I inherited your set of keys. Metal worn down by your fingertips over the years, the bunch filling with small mysterious keys that have rusted and little trinkets gleaned from a lifetime collection of key rings from people returning from overseas, those given out during promotions of a new athlete's drink and ones you buy yourself.
You opted for the small jade sphere, pierced through with a red string that has survived the cut and grind of the keys as they jangle around in your pockets.
There are two keys made of light metal that would bend in my fingers if I wanted them to. I look at them, read the name embossed on each and know they will not share a reunion with any number of locked and secret places.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
I came to eat...
If you've ever seen 'The Fisher King', there's a scene where a neurotic outlines her behaviour at parties:
I don't make an impression on people.
At office parties, I rearrange
the hors d'oeuvres...
...while people are eating them,
so that the platters will remain full.
Whilst I don't paw at the food, I do have a compulsion to tidy up. If there's food left half eaten, lying about, I will scoop it up and throw it into the bin and I would never leave my plate on someone's TV or bookcase.
The thing is, I'm not terribly tidy at home. I could leave a frying pan soaking for a few days before I wash it, I can leave a teaspoon lying on the bench thinking I will reuse it at a later stage, I mean, I just stirred tea with it, it doesn't need a soapy wash. I even go so far as to reuse a juice glass by placing it in the fridge between drinks (so it doesn't attract vermin) and using it all week before it gets a little cloudy and suspect looking.
Nope, it's only at parties. Of course, the main reasons are obvious to me.
1. I never got the concept of a party, of letting loose, having too much to drink and sharing varying stories with strangers. I think I'm too controlling for that and I am the cheapest drunk so I can't drink too much without becoming rather foolish. This means I'm hyper-conscious of dirty plates piling up or a glass of wine balanced precariously on an arm rest.
2. I appreciate the host going to so much work inviting and sharing food and drink with us that I want to return the favour as best I know how. Again, pertaining to my lack of experience in knowing how to act at parties, this should be the last thing on my mind, I mean, that's what the gift is for!
3. I like parties where there's lots of food. To me, a party equates to food, endless food. At parties, I am the quiet one, hovering around the food table, eating all the party pies and snapping up the little quiches and sushi rolls. At the latest party I attended, it was a Curry Laksa Party where guests assembled their own Laksas. There was enough to assemble 2-3 bowls each. To top it off, there were three cakes to choose from afterwards. Ahh, such is bliss.
I don't make an impression on people.
At office parties, I rearrange
the hors d'oeuvres...
...while people are eating them,
so that the platters will remain full.
Whilst I don't paw at the food, I do have a compulsion to tidy up. If there's food left half eaten, lying about, I will scoop it up and throw it into the bin and I would never leave my plate on someone's TV or bookcase.
The thing is, I'm not terribly tidy at home. I could leave a frying pan soaking for a few days before I wash it, I can leave a teaspoon lying on the bench thinking I will reuse it at a later stage, I mean, I just stirred tea with it, it doesn't need a soapy wash. I even go so far as to reuse a juice glass by placing it in the fridge between drinks (so it doesn't attract vermin) and using it all week before it gets a little cloudy and suspect looking.
Nope, it's only at parties. Of course, the main reasons are obvious to me.
1. I never got the concept of a party, of letting loose, having too much to drink and sharing varying stories with strangers. I think I'm too controlling for that and I am the cheapest drunk so I can't drink too much without becoming rather foolish. This means I'm hyper-conscious of dirty plates piling up or a glass of wine balanced precariously on an arm rest.
2. I appreciate the host going to so much work inviting and sharing food and drink with us that I want to return the favour as best I know how. Again, pertaining to my lack of experience in knowing how to act at parties, this should be the last thing on my mind, I mean, that's what the gift is for!
3. I like parties where there's lots of food. To me, a party equates to food, endless food. At parties, I am the quiet one, hovering around the food table, eating all the party pies and snapping up the little quiches and sushi rolls. At the latest party I attended, it was a Curry Laksa Party where guests assembled their own Laksas. There was enough to assemble 2-3 bowls each. To top it off, there were three cakes to choose from afterwards. Ahh, such is bliss.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Non-disclosure
I seem to have come to an age where I have all the different friendship circles I will ever desire. They mainly consist of people I met at school or during the early days of my work life. I don't remember the last time I exchanged various details of my life with a stranger as part of some forced conversation because we happened to be in close proximity to each other, and for all that to actually turn into a friendship. What do you do? Where do you live? Attached or single? How old? Do you have kids?
When online these days, I keep many of the details of my personal life private. If I don't need any more real life friends, why encourage online friendships where you may find yourself emailing someone in another city to discuss all the details of your daily life which may or may not lead to some sort of emotional attachment?
I am sometimes tempted to blurt out various details of my life but am stopped at the last minute by either paranoia or a purist sense that if I have decided not to discuss that part of my life here, then there is no need to even mention any of it, even in passing. For example, if I am discussing my home, I do not let on as to whether I have children or a partner or even if I am still living with my parents.
Sure, all my entries are personal in nature and I have even discussed a sister or two, but the decision not to discuss those somewhat intriguing parts of one's life does not mean readers are missing something. Disclosure of a person's family or work life doesn't mean you know them no matter what commonalities can be drawn between your life and theirs.
And if you still think I am a single 20-something who is independently wealthy, confident and smart, three out of five ain't bad, or is it? :P
When online these days, I keep many of the details of my personal life private. If I don't need any more real life friends, why encourage online friendships where you may find yourself emailing someone in another city to discuss all the details of your daily life which may or may not lead to some sort of emotional attachment?
I am sometimes tempted to blurt out various details of my life but am stopped at the last minute by either paranoia or a purist sense that if I have decided not to discuss that part of my life here, then there is no need to even mention any of it, even in passing. For example, if I am discussing my home, I do not let on as to whether I have children or a partner or even if I am still living with my parents.
Sure, all my entries are personal in nature and I have even discussed a sister or two, but the decision not to discuss those somewhat intriguing parts of one's life does not mean readers are missing something. Disclosure of a person's family or work life doesn't mean you know them no matter what commonalities can be drawn between your life and theirs.
And if you still think I am a single 20-something who is independently wealthy, confident and smart, three out of five ain't bad, or is it? :P
Thursday, February 5, 2009
That's mine!
I park my car on the street outside the house. Last week, under the cover of nighttime, the car was side swiped. The discovery of a half hanging bumper bar and a substantial dent wrought by an anonymous driver was awful, but all I could do was curse and wring my hands. It was not the first time, the back bumper bar had previously been gently grazed (which seems enough these days to strip paintwork from late model cars) and these two incidents have occurred ever since the local council installed a traffic slowing, road narrowing chicane outside my house.
I now park further down the street and await insurance to do its thing. I initially resented the loss of my car park space. Heavens, I'll now have lug groceries from further away and gosh, what'll I do if I'm caught in the rain? People can become possessive of street parking to the point obsession. I used to grizzle when I found someone had taken my spot, the cheek! Aren't drivers telepathic, 'That's my spot'? My neighbour owns a very large orange witch's hat which he places in the parking spot in front of his house when he needs to drive somewhere so as to deter any would be parking spot stealers (despite him having a driveway he prefers to park on the street, but that's another story).
I wonder about our possessiveness of objects and touched on the subject in a previous entry. Like a parking spot, which you do not automatically own because it happens to be directly outside your house, the things we hoard (or cherish) can sometimes be rather irrational.
In my experience and with the parents I have, my sense of possession comes down to the following:
1. A strange sense of entitlement
Akin to:
- street parking outside one's home1
- the attitude that if it's free then you should take it (e.g. taking all the free stuff in hotel rooms just because they are there and you paid for the room even though you probably don't really need small bottles of shampoo nor tiny sewing kits)2
- not turning in wallets found on the street because you found it and if anyone is silly enough to drop their wallets, then they deserve to suffer the consequences3
- if they have it, why don't I have it? I want it, I want it now!4
2. Being sentimental
If we had happy childhoods, or even reasonably pleasant ones, we tend to look fondly upon possessions which remind us of that time, be it photographs, toys, holiday destinations, the family home or movies. Revisiting them either in person or in our minds seems to make us yearn for 'lost moments' in our past and I always wonder whether it indicates a dissatisfaction with the current state of our lives or is simply one of life's joys. I guess if my current life was paralysed by the past, it would be an unhealthy thing. These days, indulging in some daydreams or looking over old photographs to bring back that feeling of childhood seems like a way for me to accumulate stories of people who are no longer with us and I look forward to passing them onto the next generation of my family.
3. Those immigrants!
This is directly related to my parents who came to Australia for opportunities of a better life. They saw poverty, grew accustomed to wasting nothing during their early lives and of not knowing what life will hold for them in the near future. They cannot break the habit because for them, it's not a habit but something that's built into who they turned out to be in this new country. As a consequence, there is so much stuff in the garage of my childhood home. Timber arm rests salvaged from an old couch that could be used someday, though they resemble arm rests and I cannot imagine them being useful for anything other than arm rests, except maybe fire wood. There is an inability to discard things that may be useful in the future. I guess to my parents the term 'handcrafted' was a meaningful term, things were made to last and large purchases were lifelong investments or at least stood the test of decades.
This mentality also extends to shopping and catching the latest bargain which to my mother is the bargain of the century, to be bought in multiple lots as they'll never be repeated again. In this country there are always bargains and despite the current state of world economics, the majority of us live in ludicrous luxury by world standards.
4. Laziness or being disorganised
I am forever wading through bills and newspapers piled in various locations around the house. The things that become accumulated as part of living one's life - the receipts I decided to keep for that frying pan, just in case the frying pan malfunctions, the magazines and liftouts that continue to pile up on shelves because they contain good reference material, that shirt I bought 5 years ago that I last wore 5 years ago because it's been ages since I cleared out my closet.
Thankfully, the carpet is being pulled up soon for floorboards and all possessions need to be moved offsite for 2 weeks. Hoarding will no longer be an option.
1 Guilty as charged.
2 Only if they are super duper shampoos that actually improve my hairdo, which they rarely do.
3 I have never come across a dropped wallet that has not been ransacked.
4 Guilty, especially with food others are consuming.
I now park further down the street and await insurance to do its thing. I initially resented the loss of my car park space. Heavens, I'll now have lug groceries from further away and gosh, what'll I do if I'm caught in the rain? People can become possessive of street parking to the point obsession. I used to grizzle when I found someone had taken my spot, the cheek! Aren't drivers telepathic, 'That's my spot'? My neighbour owns a very large orange witch's hat which he places in the parking spot in front of his house when he needs to drive somewhere so as to deter any would be parking spot stealers (despite him having a driveway he prefers to park on the street, but that's another story).
I wonder about our possessiveness of objects and touched on the subject in a previous entry. Like a parking spot, which you do not automatically own because it happens to be directly outside your house, the things we hoard (or cherish) can sometimes be rather irrational.
In my experience and with the parents I have, my sense of possession comes down to the following:
1. A strange sense of entitlement
Akin to:
- street parking outside one's home1
- the attitude that if it's free then you should take it (e.g. taking all the free stuff in hotel rooms just because they are there and you paid for the room even though you probably don't really need small bottles of shampoo nor tiny sewing kits)2
- not turning in wallets found on the street because you found it and if anyone is silly enough to drop their wallets, then they deserve to suffer the consequences3
- if they have it, why don't I have it? I want it, I want it now!4
2. Being sentimental
If we had happy childhoods, or even reasonably pleasant ones, we tend to look fondly upon possessions which remind us of that time, be it photographs, toys, holiday destinations, the family home or movies. Revisiting them either in person or in our minds seems to make us yearn for 'lost moments' in our past and I always wonder whether it indicates a dissatisfaction with the current state of our lives or is simply one of life's joys. I guess if my current life was paralysed by the past, it would be an unhealthy thing. These days, indulging in some daydreams or looking over old photographs to bring back that feeling of childhood seems like a way for me to accumulate stories of people who are no longer with us and I look forward to passing them onto the next generation of my family.
3. Those immigrants!
This is directly related to my parents who came to Australia for opportunities of a better life. They saw poverty, grew accustomed to wasting nothing during their early lives and of not knowing what life will hold for them in the near future. They cannot break the habit because for them, it's not a habit but something that's built into who they turned out to be in this new country. As a consequence, there is so much stuff in the garage of my childhood home. Timber arm rests salvaged from an old couch that could be used someday, though they resemble arm rests and I cannot imagine them being useful for anything other than arm rests, except maybe fire wood. There is an inability to discard things that may be useful in the future. I guess to my parents the term 'handcrafted' was a meaningful term, things were made to last and large purchases were lifelong investments or at least stood the test of decades.
This mentality also extends to shopping and catching the latest bargain which to my mother is the bargain of the century, to be bought in multiple lots as they'll never be repeated again. In this country there are always bargains and despite the current state of world economics, the majority of us live in ludicrous luxury by world standards.
4. Laziness or being disorganised
I am forever wading through bills and newspapers piled in various locations around the house. The things that become accumulated as part of living one's life - the receipts I decided to keep for that frying pan, just in case the frying pan malfunctions, the magazines and liftouts that continue to pile up on shelves because they contain good reference material, that shirt I bought 5 years ago that I last wore 5 years ago because it's been ages since I cleared out my closet.
Thankfully, the carpet is being pulled up soon for floorboards and all possessions need to be moved offsite for 2 weeks. Hoarding will no longer be an option.
1 Guilty as charged.
2 Only if they are super duper shampoos that actually improve my hairdo, which they rarely do.
3 I have never come across a dropped wallet that has not been ransacked.
4 Guilty, especially with food others are consuming.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Country Jaunt
We were on a country jaunt, he and I. Despite our mantra that we were not dictated by work, an early meeting in three days meant that we were now traveling in separate cars. But that was a lifetime away as we set off together, a cavalcade that took us from a stagnating home life that had grown soupy with routines. As we drove away, our blinkers synchronised like beacons guiding us towards the open seas.
Two days by the ocean, Port Fairy, whose bustle of commerce in the past, of bygone industries such as whaling had given way to a sleepiness, a haven for weekenders who ventured further along the Great Ocean Road, passed the beach houses grown out of cliff faces and the surf shops with bikinis dangling outside to entice us with wishful thoughts. Passed the various landscapes that the seas had carved so long ago that reminded us of ourselves and our creations, these Apostles and Bridges.
As usual, to make good time, we sped inland along a road not as picturesque nor as Great as its coastal counterpart. It suited our plans well, we were on a tight schedule that did not need the added risk of momentary distraction by the deep blue and plunges into the ocean. Our goal was the destination, of checking in and catching an afternoon stroll by the inlet before meal time. We could savour the journey another time.
As we drove further away from the start-stop of give way signs, traffic lights and roundabouts, we were sometimes caught between transitions, from red to green, the area between his zealous driving and my cautious manoeuvres. The interruption of our convoy would have us waiting on either side of an intersection like a force field that we, as city dwellers had gotten used to, but still tried to circumvent at any opportunity. We feigned road rage for having been left behind by the other, silent shaking of angry looking fists, held out to be seen through back windows, while our profiles silhouetted our laughter. During the first hour of our drive across dried and crunchy fields dotted with cows or sheep, we were connected by the little waves of our steering hands and our rear view smiles. Sometimes I would see him ahead, tapping the steering wheel in time to an unknown song that I would try to find on my own radio.
Later on, when we turned off the highway for a break, he said he wasn't listening to music but to an animated talk back caller who thought it was romantic to give his wife what she wanted for her birthday, namely a Miele dishwasher. Did he echo agreement with his tapping? Why not, he had given me a portable printer for my laptop last year. I was delighted by it, a new toy that stretched the boundaries of our life together. On business trips I used to print out his long emails to me and read them in bed each night, silent dialogues of intimacies, duly foot noted with news of plumbing problems and pets.
At the rest stops, we walked with our hands scrunched full of Minties wrappers to the nearby rubbish bin. He grabbed another handful of the sweets from his car and I tilted my hip out as if willing a tummy scratch and he would empty the lollies into my coat pocket, reaching in to tickle my side. When we were new friends in university, he was afraid for any sort of contact between us, cautious in case a yet undiscovered boyfriend should suddenly appear. Later, after consecutive invitations and just as many acceptances, I backhanded his arm, laughing at some atrocious joke he had told and he pulled back, startled by the invisible membrane that had suddenly been pierced and left open, the start of connections built over the past fifteen years.
Now as we stood by the deserted stop, lonely with a dingy old toilet block we dare not use and a gloomy glimpse of the highway, we eagerly got back into our cars and glanced at our laptops, the sole passenger sitting obediently beside us that reminded us suddenly of the things we had tied ourselves to, despite this country jaunt.
As we stretched in our seats and pulled back into the highway, we saw a cow giving birth close to the boundary fence of her master’s property. She sat on her side, her eyes glancing between her impending new arrival and a bunch of tourists who had stopped their rental van by the side of the road to watch. One man was watching through the flat screen of his video camera, moving in for different close ups of the cow’s hind quarters as if he was directing the progression of nature. Buoyed by such as scene as proof that we were closer to There than any place else, the car in front sped passed the side show while I slowed just enough to see a raised tail and the first appearance her calf, mimicked on the screen of the video.I sped up to catch the diminishing car when my phone rang. You OK? Why’d you slow down? he asked as if we were in the middle of chatting. A cow was giving birth, I answered. Oh, he replied and cleared his throat, his infuriating way of saying he wanted no more of the conversation and so I got off the phone quickly.
We said early on that we did not want children, said so steadfastly as to convince us that such a decision could be made so many years in advance. We had grappled with selfishness on both sides of the argument, were we too self centred or would we just be having children to temper some push, slowly nurtured by the steady appearance of nieces and nephews in recent years? Could we give up the freedom of our twenties for a lifetime growing someone that we had brewed together? Nonsense, so superficial, we don’t deserve to be parents, brewing children as if it was beer. In the end, our own self involvement moved ahead naturally as the runaway contender to how our lives would be.
But now things were catching up with us, even as we sped down the highway, the occasional country jaunts born from desire and intimacy, coming so close to fulfilling my change of heart in terms of having children, but stopped at the last minute by a daily pill.
You watched me pop the packet of pills, a familiar daily sound amidst the breakfast noises of newspapers and radio.
What if I stop taking this pill, I asked.
Do you know what you are saying, you said, putting down your newspaper and toast, your hands somehow looking too free and menacing.
Would it be so bad to have children?
You’re only saying that because your sister is pregnant. It’s a phase.
Of course it’s a phase. If we let it pass it’ll be too late. Don’t you want to have kids?
No, I don’t. You cleared your throat and we stared at each other. The noise from the radio came back and I sat down with your discarded parts of the newspaper. Slowly and with purpose I swallowed the pill.
You passed me a piece of your toast, buttered and spread with jam and got up to get us more coffee. You squeezed my arm and I began to glow in our routine, layers of intimacies that were still too intoxicating to give up.
The novelty of waving at each other every few minutes waned. I slid in a CD, one that he did not like, telling me once that the vocals were too whispery, never kicking in to any felt rhythm. Of the differences that sometimes appeared to strain our relationship, this was never one of them but now I used it to fuel my anger. Small disagreements about the concerts we had attended over the years now blew up as selfishness on his part. Even this trip had been meticulously planned to his notions of a relaxing weekend.
I shifted in my seat, switching on the cruise control for a long stretch of Straight-Ahead and yawned, suddenly wishing there was someone else to drive so that I could gaze at the passing landscape that looked like a rolling backdrop from an old Western movie, replicated every few minutes, fence posts, wire fencing, large gums, dead tree. This song was a favourite of a boy I once knew and always reminded me of a time when summer reigned high in the sky and he and I dashed into the sea together, and under the cover of the rolling surf, search out the parts of our body that triggered the gasp reflex, melting towards something that we wanted but were not ready for.
It was not serious, what we did on the beach or declared to one another, one unknown teenager amongst so many others that summer. So far from home, we boasted about our dreams and inflated our lives, so far from truths that would have been revealed as lies at every familiar street corner, with every passing neighbour or relative had we lived in the same city. I was relieved when summer ended and I waved you east, across the border to your home as I moved west, stretching our promises to write so far that they snapped by the time the leaves turned amber and dropped. Why do I think of you now? Was it because the good times did not last long enough to wane?
A dead tree jutted out like a sun bleached bone of some prehistoric animal. Driftwood of the ancients, smooth to the touch and as I peered at the hollows and broken limbs, imaging the final crack of falling branches, the familiar car in front slowed. My car blinker found his and here we were, clicking and flashing by the side of the road. Along a sliver of horizon I glimpsed the ocean, peaked with choppy foam that told us we were close to our weekend away and I wondered at this sudden stop as I gazed at the sea grasses that lay flat from the wind. I gripped the steering wheel and turned everything off and waited as he lurched out of the car and ran for the dead tree, barely making it behind the large trunk before vomiting in a violent, heaving torrent. I sat still, waiting for him to emerge but I heard another wave of keeling over. My first thought, rapid and fleeting but vivid in its inappropriateness was to dash away my need to rush over immediately, that he was fine, that judging by the sounds, whatever disagreeable meal he ate was well and truly out of his system. All the excuses that made no sense, inaction that left no room for explanations or apologies later.
When he suddenly looked up towards me, I quickly grabbed some tissues and the water bottle and raced towards him. It was windy and my hair whipped up and tugged me inland, ready to tear the tissues from my fists. He was oozy and sweaty when I arrived at the tree. Have a good look? he asked as I handed him the tissues and offered the water. The acidic odour wafted, mingling with the country side smell of dry grass, highway exhaust and ocean. He looked pale and clammy, like someone looking for his sea legs and when I asked whether he was ok, he took a swig of the water and leaned against the dead tree. He inhaled, heaving in the air as if telling his body that things were alright again. His body obeyed, silent adjustments after a good vomit and plenty of fresh air as he turned his head towards the sea air, clearing his senses of recent events and returning his colour from an alarming green to a sensible shade of pink. You didn’t think I needed help? he asked. Well? his silence asked.
I wondered at this unexpected adjunct to our usual trips, watching him by the dead tree. This need to race away to a distant hotel room as a means to tell each other that we still mattered, meanwhile carrying with us pieces of our lives that we liked the least to hide the differences between us. Grumbling at the cords and adapters and papers surrounding our respective laptops as if we had no choice.
Did we ever savour the journey, opt for a leisurely drive closer to home as we always vowed for next time? This was a wish, a hope joining the two of us so that we could say we still had a future. The wind suddenly shifted, swirling momentarily towards the sea as if taking with it the two parts of our lives that had separated during our drive, setting them adrift amongst the waves to finally carry them in different directions.
© All rights reserved.
A draft of a short story that has been kicking around on various computers since 2005. Not actually based on any real life experience, the idea of the disintegration of a relationship during a road trip seemed interesting at the time.
Two days by the ocean, Port Fairy, whose bustle of commerce in the past, of bygone industries such as whaling had given way to a sleepiness, a haven for weekenders who ventured further along the Great Ocean Road, passed the beach houses grown out of cliff faces and the surf shops with bikinis dangling outside to entice us with wishful thoughts. Passed the various landscapes that the seas had carved so long ago that reminded us of ourselves and our creations, these Apostles and Bridges.
As usual, to make good time, we sped inland along a road not as picturesque nor as Great as its coastal counterpart. It suited our plans well, we were on a tight schedule that did not need the added risk of momentary distraction by the deep blue and plunges into the ocean. Our goal was the destination, of checking in and catching an afternoon stroll by the inlet before meal time. We could savour the journey another time.
As we drove further away from the start-stop of give way signs, traffic lights and roundabouts, we were sometimes caught between transitions, from red to green, the area between his zealous driving and my cautious manoeuvres. The interruption of our convoy would have us waiting on either side of an intersection like a force field that we, as city dwellers had gotten used to, but still tried to circumvent at any opportunity. We feigned road rage for having been left behind by the other, silent shaking of angry looking fists, held out to be seen through back windows, while our profiles silhouetted our laughter. During the first hour of our drive across dried and crunchy fields dotted with cows or sheep, we were connected by the little waves of our steering hands and our rear view smiles. Sometimes I would see him ahead, tapping the steering wheel in time to an unknown song that I would try to find on my own radio.
Later on, when we turned off the highway for a break, he said he wasn't listening to music but to an animated talk back caller who thought it was romantic to give his wife what she wanted for her birthday, namely a Miele dishwasher. Did he echo agreement with his tapping? Why not, he had given me a portable printer for my laptop last year. I was delighted by it, a new toy that stretched the boundaries of our life together. On business trips I used to print out his long emails to me and read them in bed each night, silent dialogues of intimacies, duly foot noted with news of plumbing problems and pets.
At the rest stops, we walked with our hands scrunched full of Minties wrappers to the nearby rubbish bin. He grabbed another handful of the sweets from his car and I tilted my hip out as if willing a tummy scratch and he would empty the lollies into my coat pocket, reaching in to tickle my side. When we were new friends in university, he was afraid for any sort of contact between us, cautious in case a yet undiscovered boyfriend should suddenly appear. Later, after consecutive invitations and just as many acceptances, I backhanded his arm, laughing at some atrocious joke he had told and he pulled back, startled by the invisible membrane that had suddenly been pierced and left open, the start of connections built over the past fifteen years.
Now as we stood by the deserted stop, lonely with a dingy old toilet block we dare not use and a gloomy glimpse of the highway, we eagerly got back into our cars and glanced at our laptops, the sole passenger sitting obediently beside us that reminded us suddenly of the things we had tied ourselves to, despite this country jaunt.
As we stretched in our seats and pulled back into the highway, we saw a cow giving birth close to the boundary fence of her master’s property. She sat on her side, her eyes glancing between her impending new arrival and a bunch of tourists who had stopped their rental van by the side of the road to watch. One man was watching through the flat screen of his video camera, moving in for different close ups of the cow’s hind quarters as if he was directing the progression of nature. Buoyed by such as scene as proof that we were closer to There than any place else, the car in front sped passed the side show while I slowed just enough to see a raised tail and the first appearance her calf, mimicked on the screen of the video.I sped up to catch the diminishing car when my phone rang. You OK? Why’d you slow down? he asked as if we were in the middle of chatting. A cow was giving birth, I answered. Oh, he replied and cleared his throat, his infuriating way of saying he wanted no more of the conversation and so I got off the phone quickly.
We said early on that we did not want children, said so steadfastly as to convince us that such a decision could be made so many years in advance. We had grappled with selfishness on both sides of the argument, were we too self centred or would we just be having children to temper some push, slowly nurtured by the steady appearance of nieces and nephews in recent years? Could we give up the freedom of our twenties for a lifetime growing someone that we had brewed together? Nonsense, so superficial, we don’t deserve to be parents, brewing children as if it was beer. In the end, our own self involvement moved ahead naturally as the runaway contender to how our lives would be.
But now things were catching up with us, even as we sped down the highway, the occasional country jaunts born from desire and intimacy, coming so close to fulfilling my change of heart in terms of having children, but stopped at the last minute by a daily pill.
You watched me pop the packet of pills, a familiar daily sound amidst the breakfast noises of newspapers and radio.
What if I stop taking this pill, I asked.
Do you know what you are saying, you said, putting down your newspaper and toast, your hands somehow looking too free and menacing.
Would it be so bad to have children?
You’re only saying that because your sister is pregnant. It’s a phase.
Of course it’s a phase. If we let it pass it’ll be too late. Don’t you want to have kids?
No, I don’t. You cleared your throat and we stared at each other. The noise from the radio came back and I sat down with your discarded parts of the newspaper. Slowly and with purpose I swallowed the pill.
You passed me a piece of your toast, buttered and spread with jam and got up to get us more coffee. You squeezed my arm and I began to glow in our routine, layers of intimacies that were still too intoxicating to give up.
The novelty of waving at each other every few minutes waned. I slid in a CD, one that he did not like, telling me once that the vocals were too whispery, never kicking in to any felt rhythm. Of the differences that sometimes appeared to strain our relationship, this was never one of them but now I used it to fuel my anger. Small disagreements about the concerts we had attended over the years now blew up as selfishness on his part. Even this trip had been meticulously planned to his notions of a relaxing weekend.
I shifted in my seat, switching on the cruise control for a long stretch of Straight-Ahead and yawned, suddenly wishing there was someone else to drive so that I could gaze at the passing landscape that looked like a rolling backdrop from an old Western movie, replicated every few minutes, fence posts, wire fencing, large gums, dead tree. This song was a favourite of a boy I once knew and always reminded me of a time when summer reigned high in the sky and he and I dashed into the sea together, and under the cover of the rolling surf, search out the parts of our body that triggered the gasp reflex, melting towards something that we wanted but were not ready for.
It was not serious, what we did on the beach or declared to one another, one unknown teenager amongst so many others that summer. So far from home, we boasted about our dreams and inflated our lives, so far from truths that would have been revealed as lies at every familiar street corner, with every passing neighbour or relative had we lived in the same city. I was relieved when summer ended and I waved you east, across the border to your home as I moved west, stretching our promises to write so far that they snapped by the time the leaves turned amber and dropped. Why do I think of you now? Was it because the good times did not last long enough to wane?
A dead tree jutted out like a sun bleached bone of some prehistoric animal. Driftwood of the ancients, smooth to the touch and as I peered at the hollows and broken limbs, imaging the final crack of falling branches, the familiar car in front slowed. My car blinker found his and here we were, clicking and flashing by the side of the road. Along a sliver of horizon I glimpsed the ocean, peaked with choppy foam that told us we were close to our weekend away and I wondered at this sudden stop as I gazed at the sea grasses that lay flat from the wind. I gripped the steering wheel and turned everything off and waited as he lurched out of the car and ran for the dead tree, barely making it behind the large trunk before vomiting in a violent, heaving torrent. I sat still, waiting for him to emerge but I heard another wave of keeling over. My first thought, rapid and fleeting but vivid in its inappropriateness was to dash away my need to rush over immediately, that he was fine, that judging by the sounds, whatever disagreeable meal he ate was well and truly out of his system. All the excuses that made no sense, inaction that left no room for explanations or apologies later.
When he suddenly looked up towards me, I quickly grabbed some tissues and the water bottle and raced towards him. It was windy and my hair whipped up and tugged me inland, ready to tear the tissues from my fists. He was oozy and sweaty when I arrived at the tree. Have a good look? he asked as I handed him the tissues and offered the water. The acidic odour wafted, mingling with the country side smell of dry grass, highway exhaust and ocean. He looked pale and clammy, like someone looking for his sea legs and when I asked whether he was ok, he took a swig of the water and leaned against the dead tree. He inhaled, heaving in the air as if telling his body that things were alright again. His body obeyed, silent adjustments after a good vomit and plenty of fresh air as he turned his head towards the sea air, clearing his senses of recent events and returning his colour from an alarming green to a sensible shade of pink. You didn’t think I needed help? he asked. Well? his silence asked.
I wondered at this unexpected adjunct to our usual trips, watching him by the dead tree. This need to race away to a distant hotel room as a means to tell each other that we still mattered, meanwhile carrying with us pieces of our lives that we liked the least to hide the differences between us. Grumbling at the cords and adapters and papers surrounding our respective laptops as if we had no choice.
Did we ever savour the journey, opt for a leisurely drive closer to home as we always vowed for next time? This was a wish, a hope joining the two of us so that we could say we still had a future. The wind suddenly shifted, swirling momentarily towards the sea as if taking with it the two parts of our lives that had separated during our drive, setting them adrift amongst the waves to finally carry them in different directions.
© All rights reserved.
A draft of a short story that has been kicking around on various computers since 2005. Not actually based on any real life experience, the idea of the disintegration of a relationship during a road trip seemed interesting at the time.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
How we come together
Have you ever noticed those garish calendars hanging in Asian grocery stores or restaurants? Each month is accompanied by inked gold fish paintings or airbrushed photographs of Hong Kong actresses. There are Chinese characters against each date which indicate dates of the Lunisolar calendar. This year, Chinese New Year falls on Australia Day and even now, red festoons are displayed in many Chinese restaurants in readiness for weekend celebrations both in the city and in various suburbs.
Australia Day marks the arrival of the First Fleet at Sydney Cove in 1788. This was the start of British colonisation of Australia and the holiday has been called 'Invasion Day' by indigenous people. Admittedly, and especially since I no longer have the luxury of the holiday occurring as another sleep-in during a long summer break, the Australia Day public holiday is a welcomed day off work. The tennis is on, everyone is usually sweltering in the heat, sometimes there is a bbq and on the news we hear who is Australian of the Year and who was awarded an OAM. That is the impression Australia Day has on me.
Last year, my nephew was born on Australia Day. I visited my sister and her husband at an inner city hospital, watched in wonderment that my little sister is now a mother (and not that little anymore) to this little human with an Italian name, swaddled and sleeping in her arms. Afterward, I wandered to the city to watch the Australia Day fireworks knowing the extra layer my nephew's birth has added to this day.
I don't think these simultaneous occurrences are incredible, at least not in the 'No way! Shut up! Get outta here!' sort of way, but I do ponder the richness of our country that has led to all three events being celebrated, freely and concurrently.
Despite past laws and controversies calling for the stop to migration, Australia has always been built by immigrants. These waves brought with them traditions which added to the experience of living in Australia and being Australian. What is it to be Australian? I dislike cricket like poison, can't stand to eat lamb and have never said "G'day" to anyone and yet I was born here. How was this configuration possible? My parents were immigrants and despite their influences I am no less Australian than a fifth generation Australian.
I would say that it doesn't matter your tastes in food, your accent nor the leisure activities you pursue, I would say that to be Australian is to love this country, to acknowledge its uniqueness in the world and to embrace whatever it has to offer whether it be Australia Day celebrations, birthdays for our Italian poet nephew or New Year's traditions from far away.
Australia Day marks the arrival of the First Fleet at Sydney Cove in 1788. This was the start of British colonisation of Australia and the holiday has been called 'Invasion Day' by indigenous people. Admittedly, and especially since I no longer have the luxury of the holiday occurring as another sleep-in during a long summer break, the Australia Day public holiday is a welcomed day off work. The tennis is on, everyone is usually sweltering in the heat, sometimes there is a bbq and on the news we hear who is Australian of the Year and who was awarded an OAM. That is the impression Australia Day has on me.
Last year, my nephew was born on Australia Day. I visited my sister and her husband at an inner city hospital, watched in wonderment that my little sister is now a mother (and not that little anymore) to this little human with an Italian name, swaddled and sleeping in her arms. Afterward, I wandered to the city to watch the Australia Day fireworks knowing the extra layer my nephew's birth has added to this day.
I don't think these simultaneous occurrences are incredible, at least not in the 'No way! Shut up! Get outta here!' sort of way, but I do ponder the richness of our country that has led to all three events being celebrated, freely and concurrently.
Despite past laws and controversies calling for the stop to migration, Australia has always been built by immigrants. These waves brought with them traditions which added to the experience of living in Australia and being Australian. What is it to be Australian? I dislike cricket like poison, can't stand to eat lamb and have never said "G'day" to anyone and yet I was born here. How was this configuration possible? My parents were immigrants and despite their influences I am no less Australian than a fifth generation Australian.
I would say that it doesn't matter your tastes in food, your accent nor the leisure activities you pursue, I would say that to be Australian is to love this country, to acknowledge its uniqueness in the world and to embrace whatever it has to offer whether it be Australia Day celebrations, birthdays for our Italian poet nephew or New Year's traditions from far away.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Time to purge
Regret is a powerful feeling, so much so I did something ridiculous tonight. In red texta I wrote a list of regrettable things which occurred over the past year, carried the list outside and took a lit match to it. Some things on the list were small, yet just as energy sapping, such as stressing and cursing whilst in traffic. Sometimes I lost compassion for people who deserved it the most or I became rather competitive. The usual one of living an unhealthy lifestyle was written below a truly regrettable experience which I won't detail here as it's still mortifying to me that it occurred.
I watched the list burn quickly in my green waste bin, causing a small amount of dry plant matter in the bin to alight and quite a lot of smoke to rise up. At that exact moment, my elderly neighbour who is prone to fits of shouting, also came out into her yard but I ran inside to get some water, doused the inferno and shut the lid on the bin before she could find out what I had done.
Akin to say, astrology or pixies, I don't usually believe in things like that, though the symbolism of burning a list of abominable occurrences is not lost on me. I guess in the past I have tried numerous times to tell myself to 'get over it' without much success and long lasting regret is something which I can't remember not experiencing. It seems ingrained, a lifetime habit that can't just be kicked, but requires concerted and deliberate action over a period of time.
This act is now a memory, made that much more vivid by my panic at the smoke and my neighbour's presence about 2 metres away. As I type this, my clothes and hair still smell faintly of smoke. I guess this was an attempt to check myself the next time I start feeling mournful for past mistakes or behaviour. Committed to memory, it will tell me that when I burned my list tonight, I was filled with such strong intentions to fulfill those wishes. Remembrance can be just as powerful a motivator.
Of course the effect of removing such things from my life can only be good and not at all outrageous or illogical. Nothing like burning a list in a green waste bin on a Friday evening.
I watched the list burn quickly in my green waste bin, causing a small amount of dry plant matter in the bin to alight and quite a lot of smoke to rise up. At that exact moment, my elderly neighbour who is prone to fits of shouting, also came out into her yard but I ran inside to get some water, doused the inferno and shut the lid on the bin before she could find out what I had done.
Akin to say, astrology or pixies, I don't usually believe in things like that, though the symbolism of burning a list of abominable occurrences is not lost on me. I guess in the past I have tried numerous times to tell myself to 'get over it' without much success and long lasting regret is something which I can't remember not experiencing. It seems ingrained, a lifetime habit that can't just be kicked, but requires concerted and deliberate action over a period of time.
This act is now a memory, made that much more vivid by my panic at the smoke and my neighbour's presence about 2 metres away. As I type this, my clothes and hair still smell faintly of smoke. I guess this was an attempt to check myself the next time I start feeling mournful for past mistakes or behaviour. Committed to memory, it will tell me that when I burned my list tonight, I was filled with such strong intentions to fulfill those wishes. Remembrance can be just as powerful a motivator.
Of course the effect of removing such things from my life can only be good and not at all outrageous or illogical. Nothing like burning a list in a green waste bin on a Friday evening.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Regarding books
Nope, this isn't an entry about baked goods nor broccoli, it's about books, my favourite ones. I buy a lot of books and try to keep up with reading them, but always seem to be enticed by newspaper book reviews to buy more than I can read. And when at the book store, I linger over other books that attract my attention. The only thing that checks my spending is the cost (fancy that :). I recently nestled down at the bookstore to read the first 30 pages of Alice Sebold's 'The Almost Moon', only because it was still marked with its New Release price of $35.
My shelves contain mainly fiction, some sci-fi, a bunch of Lonely Planet guides and a few travel memoirs, only becoming turned off the latter by Frances Mayes' terrible sequel to an already annoying 'Under the Tuscan Sun'.
I buy them because I'm optimistic that if a book is good, I will revisit it over the years and eventually pass it down to whomever. (Also, I have been banned from my local library for over a year and a half now for accidentally-losing-and-then- finding-but-not-yet-returning a book.)
Anyway, most of the books sit on the shelves for years after their first read and I may occasionally revisit them. These aren't likely to be all time favourites but I am still fond of them nonetheless. The books that become fast favourites are the ones that upon finishing, I immediately start reading again. These are the ones where the language and dialogue are astoundingly original without being pretentious, there are no cliches in the story (a classic cliche is the new girl in a big city working for a publishing or fashion house...snore :) and you wished you lived through some or many of the scenes.
So here are the books which I have loved and which will probably fall apart before I bestow them on future readers:
'Neuromancer' by William Gibson
'Three Junes' by Julia Glass
'High Fidelity' by Nick Hornby
'Never Let Me Go' by Kazuo Ishiguro
'Remains of the Day' by Kazuo Ishiguro
My shelves contain mainly fiction, some sci-fi, a bunch of Lonely Planet guides and a few travel memoirs, only becoming turned off the latter by Frances Mayes' terrible sequel to an already annoying 'Under the Tuscan Sun'.
I buy them because I'm optimistic that if a book is good, I will revisit it over the years and eventually pass it down to whomever. (Also, I have been banned from my local library for over a year and a half now for accidentally-losing-and-then- finding-but-not-yet-returning a book.)
Anyway, most of the books sit on the shelves for years after their first read and I may occasionally revisit them. These aren't likely to be all time favourites but I am still fond of them nonetheless. The books that become fast favourites are the ones that upon finishing, I immediately start reading again. These are the ones where the language and dialogue are astoundingly original without being pretentious, there are no cliches in the story (a classic cliche is the new girl in a big city working for a publishing or fashion house...snore :) and you wished you lived through some or many of the scenes.
So here are the books which I have loved and which will probably fall apart before I bestow them on future readers:
'Neuromancer' by William Gibson
'Three Junes' by Julia Glass
'High Fidelity' by Nick Hornby
'Never Let Me Go' by Kazuo Ishiguro
'Remains of the Day' by Kazuo Ishiguro
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
I turned into a Grumpy Old Woman...
My birthday was a few weeks ago and without divulging my exact age, safe to say the following thoughts may spring to mind when mentioning this age (and over):"The clock is ticking", "No kids? What the hell are you waiting for?" but since each age is really the New Decade Before, I'm practically a kid myself...haha.
Here's how I know I'm getting older and not just older in the yearly birthday thing, but the very apparent changes that have come across me this year to signal a moving away from youth towards becoming a fuddy duddy:
I recently switched over to listening to breakfast radio on ABC Melbourne, the ABC being the government broadcaster. I'm tired of ads and radio announcers who think it's fascinating to detail their daily lives of inept partners and misbehaving kids. I actually want to hear more than a soundbite of news about the rest of the world outside of gangland murderers and celebrity births.
Further to the above point, I spend my TV viewing time watching shows primarily on ABC and SBS. If I watch CSI-type shows, I spend the hour pointing out the ludicrousness of their lab setups, their computer applications and the characters' appearance in general - quite a bit of fun actually, but probably not for my viewing companion.
Security folk no longer ask me for ID, in fact, I no longer attend places which would need bouncers.
I enjoy gardening and chatting to people much older than me about fruit trees and growing French Tarragon.
I don't have Facebook nor MySpace accounts and don't care to be poked nor tickled, online.
I have a 4 year old mobile phone that can't play music nor take photos and I like it.
I snorted with agreement with most of the last series of Grumpy Old Women.
I named my blog "Baked Goods and Broccoli"...
On the other hand, the child-like things I enjoy include doing twirls, squealing when feeling joyous and thinking up scenarios for what you would do to The Joker if he turned up at your door (the latter asked to me by a young un' to which replies were 'Throw a cream pie in his face', 'Drop a water bomb on his head'...)
But all the sentiments you hear are correct, time does pass very quickly, you should embrace the things and people you love and do all you can to make yourselves happy...holy canoli, even that made me nauseous to type. I guess I'm not too old to believe that the best years are yet to come.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Welcome Table
I come from a family of hoarders. My parents had a huge garage which they filled with offcut pieces of timber from old furniture as well as shoes, old paint, our old baby clothes, chinese herbs and on occasion, the current rooster of the household. The latter was let out after dawn and his crowing were done for the morning. One time my mother bought 50 tins of Chinese mushrooms (bought for 40 cents/can 'is cheap!') and there they sat over a number of years as a can or two were taken back inside for a meal.
Partly due to lack of space and also a mild dislike of mess I have taken away a relatively dilute form of my parents' love of stuff. But thrown back into the mix is my apathy for most things domestic and we end up with a fine balance between utter chaos and pristine living.
What I have inherited and which has started to manifest itself here with this blog and on various family members' waistlines is that I enjoy home cooked food. This would seem a very peculiar revelation for those who cannot imagine an alternative. It was certainly something my mother always drummed into my head, the virtues of home cooking on our souls and physical well being and on the chances of roping in a kindly husband with 'Doctor' for a title. Alas, none of those things really mattered when I thought my body was invincible and could sustain itself on restaurants, take away places and junk food. I do suppose now that I think about it, the very reason why I took no notice was that I didn't want to be seen as a house frau and my mother's vision of a proud husband looking on at a wife with wonderful culinary skills was a very horrid vision indeed. I should have dispensed with such ridiculous thinking years ago but I suppose the love of cooking is something that can be cultivated without time limits and with a sense that to be able to cook and welcome those you love to share the spoils is wonderful indeed.
Partly due to lack of space and also a mild dislike of mess I have taken away a relatively dilute form of my parents' love of stuff. But thrown back into the mix is my apathy for most things domestic and we end up with a fine balance between utter chaos and pristine living.
What I have inherited and which has started to manifest itself here with this blog and on various family members' waistlines is that I enjoy home cooked food. This would seem a very peculiar revelation for those who cannot imagine an alternative. It was certainly something my mother always drummed into my head, the virtues of home cooking on our souls and physical well being and on the chances of roping in a kindly husband with 'Doctor' for a title. Alas, none of those things really mattered when I thought my body was invincible and could sustain itself on restaurants, take away places and junk food. I do suppose now that I think about it, the very reason why I took no notice was that I didn't want to be seen as a house frau and my mother's vision of a proud husband looking on at a wife with wonderful culinary skills was a very horrid vision indeed. I should have dispensed with such ridiculous thinking years ago but I suppose the love of cooking is something that can be cultivated without time limits and with a sense that to be able to cook and welcome those you love to share the spoils is wonderful indeed.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Let it rain!
I have been watching the Melbourne Rain Radar today, tracking a band of light showers that has been slowly making its way to our city.
Whether it's global warming or just the cycle of drought, it no longer rains in Melbourne. A decade ago, Melbourne water storage was hovering around 70% capacity and has been dropping over the years, down to a very depressing 33.8% this week. October used to be the wettest month with an average rainfall of 67mm but last month we received 14mm. When talking to other garden lovers, we talk about the last time we used umbrellas and how as children, it used to rain non stop for a week. When it does rain now or even if it showers for longer than 10 minutes, it's a real joy.
There are watering restrictions in our state which bans free-for-all use of mains water including watering gardens, hosing down driveways, washing cars, filling pools. Watering gardens in Melbourne has been restricted to two hours twice a week which I believe is quite sufficient for ornamental gardens but is not viable for those who decide to plant edibles which need to be kept moist constantly.
The Victorian Government has announced two major works to address our water issue: a North-South pipe line which diverts water from the Goulburn River to Melbourne and a desalination plant. Personally I would rather see more of our storm water and waste water recycled.
As a garden owner, but due to lack of space I have only about 700 litres worth of water storage, which is very little. As a consequence I have turned into a water miser whittling the average mains water usage down to about 80 litres/day/person.
I use clean kitchen water (from washing vegetables, steaming food) to water my pot plants and ornamentals. My water storages are mainly used for my edibles.I mulch a lot and grow a lot of drought tolerant plants. I lug grey water from the washing machine around in buckets. It's all hard work but I do think that gardeners need to do whatever they can to save water in the garden. I am still a bit frivolous, I can't resist growing flowering annuals such as violas but I restrict them to pots and only water them with reclaimed water. For the rest of my garden, I mulch a lot, I ensure the soil is not water repellent and apply wetting agents if it is. Over the past two years I have used mains water to water my garden about 4 times and I admit that it's rather intoxicating and relaxing to stand in the garden in the early morning, hose in hand, giving the garden a nice long drink. Those days I suppose may be a thing of the past.
Postscript to this entry: in the early hours of the morning after posting this, it poured down and we got about 15mm in total. Hooray!
Whether it's global warming or just the cycle of drought, it no longer rains in Melbourne. A decade ago, Melbourne water storage was hovering around 70% capacity and has been dropping over the years, down to a very depressing 33.8% this week. October used to be the wettest month with an average rainfall of 67mm but last month we received 14mm. When talking to other garden lovers, we talk about the last time we used umbrellas and how as children, it used to rain non stop for a week. When it does rain now or even if it showers for longer than 10 minutes, it's a real joy.
There are watering restrictions in our state which bans free-for-all use of mains water including watering gardens, hosing down driveways, washing cars, filling pools. Watering gardens in Melbourne has been restricted to two hours twice a week which I believe is quite sufficient for ornamental gardens but is not viable for those who decide to plant edibles which need to be kept moist constantly.
The Victorian Government has announced two major works to address our water issue: a North-South pipe line which diverts water from the Goulburn River to Melbourne and a desalination plant. Personally I would rather see more of our storm water and waste water recycled.
As a garden owner, but due to lack of space I have only about 700 litres worth of water storage, which is very little. As a consequence I have turned into a water miser whittling the average mains water usage down to about 80 litres/day/person.
I use clean kitchen water (from washing vegetables, steaming food) to water my pot plants and ornamentals. My water storages are mainly used for my edibles.I mulch a lot and grow a lot of drought tolerant plants. I lug grey water from the washing machine around in buckets. It's all hard work but I do think that gardeners need to do whatever they can to save water in the garden. I am still a bit frivolous, I can't resist growing flowering annuals such as violas but I restrict them to pots and only water them with reclaimed water. For the rest of my garden, I mulch a lot, I ensure the soil is not water repellent and apply wetting agents if it is. Over the past two years I have used mains water to water my garden about 4 times and I admit that it's rather intoxicating and relaxing to stand in the garden in the early morning, hose in hand, giving the garden a nice long drink. Those days I suppose may be a thing of the past.
Postscript to this entry: in the early hours of the morning after posting this, it poured down and we got about 15mm in total. Hooray!
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Flourless Orange Cake
Melbourne Central used to house the Japanese department store Daimaru. It was an upmarket sort of place with a whole section of the toy department devoted to Hello Kitty and elsewhere designer t-shirt sold for $200. I once had a present gift wrapped and I marveled at the intricate folding that went into it all. I left the gift wrapping room with a handsome package printed with the trademark green and white logo and I thought for a moment I should keep it for myself.
Whilst working in the Melbourne Central Tower and during farewells/birthdays/project manager-feeling-generous, we used to be given free reign to purchase cakes from Daimaru. The flourless cakes were always a favourite, and now flourlessness in cakes will always remind me of Daimaru.
I always liked the almond flavouring and moistness of a flourless cake. It's more robust than a sponge but not as dense as a mud cake. It doesn't need a thick coating of often discarded cream topping or icing to make it look and taste delicious.
Sadly, in 2002 after a decade of trading and never turning a profit Daimaru closed its doors. I guess it was a little too upmarket considering those door buster/$50-TV sales still existed just up the road at Myer. Now I only partake in flourless cakes by the slice at cafes and restaurants with fond remembrance of Daimaru.
These days the whole configuration of Melbourne Central is different. The majority of the white foyer of the office towers is now replaced by eateries and the curve that was once the entrance into Daimaru has been demolished but it was set back so deeply that it was located somewhere inside one of the numerous cafes that now exist on Elizabeth street.
To those who remember and to those who only ever knew the era of Max Brenner around the corner, a recipe of nostalgia and of just yumminess.
http://www.taste.com.au/recipes/14822/flourless+orange+cake
Though my oven is pretty reliable, I had to bake it for an extra 30 minutes for the skewer test to return clean.
I used icing sugar instead of the syrup as I thought it would keep better on its own.
Whilst working in the Melbourne Central Tower and during farewells/birthdays/project manager-feeling-generous, we used to be given free reign to purchase cakes from Daimaru. The flourless cakes were always a favourite, and now flourlessness in cakes will always remind me of Daimaru.
I always liked the almond flavouring and moistness of a flourless cake. It's more robust than a sponge but not as dense as a mud cake. It doesn't need a thick coating of often discarded cream topping or icing to make it look and taste delicious.
Sadly, in 2002 after a decade of trading and never turning a profit Daimaru closed its doors. I guess it was a little too upmarket considering those door buster/$50-TV sales still existed just up the road at Myer. Now I only partake in flourless cakes by the slice at cafes and restaurants with fond remembrance of Daimaru.
These days the whole configuration of Melbourne Central is different. The majority of the white foyer of the office towers is now replaced by eateries and the curve that was once the entrance into Daimaru has been demolished but it was set back so deeply that it was located somewhere inside one of the numerous cafes that now exist on Elizabeth street.
To those who remember and to those who only ever knew the era of Max Brenner around the corner, a recipe of nostalgia and of just yumminess.
http://www.taste.com.au/recipes/14822/flourless+orange+cake
Though my oven is pretty reliable, I had to bake it for an extra 30 minutes for the skewer test to return clean.
I used icing sugar instead of the syrup as I thought it would keep better on its own.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
50 random things...
I am fascinated with the lists of things people post online about themselves. Favourite colour, pets, hobbies and odd facts about strangers whose blogs I read. Sometimes I say 'hey, me too' or know that I am not the only female in the world who dislikes clothes shopping. I guess personal lists not only reveal a little or a lot about a person's life but also shows someone's view on life within a snapshot in time. Perhaps it is also a checklist to reaffirm an interesting life thus far.
I am sometimes surprised by the amount of information people reveal about themselves. I like to think that these people see the world as not filled with stalking creepazoids but rather they see the innocence of what they reveal and know it will not cause anything untoward to occur. But I am not one of those people. Mum always said if I went out anywhere bad, bad things could happen and my life would be shameful forever, so my world is still somewhat filled with stalking creepazoids.
In celebration of lists of all kind, revealing or not, here is a list of random things about me to add to the millions of others out there.
1. I always put far too much chilli sauce/oil onto my food, each time thinking hopefully I have built up my tolerance.
2. I had braces when I was younger.
3. People at work sometimes call me Amanda.
4. My favourite colour is fire engine red.
5. Between a sweet tooth and a savory tooth, I am a savory tooth.
6. My favourite plants come from the Salvia genus.
7. For Christmas I would love a pre-filled 10,000lt water tank or a new camera.
8. I have never owned a VCR.
9. I own two pairs of earrings but thinking of buying a dangly pair for those dangly occasions.
10. I have a Border terrier named Bunji.
11. I am slightly obsessed with flickr.
12. Woody Allen movies make me laugh out loud.
13. I don't know how to drive a manual car.
14. I lose and find my keys about 3 times everyday.
15. My computer is a Dell Inspiron 6400 laptop purchased in 2007 which is now completely superseded though it still does the job superbly.
16. I run Windows XP and use OpenOffice which may explain the still performance superb-ness of my machine.
17. My browser of choice is Firefox.
18. I could eat sushi 3 times a day for weeks.
19. I do drink green tea 7 times a day for years.
20. Someone once said my accent sounded South African.
21. Growing my own vegetables is a real joy.
22. Reading is also a real joy.
23. I dislike long haul flights.
24. Homesickness would always draw me back to Melbourne, but I could live in NYC for a few years.
25. I enjoy cooking and love cleaning up afterward.
26. The smells inside a milk bar are wonderful and remind me of childhood.
27. Issac Asimov's 'Foundation' is a book I have started reading a few times and never finished.
28. I attended Catholic schools for 13 years and now I'm an agnostic and atheist-in-training.
29. I swear the most when I'm in traffic.
30. The latest I have ever been at work is 1am.
31. I spend way too much money on books.
32. I love receiving personal handwritten snail mail.
33. I could stare at ornamental grasses swaying in the breeze for ages.
34. I was 21 when I first ate KFC (21 glorious years).
35. Being a passenger on long car rides is a joy.
36. Reading on trams and cars makes me motion sick.
37. I panic if I have a feeling I will be late for something, but I hardly ever am.
38. My sense of direction is terrible.
39. Transition seasons of Spring and Autumn in Melbourne are my favourite.
40. I am right handed, but am left handed when throwing a ball and vacuuming.
41. I sometimes try to cut my own hair.
42. The only book that has really terrified me was a collection of short stories by Stephen King called 'Night Shift'.
43. I never knew how difficult it was to think up 50 random things that don't all begin with 'My favourite...', oh here's one: Some days (usually Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays) I just wanna marry Randall Munroe.
44. Century eggs are pretty unappetising to look at, but I love eating them.
45. I have a real phobia about birds.
46. One of these days I will save up and splurge at Flower Drum.
47. Girly fact - I use two perfumes, one for colder months, one for warmer months. It just so happened that when I purchased them, they were during those seasons so now I will always associate the scents with them. I have to ration the colder month one because it is no longer available.
48. When preparing tacos I always cram way too much into the shell because I'm a (greedy) guts.
49. I hardly ever answer the home phone, preferring the answering machine to tell me of the holiday to Cancun I have won twice now.
50. Reiterating number 5, I just ate a whole box of Shapes whilst writing this.
I am sometimes surprised by the amount of information people reveal about themselves. I like to think that these people see the world as not filled with stalking creepazoids but rather they see the innocence of what they reveal and know it will not cause anything untoward to occur. But I am not one of those people. Mum always said if I went out anywhere bad, bad things could happen and my life would be shameful forever, so my world is still somewhat filled with stalking creepazoids.
In celebration of lists of all kind, revealing or not, here is a list of random things about me to add to the millions of others out there.
1. I always put far too much chilli sauce/oil onto my food, each time thinking hopefully I have built up my tolerance.
2. I had braces when I was younger.
3. People at work sometimes call me Amanda.
4. My favourite colour is fire engine red.
5. Between a sweet tooth and a savory tooth, I am a savory tooth.
6. My favourite plants come from the Salvia genus.
7. For Christmas I would love a pre-filled 10,000lt water tank or a new camera.
8. I have never owned a VCR.
9. I own two pairs of earrings but thinking of buying a dangly pair for those dangly occasions.
10. I have a Border terrier named Bunji.
11. I am slightly obsessed with flickr.
12. Woody Allen movies make me laugh out loud.
13. I don't know how to drive a manual car.
14. I lose and find my keys about 3 times everyday.
15. My computer is a Dell Inspiron 6400 laptop purchased in 2007 which is now completely superseded though it still does the job superbly.
16. I run Windows XP and use OpenOffice which may explain the still performance superb-ness of my machine.
17. My browser of choice is Firefox.
18. I could eat sushi 3 times a day for weeks.
19. I do drink green tea 7 times a day for years.
20. Someone once said my accent sounded South African.
21. Growing my own vegetables is a real joy.
22. Reading is also a real joy.
23. I dislike long haul flights.
24. Homesickness would always draw me back to Melbourne, but I could live in NYC for a few years.
25. I enjoy cooking and love cleaning up afterward.
26. The smells inside a milk bar are wonderful and remind me of childhood.
27. Issac Asimov's 'Foundation' is a book I have started reading a few times and never finished.
28. I attended Catholic schools for 13 years and now I'm an agnostic and atheist-in-training.
29. I swear the most when I'm in traffic.
30. The latest I have ever been at work is 1am.
31. I spend way too much money on books.
32. I love receiving personal handwritten snail mail.
33. I could stare at ornamental grasses swaying in the breeze for ages.
34. I was 21 when I first ate KFC (21 glorious years).
35. Being a passenger on long car rides is a joy.
36. Reading on trams and cars makes me motion sick.
37. I panic if I have a feeling I will be late for something, but I hardly ever am.
38. My sense of direction is terrible.
39. Transition seasons of Spring and Autumn in Melbourne are my favourite.
40. I am right handed, but am left handed when throwing a ball and vacuuming.
41. I sometimes try to cut my own hair.
42. The only book that has really terrified me was a collection of short stories by Stephen King called 'Night Shift'.
43. I never knew how difficult it was to think up 50 random things that don't all begin with 'My favourite...', oh here's one: Some days (usually Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays) I just wanna marry Randall Munroe.
44. Century eggs are pretty unappetising to look at, but I love eating them.
45. I have a real phobia about birds.
46. One of these days I will save up and splurge at Flower Drum.
47. Girly fact - I use two perfumes, one for colder months, one for warmer months. It just so happened that when I purchased them, they were during those seasons so now I will always associate the scents with them. I have to ration the colder month one because it is no longer available.
48. When preparing tacos I always cram way too much into the shell because I'm a (greedy) guts.
49. I hardly ever answer the home phone, preferring the answering machine to tell me of the holiday to Cancun I have won twice now.
50. Reiterating number 5, I just ate a whole box of Shapes whilst writing this.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Green grocery in a box
In recent years I have been fortunate enough to get home before the peakiness of peak hour arrives on our Melbourne roads. I do get the tail end of the school run that meld into the tradesman's beer o'clock but it is generally a smooth run home.
Most nights I am home to answer the door to the many spuikers and energy company people who want me to defect in one way or another. My usual response is to use my still-at-work Partner in Crime (PIC) as a foil. If the person at the door wants to sign me up to the great deals at Company A, I say something similar to 'Oh my PIC works for Company A and we get unbelievable discounts already'. PIC is amazing, working for telephone companies, all the major utility companies and probably the odd bank.
Sometimes I do get reasonable offers such as signing up for home delivery of The Age and recently, I signed up to a group called Aussie Farmers Direct. Aussie Farmers Direct source fresh food from Australian producers and growers and deliver to your door once a week. As well as various fruit and vegetable packs, they also have milk, eggs, coffee, bread, butter and cheeses.
The very nice guy at the door, an Englishman on a working holiday helped convince me that I should buy Australian grown produce. It made sense at the time and still does but I must have been swept up a little by the prospect of getting fruit and vegetable delivered because the fact remains, we are very lucky in Australia. We can source Australian grown fruit and vegetables all year round and though I have tried the idea of being a locavore, I false start when it comes to the colder months without tomatoes, cucumbers and just about every summer vegetable you can think of. The prospect of a winter dining on such greenery as broccoli (even though I do love it), silverbeet and peas may take a bit more planning on my part. But then again Spring is now here and I can think about it next year.
As I scanned the price list I did notice that most things were quite reasonably priced so I bought a Couples Pack of Fruit and Vegetable which contained 8 regular items such as potatoes, carrots, apples as well as 4-6 seasonal items such as mandarins, strawberries and avocado. The fruit and vegetable pack was $25 which is about the amount I spend at the green grocer each week. I also bought some butter, a dozen free range eggs and some OJ. I signed up and sent the friendly Englishman into the night.
When the items arrived in a nice cardboard box, I was pleasantly surprised by the quality. The only minor criticism was the size of the two bananas. They were tiny things but everything else looked and tasted as I expected. A sidebar now: 'looked and tasted as I expected' means that they were blemish free, glossy and clean. A shame that I neglect to tell myself that pesticides and various intensive agricultural practices brought such beauty to my table but that is another issue.
Anyway, the other day I decided to do a price comparison between Aussie Farmers Direct, Safeway and the local green grocer. The results were surprising with costs coming in at $25, $24.25 and $24.26 respectively. I expected Safeway with its buying power would come out much cheaper. I thought the green grocer being a small business would be considerably more expensive though I guess behind the facade of a charming green grocer may hide a fruit and vegetable mogul with shops all over the place. I would say the main difference is the distribution of my $25 (or so) at each of these places given their respective overheads (or lack of) and differing company structures.
A few notes:
Some of the calculations are based on per kilogram prices whereas I received some of my items pre-packaged, such as the mushrooms and spinach. Given the choice, I rarely purchase pre-packaged due to the expense and extra packaging.
As much as possible I chose the same sized fruit and vegetable in my comparisons. The green grocer for example sell two lots of Sundowner apples at different prices based on the size of the fruit.
I am not a fruit and vegetable price watcher and do not know whether there are peaks and falls in prices throughout the week but I recorded my prices on a Thursday and as good experiments go, I should probably take a few price readings over the next few weeks. I guess my intention is not to prove anything 'earth shattering' as to be hailed on those tv shows that like to believe such things are.
I am not sure whether I would like to receive a 2kg bag of potatoes each week as well as a 500g bag of carrots as we don't like root vegetables that much.
Also note that this entry is not a covert rant about the evils of any of the companies, it is just a price comparison that I wanted to perform as a point of interest. I do not work for nor am I associated with any of the companies, except as a customer.
For now, I will continue ordering my green groceries in a box as I like the philosophy behind Aussie Farmers Direct and also the surprise of what I'll receive on my doorstep and planning various meals around each week's produce. Also, for some reason, I am not a very big fan of fruit so getting various fruits may help me to eat a lot more than I do.
Aussie Farmers Direct
www.aussiefarmers.com.au
Most nights I am home to answer the door to the many spuikers and energy company people who want me to defect in one way or another. My usual response is to use my still-at-work Partner in Crime (PIC) as a foil. If the person at the door wants to sign me up to the great deals at Company A, I say something similar to 'Oh my PIC works for Company A and we get unbelievable discounts already'. PIC is amazing, working for telephone companies, all the major utility companies and probably the odd bank.
Sometimes I do get reasonable offers such as signing up for home delivery of The Age and recently, I signed up to a group called Aussie Farmers Direct. Aussie Farmers Direct source fresh food from Australian producers and growers and deliver to your door once a week. As well as various fruit and vegetable packs, they also have milk, eggs, coffee, bread, butter and cheeses.
The very nice guy at the door, an Englishman on a working holiday helped convince me that I should buy Australian grown produce. It made sense at the time and still does but I must have been swept up a little by the prospect of getting fruit and vegetable delivered because the fact remains, we are very lucky in Australia. We can source Australian grown fruit and vegetables all year round and though I have tried the idea of being a locavore, I false start when it comes to the colder months without tomatoes, cucumbers and just about every summer vegetable you can think of. The prospect of a winter dining on such greenery as broccoli (even though I do love it), silverbeet and peas may take a bit more planning on my part. But then again Spring is now here and I can think about it next year.
As I scanned the price list I did notice that most things were quite reasonably priced so I bought a Couples Pack of Fruit and Vegetable which contained 8 regular items such as potatoes, carrots, apples as well as 4-6 seasonal items such as mandarins, strawberries and avocado. The fruit and vegetable pack was $25 which is about the amount I spend at the green grocer each week. I also bought some butter, a dozen free range eggs and some OJ. I signed up and sent the friendly Englishman into the night.
When the items arrived in a nice cardboard box, I was pleasantly surprised by the quality. The only minor criticism was the size of the two bananas. They were tiny things but everything else looked and tasted as I expected. A sidebar now: 'looked and tasted as I expected' means that they were blemish free, glossy and clean. A shame that I neglect to tell myself that pesticides and various intensive agricultural practices brought such beauty to my table but that is another issue.
Anyway, the other day I decided to do a price comparison between Aussie Farmers Direct, Safeway and the local green grocer. The results were surprising with costs coming in at $25, $24.25 and $24.26 respectively. I expected Safeway with its buying power would come out much cheaper. I thought the green grocer being a small business would be considerably more expensive though I guess behind the facade of a charming green grocer may hide a fruit and vegetable mogul with shops all over the place. I would say the main difference is the distribution of my $25 (or so) at each of these places given their respective overheads (or lack of) and differing company structures.
A few notes:
Some of the calculations are based on per kilogram prices whereas I received some of my items pre-packaged, such as the mushrooms and spinach. Given the choice, I rarely purchase pre-packaged due to the expense and extra packaging.
As much as possible I chose the same sized fruit and vegetable in my comparisons. The green grocer for example sell two lots of Sundowner apples at different prices based on the size of the fruit.
I am not a fruit and vegetable price watcher and do not know whether there are peaks and falls in prices throughout the week but I recorded my prices on a Thursday and as good experiments go, I should probably take a few price readings over the next few weeks. I guess my intention is not to prove anything 'earth shattering' as to be hailed on those tv shows that like to believe such things are.
I am not sure whether I would like to receive a 2kg bag of potatoes each week as well as a 500g bag of carrots as we don't like root vegetables that much.
Also note that this entry is not a covert rant about the evils of any of the companies, it is just a price comparison that I wanted to perform as a point of interest. I do not work for nor am I associated with any of the companies, except as a customer.
For now, I will continue ordering my green groceries in a box as I like the philosophy behind Aussie Farmers Direct and also the surprise of what I'll receive on my doorstep and planning various meals around each week's produce. Also, for some reason, I am not a very big fan of fruit so getting various fruits may help me to eat a lot more than I do.
Aussie Farmers Direct
www.aussiefarmers.com.au
Thursday, August 28, 2008
From Salerno to Melbourne
Orzo Pupo is made from barley. Caro is a similar product made from cereal and chicory. They are both marketed as caffeine substitutes. Neither of them taste like coffee though I guess that's not what the manufacturers are technically boasting. You would think that a hot beverage that allows you to add milk and sugar to it and is a caffeine substitute would have something going for it. In a blind taste test, I would say that Orzo Pupo tastes more like a ground up cardboard drink.
It would have remained the Cardboard drink if not for Italy. Italy saw my introduction to the barley drink which was bought by my traveling companion and kind of enjoyed by him in a town called Salerno, just south of Naples. Subsequently, Orzo Pupo will now always remind me of Italy, of pizza and pasta in their true forms, the various Empires in all their glory, fast driving in tiny cars and where I first experienced being charged for shopping bags and it was the norm to self pack your groceries.
These days I get my Italian fix at the various European food stores in Melbourne. The classic is Mediterranean Wholesalers which contains an aisle of pasta as well as an aisle of cakes and an aisle of alcohol. These places don't do things by halves. Olive oil can be purchased in a modest 500ml bottle to a whopping 20 litre tin (the latter being very attractive containers for growing vegetables and herbs). Orzo Pupo is sold there too and a few years ago and probably misty with nostalgia, a jar was purchased that took about a year to finish.
I recently came across another large food store called Basfoods Direct. Basfoods has been operating for more than 20 years as a supplier of mainly Middle Eastern and Turkish foods. I have known about it for a while but whenever I'd been nearby it had been closed. During those times I would gaze through the gates towards the store front lined with the mega tins of olive oil and wonder about Orzo Pupo and various other imports. Recently they 'moved' to an adjoining warehouse next door and opened a halal butcher shop called Melbourne Meat Company (how nobody else had previously snapped up that name is a wonder). Today I finally found myself inside the gates and inside their retail store.
The interior reflects a warehouse and its shelves and concrete floors are pristine. It smells like no other place, a strangely pleasant combination of spices and soap and is lit by subtle and sometimes dim artificial and natural lighting rather than the bleached qualities in regular supermarkets. There is cookware and utensils attractively displayed behind glass and lights and a great array of Basfoods packages nuts and spices, a whole aisle of them, plus more aisles devoted to pasta. Being a fan of anything dipped and preserved in oil, I lingered by the pickle and preserved goods aisle. I looked longingly at the 5 litre jar of assorted pickled vegetables, obviously targeting caterers or very large families but I opted for some olive and anchovy spread in a modest 100ml jar. In the hot drinks section, I searched for Orzo Pupo but was unsuccessful.
Jumping out at you as you scan the shelves are the occasional oddities. Edgell's Creamed Corn stands out as does Nutrigrain cereal and various cleaning products. I perused a series of Turkish cake mixes, Dr. Oetker brand which included a cheesecake mix. Further along was a kit that seemed to include a chocolate sponge cake for making a Tiramisu, fully imported. Along the bank of fridges were more bulk items of pasta and cheeses packaged in kilogram lots sitting next to big blocks of caterer's Western Star butter. I thought of my own refrigerator, already crammed full, and moved along.
As I slowly strolled towards the checkout counter with my few purchases, I saw a lady with 4 large bags of flour in her trolley and I wondered whether she was embarking on a bread making exercise in her outdoor oven or just a restaurant owner. Behind me a man held one of those large tins of olive oil. You never can tell.
From just popping in to have a look, I ended up with some freshly baked Turkish bread and my various preserved vegetables as well as some fettucine and a packet of wild rocket seeds. The cashier was giving each customer 3 packs of Dr. Oetker vanilla pudding whose expiration date was next month.
At home I examined the faraway addresses printed on my purchases, jogging my memories of Italy, but noting with a laugh that the pasta was made in the Melbourne suburb of Rosanna.
Basfoods Direct
419 Victoria St, Brunswick, 3056.
Mediterranean Wholesalers
482-492 Sydney Rd, Brunswick, 3056.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
New York cheesecake
A few of my friends say that the Deli Hall at the Queen Victoria Market is not what it used to be, which I guess is true for many of our personal mainstays that change over time. I still like it immensely, for the grey drabness hiding culinary deliciousness, its smells and the throng of foodies and tourists lingering at each step. I also like the cool marble counters and the hole in the wall feel of all the stalls, opening up with charming sash windows with shop owners peeking out through hanging salamis. These days there are a lot more take away outlets but there are still enough cheese and preserved meats to steer your tastes back.
My favourite stall is the cake shop at the entrance, just off Thierry st. Occupying the corner allotment, you cannot help get snagged by the biscuits and cakes lining the window display and this is where I first had a slice of New York cheesecake.
To me, a New York cheesecake is a cut-to-the-chase, thunder thigh inducing gobblefest. It consists of full cream everything without fruits or other fussiness taking up the slack, because there is no slack - it is relentless in its fat content and that's what makes you 'snap into a fetal position, crying out for more' (to paraphrase Woody Allen). Clogging creaminess with a slight tang is what it is.
As I read through different recipes, there seemed to be a lot of variation: prebake the base, don't prebake, use 6 eggs, use 4 eggs, tips on preventing cracking, water baths, it seemed a little more challenging than I had first assumed. However there did seem to be consensus that all ingredients need to be at room temperature and the mixture should not be aerated too much to prevent it rising and then sinking due to the lack of raising agent in the recipe.
So with tips jotted all over my chosen recipe I gave it a go the other day. After my failed warm- in-the-hands experiment with the butter for the choc chip cookie recipe, I tried to be good: I left the ingredients on the bench for 2 hours. However it was still not long enough for the kilogram of cream cheese but I proceeded anyway. My little electric beater heaved and protested through the glug of cream cheese and sugar. The mixture got all got caught up in my beaters and churned the motor painfully as cheese flecks landed on my clothes. I switched to a wooden spoon and vowed that I will let the blocks of cream cheese warm to the point of fungal blooms the next time around. Afterwards when it did become softer and easier to manage I used the beaters to incorporate the milk but then obediently switched over to wooden spoon for the rest of the ingredients to prevent overly aerating the mixture.
Then came the long wait. 1 hour of baking followed by 5 hours in the oven to cool down gradually then a couple of hours chilling in the fridge. A long haul dessert it is.
It was certainly worth the wait. The cake did not crack, it was creamy and smooth and though the hot water in the bath leaked slightly into the springform pan, a slice sent me falling all over the place, literally. Had you been a fly on the wall, I may have used you to support myself as I went through some over the top throes of oohing and ahhing. Seriously though, even if disaster strikes and fault lines forms on your cake or it sinks, we are talking about cream cheese with sugar, a concept that is delicious in any form. Grab a spoon and tuck in.
This recipe has been adapted from
Chantel's New York Cheesecake recipe.
Ingredients
16 McVities Digestive biscuits, crushed* (or Graham crackers)
40g butter, melted
900g cream cheese (full cream), softened
300g white sugar
180ml full cream milk
4 eggs
230g sour cream
15ml vanilla extract
30g plain flour
Method
1. Preheat oven 175C. Grease a 22cm springform pan and wrap base with a few layers of aluminum foil.
2. In a medium bowl, mix biscuit crumbs with the melted butter. Press firmly onto the bottom of the pan to ensure crust is compacted. Use a spoon to compact crumbs around the edge of the pan.
3. In a large bowl, mix cream cheese with sugar using an electric mixer or beater on a low setting until smooth. Blend in milk.
4. Mix in eggs, one at a time, mixing with a wooden spoon just enough to incorporate. Mix in sour cream, vanilla and flour until smooth. Pour into pan.
5. Place pan in 2 cm hot water bath and bake for 1 hr.
6. Turn off oven and let cake cool in oven with door closed for 5-6 hours. Chill in fridge until serving.
* Making biscuit crumbs - break biscuits into smaller pieces and Pulse in short bursts in a blender until biscuits resemble coarse crumbs. There will be a few larger pieces which can be crushed with a fork.
A sad footnote. I seem to be allergic to this cheesecake. I always had an aversion to dairy products but after two serves over a few days, I rashed up all over. It could have been something else as I am one of those dorks with strange food allergies but not to risk it, I have given away a wedge to my neighbour and continue to give it away, only allowing myself a few pathetic licks of the cake server when all is done.
My favourite stall is the cake shop at the entrance, just off Thierry st. Occupying the corner allotment, you cannot help get snagged by the biscuits and cakes lining the window display and this is where I first had a slice of New York cheesecake.
To me, a New York cheesecake is a cut-to-the-chase, thunder thigh inducing gobblefest. It consists of full cream everything without fruits or other fussiness taking up the slack, because there is no slack - it is relentless in its fat content and that's what makes you 'snap into a fetal position, crying out for more' (to paraphrase Woody Allen). Clogging creaminess with a slight tang is what it is.
As I read through different recipes, there seemed to be a lot of variation: prebake the base, don't prebake, use 6 eggs, use 4 eggs, tips on preventing cracking, water baths, it seemed a little more challenging than I had first assumed. However there did seem to be consensus that all ingredients need to be at room temperature and the mixture should not be aerated too much to prevent it rising and then sinking due to the lack of raising agent in the recipe.
So with tips jotted all over my chosen recipe I gave it a go the other day. After my failed warm- in-the-hands experiment with the butter for the choc chip cookie recipe, I tried to be good: I left the ingredients on the bench for 2 hours. However it was still not long enough for the kilogram of cream cheese but I proceeded anyway. My little electric beater heaved and protested through the glug of cream cheese and sugar. The mixture got all got caught up in my beaters and churned the motor painfully as cheese flecks landed on my clothes. I switched to a wooden spoon and vowed that I will let the blocks of cream cheese warm to the point of fungal blooms the next time around. Afterwards when it did become softer and easier to manage I used the beaters to incorporate the milk but then obediently switched over to wooden spoon for the rest of the ingredients to prevent overly aerating the mixture.
Then came the long wait. 1 hour of baking followed by 5 hours in the oven to cool down gradually then a couple of hours chilling in the fridge. A long haul dessert it is.
It was certainly worth the wait. The cake did not crack, it was creamy and smooth and though the hot water in the bath leaked slightly into the springform pan, a slice sent me falling all over the place, literally. Had you been a fly on the wall, I may have used you to support myself as I went through some over the top throes of oohing and ahhing. Seriously though, even if disaster strikes and fault lines forms on your cake or it sinks, we are talking about cream cheese with sugar, a concept that is delicious in any form. Grab a spoon and tuck in.
This recipe has been adapted from
Chantel's New York Cheesecake recipe.
Ingredients
16 McVities Digestive biscuits, crushed* (or Graham crackers)
40g butter, melted
900g cream cheese (full cream), softened
300g white sugar
180ml full cream milk
4 eggs
230g sour cream
15ml vanilla extract
30g plain flour
Method
1. Preheat oven 175C. Grease a 22cm springform pan and wrap base with a few layers of aluminum foil.
2. In a medium bowl, mix biscuit crumbs with the melted butter. Press firmly onto the bottom of the pan to ensure crust is compacted. Use a spoon to compact crumbs around the edge of the pan.
3. In a large bowl, mix cream cheese with sugar using an electric mixer or beater on a low setting until smooth. Blend in milk.
4. Mix in eggs, one at a time, mixing with a wooden spoon just enough to incorporate. Mix in sour cream, vanilla and flour until smooth. Pour into pan.
5. Place pan in 2 cm hot water bath and bake for 1 hr.
6. Turn off oven and let cake cool in oven with door closed for 5-6 hours. Chill in fridge until serving.
* Making biscuit crumbs - break biscuits into smaller pieces and Pulse in short bursts in a blender until biscuits resemble coarse crumbs. There will be a few larger pieces which can be crushed with a fork.
A sad footnote. I seem to be allergic to this cheesecake. I always had an aversion to dairy products but after two serves over a few days, I rashed up all over. It could have been something else as I am one of those dorks with strange food allergies but not to risk it, I have given away a wedge to my neighbour and continue to give it away, only allowing myself a few pathetic licks of the cake server when all is done.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Evil book store
Gift vouchers. I delight in receiving gift vouchers as they offer many possibilities to get free stuff I normally would not purchase. Some things suddenly seem an extravagance when faced with the prospect of paying for them myself, certain rare plants for example.
(The opposite is true when giving vouchers, I rarely give them, perhaps this is related to someone once saying that I was a considerate gift giver. Ever since that time, I may have blown their comment out of all proportions and possibly may feel that I need to live up to their long ago compliment-in-passing.)
Recently I was fortunate enough to receive a Borders gift voucher. I have always enjoyed reading and hoard books all over the house and future-read titles on bits of paper all over the house. At the time, I had already ordered a bunch of books from amazon.com, justifying the purchase with the current high exchange rate and of course telling myself that books are always a good purchase and never extravagant (unless they includes titles such as 'Hulk Hogan's Rock N Wrestling Sticker Book' or 'Knitting with Dog Hair: Better a Sweater From a Dog You Know and Love Than From a Sheep You'll Never Meet').
So I hung onto the voucher for a month, telling myself that the online purchases would keep me busy for some time. Well, half way through my first book, with four books unread, I found myself trying to weigh recipe ingredients on a tiny Slimmer's scale (disconcerting that they exist and more so that I somehow came to own one) and noting an opening to visit my local shopping center where Border sits on two levels, I crumbled. With a bit of glee and a (genuine) excuse, I headed out to buy a more accurate set of kitchen scales with my book voucher in hand.
Let me say that I rarely wander shopping centers as a way to pass time. If I need to visit them, I write a list of the things I need and get the heck outta there once I am done. Borders of course is near the car park entrance where I can always find a parking space: how convenient!
'Just a quick look, after all I do have this voucher', I told myself after buying my scales. A few minutes after entering the store, I had just $7 left on the voucher and decided to buy a kids book for D. Kids books are down the escalators and after I picked out 'The Very Hungry Caterpillar' by Eric Carle I headed back up the escalators, working out that I will only be a little out of pocket.
'Do you want to get 3 for 2 on kids books?', asked the cashier. Do I? Heck yes! Down I went again and picked out another Eric Carle book about 10 rubber ducks and another book containing pictures of farm animals with faux fur inserts.
'If you call this number and provide some feedback you can get 20% off your next purchase', the cashier said as she handed me the receipt. I nodded as she asked whether I wanted to receive offers via email which includes 'savings of up to 40%'. I declined her offer thinking that if I continue getting seduced by discounted books I will be succumbing to that modern day evilness. The evilness akin to queuing 10 minutes for petrol on TA Tuesday for a $1.50 discount or having to eat endless champignon-based recipes due to a lapse in common sense one day at the supermarket: discounted or not, you pay for it in the end.
Then I thought that if I were to partake in evilness, the capitalist clutches of a book store is probably the much lesser kind. Books received in childhood and seen again in adulthood are reminders of something new and of places undiscovered, a wonderment that follows you through the years without you really knowing. Someone (a family member? A teacher?) had fostered in me a want to know and an asking of why and had made it all stick. What a great gift.
So I took back my evil book store thoughts as I left the counter with my stack. Walking out to the car park I reminded myself of the Dr Seuss and Little Golden Books I saw and I filed those titles in my mind under 'Gifts for D - probably at 40% off'.
(The opposite is true when giving vouchers, I rarely give them, perhaps this is related to someone once saying that I was a considerate gift giver. Ever since that time, I may have blown their comment out of all proportions and possibly may feel that I need to live up to their long ago compliment-in-passing.)
Recently I was fortunate enough to receive a Borders gift voucher. I have always enjoyed reading and hoard books all over the house and future-read titles on bits of paper all over the house. At the time, I had already ordered a bunch of books from amazon.com, justifying the purchase with the current high exchange rate and of course telling myself that books are always a good purchase and never extravagant (unless they includes titles such as 'Hulk Hogan's Rock N Wrestling Sticker Book' or 'Knitting with Dog Hair: Better a Sweater From a Dog You Know and Love Than From a Sheep You'll Never Meet').
So I hung onto the voucher for a month, telling myself that the online purchases would keep me busy for some time. Well, half way through my first book, with four books unread, I found myself trying to weigh recipe ingredients on a tiny Slimmer's scale (disconcerting that they exist and more so that I somehow came to own one) and noting an opening to visit my local shopping center where Border sits on two levels, I crumbled. With a bit of glee and a (genuine) excuse, I headed out to buy a more accurate set of kitchen scales with my book voucher in hand.
Let me say that I rarely wander shopping centers as a way to pass time. If I need to visit them, I write a list of the things I need and get the heck outta there once I am done. Borders of course is near the car park entrance where I can always find a parking space: how convenient!
'Just a quick look, after all I do have this voucher', I told myself after buying my scales. A few minutes after entering the store, I had just $7 left on the voucher and decided to buy a kids book for D. Kids books are down the escalators and after I picked out 'The Very Hungry Caterpillar' by Eric Carle I headed back up the escalators, working out that I will only be a little out of pocket.
'Do you want to get 3 for 2 on kids books?', asked the cashier. Do I? Heck yes! Down I went again and picked out another Eric Carle book about 10 rubber ducks and another book containing pictures of farm animals with faux fur inserts.
'If you call this number and provide some feedback you can get 20% off your next purchase', the cashier said as she handed me the receipt. I nodded as she asked whether I wanted to receive offers via email which includes 'savings of up to 40%'. I declined her offer thinking that if I continue getting seduced by discounted books I will be succumbing to that modern day evilness. The evilness akin to queuing 10 minutes for petrol on TA Tuesday for a $1.50 discount or having to eat endless champignon-based recipes due to a lapse in common sense one day at the supermarket: discounted or not, you pay for it in the end.
Then I thought that if I were to partake in evilness, the capitalist clutches of a book store is probably the much lesser kind. Books received in childhood and seen again in adulthood are reminders of something new and of places undiscovered, a wonderment that follows you through the years without you really knowing. Someone (a family member? A teacher?) had fostered in me a want to know and an asking of why and had made it all stick. What a great gift.
So I took back my evil book store thoughts as I left the counter with my stack. Walking out to the car park I reminded myself of the Dr Seuss and Little Golden Books I saw and I filed those titles in my mind under 'Gifts for D - probably at 40% off'.
Friday, June 27, 2008
The broccoli from the title
A few words on broccoli. I first discovered the delight of growing these vegetables a few years ago. They were low maintenance except for the short period during late Autumn when Cabbage White butterflies fluttered about laying little potential chompers on the underside of the leaves and I needed to go out daily and squish the eggs.Broccoli, I discovered grows more steadily and reliably during the colder months, finally left unmolested by those fair weather butterflies and needing less water.
I also found broccoli suffers no other problems besides early larval damage and having grown peas and silverbeet in the same location and seeing all the plants dusted with powdery mildew I steer towards broccoli each Autumn as the main winter crop.
To prepare the soil after pulling out the faded summer plants, I scattered some blood and bone and aged sheep manure about. I planted the little seedlings and mulched with sugar cane mulch and watered deeply. These days I liquid feed with some fish emulsion when I remember but mainly I just watch them as they do their thing.
Now a confession. I don't particularly crave broccoli. I do enjoy eating most vegetables but I enjoy eating lettuce, beans, peas and many other vegetables over broccoli. And yet, for the past few winters I have devoted my entire patch to growing a crop with some afterthought plantings of coriander and rocket on the side.
They stand in two rows by my front veranda, cupping their leaves to sun and rain. I like looking at the rain drops forming huge beads along their generous leaves and seeing the flower heads forming in amongst it all is a cheerful sight against the salvias and Miscanthus and all the other ornamentals that take their place in the front yard. Perhaps I just like the look of them, all orderly and behaving in contrast to the rambling nature of the rest of the garden. The latter is just as beautiful and provides a great deal of pleasure and drought tolerance but sadly remains inedible. Perhaps if we did not have such strict water restrictions, in part to deal with dropping Melbourne water storage levels, as well as my home's lack of mega water storage capabilities, my entire garden would be blended for ornamental effect but completely edible.
Some words on broccoli goodness that mum never told you about. Raw or lightly cooked broccoli is said to be a cancer fighter containing phytochemicals and antioxidants and like other brassicas or cruciferous vegetables helps deactivate estrogen that can promote tumor growth in breast cells.
No doubt once my crop is ready I will eat some and give some away and the plants will reward me with side shoots until late Winter when I am thinking of summer crops of tomatoes, eggplants, capsicums and basil and the edible garden will ramble once more.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
What's this trap door thing again? A foray into baked goods.
After an email from MJ who discussed intentions to bake Mrs Fields style choc chip cookies I got a craving to do the same. Well actually I got a craving to just go over there and eat them.
I am not much of a Kitchen anything, instead relying on the efficiencies of various appliances to heat up food and clean up the mess afterward. The closest thing to making food from scratch is beef koftas or tacos or other meals that require 500g minced beef, loads of spices and a hot frying pan.
Of course it's all my parents' fault. They were the ones who insisted I studied hard whilst they cooked all our meals. The smell of garlic in hot oil and the sounds of wok and wok charn clattering away busily are motifs of my childhood.
Later as my mum suddenly realised that time had passed so quickly and I was now of marrying age she told me to stand by her and the stove so that I may absorb some good housewife skills. Unfortunately I yawned and dreamed of real estate and stocks instead. My loss indeed.
When I moved out of home mum gave me a 30 years old brand new National brand rice cooker with matching HK-Australia power adaptor. She also gave me 25 identical china cake dishes which she had hoarded over the years. Both gifts have been very useful.
These days it is my good fortune to still enjoy mum's meals, occasionally appearing on my front veranda in air tight containers and encased in 2 plastic shopping bags. The last time I nearly missed it sitting on my little veranda seat away from the front door 'so that the ants near the front door I saw last time I visited don't get to it'. Inside were 3 serves of fried noodles with beef and snowpeas.
Lately, I have been visiting her one night a week for a meal and I have even started jotting down recipes with seasonings relayed from years of experience as 'add salt so it tastes a little salty'. Seeing me take interest at long last she replies that there is really no need to write it down, 'I make for you'. Without saying so much, in my family and many others, food is the way love is expressed to children. End Amy Tan moment.
A few months ago, after putting up with the late 80's oven, the stove top, range hood and oven were upgraded. The main reason was that pizzas took way too long to cook due to the crazy whims of the oven thermostat only ever having one setting of 'Lukewarm'.
Having spent a small fortune buying and installing it all so that pizzas could be timely, I thought it was time to use the oven to cook things, rather than to reheat things. I made a roast for the first time and that turned out great and roast potatoes tossed beforehand in olive oil, rosemary and salt are also replacing supermarket bought sacks of oven fries.
I had a free afternoon today and with MJ's baked goods in my mind, I tried my hand at a googled choc chip cookie recipe. The first step of beating the butter and sugars together had the butter pieces flying about a little because my definition of softened butter was sitting it on the table for 2 minutes followed by holding the pack in my warm hands for 30 seconds. After a while it did in fact become 'pale and creamy' and I was delighted by the amount of choc chips the recipe allowed.
The fan forceness of the oven worked well with two levels of cookies on the go and afterwards I scoffed down 3 of the misshapened ones and they were quite moist and downright delicious.
http://www.exclusivelyfood.com.au/2007/11/chocolate-chip-cookie-recipe_24.html
I am not much of a Kitchen anything, instead relying on the efficiencies of various appliances to heat up food and clean up the mess afterward. The closest thing to making food from scratch is beef koftas or tacos or other meals that require 500g minced beef, loads of spices and a hot frying pan.
Of course it's all my parents' fault. They were the ones who insisted I studied hard whilst they cooked all our meals. The smell of garlic in hot oil and the sounds of wok and wok charn clattering away busily are motifs of my childhood.
Later as my mum suddenly realised that time had passed so quickly and I was now of marrying age she told me to stand by her and the stove so that I may absorb some good housewife skills. Unfortunately I yawned and dreamed of real estate and stocks instead. My loss indeed.
When I moved out of home mum gave me a 30 years old brand new National brand rice cooker with matching HK-Australia power adaptor. She also gave me 25 identical china cake dishes which she had hoarded over the years. Both gifts have been very useful.
These days it is my good fortune to still enjoy mum's meals, occasionally appearing on my front veranda in air tight containers and encased in 2 plastic shopping bags. The last time I nearly missed it sitting on my little veranda seat away from the front door 'so that the ants near the front door I saw last time I visited don't get to it'. Inside were 3 serves of fried noodles with beef and snowpeas.
Lately, I have been visiting her one night a week for a meal and I have even started jotting down recipes with seasonings relayed from years of experience as 'add salt so it tastes a little salty'. Seeing me take interest at long last she replies that there is really no need to write it down, 'I make for you'. Without saying so much, in my family and many others, food is the way love is expressed to children. End Amy Tan moment.
A few months ago, after putting up with the late 80's oven, the stove top, range hood and oven were upgraded. The main reason was that pizzas took way too long to cook due to the crazy whims of the oven thermostat only ever having one setting of 'Lukewarm'.
Having spent a small fortune buying and installing it all so that pizzas could be timely, I thought it was time to use the oven to cook things, rather than to reheat things. I made a roast for the first time and that turned out great and roast potatoes tossed beforehand in olive oil, rosemary and salt are also replacing supermarket bought sacks of oven fries.
I had a free afternoon today and with MJ's baked goods in my mind, I tried my hand at a googled choc chip cookie recipe. The first step of beating the butter and sugars together had the butter pieces flying about a little because my definition of softened butter was sitting it on the table for 2 minutes followed by holding the pack in my warm hands for 30 seconds. After a while it did in fact become 'pale and creamy' and I was delighted by the amount of choc chips the recipe allowed.
The fan forceness of the oven worked well with two levels of cookies on the go and afterwards I scoffed down 3 of the misshapened ones and they were quite moist and downright delicious.
http://www.exclusivelyfood.com.au/2007/11/chocolate-chip-cookie-recipe_24.html
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