I am a Chocolate Homing Pigeon





*Serving suggestion - objects might be closer than they appear





In a totally realistic attempt to reach the achievable goal to become totally buff, I have limited my intake of food to a variety of pre-cooked proportion controlled meals, breakfasts of porridge, baked beans or nourishing cereals (yummo), snack foods like popcorn, Indian Bhuja mix (I always want to call it Bhudju!) and fruit.  Life is worth living.



In the same intervening period, the teenager has developed a predilection for concocting experiments, influenced by the internet. The key ingredients for these experiments are pretzels, melted chocolate and peanut butter. At first these experiments looked vaguely like some sort of worthwhile food group. Peanut butter is sandwiched together by two perfectly baked pretzels, dipped in melted chocolate which is left to harden and could passably be presented on a chocolate tray at one of Melbourne's many chocolatiers. But as the experiments develop, they have become streamlined into a kind of TV dinner style porridge. The food group varieties are dispensed with and the peanut butter is let go. Think Goldilocks meets Pimp My Snack.

In my food austerity I have put food away, found containers for foodstuffs previously uncontained.  The only chocolate in the house, which admittedly is my only stumbling block, is a svelte mini-bar of Monsieur Truffe 60% Grenada Dark Chocolate.

But wait! While putting things away I have espied the chocolate melts required for above experiment. I find a suitable jar and make them airtight.  I go about my biz, but find I am strangely drawn to the kitchen. The jar sits on the bench in the kitchen next to the room where I write. It is only on the third trip I become conscious of the chocolate homing pigeon. I find every punctuation mark requires an automated trip to the kitchen. I am unaware of the travel. I simply make a key stroke, comma, my body rises, my feet take five short steps, a side step down into the corridor, a turn, a wingflap to the kitchen bench also incorporates the twisting of the jar lid, the coop has been found. I wander back to the desk, a handful of stolen chocolate buttons, discretely nestled in the palm of my hand. They are scoffed down until the next question mark is employed and the homing begins anew.

Obviously the Teenager has chosen the optimum time to make this scientific pursuit. Our affinity in purpose is uncanny. Can I ban the teenager from such pertinent experimentation in the quest for my own buff-ness? Which one is more selfish? On balance, my life is pretty much defunct, while the Teenager’s is just begun. I will sacrifice my purpose for the greater good. The enquiring mind must be encouraged.