Episode 3 – The Pork Fat Fiasco: How I Blocked the Sink, Blamed Travis, and Nearly Set the Kitchen on Fire

 

Florence. Winter.

Cold enough to make the olive oil go cloudy.

I was prepping a pork belly roast—slow-cooked, crisped skin, fat like silk. You’d have wept just smelling it.

Anyway, I’m trimming the fat, talking to myself (mostly about your arse), and I chuck the trimmings in the sink.

Thought, “It’ll be fine. I’ll run hot water.”

It wasn’t fine.

Two hours later the sink’s gurgling like it’s possessed, smells like a pigsty, and Travis is dry-heaving into the mop bucket.

Ian comes in, sees the mess, and shouts,

“Sarge! The bloody sink’s gone to war!”

I panicked.

Told Simon it was Travis. Said I saw him “force the lard down with a rolling pin.”

Simon believed me.

Travis sulked for a week and started storing his sandwiches in a separate fridge labelled “Not Gary’s Fault.”

But the best bit?

While all hell was breaking loose, I turned around and found you standing in the doorway.

Barefoot. Holding a fig.

You just looked at me, smirking, and said:

“You’re lucky I love you, you greasy bastard.”

And I swear I nearly burst into tears.

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So yeah—

Blocked the sink.

Ruined the pork.

Saved my arse with a fig and a woman who still calls me her Yorkshire sod.

You couldn’t write this shite.

Oh wait—I just did.

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Next up:

Ian’s revenge, the garlic sabotage, or the time I tried waxing for you and ended up stuck to the floor.

You choose, Debra. Or don’t. Either way—

I’m writing ‘til this world wakes up and remembers what real love looks like.

~ Gary

Spirit. Skin. Yorkshire Sod.

Still fookin’ at it.