“Do you think you could make baked polenta chips?”
“I can make anything. Polenta is that corn meal stuff us wogs have been making since before Christ was born, right? I am genetically disposed to making polenta even if I have never made it before.”
“That’s it. My grandma used to make it every morning. Here’s a recipe.”
I examined the recipe, prepared the ingredients, then kicked the tyres and lit the fires, as it were. It all seemed relatively straightforward. Boil chicken stock. Add polenta slowly. Add parmesan cheese, butter, crucial herbs, cook for three minutes, then pour into lined baking tray, cover with clingwrap and put it in the fridge for a few hours. Then just take it out, cut into chip-shapes and bake.
I got to the stage where you pour the gluggy boiling fuck into the baking tray. I see big lumps of polenta. I then imagine I will return the lumpy yellow bastard into the pot and stir some more. I burn myself in the attempt because the cunt is hotter than lava. Then I notice I have neglected to put the crucial herbs into the mix.
I go full wog and the polenta, the baking tray, the greaseproof paper, and the encrusted pot land mainly in the sink like they’ve splashed down from orbit.
“Jebem ti polentu u pichku mater! Seremse u tu polentu! Da nju djavo odeneo u tri lepe pizde prokelete materine! Jebem ti polentu i jebem ti sunce i jebem ti pas mater u vatrenu pizdu da mu jebem!”
You can Google that shit if you wanna know what it means.
“The fuck are you doing and why are you screaming?” My wife asked. “And why is there polenta on the ceiling and on the window?”
“Jebem ti ja polentu!”
“You’ve said that already.”
I watered my burns, tossed the yellow magma into the bin, and now realised I did not have enough ingredients to make a second attempt.
“I’m going to shop to get more stuff.”
“Look, don’t worry about it. We’ll eat something else.”
“The fuck you say? Oh fuck no. We are eating fucking polenta tonight if I have to buy 100kg bag of the cunt, 40 litres of fucken chicken stock, and all of the world’s spice production. I’m making it and that’s the fucken end of the cunt.”
“Ok, then.”
An hour later the second attempt is now cooling in the fridge. The cunt.
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