Sexy VIP Mystery Guest Countdown: Four Days To Go!

Today I cooked and froze savoury pancakes filled with small juicy pieces of smoked chicken, chopped leeks and cashew nuts, all bound together with a béchamel sauce which contained over ten times the legal amount of freshly grated nutmeg.

Oops! I hope I haven’t just made you all hungry!

Typical Marital Exchange Chez Antipo

Antipo (typing at computer in spare room, having arisen before dawn because of elusive slumber due to excitement about VIP Mystery Guests arriving in SEVEN days time) : *yawns*

Evil, Birthday Forgetting Husband (puts his head round the door without saying Good Morning): It's daylight outside.

Antipo: So?

Evil, Birthday Forgetting Husband: So you can switch the light off now and open the curtains.

Antipo: Oh! I thought you had come to say 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY' for next year!

Antipo's Sexy Recipes

Especially for you Wendy

Quick and Easy, Super Healthy, Low Calorie, Kind To Your Arteries (kidding!) Lemon Curd

3 eggs
1 cup (200 g) white sugar
50 g butter
grated zest of 1 lemon
½ cup lemon juice (2 medium lemons)

Preheat oven to 100° C and place clean jars inside for at least 20 minutes to sterilise them. Whisk eggs in a two litre microwave proof jug or bowl, and gradually beat in the sugar. Add butter, lemon zest and juice. Cover lightly, cook on high power (100%) for two minutes. Whisk, cook for a further two minutes. Whisk again, cook again for two more minutes and check consistency. If it’s not viscous and snot-like in texture, cook for another minute or two. When the curd is pleasingly slimy, it’s safe to pour it into the jars. Leave to cool before sealing (makes two Bonne Maman jars). Keeps for ages, probably, but I’ve never been able to test its longevity as we eat it pretty fast.

Top tip: stir a spoonful of lemon curd into a plain Greek yogurt to treat your tastebuds to an intensely erotic experience.

Raunchy Red Pepper Relish

8 red peppers (or capsicums, if your name is Aussie Lass or Flying Kiwi)
¾ cup lemon juice
¼ cup orange juice
grated zest of 1 lemon, and 1 orange
½ cup red wine vinegar
6-8 large cloves garlic, peeled & chopped
2 onions, peeled & chopped
1 ½ cups sugar
2 tbsp tomato paste
½ tsp each salt and cayenne pepper
few drops tabasco sauce

Wrap the peppers in newspaper and bake in a covered dish for about 45 to 60 mins at 180°C. When cool enough to handle, peel away the skin. Remove seeds and cores, and chop into small dice, or funny squiggles, or long, sexy strips...

In the meantime, have 5 or 6 clean Bonne Maman sized glass jars sterilising in the oven for 30 mins at 100°C.

Place all ingredients in a large saucey-pan and stir over a low heat until sugar has dissolved. Bring to the boil, reduce to a gentle simmer and cook at least 10 minutes (but probably more if the peppers were really juicy-lucy). Consistency should be thick and jam-like. Bottle into hot, sterilised jars and seal. Keeps indefinitely.

Note: Your whole house will smell raunchy for hours afterwards!

P.S. Sexy photos below (one of them is topless!)

I've Been Cooking For Super Duper VIP Mystery Guests!

Lemon curd...








Red pepper relish, lemon curd, fresh tagliatelli (just admire the food, and ignore my dirty windows).

And why is this on my Naughtiness Blog, you may ask?

Well, I have all sorts of uses in mind... we may not simply eat these delicacies!

G’night John-Boy

Pauline of Leon’s Life wrote yesterday of wanting to be Laura and live in The Little House on the Prairie. That sparked off a fond memory of mine. I lived and breathed The Waltons when I was a young gel in the Seventies. Even today I hope I will one day travel to the States and visit Virginia and the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Ohhhh! I can still remember every drippy note of the theme music and the sepia tones of the credits... I wanted to live on Walton’s Mountain in Virginia and be obliged to drive an old jalopy to get to Charlottesville to do the shopping. I wanted to wear overalls and go fishin’ in the creek with Jim-Bob. Erin and I would have braided each other’s hair on the porch while Momma and Gran’maw shelled peas. That Gran’maw was such a character, always pretendin’ to be so grumpy, but really she had a heart of gold. Gran’paw pretended to be a henpecked old man, but he loved his wife and family. Jason would have helped me with my homework. Ike and Cora Godsey would have slipped me a jaw breaker when I would go to the store to buy a sack of flour for Momma. I always wondered what the Baldwin sisters’ special recipe (moonshine, no doubt) would taste like...

I simply longed to wear a print dress, my hair in a bun, have a hyphenated first name and say “Well I do declare!” to indicate surprise. I cried real tears when Mary Ellen’s handsome husband got killed by the Japs in Pearl Harbour.

Olivia Walton was played by the most beautiful actress in the world, Miss Michael Learned. Why did she have an honorific in the credits, but not the others? Is that a Southern thang, to show respect for ladies? How cool was that for a beautiful woman to have a boy’s name? How did she look so fabulous after having borne seven children and raisin’ them through The Depression? That woman was a miracle, and I’m afraid I may have once told my own Mum that I wished Liv were my real mother...

And now we come to John Boy... aaah... John Boy... be still, mah beatin’ heart! At first I wanted John Boy to be mah big brother, an’ take care ah me, but as he and I both grew older, I realised I really, really wanted to shag his brains out...

Wallowing In A Trough of Pessimistic Anticipation and Potential Self Pity

For the first time ever I have managed not to remind my children and husband of my upcoming birthday. Every year in the days beforehand I say to myself “Don’t mention the birthday! DON’T MENTION THE BIRTHDAY!”

I’m kind of a masochist and want to test them, to see if they’ll think of it all by themselves... or in the case of the children, I want to know if my parents in law have remembered to subtly prep the kids to at least make me a little card or a drawing of a flower.

But every year I blurt it out: “Please don’t forget my birthday next week!” Invariably they had, proving that I was right all along.

So I’m determined to keep my mouth shut this time. I’m absolutely determined. Even if it takes the fantasy of a young, handsome, muscle-bound New Zealander nailing a plank of four by two* over my gob to keep me silent.

* Four by two is a rough plank of timber used for absolutely everything in New Zealand, whether it be moulded into a sleek and graceful America’s Cup winning yacht, or carved into an All Black’s thigh, a sweaty, virile sculptor lovingly chiselling the muscle definition, smoothing the powerful, longline thighs and flanks with trembling fingertips ...

Kim For A Day

Cor blimey! I’ve been at it hammer and tongs all night, and now I’m spent.

Yet I feel utterly fulfilled, for I have accomplished my role as Kim for a day.
The Lovely Kim went on holiday for 10 days and left her blog in the hands of ten mildly deranged individuals of her greatest fans, who all jumped at the honour of writing a guest post.

Be warned! I had to use rather a lot of na*ghty words and s*xual references, ‘though it pained me greatly to do so....

Seafood and Eat It

A lunch guest of mine once sadly refused to eat my world famous Moules Marinières (mussels in white wine). He said it wasn't the taste that put him off, but the appearance. To him they looked like Vaginas of the Sea.

The World Famous and Lovely Kiwifruit Fi once memorably admitted she can't eat raw oysters. To her they look (and presumably feel) like Bogies of the Sea (or Boogers of the Sea, if you're American).

On holiday in Brittany my children once collected dozens of 'couteaux' shellfish, so called because the outer shell is long, narrow and flat, like the blade of a knife. After keeping them overnight in a bucket of sea water, we discovered the pink, penis-like creatures inside lolling out, for all the world like Tallywackers of the Sea.

As a child, my brother tried to put me off eating scallops by telling me that their 'coral' was actually their sex organ. Little did he know, that information only served to make them even more delicious to my pervie little self! What title could I possibly give here... Schlongs of the Sea, perhaps?

A Literary Way To Start Your Day

King Arthur was in Merlin's laboratory where the great wizard was showing him his latest creation. It looked like a chastity belt, but for a rather large hole in the most obvious place which made it basically useless.


   "This is no good, Merlin!" the King exclaimed, "Look at this opening. How is this supposed to protect my Lady, the Queen, when I'm away on a Lengthy Quest?"


   "Ah, Sire, just observe," said Merlin. He then selected his most worn out wand, one that he was going to discard anyway. He inserted it in the gaping aperture of the chastity belt where upon a small guillotine blade came down and cut it neatly in two.


   "Merlin, you are a genius!" said the grateful monarch. "Now I can leave, knowing that my Queen is fully protected."


   After locking Guinevere into the device, King Arthur then set out upon a Lengthy Quest.


   Several years passed until he returned to Camelot. Immediately he assembled all of his Knights in the courtyard and had them drop their trousers for a Formal Inspection of the Todger ceremony.


   Sure enough, each and every one of them was either amputated or damaged in some way. All of them, except Sir Galahad.


   "Sir Galahad," exclaimed King Arthur. "You are my one and only True Knight!  Only you among all the Nobles have been true to me.  What is it in my power to grant you? Name it and it is yours."


   But, alas, Sir Galahad was speechless.

Penis Envy

I made the mistake of working on a new, exciting and fun! translation late last night, so when I finally got into bed beside that snoring creature I refer to as French Hubby, my brain was buzzing and I just could not sleep.

Casting about in the bed for something to play with, I found a knobbly knee and entertained myself considerably by smooshing the flesh from underneath the kneecap, up and around the sides of it, to make a smiley face.

Minutes ticked excruciatingly by. I then hit upon the brilliant idea of conducting wobbleability tests on the nearest pair of buttocks. This too proved to be loads of fun.

When my roaming fingers eventually encountered a soft, slug-like appendage, I knew I had struck comedy gold! I poked it (gently). It moved! I poked it again. It shrugged irritably. I gave it a full-on tickle and its owner snorted loudly and rolled over and away from me. *sighs*

I don't really want to BE a man, but I would like my very own todger to play with, as and when the fancy strikes me. There's something so ludicrous about the wrinkliness and mobility of a sleeping trouser snake! It doesn't seem fair that a man can get instant hilarity by playing with his tallywacker, whereas it simply doesn't work like that with our neat and tidy, tucked-away bits.

Your thoughts, Ladies?

La Vida Loca

Poor old French Hubby has a complete mental block about Valentine's Day. Every year he is surprised by it, and every year he tells me "But it's on the 15th February". And every year I say "No, it's TODAY", and the sad truth is that he missed it AGAIN.

Do you think if I hit him over the head very hard with my frying pan, but using a precisely calculated trajectory, it might bump the mental glitch in his synapses from 15th to 14th February?

Honestly, every single year he says "But it's tomorrow!" Dear old French Hubby must walk around in a private little bubble of oblivion. Every year I say "But everybody's been talking about it all day! You can't have escaped the advertising!" Oh he hears the advertising alright, but he thinks it's a kind of Valentine's Eve build-up for the next day!

And every single year I say to him through gritted teeth "We. Had. This. Conversation. Last. Year."

Last night I had modest plans for an easy (i.e. no cooking involved), slap-up meal for the two of us, but sadly the fancy delicatessen was closed. So I arrived home bearing a 'special' Valentine baguette from the bakery, planted a chaste kiss on his cheek (the facial kind of cheek), and heated up a carton of supermarket soup for our dinner... Wow! We're really livin' La Vida Loca!

At bedtime I tried to snuggle up to him with my cold feet (as usual) and he pushed me away with his hot paws (as usual), and I protested "But you have to! This is the one day of the year when I'm allowed uninterrupted snuggles! IT'S THE LAW!"

Sexy Name Decoder

Get your name decoded sexily here .

My Favourite Lyrical Word (Part Two)

Yesterday I managed to unleash a passionate, frenzied and sweaty discussion entitled 'My Favourite Lyrical Word' among my crazy, devoted fans lovely readers. (The Lovely Ms. Mac managed to contribute the longest, most complicated and frankly, totally useless offering! Bravo Stella!)

But Baby, it ain't over till it's over, as the bodice-rippingly tasty Lenny Kravitz once sang, and I haven't had my entire say yet. To my list of words I love for their sound and not necessarily their meaning, I hereby add 'fornicate'.

I know what you're thinking, but you're all wrong! I love it because it sounds so dainty and gracious. It's the soft, almost sibilant 'f', and the crisp but light consonants 'c' and 't' that trip so pleasantly off the tongue. I can quite see myself with long, floaty hair in a floral dress serving tea to the Vicar on a sunny, blue-skied day: "More tea Vicar? And do try one of my little Fornication Cakes, they're simply delicious and will melt in your mouth!"

So you see, when the Red Hot Chili Peppers sing 'Californication', it's not just Anthony Kiedis' shirtless torso, manly jaw and virile hands that get me all steamed up, no no no! It's the way he pronounces my favourite word.

Tomorrow I shall be researching the resonance and lyricism of 'quim', and its sensory effects on my physionomy.

Erotic Poetry Fridge Magnets

These poems were brought to you by Fluff, Antipo and David.

I'm So Excited!

The Divine and Very Darling Ms. Mac whom I adore, and who professes profound affection for me too - but not in a lusty lebanese way - has promised me a Roll with a Californian next time we meet!

Grammatical Jokette To Start The Day Off Right

Well I've obviously shocked you all into silence with yesterday's post! (Ms. Mac and Bob don't count, because they are in fact my alter egos.)

So, to ease you all into Tuesday, here's a sweet story courtesy of Aussie Lass's lovely Mum.

An elderly couple had been dating for some time and decided it was finally time to marry. Before the wedding, they had a long conversation regarding how their marriage might work. They discussed finances, living arrangements and so on. Finally the old man decided it was time to broach the subject of their physical relationship.

"How do you feel about sex?" he asked, rather hopefully.

"Well, I'd have to say I like it infrequently," she responded.

The old guy paused .... then he asked, "Was that one word or two?"

Latent Lesbian Lust

Good morning children! Today we're going to discuss my latent lesbian tendencies - I mean, not MY latent lesbian tendencies of course! ha ha ha! - but I have this friend you see, and she had a strange dream last night. She had an extremely erotic and quite graphic dream about making love with another woman, and this woman happens to be her best childhood friend, the one she has known since they were eight or nine years old.

So it was all a bit strange and my friend (the one who had the dream) is feeling slightly puzzled. It was all in soft focus and very pretty, certainly, but there were definite moanings and fondlings, grindings of certain parts, and rubbings of important tactile bits and... oh! excuse me while I take off my jacket ... someone seems to have turned the heating up too high today...

So where was I? Oh yes! So today I'm wondering - erm, she's wondering - what does it all mean? Of course men look good and smell quite nice, tell dirty jokes and drink beer (essential if you want to be my friend), and can change light bulbs for me and fill in a tax return more quickly and accurately than I. But I certainly can't talk to them or understand them. And how could they possibly understand period pain, giving birth, cracked nipples and crazy monthly mood swings? I've always adored women and needed my girlfriends for the gossip, the childcare, the whipping up of gourmet meals at the drop of a stylish beret, the mutual eyebrow plucking, neck rubs and sisterly shoulders to cry on at the perfidy of men - in short the EMPATHY and UNDERSTANDING. A naked woman, with her curves and roundedness, is a thing of beauty, whereas a naked man (well a full frontal one, with his pointy elbows, knobbly knees and dangly bits) is a thing of giggles!

So does this mean I'm going to abandon husband and children to run off to Fluffy Bunny's South Sea Sapphic Island Paradise? After that dream (that my friend had), it all seems so tempting!

And yet... and yet .... those bloody men, they do have one essential, outstanding quality that even the loveliest woman does not.

And I don't think I want to do without that quality just yet!

Rude Place Names

Okay, I know I said “No drunken blogging”, and I have only had one gin and lemon, but it was a pretty big one. However, I’ll have you know that it was purely medicinal, to quell the severity of the birth pains I’m still experiencing 12 years after having given birth.

So my thoughts today are these: the beauty of being blessed with such a puerile imagination as mine is that I can wring huge gobbets of entertainment from bog standard, seemingly bland words...

Most days I walk to work, and I have a choice of different routes I could take through my village, but I almost always choose to walk down Rogering Street (rue des Rogeries), in the hopes that one day a gorgeous stranger will ravish me there.

Not long after Pauline was born, and the author’s poor old fanny had not quite healed, we discovered a nearby village I like to think of as Episiotomy (Episy, actually).

I really enjoyed driving The Lovely Ms. Mac completely potty by cackling with laughter when she took me to Bübikon, near her Swiss village. “Boobie! Conne! Boobie! Conne!” I repeated endlessly, providing Stella with much mirth, I’m sure.

Of course my ambition in life, if I ever find myself in the USA, is to visit the town of Intercourse in Pennsylvania. I promise I will send you all a postcard saying “ I really like Intercourse! Intercourse is fabulous and very exciting! Wish you were COMING here too!” And I reckon Lake Titicaca in Peru/Bolivia will give me an equally good run for my money.

In German speaking countries, people will wish you “eine gute Fahrt” before you drive or travel anywhere. I like to reply “Well thank you, and I wish you very happy flatulence too!”

Cruel Jokette Of The Day

What's the good thing about being diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease?

You can hide your own Easter eggs!

(Surprisingly, I got this from my Dad. He may be laughing on the other side of his face one day!)

Poo, Poo, Poo, Poo, Poo!

I’ve written a post about bodily functions AGAIN, but for Wendy’s sake, have had the decency to post it here, so she wouldn’t be caught unawares. Poor Wendy has recently had to put up with the Great Snot Debate (morning bogies: fresh vs. crusty) thanks to Ms. Mac and the recipe for Toejam Soup from myself. I hate to think what would happen to the poor girl if she ever came across mr. nice guy’s Diaper Contents post, The Lovely Jonathan's Birthday Pustule or Trashman’s Nasty Smell of Butt Sex offering (you'll have to e-mail me if you want that link, I'm not publishing it here!).

Anyway, today I’d like to complain about two of my colleagues who are generally very decent people. It’s a five person company, we all work in one big space and there is a fabulous relaxed, casual hippie vibe about the place. We all dress like scruffy students and once a month, when our publishing deadline looms, some of us simply don’t have time to shower or brush our teeth for two days. This does not bother me (much).

However, two of my colleagues are so engrossed in their work - they truly are absent-minded professor types and always in a rush – that they never look in the toilet before leaving, and regularly leave awful and COPIOUS skid marks. I use the loo quite frequently during the day, firstly because I drink a lot of tea and water, and secondly to alleviate the tedium of my job!

I’m always so revolted by their skid marks that I invariably mutter “Fucking pigs!” to myself as I go in. I always scrub the stuff off myself, with face averted and loo brush held at arm's length, for fear of having it identified as MINE by whoever comes in after me. Oh the irony of it all! To think that I went back to work after six years at home with the kids, in order to escape that kind of drudgery!

However, I really don’t want to say anything to anybody, because one of them has a family history of intestinal cancer and has recently been in hospital for colonoscopies and other delightful medical procedures. So it’s a rather delicate situation, as you can see.

But ranting about it here makes me feel better!

I would like to add that I am a true fairy princess and therefore never do poos myself, but even if I did, my poos would be made of silver dust, thistledown and gossamer, and wouldn’t even leave the slightest trace in the toilet bowl. And even if my fairy princess poos DID leave a mark, I would bloody well check and clean it off before leaving!

Before You Take A Family Photo At The Beach...

... take a good look around!