Curse of the Moldy Jam

So Im at work this morning, setting up the restaurant like a good little peach'ster and my stomach decides that it wants to initiate the next world war on the rest of my body.

Next thing I knew Nicky walked around the corner holding a hot crusty golden loaf of bread ~ fresh from the oven . . . . it was like the heavens opened and Grilled Cheesus sent down his angels of nom noms to gift me with the pleasures of a happy belly.

Nic proceeded to cut us a slice each for breakfast when her face lit up . . .

"Oh yeah! We have some Jaaaaaammmm in the cupboard"

With a surge of excitement she flung open the cupboard doors and whooped out our beloved jar of strawberry jam . . . the same humble jar that has brought sweet sweet joy to many a staff member sneaking bread from the waiters station over the years @ The One Elm

Delicious slices on our plates, buttered and at the ready, I unscrewed the lid, in preparation to unleash the fruity, sweet awesomeness, then I looked down . . . . . . .

Low and behold, our prized pot of sugary gold now contained moldy old jam - good for absolutely nothing and definitely not being spread on my gorgeous slice of bread!

Hearts broken, souls crushed, we accepted defeat and prepared ourselves for a mediocre and plainly average breakfast.

With a sudden strike of faith in the mighty Grilled Cheesus'  I suddenly remembered a secondary jar of jam that had mysteriously appeared in the kitchen several weeks back!

- Could it be? Could this jar be our breakfast savior?! -

within seconds I was back to square one, knife at the ready, new jam jar in hand, the apprehension building, the excitement - palpable!

The lid comes off, and I slowly peer down into the jar

"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FREAKING KIDDING ME!!!"

What are the chances? To my absolute horror, yet again it was not just jam staring back at me from the jar below . . . it was also a small city of mold, a hub of activity, a fluffy little civilization with its heart set on making sure that my delicious fruity breakfast has been completely ruined.

I look up at Nikki, despair and desperation spread across my pale and tired little face. . . . Breakfast - No wait - MY WHOLE DAY had officially been stamped 'SHITEHOUSE'

from this point forward, this day continued to prove to me the magnitude of its SUCKS BALLS factor ~ This, my friends, is known as The Curse of the Moldy Jam

Why is it that some days there is bound to be just ONE little thing that is destined to screw up the whole day's plan of events?!

Its a crime against humanity to screw with someones breakfast . . . breakfast is the pinnacle of ones day, if it doesn't go smoothly its a known fact that everything that happens from that moment onwards is going to be an epic fail - in fact, im sure that I read in a newspaper somewhere that its been proven that people who dont eat breakfast generally just SUCK at life!



All I have to say is . . . . Tomorrow, when I unscrew that damn jam lid, there better be some healthy looking, sweet as candy, IN DATE and delicious strawberry Jam waiting for me to spread all over my morning slice . . . . otherwise HEADS WILL ROLL

Enjoy your day people, and please, for the sake of the children, steer clear of The Curse of the Moldy Jam
 

No idea what you just said . . . But I dig it

After running some errands in town today, my belly was right on schedule with his usual mumble grumbles . . .  so I popped into this little cafe for a little somethin' somethin'

I took a seat in the window and let my poor little eyes soak in my surroundings . . . .  It was as though I had stepped onto the set of a very low-budget Italian comedy show, complete with vases full of coffee beans, baskets overflowing with bread rolls, plastic eggplants & courgettes, framed pictures of 'mama & papa' in the farmhouse garden and even a little iron bike covered in pots of flowers and herbs (all plastic, of course).

It was at this point that I contemplated doing a runner before any of the staff had seen me come in, but in keeping with the tradition of my life's roller-coaster ride of mishaps and giggles, it was waaaay too late for a swift escape.

Just as expected, a chipper little waiter approached my table, all dressed up with his vest and bow tie, a little red teatowel over his arm and top it all off, the sported the oh so very traditional European mustachio

I was like "ARE YOU SERIOUS? AM I BEING PUNK'D . . . . WHERE ARE THE CAMERAS?"

I looked up at my new little friend, his HUGE smile beaming back at me, and then it happened . . .

"Nice day to you Senorita"

It was at this very moment that I no longer cared about the cheap plastic coated decorations, or the over exaggerated "Coffee Shop" environment. I had no idea why, but the combination of sheer entertainment at its finest and the soothing powers of his cheesy little accent had totally won me over.

He mumbled a whole bunch of mumbo jumbo that I could not understand for the life of me, took my order and trotted over to his coffee machine to continue polishing a bunch of bronze nobbies and dials.

Whilst munching away at my delicious lunch I found myself bopping along to what sounded like the soundtrack of the Muppet chef during one of his killer spaghetti cooking lessons  . . . I couldnt understand one word but yet found myself singing along like I had been listening to 'Papa Giuseppe's Greatest Hits' since I was knee high to a grasshopper.

Something about this crazy little cafe made me smile on the inside (deep deep underneath the overwhelming bellowing laughter I was forcing from the surface).

I wonder if this is my new coping mechanism for not seeing Europe after 14 months on the other side of the world??

All I know for sure is that as soon as I hear a bunch of mumbo jumbo with a "Bella" or "Senorita"  or "mademoiselle" or even a "wee lassie" thrown in the mix, I am there with bells on baby!

After all, everyone loves something exotic and different - even if we have absolutely no idea what has been said - for all we know we could have agreed to live out the rest of our lives in a crate crafted from Play Doh and pipe cleaners, to be fed nothing but red skittles and popping candy and to be harvested after 48 days for our sweet sweet candied kidneys and velvety soft skin  . . . . . .

meh, its totally worth the risk!

ciao bellas! xx