THE debate about legalising same-sex marriage really unleashed the one-liners this week.
And I’m not just talking about what’s going on in the Jenner family. (What is going on with the Jenner family by the way?)
‘‘Gay people will redefine marriage as much as black people eating with white people redefined eating,’’ gave me a laugh.
‘‘The fact you can’t sell your daughter for three cows and a goat means we’ve already redefined marriage,’’ reminded me we had moved forward on this front in some parts of the world over the centuries.
‘‘We truly regret that gay marriage threatens the sanctity of your fourth marriage,’’ highlighted the fact marriages can add up in the hands of some sections of the community – mainly the heterosexual community.
‘‘All marriages are same sex. You get married, and every night it’s the same sex,’’ left me slightly curious. Sex, every night?
‘‘Gay marriage is not a slippery slope to interspecies coupling,’’ was probably one for Cory Bernadi to ponder. ‘‘When women got the right to vote, it didn’t lead to hamsters coupling.’’
And that ultimate fear: ‘‘If gays become accepted through same-sex marriage, then more people will decide to become gay.’’
Just like when blacks gained rights in the US, more white people went out and decided to become black. Not.
Well maybe in the NBA. Good luck to Aussies Andrew Bogut and Matthew Dellavedova, by the way, as they face off in this year’s finals series.
Far be it from me to sound off about who’s right or wrong when it comes to legalising same-sex marriage, I just reckon society shouldn’t deny anyone the right to be joyfully yoked in marriage, with all the messy legal implications, no matter what their orientation. Not that yoked is a bad thing, but the vows don’t say ‘‘for better or for worse’’ for nothing.
It’s a long and winding road and as one final pithy observation suggests: “My marriage officially failed when they legalised gay marriage ... said no one, ever.” There’s usually heaps of other reasons.
And with that I want to move on to the issue of tortillas, and why you should never fall into the trap of rolling your own.
Because in many ways this represents the true implications of human bondage, particularly when it’s your turn to cook.
The other night I settled on Mexican, mainly because my version requires zero skill and is quick to whip up.
To some foodies, this smacks of the ultimate crime – cooking without love – but I’d argue ‘‘without love’’ is actually when you don’t cook at all.
Mexican is generally quick to make because everything comes in a can, bar the fresh vegies, cheese and motivation.
But feeling the accusation looming that I was taking the easy option, I decided to add some ‘‘technique’’, as they say on the cooking shows, and make my own tortillas.
Apparently this would be so much more satisfying for all involved. Ha.
Technique only adds satisfaction if you have technique.
Failing that you get trial and error, which is far from satisfying if you’re trying to whip up something quick.
The novelty of rolling flour, water, salt and oil into a benchtop adhesive wears off much quicker than it takes to wear off the benchtop.
The amount of effort required to get them little discs less than two millimetres thick really tests your appetite for peasant cooking. But it builds the arms up.
Something foldable had been the goal, but the first prototype solidified into a formidable polymer with the texture of crockery.
Suddenly I saw the breathless assurances that making your own bread was more fulfilling then picking up a packet of preservative-laden imitations from the supermarket for what it truly was: a crockery.
That may seem harsh, but only because I had another 15 of those suckers to iron out on the glob-laden quarry of goo that was my benchtop.
With that I adjusted my ‘‘technique’’.
I found the so-called tortillas folded better if I didn’t cook them so long.
This led directly to the observation over dinner, delivered with overt distaste but some justification, that my tortillas, ‘‘or whatever I called them’’, were not cooked at all.
I wasn’t going to concede that because I’d put a lot of physical and emotional effort into making these abominations. Not to mention time.
Way over the 20 minutes it would have taken me to slip down to the supermarket (if I got the lights).
I knew I’d applied heat and, therefore, they were cooked. Or at least warmed.
So like the bloodyminded member of any partnership backed into a corner, I dug in and asserted they didn’t taste too bad.
And then I masticated on what probably looked like a breast implant.
Which gets us back to the humour of the ties that bind: because if you don’t laugh, you’d probably get take away.
Society should not deny anyone the right to chew their way through these types of ups and downs, for better or for worse, no matter what the orientation.