If you're not addicted then that's great, but shut up.
These 25 people said things that are way too specific to not be hiding something. Here are some of their funniest posts.
Trust me.
For fans of the greatest car ever made (snigger) How many are there left in the World???
Looks beaaauutiful! As Sir Snigger said, great stylish features. What is the sink made of? Looks great with the black cupboards. Love the plush stools...
Choosing a window for your bathroom is a careful consideration. Now now, don’t snigger. The bathroom is probably the only place where most people are
Bishop’s Itchington, Westley Waterless: there is plenty to smile or snigger at on a map of the UK. But in fact, these names reveal a hidden – and fascinating – history.
'Tis the season for HARRY POTTER EVERYTHING. And it's easier to decorate Potter-style than you think. Here's a list of stunning--& easy--DIY decorations, so Apparate to Michaels for supplies, get crafty and have yourself a Harry Christmas! *snigger*
The British Museum makes Papa and Babushka laugh a lot. They walk around, look at the frankly astonishing amount of stuff from a ridiculously large number of countries and snigger about how hoseistvenii the British are. Being hoseistvenii, translated from the Russian not particularly well by my Mama, is connected to the idea of being … Continue reading The British Museum, London
The Ex St Edmunds RC School Boys Attempt To Get to France the cheap way…. by walking! Despite meticulous planning and emails telling everyone what to bring, you guessed it one of the team forgot a vital piece of kit! .. This was always going to be a tricky one given the amount of rain we have had recently and it didn’t disappoint. It was fairly dry walking (crawling) along the access shaft but then once into the actual test bore it became apparent that this was going to be an hilarious, if not sticky, adventure. The water was deep, a lot deeper than last time I was down here, almost a year ago this month, and from memory a lot more slippery ! So not that many photos, but a really fun morning out with plenty of laughs, especially at the expense of Mr Owler who managed to get both his feet wet…snigger snigger… more at www.facebook.com/urbanexploring
This was the challenge I faced growing up with learning to cook anything too rustic and simple: Time and again, I’d be taken aback by something that my mom had just thrown together. Wow, this is really good, I would say, tasting an eggdrop soup with crunchy scallion bits floating about. Or a stir-fry of julienned potatoes with a dash of white pepper, the starch suspending the sticks in a light, opaque sauce. Or, most recently, this clear soup with soft cubes of turnip and a background smokiness of sparerib bones. “This is just peasant food,” my mom would insist, more annoyed than bewildered. Over the years, I’ve been conditioned to drop the question, “How do you make it?” from my vocabulary when it comes to these types of dishes. It would invariably be greeted with scowls and claims that there was “no way,” or that it was not really a dish, or else indirect answers such as, “You just make it when there’s nothing else to eat.” Instead, I’ve learned that all one can do is stand back and watch. spare parts: spareribs with bones flavor the light broth So that’s how I’ve come to discover that water, turnips, some bones and a bit of broth make the perfect winter soup. Soothing and delicate, it’s great for sloshing together with leftover rice. My mom confessed that when she last cooked this for us around Christmas, she had wanted to make wintermelon soup in the same vein (wintermelon being much more subtle to the palate as well as in texture, and thus considered a little more luxurious). However, the wintermelon at the grocery that day didn’t look as fresh as the turnips. So, you could say that this soup is something that you just make when there’s nothing else (and wintermelon) to eat. I don’t know if there’s an inherent embarrassment to cooking something so pedestrian. Perhaps I shouldn’t shame my elders by sharing this recipe right now. But I still think that when something tastes good, it tastes good. When it’s this cheap, simple and healthy as well, all the better to it. the completed non-recipe Any turnip will turn out a good broth for this recipe, whether it’s one of the long, Asian varieties or a round, purple-skinned one. The trick with this recipe is to cook the turnip cubes until soft and transparent, but not mushy; you don’t want to see grains floating around in the clear broth. Tasting a cube for done-ness is imperative here, and it should melt in your mouth like a soaked crouton. “Peasant” Turnip Soup (makes 4-6 servings) ½ lb pork spareribs with bones, trimmed of fat and cut to 1” cubes 2 lb turnips, peeled and cut to 1” cubes 3 cups water 3 cups low-sodium chicken or vegetable stock 4-5 thin slices of fresh ginger 1 tablespoon vegetable or canola oil dash of white pepper (optional) Heat oil in a large stockpot or Dutch oven. Add the ginger and cook, stirring frequently, over medium-high heat until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add the spareribs and continue cooking and stirring until slightly browned, 2-3 minutes. Add the water and stock and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low and cover. Let cook for 30 minutes. Remove cover and skim the top of the broth of any particles with a slotted spoon. Add the turnip cubes and continue cooking on medium-low for about 25 minutes. Taste turnips for tenderness; when fully cooked they should be soft and mellow-flavored, but not falling apart in the soup. Cook longer if necessary. Remove ginger strips before serving as well as spareribs, if desired. Add white pepper and serve. Health Factor Three brownie points: Contrary to my stubborn belief that white vegetables have less nutrients, white turnips are a valuable source of many vitamins, including fiber, calcium, potassium, copper, Vitamin B6 and even Vitamin C. Peasants have much to snigger over for dining on these root vegetables, which are also low in calories. Trimming the spareribs before cooking is essential to keeping the fat content of this recipe relatively low, although I think it’s nice to have a few shiny oil slicks at the surface of the soup.
In New Hampshire, hunting season is in full swing. Some might not know this about me — especially those who read my books and wonder what goes through my crime writer’s mind — but at heart, I’m a sucker for animals. Large and small, with fur or feathers, I love them all. As such, I don’t condone hunting. I’m also not blind to the fact that it exists around me. Every time a gunshot echoes through the woods around my home, I cringe, knowing full well some poor furbaby won’t see his/her family again. In my mind, the scenario goes something like this… Clayton, a young whitetail deer, gallops through the woods. For hours, he and his older brother, Bucky, play tag and antler wrestle (gently, though; Clayton only has make-believe antlers at this age). Mom says, “Boys will be boys,” and Clayton titters. “Love you two. Be sweet.” Without waiting for a response, she turns and trots back to the den. Now out of earshot, Bucky whispers, “Cover for me, will ya, bro? I’m running down the stream for a sec.” “Okay, but hurry. You know how Mom worries.” “She’ll never know I’m gone. Promise.” Bucky skips down a dirt path in the forest. Clayton could go for some cool water, too. Allowing some distance between them, he follows. Bucky’s the best brother on the planet, even if he doesn’t let Clayton tag along when he leaves the yard around their den. As long as Clayton stays downwind, his big bro will never know he’s behind him. The young fawn suppresses a snigger. Being naughty is fun. Before stepping off the makeshift bridge Bucky’s head volleys left and right, checking both ways like Mom taught them. The trip to the stream is a bit of a hike, but it’s the only fresh water for miles. Clayton darts behind a wide oak tree, cranes his neck around the trunk. Is he really going to the stream? At night, while Mom’s sleeping, he’s caught Bucky chatting with Doe-reen outside the den twice now. They weren’t just talking, either. They were K-I-S-S-I-N-Ging. If Mom ever finds out, she’ll ground him for life. Bang! Vibrations from the gunshot rumbles the earth beneath Clayton’s tiny hooves, and the hairs on the scruff of his neck snap to attention. The bullet strikes Bucky dead-center in the forehead, blood splatters a nearby conifer, and he crumbles to the earth, the snow crimsoning beneath his face. Dead. Oh no! What should he do? A sob tangles in his throat as he bolts in the opposite direction, his heart thrumming faster than a locomotion. How can he tell Mom? Why didn’t he tell Bucky how much he idolized him? Should he go back, or head home? He’s too little to make these decisions. In the wild, life isn’t fair. In a voice barely audible to humans, he cries, “I want my mom.” When Clayton rounds the corner to his den, Joe Hunter storms the area with Bucky’s limp body over his shoulders. Mom’s inside. He can’t leave her. What if something happens? With Bucky gone, he’s the man of the house now. Clayton charges toward the entrance. Mom gallops to meet him halfway. Bang! “Mommy! No,” he shrills, his heart shattering like a bullet through a windshield. Blood trickles down her forehead. What now? He’s too young to start a family. Hell, he’s too young to survive on his own. But did Joe Hunter care? No. He thirsted for venison. An invisible strike to the gut buckles Clayton in half when Joe Hunter strings up his precious family and guts them down the middle. His baby buck-eyes pool with tears. Hanging his head, his insides twisting in desperation, he slogs into the forest. Alone. No idea what to do, or where to go. Later that night, Clayton meets an ugly fate. The details of which remain sketchy because Smokey the Bear refuses to comment on an open investigation. *** So you see? My heart breaks more and more with each round of gunfire. Some of you might argue that hunting is necessary to keep animal population in check. I get that; I really do. But still, I can’t help the sorrow that bubbles to the surface when I drive by a truck with a dead animal on the tailgate. I even make my husband promise to catch-and-release when he goes fishing. Which he does. He can’t cause animals/fish/birds harm, either. Regardless of my views, I’m writing this post so Joe Hunter doesn’t shoot anyone’s beloved pet while he tries to add another bust to his Wall of Fame. Know your prey. Stalk your prey. Track your prey. In the first image below — top left — is a whitetail deer print. Next to the deer is a moose track (I love moose by the way. Just sayin’). Next row down are dog prints. If you see these in the snow/dirt, please go the other way if you have murder on your mind. That’s someone’s baby you could be getting ready to shoot. If you’re aiming for a coyote, make sure you know it’s a coyote. To the right of the dog’s paw prints are coyote tracks. Notice the slight difference? They’re not easy to spot, but please take the time to learn. Print this chart if you need to. Third row down (left), we have red fox and gray fox. Also similar to dog prints, they’re usually smaller with more space between the pads. Row one (top right): Bobcat, Lynx, and house cat. Notice the pad shape? Learn it. Memorize it. Poor Fluffy did nothing to deserve a bullet to the– I can’t even finish that sentence, not outside fictionland. Row two and three (top right): Otter, Fisher Cat, Minx, Weasel. Not even close to any of our pets’ prints, but to an untrained eye baby Joe Hunter might confuse them for something else. Below (left), you’ll find snowshoe hare and cottontail rabbit. I didn’t realize there was a difference, but clearly there is. If you know the difference between a hare and a rabbit, let us know what separates the two. Second and third row down (still left) is gray squirrel, white-footed mouse, crow, turkey, and ruffled grouse. On the right (above): Raccoon, Striped Skunk, Porcupine, Beaver. Next row down is Black Bear. Now, even though a black bear devoured every single stalk of my butter-and-sugar corn one summer, and I’d envisioned strangling him, I would never want them harmed. Ever. Would I want to come face-to-face with Mr. Bear? Or worse, Mrs. Bear with cubs? Probably not. Although, if there was a way to safely rub their furry ears, I’d be all over it. Opossum is in the third row (right): Granted, these animals aren’t the cutest animal on earth. As a kid, my mother babysat domestic and exotic pets for folks who went on vacation. Why, I have no idea. It was fun, though! Anyway, for an entire year we took care of an opossum. That thing was vicious, too. Still, I don’t condone their slaughter. If you must shoot them, or any other animal on this list, please don’t share your hunting stories with me. Woodchuck (last row — right image): Over the summer a woodchuck strolled in front of my office window, raised up on his hind legs, and I swear he smiled at me. The face on that sweet, little fella was so stinkin’ cute! Lastly, we have Muskrat. I don’t know much about muskrats, but their tracks are pictured above. So there you have it. If you’re writing a story about Joe Hunter, you’ll have a visual aide. If you are Joe Hunter, perhaps you’ll have a better understanding of what you’re tracking to eventually murder. For non-hunters, comparing prints in the snow is a lot of fun, and a great way to clear your mind. In other news, I’m thrilled to report that my publisher loved CLEAVED (MARRED‘s sequel). In my acceptance letter they used the word “intense” and “love” about six times. LOL Also, as my Facebook friends are aware, I’ve been invited to write a novella for New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Elle James’ Kindle World, BROTHERHOOD PROTECTORS. My story releases as part of the Sept. 7, 2017 launch. Exciting, right?
