Having my wisdom teeth out proved to be as hard core as child birth. There were no warnings from health care officials, no have you got anyone to look after your whole life for the next few days, no are you aware we are about to carry out serious trauma to your face? Just afterwards a cursory, over the shoulder, “You can get dressed now”, WT serious F?!! I feel like my mouth has been in a car crash, my gown is completely open at the back, I can’t talk or think straight and the room is full of people that have no desire to see my bloodhound breasts and craterous thighs…..at least draw the curtains for me b.tch.
It was a sign of things to come. My husband had in the few hours after he had dropped me off clutching a carrier bag stuffed with a jammy dressing gown and mangy slippers, forgotten completely to listen out for my text to come pick me up. It took 2 hours before he appeared sheepishly at my bedside citing traffic issues and a difficult time at Tescos finding Heinz Chicken Soup………..I ask you?…….
In the interim I was handed an aftercare do’s and don’ts sheet. I poured over these instructions with the fear of the seriously injured. Being the scared sh.tless type that I am, I became concerned about one of the instructions and tried to seek clarification from the nurses. Each one gave a completely different answer and the last one found me obviously stupid so I desisted and just gave into worrying about it neurotically for the next 24 hours.
Obviously my appetite remained undaunted and once over the initial shock of the extraction and resulting moon face, I began settling into slurping soup and even started ramming soft food through the 1 cm gap between my top and bottom teeth. It’s amazing what you can achieve when desperate and a big fatty. It also made me realise that a gastric band would be of no use to me. I would push through the pain and stretch the mofo.
True to form I developed a raging infection in the worst affected tooth socket and desperately rang the number on the back of the aftercare sheet. The receptionist simply instructed me to see my doctor…..Bloody marvellous, we all know doctor’s appointments are as difficult to acquire as rocking horse poop and so with dread in my pounding heart I went through the motions and made the 45 minute call to no avail. Enough of this nonsense I thought, I will get my ass down there and go face to face with the receptionist bossy boots b.tch…….whatever it takes………. However Lady Luck was on my side and the receptionist was a kind lady with the bedside manner of a hospice nurse. ” Sit there my love, you look awful/monstrous, I will put you on the triage list and tell the doctor that you are here awaiting his call” I felt like I had practically gone private….Hurrah.. It was of course too good to be true……..
The doctor proceeded to do nothing more than rant about me being the Hospital’s responsibility and not his, how sick and tired he was about it and so on and so on and then on some more. I chose this moment to give in and weep like a girl, I couldn’t stop it. I had come to the end of my stiff and swollen upper lip and needed a Doc with an axe to grind like a big chunk of toffee, it deterred him not. He eventually obliged with the antibiotics but it left me wondering after another rubbish consultation in time of need………that program on Channel 5 – “Behind Closed Doors” with all the smiling doctors listening intently and sympathetically to their patients problems…….. it has to be an absolute load of horse s.it…….
Anyways I have passed the time dreaming about tear and share garlic rolls. It has taken me a few experiments to come up with this fabulous recipe but it has been well worth the wait. These soft garlicky buns of love have fitted perfectly between my gnashers when split in half and I have been able to practically inhale them so soft is their crumb. I bake them in my cast iron frying pan and bring them warm to the table for immediate devouring but you can cover and keep them to reheat again over a couple of days if it suits your wants.
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