sics teaspoons of honey

Reason number two

2011-07-25T18:07:00.000-07:00

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...

2011-07-21T19:49:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-11T15:21:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-01T22:14:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-05-19T04:14:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-05-07T06:09:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-03-14T09:30:00.000-07:00

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…?

free lady

2011-02-21T01:34:00.000-08:00

that's right kids.
3 months and 10 days. and i'm a free lady. not out of the woods yet though. just getting to the clearing. my hiking boots are wearing in though and i'm getting more acquainted with the comfy sole. gone are the days when blisters would cause me grief for days on end and aching shoulders from the heavy north face backpack would force me to hunch over in pain and not face the 330pm afternoon tea with a brave face.
gone are the days when i will face a blueberry muffin for an in-between snack, or ever for that matter. no more vaalia yoghurts please and if i am confronted with one more berri juice i will behave the way i shouldn't in order to avoid admission to the same ward for other reasons we won't mention. i've seen enough parramatta linen towels to last a lifetime and yes, the $20,000 food trolley is impressive, but i'd much rather get my own dinner now thanks. entertainment factor- HIGH: i did not need to purchase tickets from a booth to see a comedy show and could dress in pyjamas for some serious frolic of the impromptu kind- however, you couldn't pay me to return to that place.
yoop yoop free lady.

fdof- five days of freedom

2010-12-27T12:14:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-11-09T00:49:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-05T23:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-28T11:38:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-09-19T14:08:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-06T02:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-22T15:27:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-08-17T23:48:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-08-11T04:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-27T04:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-26T04:18:00.000-07:00

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!

us latvians have got some talent

2010-07-18T20:04:00.000-07:00

my artistic cousin aleksandra is one brave, talented chica.

a freelance stylist, she also provides creative direction for embellishing a space or setting for events, makes botanical flower arrangements look impossibly perfect and her bespoke handwriting makes me hope those hands of hers are insured.
recently launching her website, you should check it out here and make sure there's something beneath your jaw.
i was going to put up a pretty picture of the young lass, however, i fear that reindeer ears may be too incriminating. i'll play it safe...
well done aleks

two tablespoons this time

2010-07-18T00:50:00.000-07:00

I’m beginning to speculate that upon entering an establishment that could quite possible provide honey alongside a myriad of toasty sourdoughy goodness, whether there is a sign on my forehead that perhaps announces that without a suitable honey quota on offer, this lady (yes, I’m calling myself a lady, though others may question my suitability to such a title adorned by the likes of gracious females like Audrey and Greta) may lose the plot and create a sticky situation for all those involved in lack of proper honey portions, delivery, and ideal treacle quality.

I continue to be impressed.

And not only does 60 reservoir street bestow us with the cutest rustic wooden stools to be seated upon whilst imitating Winnie the Pooh, yet they also bring out the most seductive and dreamy crema: Single Origin coffee, for which we ultimately came here for, brewed by Big Boris himself (an affectionate name for the roaster).

These guys roast and blend only the finest- sustainably grown coffee for the caffeine fix and sustainably grown produce for the grumbling stomachs. Friendly staff finish it off and so do the choc coated coffee beans for the walk home.

No need for outbursts due to diet deficient in honey rations for the day. No tantrum required for daily caffeine quota not being met.

Till next time, make sure you head along here:Single Origin Coffee, 60-64 reservoir st, surry hills

and did i mention...?

2010-07-12T05:02:00.000-07:00

i had a dream.

that my tea came with honey.

and guess what...?

i wasn't dreaming.

how amazing is this. this is what honey is meant to come with. a side of earl grey.

pooh likes very much.

darby street goodness

2010-07-12T04:54:00.000-07:00

my best friend fred who is over yonder in ol London town, introduced me to darby street. with a shared likeness in all things cute and tea-associated, it's no wonder i was up there in no time.
next event in timeline: no surf of a sunday meant i dragged the g man up with me and we were well surprised (courtesy of pom friends indeed, cheers).
a pocket strip in newcastle, the darby street precinct is brewing with trendy bars and cafes that of a weekend will have their street side tables overflowing with hip novocastrians, succumbing to the aromas of freshly ground coffee beans being poured into sleek latte glasses.
there's also no doubt that necessary pedestrian footsteps prior to such gusto hits of caffeine will require g and myself to yonder on past the many eclectic shops that are squeezed in between the eating spots. with some of the best shopping in newcastle down this street, i'm cursing cars and registration.
i'm not however objecting the inspiration that is stemming from all the unique boutiques and homeware stores, many of the items being from local designers.
obligatory stop due to other half's stomach making curious noises related to hunger. common occurrence every few hours and must be attended to immediately otherwise patience may wear thin in next boutique where my attention must be commanded...
the kitchen it is. No, not us cooking. Jeez, give us a break. 'The Kitchen': 133 Darby Street. With an award winning barista at the annual darby street coffee festival in june, and customers galore, this is a good sign. we settle. and for some reason, don't order caffeine?

we do however, decide on a lamb burger with beetroot relish and hommus with crispy potato skins for the grumbling stomach, nicely presented on a rustic wooden board

and for moi, a sweet potato and roast vegetable toasted turkish...

happy chappies: indisputably.
we leave the dishes in the kitchen, because we are good housemates and continue down the end, returning to car brimming with ideas for our own little place one day.

oh and this little lady. excuse the ear, it was an attempt of subtilty.
go darby.

a coastal drive home is on the cards, along with a touch of lamb odour emanating from other half, soliciting a chilly winter breeze from car window on drive home.
a heartening afternoon indeed.

tao of pooh

2010-07-08T18:05:00.000-07:00

"Rabbit's clever," said Pooh thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit's clever."
"And he has Brain."
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit has Brain."
There was a long silence.
"I suppose," said Pooh, "that's why he never understands anything."

I love it.

Paddington

2010-07-07T05:01:00.000-07:00

I would just like to share the fact that I discovered that this cute little fella was originally from Peru, of all places, and his name was 'Pastuso' before his adopted parentals aptly named him after the London station they found him at. Awww...

Pastuso, how exotic is that?
For more biographical details about this secretive little character, check out his page Paddington Bear

cafe con leche

2010-07-07T04:47:00.000-07:00

I am somewhat, ashamed, perhaps (yes Coralie, me using and abusing) to admit that I like Starbucks. I'm not going to go into detail as to why, why not. It just happened. Albeit, I'm not a devotee nor a star and am only a frequent customer for the green aproned employees when the drizzle outside sets in and an old amiga requires boredom interference, with which I'm well trained in, and more than willing to offer my skilled services.

In comes two grande cafes, extra hot, one with straw, one without.
Two hours of talking are what follows.

Also involved is the SMH from the neighbour who enjoys soy lattes on skim and toasted banana bread with no butter.

Thoughtfully, he's left my favourite page untouched.

Not so thoughtfully, I decide two minutes later.

Outrageous thoughts interrupt the two hour Star session as to what on earth 10-across is and why Tuesday's puzzleman is so evil, but the Monday and Thursday puzzler teases you into thinking you are smart and suddenly able to pen in answers that don't require yesterday's answers for assistance. There is strong urge to succumb to the calling of the thesaurus app recently applied to the iphone. There is also a strong urge to maybe leave the coffee shop and walk around?

eh.

There is also a strong urge to wring that Bombers scarf around Kathleen's neck in hopes that the colours change from black and red, to white and red whilst simultaneously altering the chemical imbalance in her head that has seen her support such a team instead of the gracious pond dwellers, most commonly known as the Sydney Swans.

Yes, I'm talking to you, penguin umbrella lady.

Round two. Opting for the chai this time as afternoon light sets in and the umbrella sitting at home is of no use. Plenty of laughter occurs when yet another application on the iphone becomes quite the novelty and I fear for my life if I was to post the results.

Let's just say, fat booth. Or shall we blame it on the double mochacino, full-fat, extra whipped crema?

I don't care what you coffee aficionado's say, I still had a nice afternoon.

Macaroon+Sundays=delight

2010-07-04T04:36:00.000-07:00

I'm sure somewhere along the line, you've heard of these amazing, incredible, delectable treats, commonly known as macaroons (or macarons? I'm confused...). On a recent photo shoot for my talented cousin, we sampled these and it was love at first bite. Someone please inform me as to why these were only of late introduction to my life?!?

Since that late Autumn afternoon, I have been having nightmarish thoughts about drowning in a sea of macaroons. No thanks to the creative sweet treats being made into exotic and insane flavour fusions by Adrian Zumbo. This guy is no regular patissier. Get your hands and tastebuds onto these beauties:

For a girl who cannot make decisions very easily, you can only imagine the predicament I was in that Sunday at the patisserie. Crazy flavours such as beetroot and raspberry, kalamata olive and bergamot candy, custard crunch, pumpkin and orange risotto... what was i to do?
Thanks to the bombardment of keen customers queuing out the door, it was required that my choice was a hasty one. Mont Blanc it was. G opted for the pinky goodness of beetroot and raspberry.

And don't even get me started on the shelves of freshly baked rye sourdough goodness that were eyeing me off from behind the counter.
Adriano Zumbo Patisserie
296 Darling St, Balmain
View the menu and more information regarding this sweet place here

Two days later and withdrawal symptoms began setting in. Now G was getting nightmarish thoughts. Action had to be taken. One macaroon wasn't enough. Let's fill our kitchen with all ingredients necessary and see what we come up with.

In attempting to imitate the best, the best chocolate is required. As are the skills of an adept photographer to capture the clumsy ongoings of the novice chef.

Waiting, waiting, waiting...

Ok, I've heard they've started classes now. I'm looking into it.
Nonetheless, they were consumed. They were scrumptious. And i am quite pleased that there are ingredients leftover to make more tee hee
Check out more of these photographic skills on g's website:
http://www.krop.com/grantmolony/

what do you call the first post?

2010-07-03T02:55:00.000-07:00

hey there kidlets
these are the words/ongoings/pictures/things/fun-stuff/food/drinky-dinks -whachaymacallit that occur in pooh's existence...
birth certificate says otherwise (aimee astrid), however, pooh works well for a certain fella (we'll call him g) so feel free to join pooh and all the adventures...and if you don't like honey in your tea well, you soon will. and if you don't drink tea, put honey in your coffee. or don't.
either way, enjoy xx