Monday, October 20, 2008

Protrudio Says — Hey! 3

As you may recall, Abysswinksback-goers were invited to partake in the following writing exercise:

“All or part of you has turned to chocolate — just seconds before meeting your hot, hot new date...”

I can confirm that the results are now in, and in the time it takes you to scroll down and read the entries, Protrudio will have picked a lucky winner for the extra special Abysswinksback crap crap crap crap crap prize.

So here they are, lovingly recreated in the order they were received...

Sings Off Key In The Shower Writes

My duodenum is chocolate
or very nearly so
no matter how I purge it,
a melting it will go
so possibly I'm thinking
an ice cream it should chill
but Nancy (she's my doctor)
says my mind's just taken ill!
So off to hospitally
I'm dragged in my new frock
(the one you know with big old bows
that tie around the back!)

Mom In Scrubs Writes

(this can’t be happening…)

“Bing-Bong!!” the doorbell insists. I pull my fingers from my lips. Smell.


Lick my fingertips. Chocolate!

My lips. Are. Chocolate.

I can’t meet him like this!!


Inhale. Shoulders back. Open door.

He is studying his hand. It’s behind his back in an instant.


His breath! Redolent with…

Peanut Butter.

(this has potential…)

Writtenwyrdd Writes

What needs to be written is a short treatise on the reasons for chocophobia. Mine, specifically, yours secondarily. I mean, come on, you think you’ve got it bad? I’m the one whose forefinger is permanently chocolate coated! I’m the one who can’t grab a cup of coffee without leaving suspicious stains all over the mug, or who is forced to write left-handed so that the pressure won’t snap something—

Well, yes, it started as a warty looking blemish. And within the course of a week or two it was like a big strawberry birthmark.

Yes! I did see the physician! I’m not totally stupid! Sorry, you know it ‘s just that this whole thing is getting to me. Okay. The doctor thought I was having him on, because it rubbed right off, and the stuff smelled like chocolate. Yeah, the really good Belgian stuff. But the doc sent me home with a flea in my ear, told me to quit wasting his time, and the insurance company made me pay the tab, too.

But it came back, and now it won’t go away. The doc finally believes me, too, because now the stuff is all the way through the skin like a melanoma, and subverting the skin, too.

I’m in the weird medical case books. That’s something, isn’t it?

No! They aren’t taking the finger. The odds are it’s too late, anyhow.

How do I know? I started peeing chocolate last week.

Kiersten writes

I stared despondently into the mirror. Another hot date and I just didn’t care. How could I love anyone else if I didn’t love myself?

Please, I prayed, make me something I can love. Suddenly an irresistible scent wafted upward. I looked down. Chocolate hands—chocolate legs—chocolate everything. I smiled. I was perfect, and in love. With myself.

JaneyV writes

I sat at my dressing table, the lacy cuff of my negligee falling over my perfectly manicured hand as I regarded my reflection thoughtfully. He would be here soon, the mysterious stranger in black and there was definitely something peculiar about my face. In place of my two eyes, perfect straight nose and large mouth with full pouting lips were two hazelnut whirls, a noisette crunch and a strawberry kiss. Hold on! There were now two orange truffles where my ears used to be. If only I had the requisite facial parts I would have been staring in abject horror.

A cool breeze stirred me from my chair. The French windows of my boudoir had inexplicably opened and my pointless voile drapes were getting soaked by the storm that had for no reason started to howl outside. Encased in floaty chiffon I ran to the doors and dramatically battled with the wind to shut them again. My heart pounded in my chest (at least I think it was my heart – it may have been an eastern delight) as I returned to my mirror, chocolate tears streaming down what was once my face. Then I saw it - laying exactly where it hadn’t been before I went to sort the bloody doors out – a small card with the silhouette of my handsome stranger printed boldly on its upper side. I turned it over. My heart (or possibly the Turkish delight) stopped. Written in cursive script was…

...And all because the lady wants to be Milk Tray

What a stupid git!

Protrudio Responds

Riotous nibbly quillcraft! So pleased am I with these offerings, my slurping glands have been drained of all enzymes. While I cogitate on the impossible conundrum before me — the conundrum of choosing my favourite (for the much-heralded crap crap crap crap crap prize) — let us proceed without delay in our steam-powered custard tart pastry housings to...a honker of a recipe.


For this unashamed stomach thriller, you will need

4oz breadcrumbs
1 egg*
2oz grated suet
Your fave combination of chopped fresh parsley, rosemary and thyme
Some milk.
A trained Cocker Spaniel

*Regular — not ostrich, wren or velociraptor.

First thing you need to do is find yourself a bowl — and remember, folks, the Protrudio Signature Bowl Finder is available at selected stores right now. It’s compact, it’s handy, and it’s so, so useful. On my recent daring excursion to the underworld lair of the Marzipan Pansy, I had one of these clipped to my belt and on no less than two separate occasions, it successfully pointed me in the direction of husks of giant crab shell under which I was able to hide during the countless life-and-death sub-custard pursuits I found myself embroiled in. Third time, of course, it found me a bowl.

So — get that ole bowl and flick in those breadcrumbs with your thumbs like you were firing marbles at a trussed octopus. It’ll improve the final flavour and make you look hot, hot, hot — not to mention pseudo-acrobatic. Do the same with the grated suet, then shower on a little salt and pepper and mix heartily.

When it comes to herbs, in my opinion, you’re always going to be treading a very fine line between No Flavour Whatsoever and Potential Poisoning, so as you chop the parsley, rosemary and thyme, you’ve got to pay heed to all that Baby Bear Stuff in Goldilocks. One sliver of parsley too little, and you’ll overmom the whole shebang. One sprigette of thyme too much and you’ll spend the next week grunting like you’ve enjoyed a liquid testosterone enema at the hands of a ferocious grizzly. My recommendation? Play middling/moderate and go with LOADS of parsley and be SPARING with the rosemary. Then mix heartily till your booty quivers (or, if you have no booty, your brain is shaken down beneath your skin to roughly hip height).

If you’ve never strummed a banjo while breaking an egg, now’s the time to start. One day, you may find yourself falling from a great height after being scooped from an ocean of whipped cream by a giant pteradactyl — a giant pteradactyl from which you’ve subsequently escaped by virtue of guile, cunning and offensive weaponry — and, believe me, this is the trick with precisely the allure for amazing and beguiling nearby birds as you freefall past them. Nine times out of ten, upon hearing of your spectacular banjo/egg acumen, any eagles, hawks or albatrosses will swoop down and rescue you, keen to behold your outrageous feat of dexterity. So — tune up, and crack the egg into your bowl of goodies, and as you stir in repeated swirls, mix in some milk a sloshful at a time. The more of a mess you make as you sloosh it in from a great height (or even the other side of the kitchen), the more of an accomplished culinary wizard you really are. What you’re aiming at (apart from the GLORY) is a semi-liquid dop of a grey/green hue. Adding some milk will allow you to experiment. My preference is for a somewhat sloppy mixture, baked fresh in its bowl, which I spoon onto my plate next to my choice of fowl after everything is cooked, but you might wish to go for a more solid mixture which you can pump up that cockerel’s ass with your Protrudio Signature Hydraulic Stuffing Pumper. If you go for the first option, 30-40 minutes at 220 degrees C ought to swell your bowlful of yummification big enough to feed four. With the second option, set the temperature and cooking time according to your choice of deceased winged beastie.

The Cocker Spaniel? Merely a frippery. Ride it, strum the banjo with it or throw it in the mix: you’re the impressario.

And now I’m suitably expunged of all culinary wherewithal, in spite of all the entries being so so good, I declare Mom In Scrubs the winner of this modest distraction — though I feel I must immediately counsel against any and all celebration lest she forget that, in being singled out thusly, she is soon to be the recipient of a crap crap crap crap crap prize.

Time for me to slip away now and arm myself with an array of Bakewell tarts for the arduous sojourn ahead. So long...

Thanks, Prote. All that now remains is for me to invite said Mom to email me at from whence the disappointment may unfold...


JaneyV said...

Protrude's stuffing sounds delish! My own special one calls for lots of butter - however you like your cholesterol I guess the main thing is that the fats should be good and saturated!

Mucho congrats to Mom In Scrubs for your win. A perfectly realised piece I think. I have always found chocolate and peanut butter to be a winning combo. (As well as just about everything else!)

Whirl thanks for the laughs!

writtenwyrdd said...

I think you picked the winner indeed. I was surprized to see my stupid poem (yes, I'm sings off key in the shower) as an entry when I was actually responding to the comment about duodenums. See how clueless I can be? Because I think it's a great entry in comparison to Chocophobia. (Also, I have a slightly revised version on the blog.)

Whirlochre said...

Wouldn't mind the recipe, if it's emailable, JV.

As for WW's revised submission, it's up on her blog now.

Bring me chocomania, baby.

writtenwyrdd said...

I just found a really yummy recipe for pumpkin soup with black beans. Not going to write it up a la Protrudio, but I'll let you know how it goes when I get the chance to make it, Whirl.

Whirlochre said...

Sounds like a throbber — though I have to say that in my experience, pumpkins are not the most flavoursome of vegetables. Mind you, I do tend to swallow tham whole...

Kiersten said...

Blast. And here I thought 59 words would give me the edge. Alas, who can compete with chocolate AND peanut butter?

Sarah Laurenson said...

Congrats to all. These were fun.

And, um, congrats and/or condolences to the winner - your choice, Mom in Scrubs!

writtenwyrdd said...

BTW, Whirl, I forgot to mention I like the recipe. :) ww

Thanks for the kindness to my crappy new beginning at ee's. I knew it was a bit overwrought; but I still like it that way. Knew I needed a second opinion or twelve!

Mary said...

Oh, my... What totally fabulous entries!

And such gusto and artistry from chef Protrudio. :)