to get there every week - and even try to go twice a week as often as I could.

Then gall bladder decided it wanted my full attention.  When I was told I'd have to have surgery to remove it, one of my first questions was "what about fencing?"  To which I was told that it would be at least six weeks.

It has been four, now, but I'm not 100% sure I'll be ready to go back before the end of the month - and largely because I'm right handed.

You see, I have a strange desire to avoid being poked with a sword in any of the places where I have a healing/recently healed wound from the operation.  I have four of them.  And they're all on my right side.  And they are all in locations where my chest-protector won't cover them.

Thing about fencing is that, if you are right handed, you lead with the right side of your body.  Basically, your entire torso on the right side of your body is a target area, and kind of close to the other guy with his pointy thing.

And you really only have your sword to protect yourself.  Women are also expected to have a chest protector, but that really only protects one's boobies.  If you are a good fencer, then your sword should be enough to protect your torso from being poked with a large metal stick.

I am not a good fencer.

I was thinking about this today when I suddenly wished I could fence with a buckler.  Partly, this was just because a buckler would add one extra layer of protection, and also allow me to lead with my left side while still fencing with the sword in my right hand.

And then, because this is the way my brain works, I started wondering how one would fence with a buckler.

I know the HEMA folk do it all the time, but that's a different kettle of fish to sport fencing on a piste.

I think, sticking otherwise with standard fencing gear that is already on the market, the addition of a buckler could make a new "weapon" (or discipline) that could be quite interesting.

Okay, stay with me on this one:

Take a normal sabre (because a cutting weapon is most appropriate), a sabre mask and a foil lame.  Then stick a buckler in the other hand (you can buy them from Negrini, but I'm not sure about the other manufacturers).  Combatants must get past the buckler to score a hit on the head or torso.

Because it will be hard enough with the buckler anyway, it shouldn't need to be a right-of-way thing.  As long as they can hit the target with a sword, they get a point.

Apart from that, all standard fencing rules apply.

You'd need to think careful thoughts about your plastron, but some companies already make plastrons that cover both sides.

This could be done, and it could be done quite simply.

It probably won't, though.

Poker Duel

These are the rules for Poker Duel, a poker-based game for two players:

Poker Duel

Start with a normal 52 card deck.  Shuffle and cut for highest card to determine who deals first.

Dealer deals each player 15 cards and places the remainder of the deck face-down in the middle of the playing space on his/her left.

Players arrange their cards into three poker hands, then put them face down in front of them in a line of three.

Players pick up the hands closest to the deck for the first round of the duel.  They are each allowed to replace two cards from their hand with two cards from the deck, but must take turns doing so.  The first option goes to the player who did not deal.  Keeping within the principles of poker, players must throw out a card before picking up a replacement – they cannot see the card they are picking up first, but must take their chances.

They may choose to “stand” on the cards they have if they do not wish to change.

After they have both had the opportunity to change cards, they show their hands.  The highest ranking hand wins the round.

They then move to the hand next closest to the deck for the next round, and so on.

The rounds are worth an increasing number of points:  the first round is worth 1 point, the second is worth 2 points and the third is worth 3 points.  It is possible for one player to lose the first two rounds but win the third, and therefore tie for points. 

The deck is then shuffled, and the other player becomes the dealer for the next game.

The winner of the duel is the person with the highest number of points after a set number of games.

If the points are even at the end of the last game, a single hand of five cards is dealt and players are once again given the option of exchanging two cards from the deck.  This hand is sudden death, and if neither player has a usable poker hand the person with the highest ranking cards wins.

Red hot poker

So, was stuck home for a week and a bit recovering from an operation (nothing too serious, just the removal of an internal organ), and after the first few days – when consumption of pain killers meant my attention span was just right for daytime television – I started doing what I always do when I’m bored:  learning about random crap.

This time my random crap of choice involved (amongst other things) poker. 

I’ve never played poker, and I don’t know what the rules are and I don’t have access to the internet at home – but it just so happens I have a book of card games from the early 60s, which includes a description of poker, stud poker and some variation of poker that I’d never heard of before called “Quintet”. 

To be honest, the book is badly written and kind of hard to follow (and yet, it was so popular it had multiple reprintings).  I’m guessing I’d have an easier time of it if I was a) a “proper” card player to begin with and b) more used to reading instructions written in the 50s and 60s.

Anyway, I now know the basics of scoring in poker – what all those “flush” and “full house” things actually mean and that they have a rank, rather than a point value. 

Royal straight flush beats straight flush, which beats fours, which beats full house, which beats flush, which beats straight, which beats threes, which beats two pair, which beats pair, which beats nothing.  A straight with a King as the highest card beats straight with a Queen as the highest card.  Crap like that.

It’s almost like rock-paper-scissors, only you can’t beat a royal straight flush with a pair.  Unless you’re playing misere, in which the player with the worst hand at the end wins the pot.  But that’s not really the same thing.

Then again, maybe you can.  I know there are other versions of poker that aren’t in this book, and maybe one of them says a pair of 2s can beat a Royal Straight Flush.  I’m sure the internet will tell me when I get around to looking it up.

I have no idea if Quintet actually caught on, but it was an attempt by some guy to create a version of poker that could be played by two people.  Apparently poker isn’t worth playing at all unless you have 5-7 players and they all want to bet stakes.

As someone who a) doesn’t even play games to win, let alone playing for “stakes”, and b) doesn’t have very many friends, I’m guessing the odds that I’ll ever play an actual game of poker are slim.

But this Quintet thing was just far too unnecessarily complicated for my liking.  It involves two piquet packs to start off with, and quite frankly I’ve never been bothered with games that involved multiple packs of cards.

So the next post outlines my simplified version, designed using the same principles (a battle of wits between two players using poker scoring), but with less fuss and bother.  It's oddly addictive, even if you're just playing by yourself (right hand vs left hand).

The Queen of Dunces

This is why I don't deserve a gall bladder:

I have just attended a "party" (staff morning tea).  I meant to bring my own cakes to this party for my own purposes - cakes baked without butter, dairy or gluten, and therefore quite safe for consumption.

I forgot to bring my stuff, so instead I ate what was there.  I had a shortbread biscuit (Moron!  Those things a full of butter!), an apple teacake thing (Covered in cream, you idiot!) and a mini pavlova (More cream?  What is wrong with you?).

Any single one of these things is probably enough to trigger unpleasantness with my gall bladder in it's current state - and I ate all three.

Because something in my head said "oh, go on, you haven't had anything nice for a while and it is a party after all", and somehow that counted more than the other voice in my head that said "your gall bladder hates you, and it hates all of this stuff, and it will have its revenge".

I am, indeed, the Queen of the Dunces.

And, of course, now that I've actually eaten that crap and know that pain awaits me, I'm smart enough to know I should have made better choices.  Not smart enough to actually make those choices, just smart enough to know that I should have.

My project for this year:  make better choices.

How galling...

So, my gall bladder decided to make a point during my vacation in New Zealand.

I believe the point it wanted to make was something along the lines of:  "you don't deserve a gall bladder."

At least, that's what my doctors have decided the outcome should be.

I currently still have a gall bladder (and also a 2.3cm gall stone in an awkward position), but I suspect this situation will be changed by the end of February.

I've been waiting for a date for surgery from the public hospital, and here at the office we were taking bets as to whether it would be in the middle of O-Week or during the week I'm presenting a paper in a conference in Sydney.

Sure enough, they phoned me today and proudly offered me the day I'm on a plane heading down to a four day conference.  They're going to get back to me with another date.

I'm hedging my bets, though, and seeing what the private system can offer me.  I'll pick whoever can give me the least obnoxious time to have strangers do strange things to my body while I'm unconscious.

I'm not thrilled about having the operation.  I've always felt one's innards should remain "in".  Everything in the body does something, I'm sure of it.  Plus, all of the other bits in the body are kind of expecting it to be there.  I don't feel comfortable saying "oh, it's just a gall bladder - people get those removed all the time!"

Oh, well.  It's my own fault for being a fat white chick for most of my life.