How Eggs Are Cooked Around The World

I wouldn’t trust a lizard even if it handed me a background check notorized by António Guterres himself, but despite our different bloods and tongues I’d still accept an invitation to dine. That’s because mammals and lizards agree on two things and two things only: things were better back in the old days, and eating unborn birds is tasty.

Yes, the  vertebrates of our planet love eating eggs due to a biological urge to destroy all offspring that isn’t ours. Over centuries this urge has gone from sending trained wolves to wreak havoc on neighbouring mangers, to a worldwide food phenomenon with ties to all three major meals.

What’s fascinating is that your method of “gettin’ ’em hard” is, to you, as normal as arm holes on a jacket, when to the rest of the globe your practices would appear odd and perhaps even offensive. We went to the library for nine hours and found out how people around the world cook their eggs and the results may shock you:

Italy

Velocità uova (‘Speed Eggs’)

1. Insert raw bird egg into the tailpipe of a Vespa.

2. Drive toward the coast. Every time your bike stalls because of the egg, stop, pick an olive and put it in your boot.

3. When you reach the coast, remove the egg and wash it in Mediterranean sea water. If the egg attracts any sardines, toss your boot olives as far into the sea as possible to lure them away.

4. Utter a prayer of your choosing.

5. Find the nearest lemon tree and peel the egg against the coarse bark. Place pieces of shell into your shell pouch.

6. Leave the peeled egg in the Mediterranean sun until shrivelled to the size of an uvetta (raisin).

7. Serve with olive oil and fresh herbs.


S
pain

Huevos del sol (‘Eggs of the Sun’)

1. Juggle six fresh eggs for 60 revolutions in the nearest square to a crowd of at least five.

2. Wrap in a traditional yarn sling, bash against the cobblestones, and throw onto a terracotta roof

3. Allow to ferment while enjoying a coffee and the sounds and sights of the square.

4. Climb onto the roof and empty contents of the sling onto the tiles.

5. Scrape egg onto a ceremonial sabre called an Espada de yugo.

6. Bring the sword down the the square and serve scraped onto a loaf of freshly fried onions flavoured with saffron.

7. Serve to anyone willing to exchange a story of old.


Iceland

Fjölskyldaegg (‘Family Eggs’)

1. Catch a female freshwater trout. Remove roe and suck on until flavour is extracted — spit back into the river.

2. Find a bird egg, force down the throat of the trout and then add a generous swig of Brennivín.

3. Hang high atop a smouldering pile of juniper.

4. Once all the liquor has evaporated, continue to hang until trout is completely dried.

5. Remove the egg. Feed the dried trout to the village hound.

6. Lay out the egg on an oaken slab and pass down to the eldest son.


J
apan

アーティストの好きな卵 (‘The Arist’s Favourite Eggs’)

1. Choose an egg that matches your energy.

2. Spend six months with the egg.

3. At midnight on the eve of the sixth month, paint the shell in a matter that visually depicts your relationship with the egg.

4. Write a fable of the egg in three volumes.

5. Attempt to sell the fable for film adaptation.

6. If the egg’s fable is not sold, award the egg to a pre-pubescent on their 10th birthday.

7. Accompany the egg’s recipient to the griddle of a master sizzler.

8. Have the recipient select yolk or white. Take what remains for yourself.

9. Consume in quiet reflection.


Netherlands

Eieren uit de aarde (‘Eggs from the Earth’)

1. Roll egg into a mossy grove in a deep valley. Mark location on a map.

2. Select an egg keeper and provide the keeper with the map.

3. Pay the egg keeper three knives per moon to keep watch over the egg.

4. Forget about the egg, for the egg belongs now to its keeper.


R
ussia

Потрясающее яйцо (‘The Stunning Egg’)

1. Crack fresh chicken eggs on top of a hot, energy inefficient stereo playing any Stones record from the 80s.

2. Have every member of the household give it a lick.

3. Serve atop a bed of caraway seeds.


Scotland

White Chips

1. Place eggs under the hind quarters of a family member weighing at least 18 stone.

2. You’ll know the egg is done when the individual has read The Herald in its entirety.

3. Paint with Scotch Whiskey using a horsehair brush then insert one egg into each cheek.

4. DO NOT CHEW.

5. Allow eggs to slowly dissolve.

 

A Writer Attempts To Craft A Humourous Piece On Metric Conversions

Being an accomplished writer seems easy on paper–the same paper we stain with strokes of ink that is weaved into magic and truth–but in reality it’s as difficult as performing dolphin surgery on the deck of rowboat during a winter’s gale. That last sentence took as much out of me as a marathon runner with skunks taped to her legs, just to let you know. While it would be a worthwhile exercise to allow you to observe me, live, during “surgery”, as a writer I’d rather tell–and more importantly show– you how difficult it is. Here’s a rare peek beneath the black satin curtain, shimmering like an anaconda at dusk in the dark blue mud of the Amazon.

BACKGROUND

I wanted to craft a humour piece suited for Big Apple quarterlies where I list metric conversions, only silly. Like Samuel de Champlain, I was having trouble deciding where to go next. My first instinct was to frame these conversions as under-appreciated, oft-ignored tenets of the metric system. By going that route my intro would read something like this:

OPTION 1

Mitres and litres, the two-headed beast of the metric system, have been well-compensated for their dominance in the worldwide height and volume game. Their various offspring as well as their capable pal, the gram, are certainly less heralded but are still in heavy rotation on the lips and forms of our top scientists and estimators. Go even further outside of the mainstream and you’ll find a legion of virtually unknown units that have real world uses. In order to help you understand them, here they are put into context via Imperial conversion:

0 imperial fucks given = 3.2 metric guffs

1 36DD imperial bra = .3 metric grocery bags


My other option was to differentiate these made up units from their internationally recognized counterparts by giving them a sort of streetwise persona. In the following intro I create a first-person narrator accustomed to strange metric conversions in a fictional urban centre.

OPTION 2

You sit there in your suburban fuckin’ four-walled, one roof homes, worryin’ about titty flicks on Billy’s Netflix list and  whether doggy has a fresh patch of grass to shit on. You’re ignorant to what’s really goin’ on out there on the streets where life is a chess match between two bags of humidity being watched over by a moth-eaten raccoon wearing armour made of crud. Your metric conversions are written in Billy’s textbook or scrawled in your butler’s notepad, where the worst thing a mis-conversion leads to is dry ass banana bread. Out here we converting shit you never even imagined, and if we don’t get the numbers right? People end up dead. Know these next time you step into my world:

Imperial size large jean jacket = Size Maybe Metric jean jacket with an extra metric half sleeve

An imperial pinch of cinnamon = .04 metric fists of cinnamon


And finally, I could use the “news bureau” motif that I commonly turn to where I reach out to “staff members” (well-crafted characters of various aptitudes) to aid in the creation of content.

OPTION 3

We reached out to our team of foreign correspondents and network of nosy paperboys to find out how the metric system is used in the real world and not in the stuffy laboratories of the elite. Feter Poncle of our Belgian Bureau starts things off with interesting conversions he found useful when researching a story on the enigmatic trollers of the Dover Strait:

An imperial double click = a metric triple click with a half scroll

1 film rated imperial ages 18 and up = 2 films rated metric 20 and a bit

1 all you can eat imperial buffet = 3 metric ham slams


The lesson here is that being writer is often like being a locksmith. You can have a sack full of keys, but which doors do they open? It’s also like being a being a blacksmith because computers that you type on get pretty hot.

Check back next week when I show you how to write beautiful poetry using nothing more than the subject line of your last spam email.

Other Mothers

I love my mom so much that it’d be unfair to drag her good name and likeness into a website that doesn’t take anything seriously except its Contact Information. At the same time, I’d hate to ignore Mother’s Day because anyone who’s ever moused around this domain was produced inside a mother at one point or another. So I’ve decided to run a hypothetical exercise where I focus on other mothers I’d call ‘mother’ if I had my druthers and were allowed another, brother.

I should’ve saved that poem for the custom Mother’s Day card I make every year that will warm my mom’s heart better than blood ever could. Then again, the last thing I’d want is for my mom to think that I’ve been dedicating any amount of the brain she created for me to dreaming up different types of moms.

Here are some other mothers:

A Massive Mother

Besides the obvious advantage of unlimited access to the orchard’s untouchables up where the fruit and the sun are engaged in an all-out fuck fest producing the juiciest of the litter, having a big one would take hugs to a level only hypothesized by the prudish oedipal who invented them. A hug with mom is a mutual acknowledgement that life got worse the minute you and her physically parted, so the bigger the hug, the more accurate the simulation is.

A brooding mother

My mom is as sweet as honey soda, which is just how I like it. But it would be interesting to experience what life is like on the other side of the equator and live a few moons with a mother who dabbles in darkness.

Instead of pre-milk prayers she’d cast post-sausage spells, and when Halloween came around she’d prefer to escape the pretenders and take us to visit the graves of Trent Reznor’s influences instead. Bedtime would become a nightly game of chicken with the sun, and speaking of birds, we’d spend Christmas spoiling the crows.

an alleged mother

Is she or ain’t she? Having this in the back of my mind until the mystery is solved would distract me from smaller daily bothers, such as questioning my oral health routine, whether or not I should eat more seeds, and stresses related to a lifetime without a concrete nickname.

An underwater mother

Just because this fantasy mother is underwater most of the time, doesn’t mean she doesn’t come up for a breath, a hug, and fruit every now and then, and that’s what makes her the full package. From fresh seafood to salty tales, impossible knots to close relationships with aquatic mammals, an underwater mother brings a slew of maritime skills to the table that would be the envy of any land son.

That’s all! Come on back in June when I put out my list of dad fads 2017 that looks at recent innovations in fathers. Let’s just say that previous metrics including time spent in the woods together, and number of thoughtless gifts exchanged are now completely outdated.

Brag Bag

While I was rummaging through the crawl space looking for my frog costume, I stumbled upon my Brag Bag.

For those who don’t know what that is, my Brag Bag is a rucksack-style bag made from red canvas with black accents and a logo bearing the name of the manufacturer that I won’t mention because I prefer to brag about what’s in the bag and not what’s outside. It has a Led Zeppelin patch (sewn, not ironed-on), a zipper that gives access to the main chamber, and two smaller pockets that operate under a snap system. I’m hesitant to use the latter for the storage because I don’t trust a snap as much as a zipper or even a sturdy button.

NOT THE ACTUAL BAG – to show the real Brag Bag would technically be a bag brag meaning I’d have to somehow put the brag bag into itself. Since that’s impossible, this is as good a look as you’ll get.

This bag is where I keep all the things I’m able to confidently brag about. Are all brags confident? Guess I’m not putting “understanding of the English language” in my Brag Bag. Here is what I will put in the Brag Bag this week:

All MOST of my appliances and kitchen implements are major brands

My arsenal includes KitchenAid, Cuisinart, GE, and Breville. I may not have it all but let’s just say what I lack in Le Creuset I make up for with a decent amount of Calphalon.

Every weekday morning I eat a high fibre cereal that no sweet freak / frost boss would touch

Once your taste buds and nose cones get accustomed to scarfing wheat and oats without ‘zang’, you can easily eat a daily breakfast that won’t turn your guts to gravy. My preferred brand looks like cat treats and tastes like trite taffy but the absence of fun allows me to sample the office candy basket more than any bacon ‘n egger ever could.

I taught my wife how to make rice in a matter of minutes 

Any time somebody says they can’t cook rice I’m all like, “Rice? The food?”. If they were talking about say, the car, then I understand–a car is hard to make.

I don’t even keep my microwave plugged in

This actually reminds me that my microwave isn’t really a major brand, unless you consider DANBY major. I might go back and erase that first one but if I don’t, know that it’s because I still feel I own enough to brag. Anyway, most people keep their microwave plugged in at all times, providing them an extra digital clock in their work space. Since we rely on our oven as our primary kitchen timepiece, we don’t feel it necessary to keep the microwave plugged in. When the mail boy delivers the hydro bill every new moon I’m always delighted to be able to tell myself that I’ve saved a few cents–and heck, maybe a dollar or two–just because I’m more logical than most amateur chefs.

Guess I’m more of a foodie than I thought! Time to put the bag back the crawl space. Next time I’m hoping to be able to brag about summer softball statistics, ice cream lick records, and outfits that really sizzle. Until then, this has been The Brag Bag.

New Trailer For Fate Of The Furious

Hey check out this new extended trailer for the new Fast and furious where the furious are puzzled at the new Dom Toretto

Movie Review — Logan

Logan is better known as Wolverine, the Canadian mad man with claws who spends his new movie, Logan, as a guy named James even though his friends call him Logan and strangers call him Wolverine if they’ve heard of him.

Logan is fucked up big time in this movie, forcing Hugh Jackman to act with a limp the whole time for probably the first time in his career. In this chapter of the book of this character that’s shaped like a paw, Logan is still alive in the future year of 2029 with his friend and fake dad Professor X. In this he meets a little girl who is exactly like him yet he is still surprised to find out she’s his daughter, probably because the only school he ever went to only taught him how to beat up weirdos and not freak out any time someone looks at him funny.

This movie is a lot like Bad News Bears because it’s about a little daughter helping out a drunk middle age daddy who doesn’t seem to even want a daughter. The little girl in this one looks less like Tatum O’Neal and more like a young Lukas Haas, actor and charter member of Hollywood’s original Pussy Posse.

This movie is also like Terminator 2 in a way because there’s tons of stabbing and a guy protecting a kid, and also kind of like Little Miss Sunshine because there are quite a few road trip sequences and drugs. For you Spielberg fans there’s even a touch of Hook in that there’s some powerful kids hanging out in a clubhouse which Logan goes to in a tuxedo like Robin Williams in Hook.

There were so many stabbings in this movie that I’m surprised it’s not rated S. But seriously, when a movie stars at least 3 people with claws there’d better be wounds, and boy were the movie ambulances you never see burning rubber over the few days or whatever that this thing took place.

This future in this movie isn’t half bad except for this army of guys who all have robot arms doing whatever it is they feel like all day long. And every car is made by GM/Chrysler in the future. That sucks because my family has been about Fords since the ’90 Taurus wagon.

There’s one good eating scene at a stranger’s dinner table and one good bathroom scene, which are good numbers for a major motion picture.

This ain’t the kind of X-Men movie with blue chicks and karate aliens and shit, it’s more raw and that makes sense because Wolverine like his meat raw and his beer cold. Oh Canada indeed.

I’d give this movie 23 “stab wounds” out of 28 “ADR grunts” and would recommend it to anyone who is looking to prank someone religious.

My Ideal Planet

The naughty night noticers at NASA recently peeped 7 new planets that were probably pretty obvious to aliens better than us. This is exciting news for a race of beings who have always fantasized about travelling to other planets to mark our territory by instinctively pissing everywhere only to receive eye-rolls from the natives who have such big eyes that the eye-rolls are are obvious, leading us to retreat back to the more piss-friendly Earth in utter embarrassment.

Now that it might be possible to chill somewhere other than here, there are a few things I’d like to see in a new planet. Since there are probably infinity planets out there, the likelihood of there being one that matches my specifications is 100%.

My ideal planet includes…

Safer volcanoes. Ask anyone–dead or alive or Highlander–where they’d want to hang if danger weren’t a factor and you’d hear two answers: the mesosphere and in a volcano. Volcanoes are way too dangerous to party in so I’m hoping the ones on any new planet is full of savoury goos and sweet foams that would be a pleasure to bop within alongside a selection of our finest party animals.

Sour oceans. Our oceans are renowned for being heavily seasoned with our favourite french fry flavour, which is pretty boring for those of us with sophisticated palettes. I prefer something with zing which is why I’d like oceans with notes of citrus and tamarind.

“This coil-haired Earth womb smells of the bile of a Phim”

Better trees. These days it’s rare to come across an Earth tree that bears fruit I can actually fuckin eat. If all our food on the new planet came from trees we wouldn’t need money, and could spare the lives of native hogs and beefs, forcing them to race each other instead.

Better caves (and plenty of them). I need a planet that provides built-in housing so we don’t have to waste time, money and drywall in making new ones that only treasure hunters and dukes can afford. A good cave system heated by hot springs and cooled by the gems would increase quality of life way more than any Tom Hanks movie ever could.

Better stuff in the desert. Nomads often refer to their local desert as “the beige bitch”, which is awfully disrespectful. Perhaps they’d treat our new deserts better if they were to include things like vines, thorns, and Gatorade.

“Every night I have the same dream” – Buzz Aldrin

More moss. If you live in the city like I do you might as well forget about ever seeing moss the rest of your life. Moss lets you live the lizard life and provides food, a pillow and green/brown tones that could influence your next design project.

Policing by big birds. I’m a freak for fantasy so the idea that we could be policed by giant birds of prey really puts a buzz in my balls. Plus, rather than discriminate against people of colour, bird police will target the rat-like among us who probably need a reality check anyway.

Chiller gravity. Lighten up, you know? With looser gravity we can finally standardize the mattress, rid ourselves of the oppressive sleep number system, and do away with terrible Yelp reviews of hotels that are forced to commit their fleet to either side of the Mohs scale.

First thing I’d ask these locals is, “Pardon me, when’s bedtime around here?”

At the end of the day, there would be zero problems on Earth if there were tons of warm, mossy caves and better trees. If you want me to run for election I’m totally down but must warn that I’ll never stop swearing.

Cross Border Haircut

Now that Dongald is Grand Moff of her United States, we Canadians aren’t so eager to hop longitudes to enjoy American roads and avenues named after famous trees. We used to get excited at the prospect of prancing into the Eagle’s nest to buy legendary cereals, eat at restaurants with big food, and drop major coin on cheap milk thanks to your rock bottom food standards. But with the oven now preheated to “Hell”, we’ll probably be spending our Queens on local grease instead.

There are still a few things worth boinging the border for and that’s basically the thesis of the piece unless you’re more visual than visceral, in which case we invited you to enjoy the proceedings from a font standpoint.

Check these things out:

Cross Border Haircut

americanbarber

“I am a barber, I am strong, I will quit if I snip wrong” – U.S. Snipocratic Oath

This one’s pretty simple: There are more people in the United States than in Canada. More people = more hair; more hair=more haircuts; more haircuts=more experienced barbers; more experienced barbers=better barbers; better barbers=better haircuts; better haircuts=better TV; better TV=popcorn sales; popcorn sales=corn profits; corn profits=more money for corn masters; more money for corn masters=happier corn masters; happier corn masters=more sex; more sex=more babies; more babies=more hair; more hair=more barbers.

It’s also worth noting that Vidal Sassoon arrived in the United States in 1965(!).

Cross Border God Shows

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“The only animal in this ark is our Wi-Fi password, which is BlackToad

There’s no denying that America’s gaga for God-god, and while tons of Yankee dudes and dudettes are loudest when yelling at Him inside their own heads during evening prayer, many more prefer to broadcast their praise from within immense crystal churches in stunning 4K and Dolby Stereo Surround Sound.

Our local Jesters of Jesus are more modest preferring “ministry miniseries” over “bethel blockbusters”. Our northern worshippers aim for a ceremonial tone that jives with stodginess of the Bible herself. I mean, you wouldn’t put a lacy bra on a beef’s udder now would you?

If you really want to see some praying, head over to the U.S. where billboards scream the Bible’s best, and real deal barkers pack immense complexes with fans and state-the-art wireless PA systems. Sometimes you gotta realize that money is best spent amplifying the voices of god’s faves as opposed to helping those god has deemed unfit to have money.

Cross Border Survival Games

“Hello boy, where do you wander?
Here is a riddle for you to ponder:
Down this path and up another;
Where man’s soul is torn asunder;
Whispers, spirits, evil things;
One plus two makes woodland kings”
– Unknown

Most of the world hates the same things as America, such as crud, wasps, goo, and the flu. But for some reason they’re the only ones who have a problem with socialized healthcare. That means that every trip into the Fab Fifty is a potentially dangerous mission where even a cute cut could translate to millions of dollars in wallet damage.

If you like to live dangerously, there’s no better way to put your blood at stake than by going to a place where guns are sprinkled into the landscape like salt on a baker’s apprentice’s fake pretzel. If you’re looking to roll the dice but can’t find a flock of glocks to get spicy with, ramp it up by getting a simple scrape then running around nude in the American woods. Try to survive the system and your numerous infections. If things get dicey you can return home to your Canadian doctor who has no idea if you’re rich or poor unless you wear one of those hats with the logo of your car on it.

Okay thanks for reading! Now it’s time for the OFFICIAL glennmacaulay.com blog after show:

 

Movie Review — John Wick: Chapter 2

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A good movie sequel is like a hot roast coming out of the oven after you just ate the same roast. The new roast has great potential because no matter what it is fresher than the first roast, but then maybe you’re not as hungry because you already had one roast. This is the kind of meal that I experienced when I saw John Wick part 2 now in theatres.

John Wick: He’s a man, and he’s two movies. Everything you loved about him and it is back because John Wick is back in John Wick 2 where Wick is back on the job as the world’s most unkillable killer.

He hates his damn job but whenever you kill someone people get pissed so John has to keep doing his job or he’ll die from getting killed by another guy who wants revenge even though he’s the hardest to kill in the world. The bad guys want to kill him so bad but they and us know that John Wick is the best killer in town. The only way to kill a guy like this is for everyone in the world to try to get him and that’s sort of what happens in this movie. It’s a bit weird  because in the world of John Wick most people are killers who use gold coins instead of money to get a nice New York hot dog or to pay another guy from doing something for them.

Wick shoots his way through tons of guys and only two girls at the speed of a tornado and looks as cool as he is sad as he travels from New York City to Rome to New York City again for more action.

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The fact that this is an urban movie is a real treat for people living in the country because they already think everyone in the city wants to kill them and this movie does a good job at keeping them scared of that.

If the first Wick was about his doggy, this one was more about John Wick. Before the movie my real brother told me that his dog grew up and became his guard dog in this movie so I expected to see the dog eat someone but sorry, all it does is hang out, no big deal.

John Wick doesn’t eat anything in this movie but one of the bad guys has a great scene where he nibbles a very tasty looking artisanal french fry that brought back memories of the bald guy from Matrix eating a steak in front of the agent who was a tough guy to kill, like John Wick. That’s a pretty interesting connection for movie fans who are more like sleuths than regular watchers like me.

The soundtrack has nothing for me to add to my iPod so here’s a rap I wrote that would’ve been ultra cool during the closing credits, with a rude beat I found on the Internet that you can use to sing along:

Light the wick, I’m talking John Wick
Forrest Gump? Nah, what are you, sick?

He’ll shoot your skull to make sure that you die
He’s got a suit on his back and a gun to his eye
He aims straight and never runs out of guns
It’s Keanu baby, hunk sandwich on action bun
One gold coin might buy you a drink
John Wick 2 a Titanic that won’t sink

Chorus:

John Wick, get up get down, everybody dance
Chapter 2 homie just give it a chance
Action packed no need to skip it
Take your sweetie to the movies, get a ticket ask guy to rip it

I’d give this movie 11 “loaded guns” out of 13 “but I thought we don’t support guns”. I’d recommend it to anyone who needs to hide somewhere for two hours.

nm1cnoc

 

Video Advent Calendar

After last year’s successful 25 songs in 25 days special Advent Calendar 2015, I’m back in 2016 with a video Advent calendar that will blow your bows off. Let’s do it!

Check back each day and you’ll be treated to a new treat as new videos get added to the playlist, or go back if you’ve missed one–there’s no right or wrong way of doing it. Unless you don’t do it at all. That’s wrong. Thanks, GLenn