fdof- five days of freedom

Five days off a hard stint at work…so to speak

And it’s always the little things that we never realise are so special and/or luxurious…

Like hot toast.

Caffeinated coffee.
That can be stirred with a spoon, not a paddle pop stick and consequently be flavour-free from the wood.

A bed that doesn't russell from the plastic lining underneath the starch, cold sheets and is reminiscent of a time when your parents were concerned of your potty-training abilities. 

Unaccompanied mealtimes.

Unscheduled mealtimes.

A variety of attire and accessories to select from. Extracted from set of drawers rather than country road travel bag.

A rewarding shower: this is identified when one can exit the shower recess sans peachy-scented suds on body and the shampoo foam is in the drain, not ones hair.

A rewarding hand wash: this is identified when one can rinse the cleansing soap thoroughly from ones hands within a period of less than ten seconds due to tap spout having a diameter more than 1 millimetre. This is also accompanied by another identifying factor of the water attempting to reach the hands, instead of deciding to bashfully dribble down the back of the basin.
Feeling the breeze off the swaying trees outside your window in lieu of the air conditioned zephyr inside your room.
Breathing in the fresh air that comes off those swaying trees and is decidedly unscented with disinfectant or bodily odours that should just not be odorous at all.

Having company that you actually are not forced to “companise” (is that a word? Is now.) with and seriously refer to a "conversation starter" booklet for engagement.

Yes… it’s the little things I had all along. I had them there the whole time. And I luff it all. I luff you all. Thank you. xx

toast it is because I'm not reading?

Lately I have been reading like I’m travelling. This is strange behaviour.

Interpretation: when I’m not gallivanting across the globe (oh how glamorous that sounds, but no not really, I’m a jetstar lady through and through. It’s actually been quite some time since the my journey involved more than the complimentary water), I’m at home and generally don’t read anything much unless it is 116 pages long and titled Frankie, which only happens on a bi-monthly occasion. It seems my nightly hours are spent with my other half playing a board game and eating dinner. It could also be the fact that, ashamedly, I admit, that my night is surrounded by a gap in time, where all my senses are encapsulated by the reality television show that has taken the kitchen to the lounge room and consequently skyrocketed sales of dishwashing detergent and chef knives in the country. I am a culprit of this obsessive behaviour whereby the world around me ceases activity and the only voices I desire to hear are that of George, Gary and any other show-related stars that may be appearing in the episode. I can’t cook.

Well, I can’t cook like them. Although there is continual aspiration to replicate the Rhubarb and strawberry crostata following a main of Chicken roulades, pistachio butter and capsicum sauce, for tomorrow nights dinner, it seems my parsimonious skills at the supermarket come to the forefront and the ingredient list just looks way too lengthy for me and what? Four dollars for sixty-five grams of pistachios and the formula for this marvellous dessert requires two hundred? And since when did sour cream come in so many different shapes, sizes, versions and textures? Considering all complexities involved, it’s best I just avoid an absolute and downright disaster in that area of the house tonight. Besides, Master Chef begins at 7.30 and if it’s already 5.45…

So this is why I have been reading. I went away for two weeks (yes, Japan was wonderful. Trip was amazing. Aforementioned blog notes will advise you of such events) and I fell completely and utterly in love with a novel. It seems that 8 million readers can’t be wrong and I succumbed to the hearsay that it was a brilliant trilogy. So here I am, halfway through the second book, only pausing for segments that are twice weekly now (thank god, I need to know what happens to Salander and her psychopathic tendencies that have gotten her into serious strife this time). The first book caught me off hand- I was expecting it to be good, but not that good. Totally consumed was I- even through grotesque and horrific parts that would otherwise steer me towards sunshine and lollipops for hope of normalcy and denial that such activities occur in this world.

So for those of you who read while travelling, or read at home because you are not engulfed in a food program where an eight year old can make vegemite on toast tastier than you- I thoroughly put forward a good review for the “Millenium” series by Stieg Larsson, book one being “The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo”. 

arigatto gozaimasu

Recent trip to Japan yields many interesting discoveries. An exquisite culture, on my third visit to the nation, it is rare that I am not in awe every five minutes. From toilets that can flush your posterior to the public amenities with signage indicating correct seating procedures (use your imagination, please).

The weirdest things amuse me: You can spend 200 yen on a packet of dried mini crabs in a light crusting of candy or you can have your KitKat flavoured with purple sweet potato.

A vending machine is always within arms reach no matter if you’re on Yuichi’s farm or in Naoko’s suburban apartment building. If it’s food you’re after instead of liquid sugar, several offer “Casual Frozen Foods” then superbly deliver hot chips onto the tray below (tomato sauce an extra 50yen).

Entertainment comes in many forms- if black leather clad rockabilly’s dancing their heart out to 80’s rock while knocking back sweet girly drinks is your ideal Sunday afternoon, head to Harajuku park for more amusement than any theme park could ever offer.   

Shall I continue? Apples that are so enormous they could give watermelons a run for their money. Large fresh mackerel that are more affordable than the apples aforementioned. Best idea ever- to cook my dinner in a spicy broth right in front of me and eat immediately. No plate required. Two hundred people attempting to surf at a beach that is doing a fine job of imitating a lake. And they’re serious about getting tubed. Teriyaki chicken filled crepes. If you have more of a sweet tooth, bunana and fresh cream is also on the menu.
Traversing across the busiest shambles of an intersection I have ever seen yet holding no fear of looking up to the towering skyscrapers that showcase millions of dollars worth of advertisements.

 Quirky English translations that don’t make sense even when you try to jumble the words around. Toothpaste that advertises “Breath Communication Etiquette”.

Restaurant window displays with plastic food that imitates their menu- intended to entice you as you decide upon the location of your next meal.

And alongside all the oddities of this idiosyncratic nation, traditional life still breathes so smoothly with the modern culture. New transcends with the old and although this land is so foreign, I feel neither displaced nor insecure. Beauty in the land and peace in the temples. Respect for each other and integrity for their country. Leaving this place on an orange and silver budget airline? Tragic. Knowing I will never get sick of returning? Promising.

The entrée to the skydive

Ok, so it wasn’t me that went skydiving. And some would think I wouldn’t have the insides to jump out of a plane 14,000 feet above the ground. But I would.

However, let’s not be selfish here. For a man who recently turned 6x10 and has never sat foot on a plane, let alone jumped out of one, I was more than happy to escort him to the fields of the Hunter Valley, whereby he would then be suited up to fall 4.2 kilometres out of the sky, at some stage assisted to the landing with a faded parachute. And a cheerful stocky instructor wearing a 1940’s leather pilot's cap, whom quite evidently was showing signs of an adrenalin rush similar to that of grocery shopping when he plopped down on in behind Frankie. As the novice stumbled to his feet, Mr Grumble plodded back on to the bus, chute in tow, ready to head down aisle 6 for the third time that day. Heaven forbid.

In between the wind deciding if it wants to behave like the wind or not, there was plenty of what one would call “spare time”. And what better way to spend such a thing, in the burbs of Pokolbin, on a 26 degree September day? That chocolate shop I’d spotted on the corner of Broke Road didn’t go unnoticed for a reason; nor did the stench of the smelly cheese shop go –unsmelt? In no apparent order, we indulged in the selection of some cocoa delights before returning to the estate to be told to wait just a little bit longer.

I’m beginning to think maybe they struck a deal with Tempus Two. Making a drooling idiot of myself, I wandered aimlessly around that shop, as I suppose the gaggle of tour bus passengers did as well. 

With an impressive array of delicatessen products to feast our googling eyes upon, how was one to decide whether to go for the Smelly’s Triple Cream Brie, Midnight Moon goat milk or the Binnorie marinated feta?

You don’t decide. You walk over to the other side of the shop, whereby you will be confronted with the best thing about taking your boyfriend’s father skydiving. 

Sorry Frank, your face was priceless after the fall, but the mango gelato left me in a dither. 

And I haven’t even thought about the other 46 flavours on offering. No, not at all.

Did someone say apples?

No, the lady from that fairy tale didn’t give me a few apples to put me to sleep (or poison me???). But the lady at the fruit shop did shoot me a peculiar glance as I purchased these monsters, wondering how my small hands could hold these fruits if my basket was struggling.

Fact: I love apples. Thanks to my dearly beloved mother’s mother, Rosemary, who almost collapsed onto the kitchen floor when she saw my present for her the other evening. No it wasn’t a dead cockroach. It was a Pink Lady. Moreover, this explains the erratic behaviour that also occurred one morning when we ventured out to Flemington markets. 

I swear these things are growing in our gene pools. Or maybe just hers and mine and it skipped a generation because mother dearest hates chokos.

Fact: When I googled “apple”, I was a little befuddled as to why my daily fruit obsession “designs and creates iPod and iTunes, Mac laptop and desktop computers, the OS X operating system and the revolutionary iPhone and iPad”. Well I never knew the power of the Fuji…

Fact: Cloudy apple juice is better for you than clear as it contains four times the amount of polyphenols in it: the good stuff that contains anti-cancer fighting things. You can also find these poly-friends in red wine and chocolate. Two other things that may see me one day almost collapse onto the kitchen floor, as said Rosemary nearly did.

Fact: Don’t peel the skin. Firstly- it contains more antioxidants and fibre than the flesh itself, which by the way is 25% air, hence why they float. Secondly- just be lazy and eat the god damn thing already, would you?

Fact: They are part of the rose family.

Fact: Apples can be canned or juiced.

Or put to death by way of suffocation from high heat, pastry, custard and cream. 

Fact: Apples have mothers too.

laneway fever

amazing. dumbfounded. tall. dark. not scary. inviting. secretive. surprising. treasures. scented. caffeine. roasted vegetables. tapas. beautiful? ney. intriguing. endless. charming. curious. pleasing.

did i mention we went to melbourne? 

consumption of caffeine and chocolate was not amiss. neither was wandering the streets aimlessly, fascinated by the diverse neighbourhoods and the distinctive city vibe. all together meshed in with dedication to each of their teams: clarfiying what 'hood  you have now ventured into, the spirit and wrath is felt tout de suite. 

i hate you tiger, for bringing me back here. couldn't you have lived up to your delayed expectations and grounded us in victoria?

Guilty, as charged

OK. Yep, we did it again.  One would say perhaps, we are infatuated. Yet I prefer the term, loyal.

So with Adriano Zumbo’s café relocating to 114 Terry Street, Rozelle, it was obligatory that we detour on the way to the airport to drop Ken and Nao off, to pay a visit and make sure the macaroons still tasted heavenly and delish as they were at the previous location.  To be sure, to be sure.

G was happy to do some sampling, purchasing five straight up: no flavour-choosing-dilemma, no questions asked and upon paying, turning to his beloved and making it clear, that without a doubt, they were all for him. First up: Blueberry and Lavender.

Proceeding quietly in queue was Ken and Nao, slowly recovering from their eyes popping out of their head and jaws dropping to the concrete flooring. Two lattes and an array of flavours, chosen mainly from the bright colours and preferring not to examine closely what flavours might be contrived from such combinations.

Me next. Oh jeez, lucky these counter girls are patient and as indecisive as this customer. Based solely on the fact that I’d try the vanilla one previously, I was tempted into buying four and branching out a little. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? It would taste, not as good? It would still taste great no matter what and I’m sure between the four of us, there was a mouth that would be pleased to sample the remainder. So I settled for three. Ten minutes later. 

Barely stepping out onto the road again, into the afternoon sunlight- with our eyes now having to adjust to a lesser brightness, mind you- the bags were open and our gobs full of sugary goodness and eyes were once again rolling around, sending messages of total bliss to the brain.

Mmmm...gooey goodness of the Jaffa...

As unattractive as you may think they are, they are not that ugly once they hit the palate. Believe me.

The list of taste testing that was done that afternoon: Blueberry and Lavender, Mandarin, Lemon, Mocha, Jaffa and Vanilla.

Then we had lunch. Ha!

Zumbo's new cafe: 114 Terry Street, Rozelle.

Check out the website here too.

coffee, anyone?

I can now safely say that I appreciate coffee fanatics a bit more. I don’t understand it entirely. However, I respect that they have a passion for something and that something can taste amazing. It can be so different, so versatile. It is a lifestyle. To “catch up for coffee” is such a social event, even for those who don’t drink coffee habitually. Such as myself- at three in the afternoon, I would prefer a cup of tea, yet I would still pose the invitation of, “shall we meet for coffee?”

Anyhoo, I will quit my prattle and continue with the story. 

Nao’s appreciation of coffee and enthusiasm for a café latte in Australia, brought about more admiration for the simple cup of coffee for me. My long blacks are now interchangeable between flat whites and no more chain addictions: this stuff has to be real- sourced, roasted, ground to perfection- and deserving of every sip. The pleasure: to be on both sides of the café’s counter.

I’ve been to Campos before- albeit majority of the time I’m ordering a soy latte on behalf of my sister down the road at work: her alarm clock repeatedly fails to work every Thursday and conveniently I am in the area around the time a latte calls out to me by the name of soy, campos and let’s-wait-15-minutes-while-these-madmen-baristas-whip-up-forty-four-before-mine. Then I shall hurry it on down to her and return to another café for my own beverage.

 This time, I ordered one for myself. “To have here, thank you.” 

Quite unusual to say the least, not to mention the enjoyment of such an occasion. Not only did I have a barista in training at my table, but the good company and smooth coffee went down a treat and I delightfully exited the building that morning, on my way to a commonly dreaded appointment.

Campos Coffee: 193 Missenden Road, Newtown. Nice work kids!

And of course, Ken's sweet tooth was on its best behaviour...

Again, two days later, I was introduced by Nao to a café in mid-city-craziness, by the name of “Workshop”. I’ve often been intrigued by its abundance of customers, however put it down to the fact that it is situated on George Street and at that, a highly frequented pedestrian area.

Needless to say, these patiently waiting businessmen, retail staff, and local city bumpkins alike, are onto it. This is good coffee. And I’m only an amateur at this thing. Just the aroma had me on the corner of Park and George. Can I say that about coffee? Who cares. I am. It was scrumptious. So drinkable, so satisfying, and yep. This is the place I shall return to first.

Workshop. Hit it. 500 George St.

Thanks Nao! And Ken, for amusement, insight, and good friendship, above all...

east coast shoesy explore!

Ok, I have this thing with taking a photo of my feet in places. It started overseas one time.

Proud of my whereabouts, I played slave to the infamous hand-held, self-portrait one too many times. Consequently, all you could see of my travels was my greased up forehead and toothy grin and maybe another tourist in the background. Or a llama, if he was lucky.

So my feet. I feel that if I’m going to be pompous about my location, my shoes might tell a story of journey a little bit nicer than my oily face. Hence, the addiction to now snap wherever the bright pumas tend to wander.

And g has snagged the custom too.

Our recent trip up the east coast brought many seaside adventures- rocky walks, sandy beaches and thus, more snappy snaps with the handy i-thingy, you know whatchamacallit…

And no slimy, tired faces to reflect back on in five years. Thank gawd…

g g g

this amazing man

has many passions

one of them is photography

actually, he's got quite the talent

for all arty things, as you can see here

and here. 

Make sure you check out his blog too.

With plenty of impressive shots, get the cushion for that jaw again.

Not to mention, an early birthday surprise for pooh came today:

Melbourne here we come,

tanks a mill gooba man

woo woop to women's health

Latest Women's Health hit the stores last week and one landed in my mailbox too...
Thanks to the girlies in the office for having me and letting some of my words sly into the Beauty breakthrough page: stoked on another by line!
Grab a copy of the healthy magazine on your agents shelves or online here!