Two weeks ago, we bought a new BBQ. A much considered item for which we spent several hours talking to the lovely man at the BBQ shop, learning the intricacies and specialisms of cooking with gas. We learned that we must have marine grade steel, due to our proximity to the sea. We also learned about flipping bricks and adjusting knobs and cleaning, in some detail. I know pretty much everything there is to know about a BBQ, in fact! Just ask me!
What we didn't learn however, was how to fight off the wildlife for our supper.
We live at the top of a hill overlooking a reserve and over that, the sea. We are woken by cockatoos, entertained daily by rainbow lorikeets and their clown like walks, are blessed with a garden full of shy red parrots and are in the flight path of bats. I love them all, but most of all, the laughing kookaburras who make me take nothing seriously.
Until now.
On the first trial of our shiny new toy, where my beloved nuked the sausages in the name of cooking, our leisurely mock-spring lunch on the deck ended in disaster. From the mouth of babes (well, the boy, who's 9),the kookaburra plucked.
It got even more plucky the next morning with the bacon, wrenching it from the hot grills. And lunch that day with guests (more nuking, a chicken this time) ended with a leg missing.
And yes, for those of you who laugh and scorn the meat, my Quorn sausages were not safe either!!!
So, what to do? I asked Everybody.
(Like the kookaburras, Everybody laughed!)
So, for a sensible answer, I wrote to the zoo. And today, a lady called Vanessa answered.
"You're stuffed", she said, (but in a roundabout way).
And so, it's war, and I'm dusting off my Super soaker 2000!
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