God’s ‘druff

As I write this missive, I can hear drops.  Water drops.  Why would that concern me?  Well, I am at 5000 feet above sea level and it is December.  What I should be hearing is the silent descent of millions of snowflakes (God’s dandruff) on their featherlike trajectory to earth granting anything it falls on that flawless Elizabethan complexion.   Not the devil’s wee I can see and hear, stripping the mountain of its dignity.  But all is not lost.  This is a momentary aberration, as Tony Abbot would have us believe.  Tomorrow I’m going to wake up to a winter wonderland.  Right?!  I’ll be waiting for the Deus ex machina.

Its been a crazy few weeks, or blur which seems more appropriate – I’ve eaten pheasant and the wonderful local cheese, Tom de Savoire, stumbled upon Eton (I admit I did feel quite at home there), traversed France in a bus (the most uncivilised form of transport there is), worked my hands to their bones cleaning the chalet I will be working in for the season (therapeutic and Presbyterian), watched 4 and 5 year olds learn to play soccer (hysterical!) and learnt the affects of home brew when consumed at altitude.  Those astute ones among you will realise I have not mentioned the one reason I left an Australian summer for a European winter: skiing!  The mountain does not open for another week and I am beside myself with excitement – no amount of rain will dent this.  Although, I am dying a little bit with every raindrop that falls.

Other worthy news is that I am working and living with a dumb: sadly an Australian dumb.  And even worse, a Australian chef dumb who doesn’t realise he is a dumb.  His claimed specialty is Italian food (he misses the irony that he is in the French Alps and the Italian Alps are 45 mins away) but he drowns everything in cream: twit.  I almost forgot to say he is a choad (those who don’t know what that means, ask a youth).  He put an Australian flag up in the window of our apartment.  I think he was involved in the Cronulla riots – if not, he wishes he was.  Hopefully this is a temporary arrangement.  As Dad says, don’t get mad, get even.  I will keep you posted.

Everyone else is good fun – some public school boys with proper accents and wonderful prejudices doing their gap year, a few transients, a few redundant professionals, a few middle-aged couples, a dumb Australian, and an Australian lawyer.

More will follow.

B x

FB BFF, IRL snub – WTF?

Assumably, if one is reading this blog, they will be familiar, however begrudgingly, with most of the txt spk that makes up my title. On the odd chance that you are elderly and have stumbled across this blog whilst completing a task in a free community class on ‘The Wonders of the World Wide Web’ – I shall decipher: Facebook Best Friends Forever, In real life snub (nb: snub is not an acronym), What the F*%!?.

It is one of the most troubling paradoxes to face avid internet users – you’ve boosted each other’s friend count on whatever form of social media you choose (although I’ve specified facebook this could equally apply to twitter or god forbid myspace) and possibly exchange the odd comment, ‘like’, @mention or top friends status. Why then, when you inevitably run into them whilst indulging in banal activities such as catching public transport or buying milk, do you pretend each other exist? The sick part is, after this mutual ignorance, you retire to your cyberworld and continue the friendship from the confines of the keyboard.

I recently experienced the FB BFF, IRL snub – WTF? in horrifying clarity. Lurking in the vicinity of  Piedimonte’s, aimlessly walking around contemplating life changing decisions such as “Dench five-spice duck sandwich or Loafer Bread lemon tart”, as one is wont to do of a Sunday morning when feeling slightly hungover I spied him. A guy who I had met at a party relatively recently and talked some shit with. It was one of the rare occasions where I was the more sober person, but nonetheless we had some funny conversations and shared a few laughs. As he was a friend of some friends, a few days later I took the plunge and added him on facebook. I’ll have it known that I’m not a serial adder – and this was out of the ordinary for me. Normally I like to meet people at least a few times in real life before progressing to social media second base. But I don’t know, I was feeling a bit wild, I guess, and acted out of character.

So back to Piedimontes. There I was, ambling around the tram stop, watching this guy approach. Something told me we would not greet each other. Perhaps it was the fact he was eating a pie (never a flattering food item to eat on the go) and I was all too conscious of being considerate of people’s humiliating food choices. Whatever the reason, when we crossed paths, our eyes briefly met and we both turned away, condeming our fledgling friendship to the cyber-realm.

I have a few ‘friends’ like this, and everytime I experience a situation like this I vow to myself that I will be the change I wish to see in the world, that I will shake off the shackles of awkward half friendships and greet them with my head held high. Even if I start with baby steps – a nod, a wave, a mumbled hello – before progressing to actually having, oh I don’t know, a conversation without LOLs, I will at least feel like I’m breaking the cycle. Because afterall, if you ‘like’ my status – surely you must ‘like’ me too?

Fitzroy’s Colon

No folks, this is not an anatomy lesson.  Nor is it talking about the number 86 tram.  Nor is it talking about the proliferation of gay nights in the inner north.  It’s not even about Merri Creek.  It is a grammar lesson.

A few weeks ago, Pope expressed some concern about my use of the semi-colon (;).  I was concerned about her ignorance.  So I thought I would take it upon myself to educate her, and in the process, you.

The semi-colon has an air of unnecessary formality or over-grammatisation about it.  Furthermore, it seems totally substitutable: one could write a literary masterpiece with only commas separating phrases and clauses. And, it would be rather queer to put a semi-colon in a personal letter.  As a result it is rarely used.  There was a time when the semi-colon was not used solely for emoticons.

Put simply the semi-colon joins or separates.

Take these sentences as an example: “Many students live in Fitzroy.  Yummy mummies live in Clifton Hill.”  These two sentences are independent clauses because they can stand on their own.  However, if you replace the full-stop with a semi-colon you suggest a relationship between the two statements:  “Many students live in Fitzroy; yummy mummies live in Clifton Hill.”  The relationship is not clear and it encourages the reader to consider its nature.  Of course, you could spell out the relationship but there’s no fun in that!  What do you think I am saying about the good people of Clifton Hill?

While a semi-colon joins, it also separates items in a list.  For example: “On Wednesday Pope purchased a pound of butter, a wedge of Camembert and a packet of beef lung for Mr Bojangles at the South Melbourne Markets; a bottle of McGuigans Dry White at Piedimonte’s; and six Lilly stems, a potted Petunia and a Venus Fly-trap at the nursery next to The Pinnacle on St Georges Road.”  Here, commas would not be sufficient to clearly explain what Pope brought, and from whom  brought.

Finally, semi-colons may be used when the writer would like to join two independent clauses with a conjunctive adverb (therefore, however, indeed etc).  For example, “I like the new trams YarraTrams use on the 96 line; however, they are only on lease from a French firm and will be returned in a few years.”  Extra caution is necessary when using semi-colons for this purpose, however.  As I illustrate in that sentence, conjunctive adverbs do not necessarily have to be used conjunctively.  Secondly, unlike the first example I gave with respect to the use of semi-colons, using a full stop or semi-colon makes no difference to the tone of the sentence.  And thirdly, if the independent clauses are particularly long, a full stop may be more appropriate.  Consequently, I would counsel against its use in this case.

So Pope, I hope this has been enlightening and you will not pester me with your ill-informed criticisms. One cannot expect to mix in the exulted circles of the Fitzroy intelligentsia, if one does not know their grammar.  Perhaps that why you live in Northcote.

Much love – Baker

Bakerless Baking

Good evening.

Tonight Baker has left these Winter climes for sunny Queensland/New South Wales, for a weekend of fun and frivolity. It seemed fitting then that I bake, not so much in his honour, but because I felt like it.

This afternoon saw me jonesing asian food bad. This frequently happens due to The Abacus, my desk-neighbour at work. The Abacus is Chinese and every time she talks about Chinese food I get a huge MSG/five spice/dumpling/Yum Cha/duck craving that courses through my body in a similar fashion to that ‘crack’ thing that the youngsters seem to talk about these days.

However, despite wanting to hot-foot it to Camy’s (and that despite having ingested dumplings twice in the past week) pronto, I repeated my new financial mantra to myself (“Do NOT spend money. Under any circumstances.”), put my halo on and headed home to use what I had at my house to make myself dinner. In typical contrarian fashion I went to the other end of the spectrum for my menu inspiration. Kangaroo, afterall, is not particularly compatible with Asian cuisine, except if it’s fusion, which we all know is disgusting. Plus given Melbourne decided to flick the bitch switch and go all arctic on my ass, ’tis the season. So – I give you:

Easy Kangaroo Pot Pies

Ingredients

- Around 200gms of Kangaroo fillet, cubed
- One small can of sliced mushrooms in butter
- Worcestershire sauce
- One onion, sliced
- Olive oil
- Frozen peas
- Beef stock
- Salt and pepper
- Butter
- One sheet of shortcrust or puff pastry

Serve with

Mashed potatoes and corn on the cob (or cut off the cob if you’re like me and hate getting that shit in your teeth)
Worcestershire/Tomato sauce

Method

Fry onion in oil until soft.
Add meat and brown until fully sealed
Add beef stock until mostly covered (not too much, not too little), a few splashes of worcestershire sauce and salt and pepper to taste
Simmer uncovered over relatively high heat until stock reduces
Add can of mushrooms and stir through, continue simmering until sauce thickens sufficiently

In the meantime, boil a saucepan of water and peel potatoes. When water is boiling, put peeled, chopped potatoes in and steam corn and peas. When peas are thawed, put into a small bowl and smash lightly with a fork. When potatoes are tender, drain and then mash in a bowl with a small amount of butter and salt and pepper.

Pour kangaroo mixture into a small pie sized pot (I used a 15×15 squarish earthenware pot) and top with smashed peas.
Cover pie with pastry (I used shortcrust but puff would probably be better), cutting off excess and pushing into edge of pie dish. Bake in a 180 degree celsius oven for around 20 mins or until pie crust is golden.

Serve pie with extra worcestershire or tomato sauce.

Voila!

Smells like Tween Spirit

Let’s get one thing straight – I cry at anything. And when I say anything I mean romantic comedies, insurance tv ads, 80s power ballads and stories about people’s families. It’s no surprise then that the winner of Triple J’s Hottest 100 of all Time (v. 2009) managed to turn on my waterworks. I was only nine when Smells Like Teen Spirit’s release defined a generation of grungy Generation Xers, however four years later when I reached teenage-dom the song was a still a prominent part of the musical soundscape that was the backdrop to my adolescence. Sure, I didn’t ‘get’ it – not in the way that people who had reached a certain level of maturity at the point of its release did. I wasn’t sitting around in my flannelette shirt, swigging Southern Comfort with smudged eye make-up whilst moaning about my middle-class existence in ’92 afterall. But to a teenaged Pope, hopelessly caught in that age’s ubiquitous whirlwind of self-discovery, Kurt’s empassioned wails echoing around the terrible acoustics of school gymnasiums still resonated enormously. The face that the film clip featured a school gynasium probably helped my relatively undeveloped mind to make the connection – never mind (pun intended) that the most likely reason to find me in one was a school dance, where I could be found causing trouble, usually attired in boxer shorts and a feather boa. Let’s just say I probably wasn’t Nirvana’s target market.

Nevertheless the song is a part of my youth and therefore my identity – hearing the song being introduced tonight, featuring sound bites from Kurt Cobain, Dave Grohl and Daniel Johns (??), definitely caused me to well up. Realising how much you have in common with greater humanity is always a beautifully humbling moment. How many people hear this song and recall a part of themselves that they long ago buried in the bottom drawer of ‘growing up’? I will never tire of music’s ability to unite disparate humanity – from boxer short clad teeny-boppers to former mid-nineties rebels with causes.

But what songs of my generation (Y) will the generation younger than me identify with? As much as I love them I doubt the longuevity of Britney and Justin’s back catalogue, though I guess you can only identify a classic with the aid of hindsight. I’d love to know what tracks from the late nineties and noughties will continue to connect with the youth of today – I’ve had several conversation with people who question what current artists have the staying power associated with legends such as The Beatles, Michael Jackson and even Radiohead, whose career again slips back into the domain of Generation X. In discussing the Hottest 100, Baker today expressed his unabated devotion for Australian/NZ band Crowded House – what band of the last decade has an equivalent ability to provoke such an unerring connection? I can’t answer that question – I just hope the Gen Ys can pull something out of the bag and contribute equally to previous generation’s musical legacy.

Federer – nothing more to add

So, after the most extraordinary Wimbledon final, what more can be said.  The hoary cliche that Roger Federer wanted to win Wimbledon more than Andy Roddick, cannot be true.  Both wanted the trophy for different but no less compelling reasons: Federer to confirm his place rightly at the pinnacle of sport; and Roddick to prove that his 2003 US Open was not a lucky break and as afirmation that the reinvention of his game over the last 12 months, including belatedly learning to volley was justified.  The look on both faces as the match went into the fifth set was nothing than absolute determination to win.  No, it was a case of Federer being able to hold on just a tiny bit longer than Roddick.  That’s all.

The most extraordinary fact of the final was that Roddick’s serve was broken only once.  Once.  And that one time, it counted. With a tie-breaker allowed in the fifth set, had this been the US open who knows how it would have turned out.

How do you console Andy Roddick?  Your time will come?  Nadal is younger and Federer is only one year older.  You were nearly there?  So what!  Nearly there does not cut it for elite athletes.  They play to win.  It seems to me the only way forward for Roddick is to poison Federer and Nadal.

Baker

Quiche Lorraine bash!

I’ve never doubted Pope’s many extraordinary abilities: cutting tomatoes suicidally towards herself with a blunt knife, her fingers gripping the fruit with all the delicacy of a grope and yet avoiding even the tiniest gash; or, driving, talking, gesticulating and texting all simultaneously, usually in no identifiable lane yet avoiding St Pete at the gates.  But psychic?  Perhaps she has a short memory: we would be 95 mill richer if she could legitimately claim clairvoyancy.

On Friday night, Pope, Barbie, the Unit and I popped by a wee Bash some people were having in Collingwood.  Last time I was in those climbs, the Unit and I, in cowboy garb, totally innocently stumbled upon Melbourne’s most notorious night establishment – some place called Rind, or the like.  It took the confronting artwork and provocative dancing to make the penny drop.

This time we were more aware and did not make the same mistake.  Having said that I did not leave any less scarred.  It is one thing to dress in costume.  And, we live in an age of fewer social rules.  But never, never is it OK to arrive to a party underdressed.  God knows, the shame of arriving at a black tie dinner in a lounge suit would be enough to make me assume a new identity. So the chap who came on Friday night, presumably intending to fish, with his box and tackle at the ready, introduced me to new levels of horror.  And further, while it is not advisable to throw heavy objects in Glasshouses, you invite ridicule if you come only equipped to land a Bream, rather than a Marlin, shall we say.  Having said all this it was an enjoyable evening and it was great to get up to mischief with the other three.

In totally unconnected news there were both disappointing and relieving results in the AFL and NRL for the Brisbane teams.  The Lions, despite showing signs of returning to their premiership winning best in the past few weeks showed that consistency eludes them losing to Port, in Adelaide in a fourth-quarter blowout.  Brennan’s petulance should be punished, either at the judiciary or internally.  It speaks terribly of his maturity and character to headbutt – among the most unattractive ways to retaliate against an opponent – Josh Carr.  Use your freakish skills to respond to Carr’s typical and infruiating tagging, not something that will result in a forced holiday.
The Broncos, thank God, snapped their now ubiquitous post-Origin funk by beating the Warriors at home.  Allbeit in a ghastly yellow strip.  The next few weeks will be tough with key players Hunt and Folau out but the character they showed on Friday night will agur well.

Recipe of the week – Quiche Lorraine

Short crust pastry – blind bake in a quiche dish (200 degrees C, 1o minutes with a weight, 10 mins without, make sure you prick the pastry before baking)

4 rashes of bacon

1 onion

1 cup of cheese (be wild, choose whatever)

3 eggs

300ml cream

1/2 cup milk

1 Tblsp flour

salt and pepp

Finely chop and fry the onion and bacon.  Sprinkle it and the cheese (grated) in the pastry shell.  Whisk wet ingredients and season with the salt and pepper.  Pour into the pastry and bake at 180 degrees C for 30-35 mins.

Love Baker

On charcoal chicken and ESP

Watching the sun set over North Fitzroy (or Fitzroy North if you are realestate.com.au) alone,  from the vantage point of one of Super Tasty Rooster’s sidewalk tables gives one a unique perspective on life. It is a perspective not unlike that of a would-be suicide victim (I imagine) – one that urban lore would no doubt refer to as a ‘low point’ in one’s existence.

So what, dear reader, could make this infintessimally base moment of existence lower than I had previously imagined possible? Hearing my name being called through the dusky air, that’s what. The call emanated from the mouth of Baker’s housemate, no less. A perenially well-dressed specimen – just the type you do not want catching you indulging in a filthy addiction such as charcoal chicken, alone on a Sunday night watching sunsets. Great. The call came again, like a scene from Picnic at Hanging Rock, except my name isn’t Miranda. Like a deer blinded by headlights I realised there was absolutely nowhere to hide. She had clearly already spotted me, my hair is regrettably recognisable and the only thing that would make this whole situation more awkward at this point would be if I jumped up and ran off. So, I was forced to confront her, all smiles and conviviality, whilst I attempted to explain why I was consorting with a chicken carcass at this hour on a Sunday. Horrendous. Luckily she is as kind as she is well-dressed so she didn’t chide me for my choice of companion as much as I may have if the situation were reversed.

The best part about the whole thing is that I have taken it as further proof of my psychicism. As I was sitting down avec chicken, the thought had flashed through my mind that in the incestuous inner north, someone was bound to spot me. Furthermore, I do not lie, but the person who sprung to mind as a possibility was no other than Baker’s housemate! Whether this was my mind producing a likely candidate from aforementioned people who I would rather swallow arsenic than be caught in this compromising position by, or whether my ESP was in overdrive we shall never know. However I have learnt my lesson, and now that I am in karma debit, next time I catch someone indulging in a vice I shall be suitably compassionate. Oh, and do try Super Tasty Rooster – Scotchmer St, North Fitzroy – it’s to die for!

The Balls that stopped a Nation

‘I looked at the ticket, and I thought, I’m feeling pretty damn lucky.’

‘I always forget her birthday, is it the 5th or the 6th?’

Two different statements, two different people. How did I know, besides being the perspicacious social observer that I am, that they were related? It could only be lotto fever. Australia was gripped with it yesterday and quite frankly I think the authorities should be far more worried about the nation’s propensity to spend their hard-earned on a one in 45 million chance to win $90 million than some pesky barn yard flu.

What piqued my interest, as a marketer, or spawn of satan as we are often touted as, was the application of the theory of the JND or just noticeable difference to the unitiated. I wondered what it was about $90 million, besides being a shitload of money, that inspired every man and his dog to throw jump off  the moral highground of anti-gambling and plunge face first into a sea of system 6s, quickpicks and syndicates.  The week before’s jackpot was $50 million, which realistically to the average punter would afford them no more or less quality of life than $90 million. But oh well, I have long since stopped concerning myself with the vagaries of human nature.

However I did like to ponder exactly how a cool 90 mill would alter my existence. For one, I’d be famous. Not in a good way at all, more like an ex-Big Brother contestant kind of way – fame via circumstance rather than talent. That wouldn’t sit well. I’d also feel compelled to give to charity – I would want to anyway, but how much is the question? I mean, half? One third? I have no idea and I’m sure whatever amount I did give I would still be hauled over the coals for my avarice. In the same vein, an off the cuff remark from a friend saying he would give me $1 million if he won led me to wonder – how many friends is one supposed to give this, in context, piddling amount to? My entire facebook friends list? I’d be in $256 million debt (not that I’m counting!). But in all seriousness – drawing the line of who gets a $1 million handshake would be even more stressful than making the cut off point of who makes it on the wedding invite list (I imagine). Let’s just say, it could get ugly.

I was forced to conclude after all this pondering, that really, my day to day existence and minimally fluctuating bank balance causes me enough stress and anxiety. I don’t really need $90 million added to that burden. I’m glad I didn’t win, and I always knew that every single derivative of the numbers making up my birthday were unlucky. So there.

Inaugural Post – Pope’s birthday

To the word at large, it was Miss Pope’s birthday yesterday. 

Born yesterday twenty-six years ago, it was a difficult labour, I’m led to believe.  Something about her head getting stuck.  Not surprising really.

On this day in 1983, the first female astronaut landed back on earth. http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/june/24/newsid_4489000/4489579.stm

In more important news, Obama’s sprogs popped in to get some frozen custard.  Clearly they have no taste.  I had frozen custard once.  In Canberra at a place called Goodberry’s.  It was truly aweful.

One could be forgiven for thinking something advertising itself as frozen custard might actually include custard, or anyone of the constituent ingredients: sugar, eggs and milk.  No.  Clearly conjured by a food technologist with no interest whatsoever in the art or joy of food, it comes out of a machine like poo comes out of the bottom of a girl in a poo fetish porno.  It tastes like soft serve icecream with condensed milk and is so excruciatingly sweet to immediately destroy your pancreas.  It is about as far removed from custard as vegan cheese is Roquefort.  It is a disgrace and ought be wiped from the culinary landscape, like sun-dried tomatoes (more of that in future posts).

Speaking of truly abominable, Lygon st.  Not content with peddling crappy Italian food, it would seem you cannot buy a decent coffee either.  I was at Tiamo today, with a friend.  Fitting in that respect.  We ordered a flat white and a hot chocolate.  My flatwhite arrived and was tepid so I asked for a new one.  The barista either thought he was funny or had nfi because it appeared he microwaved my coffee and then put some foam on top and gave it back to me as though I would not notice.   Then the schiesters charged us $15.60 for the honour of receiving a luke warm hot chocolate made with powder, a microwaved flat white and an undercooked almond and pistacio biscuit.  Make no mistake, Melbourne should be ashamed to have such a place in its midst.  they probably put cream in their carbonara.

In a city that prides itself on coffee, Lygon Street is an aberration.  I am yet to have a decent coffee there, although to be fair it is not as though anyone can cook there either.  Unless there is no other option, avoid this blight at all costs.

Yours – Mr Ding0