Reason number two

AFL. I really should’ve been born in Victoria. Why is it that whenever I am asked what team I “go for”, I am left to defend the length of shorts and later continue my google search on Aerial Ping Pong?

Despite all this, I am not afraid anymore to support the code in NSW. It’s football, fullstop. Why else would a crowd of 86,000 flock to the MCG of a Saturday afternoon other than to observe a league of talented sportspersons to play a game that has been around longer than said NSW rivalry? Yes that’s right. “Aerial Ping Pong” had its first recorded match in 1858 between Melbourne Grammar School and Scotch College, the same year the Melbourne Football Club was established. This is a fifty-year head start on league. Ah-hem.

Alright, I feel I’ve adequately justified its placement in Australian sport. So I’ll get on with reason two of loving Melbourne even more. They live and breathe the sport down there. 

The air is thick with rivalry and the animated spirit at the stadium the afternoon of my first MCG experience was exhilarating. The newspapers have 12 pages dedicated to each round and the channels will broadcast it live. I didn’t get crowd phobia coming to and from the grounds. 

I could have walked in there with “Swans Fan” written on my forehead and still kindly been shown my seat in row x, section q32.

And the place is enormous. 

I rest my case.  

Five reasons to love Melbourne even more...

Part One: Good coffee. An early morning flight from Sydney had us all weary eyed and craving a non-airport caffeine hit. Determined to drink not only the best while we’re within proximity, I dragged my three companions through the CBD grid to 359 Little Bourke Street where hides inconspicuously amongst the plethora of traveling shops, wine bars and cafes that crowd the lanes. With its parent café “Seven Seeds” up in Carlton rated best coffee in Melbourne by The Age, “Brother Baba Budan” came in at a high scoring recommendation and I was more than happy to see how this worked out.

Distracted by the chairs hanging from the ceiling, the funky wooden décor and the crowded small space serving its committed regulars, I eventually ordered my coffee and managed to squeeze a spot on the wooden bench to patiently wait and observe. Or perhaps gawk would be the more appropriate word. I may or may not have stood out as a first timer.

I didn’t mind. I was in awe- such a tiny, warm, great smelling quirky little nook. If they weren’t so efficient and diligent with their coffees, I could’ve stayed there for hours. The line was never ending and despite such a flurry of activity behind the coffee machine and the busy background hum, it was surprisingly a relaxing experience. The fast, friendly service teamed up to provide us with a warm welcome to the city of Melbourne.

Anyway, the coffee…you can tell they’re in love with it. They are focused on providing quality coffee from Origin to Cup and are active in the Cup of Excellence program. What this all means is that they care. They care about the farmers, the beans, the machines, the customers. Everything. They cared so much they gave us a tray for our coffees even though we had all four present for the latte delivery.

Cheers guys, even my other half liked it. And he’s a novice to the bean!

Check it out at 359 Little Bourke St, Melbourne or go here to get inspired and lust after a flight to Melbourne just because....

you scream, we scream

There’s one thing I’ve realised of late: never trust your friend’s opinion of ice cream. The only way to be sure fire about a flavour/brand/new product, is to do the taste testing yourself. This can be risky business of course, as I found out. I was more than happy to offer myself up for a bowl or two of this new flavour that had been plugged for weeks on the TV and raved about by a dinner party of friends. Yet what I wasn’t prepared for, was the inadequate judgment made by my confidantes.

Furthermore, what I came to understand, was the fact that these people must be frequent by-passers of the frozen section of the supermarket. The reason for their tribute about said ice cream was obvious: they clearly don’t know what they’re on about.

Seriously? Hokey Pokey? Yes! Sounds like it should be a mouth-watering taste sensation with little bits of honeycomb to kindly interrupt the creamy vanilla. But to no avail- honeycomb pieces were few and very far between, miniature little balls of sugar prompting me to think of that old adage “needle in a haystack”. The biggest let down however was the ice cream itself. Can’t really divulge who made this for fear of perhaps discovering later that they might hold the secret to the best tub of the lot (I’m willing to try), but suffice to say, the vanilla was not vanilla and the taste was funky, reminiscent of a milk based cocktail gone wrong at the rocks.

Then I found out, it was low fat.

Oh sheesh. There’s your answer.

Those friends of mine are willing to finally branch out and open the freezer doors of Woolworths and splurge on some dessert, yet guilt riddles them immediately. Opting for a low fat version of ice cream is the first mistake. If you’re going to spoil yourself and get in a sugary mess post dinner, you may as well do it in style and go all out.

Anyway, we’ve moved on from our disastrous experience. The tub was emptied (not in the bin, don’t be silly now, we will not stand for ice cream to be wasted like that despite it’s disappointing results) and hastily replaced by our standing favourites at the moment: Peter’s Overload “Rolo” and “Violet Crumble”. 

sharing is caring

Part one. I can’t believe there’s a Zumbo in my fridge.

Everytime I go to the fridge (shutup! It’s not that often!) I am confronted with a big white box with a plastic covering over it, labelled with the all too familiar black and pink writing from the patissier Adriano Zumbo. This time, it’s not macaroons that are lurking beneath the cardboard, but layers of Flourless chocolate, Chocolate crunch, Burnt choc brulee, Choc macaron, Choc jelly, Choc creamaux, Choc chantilly.

YES way. The v8 diesel.

My delightful and somewhat mad best buddies, teamed up to splurge on me for some unknown reason. One did her part from another state, mind you. The other left work in the middle of the day in order to navigate her way to the small tasty nook in Manly and pick up the baby. And she can’t find her driveway sometimes.

Part two. Lick the knife after each cutting of piece in order to gain maximum consumption and taste testing ability.

As one could imagine, bringing the knife to the throat was most difficult. I couldn’t bare to see the chocolate bleed inside and break the seal, yet so much of me couldn’t wait to see the incredible architecture of these 8 layers. Upon descent into the mouth with aid of tablespoon (no, sorry…ladel), I realised that the cake was for “up to ten people” and the two hovering over my shoulder were not worried about the chocolate stain already on my top and intended to be part of that sum. Oh right, yes sharing the cake is what was involved next.

Part three. Ownership is involved when it comes to chocolate and me. Thus by means of ownership, I mean entitlement.

Not really that selfish. How could you believe such a thing. How could I enjoy the delight of the v8 diesel without gorging on this chocolate sensation with my buddies?

It’s been less than 48 hours and my oh my there is 1/3 left. I can’t believe it. I’m still dreaming about each layer and trying to decide whether it’s the outer layer of rich mousse or the crunchy, salted chocolate biscuit base that is the best. Each time I have a slice I am up in arms about what part to leave till last and secretly inside of me, I am fearing for the worst.

When the box is empty.

Part four. Tick tock tick tock. Who made dessert time post-dinner???

YIPEEEE!

I’m published again! 

Kudos to myself and my boyfriend for collaborating together on this piece about the rise of specialty coffee in Japan.

 Many thanks too to our dear friends Ken and Nao in Japan: they helped us with interpreting and also navigating our way through Tokyo, as well as being happy taste testers and opinion holders!

Check out the full article here.
For more information about the fantastic photographic elements tied in with the story, head to Grant's website.

Can i blame it on the oven, please?

I have never had a catastrophic experience in my baking life. On occasions, the appearance of my project may question its edibility: but it usually only takes one brave taste test and five minutes later the pan needs to be washed and the oven has to be reheated for round two.

There have also been successes (albeit rare) whereby the result is outstanding, both in form and flavour. I’d like to say they look as fantastic as the cover shot on Donna Hay, but just hold your horses there: I’m still a novice and I’ll hold that title for a while (perhaps my lifetime?) just to claim the infancy of my skills.

Well tonight actually happened to prove the infancy of those skills. Disaster. Absolute debacle.

I am so incredibly ashamed; I don’t even want the bin to see it.

Turkish lime yoghurt cake. Six ingredients: so simple. I had everything bar the lime and two eggs. So out I went, on an expedition to source the required constituents for my cake that was to be a Mother’s Day special.

I’m blaming it on the oven. I suspected its dubious behaviour from the start, when a) it is the size of a microwave and b) my boyfriend questioned the results of his one and only oven-requiring-dish, nachos.

I could take responsibility and say that it perhaps was my lazy mixing of ingredients. Or the incorrect pan (is a springform pan absolutely vital???). But honestly, such a flop for such minor inconsistencies? Puh-lease. 

Perhaps we'll just envision this is the plate on my bench instead. 

And the yellow dogs vomit that lies beneath the alfoil isn't the work of a wannabe-the-next-Donna-Hay. 

cheddar, anyone?

The other minute, I thought: “I could eat cheese to the cows come home”. Is that a tad conflicting? And what’s with that “…till the cows come home” adage anyway?

I found out. Apparently the saying stems from the fact that cows are somewhat languid and quite nonchalant about returning home- usually aiming for the 4-5am timeslot in order to be milked after a big night out on the pastures, it would seem. It is dated back to around 1829 and possibly from Scotland, appearing in The Times that year (http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/382900.html).

“If the Duke will but do what he unquestionably can do, and propose a Catholic Bill with securities, he may be Minister, as they say in Scotland "until the cows come home."

The journo was suggesting that this is perhaps what the Duke of Wellington should do in order to uphold a place as a minister in Peel’s cabinet.

I still feel a little callous in using it for my cheese-eating habit. Somehow, the Duke, the ministerial position, the whimsical Scottish editor, the drunken cows returning to perform their duties at the crack of dawn- it’s a bit too closely related to why I like my cheese in the first place. I wouldn’t be able to eat cheese if the cows didn’t come home at all. So…thank you…?