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!