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…?

free lady

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

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.