The Red Shoes

The Red Shoes

They had only made it half way to the front door. I’d remembered to bring them down from my bedroom but left them on the half-height wall in the lounge. It was a habit we had gotten into - leaving things by the stairs to be taken up or down.  Our cats had other plans for things left on the walls. Like brave hunters protecting their masters, they would bat items off the wall and onto the floor, forcing the object to submit to their feline dominance. 

So, I had moved the shoes in case they should suffer the same fate, the heavy wood heels marking the wood floor. Our landlords were cautious and had forced us to sign extra documents in our rental contract. We would not allow anyone to wear stiletto heels on the timber floor. Do I even know anyone who wears stilettos? We would not have any dogs or cats. Whoops.

The red leather shoes got put on top of a crate in my painting area. I don’t have a studio but a small area lined with a tarp then drop-sheet to protect the beloved floorboards. Plastic crates held my paints, rags and jars with brushes in varying stages of utility. Balanced upon a bar stool, an old tile served as my palette.

One evening alone and half a bottle of pink wine later, the urge struck. I didn’t have an image in mind like I often do. I looked around saw the shoes and thought why not. Loosely sketching the image onto the canvas, I got to thinking about such an everyday object in my life. I’d never been one of those women who own loads of shoes. I only wear shoes that are absolutely comfortable. I prefer flats over heels. Barefoot most of the time, any heels I do own must be able to be run in if the need arose.

There was a well dressed man who I briefly dated. He was a gentleman, sending a car to pick me up for our second date, where upon I met his best friend and wife. It was a well-reviewed bayside restaurant with an indulgent wine list and meal usually beyond my modest budget. I talked comfortably with the driver on the way to dinner. Working in a service industry myself, I’ve always chatted easily with waiters, bar staff and customer service assistants. They often know the best places for a drink or meal.

Over a few weeks, he wined and dined me. One afternoon, he turned up at my work to surprise me with a fancy dinner after work. We walked along the street after I finished up, me giving him the tour of the small country town in which I worked. Holding hands, we looked in the shop windows finally stopping at a popular bar for a glass of cold, white wine – a welcome perk of working in a fabulous wine region.

In the window of one store that I rarely entered due to my tight budget, we stopped and admired a pair of red heels. He asked if I liked them; I responded that I did. The store was closed so I knew he wasn’t going to buy them for me. I assumed he was just trying to learn more about what I liked and didn’t like. The seed had been sown though. I liked the shoes but I knew I didn’t need the shoes. I did, however, envision myself wearing them with jeans, with dresses, floral skirts - anything.

After we broke up, I decided to buy them. It wasn’t retail therapy to cheer myself up as I wasn’t really upset that we’d broken up. There had been something about the relationship that had felt a bit off. Maybe it was that he owned more beauty products and shoes than I did.

It was around this time that I began to reflect on what I had learned from the men that I had dated since my marriage dissolved. From one, I learned that I didn’t like being organized by others. From another, I learned that it is important to me to hear the words ‘I love you’. From the aforementioned gentleman, I learned that I could treat myself to some of the finer things in life.

So I went and spent more money on a pair of shoes than I had ever in my life. I slipped my feet inside and they were perfect – no pinching, no rubbing. And I did wear them with dresses, floral skirts and jeans. I loved wearing them. I felt special. Occasionally people noticed them and I would bend my knee, raise my hem and look down to admire them also. I smiled and said - thank you, I love them too.

I remember one night at a gypsy music bar in the inner north – you probably know it, it only serves crepes, two savory and two sweet options. Red-checked table cloths, velvet-clad chairs, and only one wine glass. If you are early enough you’ll get the wine glass, otherwise it’s a tumbler for you. I’m one of those early type people and while that doesn’t help with my social anxiety that the event won’t even happen, it did mean that the wine glass was generally mine.

 I found the bar via a piano-accordion player I briefly tried dating though things never seemed to quite work out there. We seemed to continually miss each other somehow.  I did, however, fall in love with the whole bohemian music scene. The swirling cacophony of notes, plaintive vocals and impassioned dancing hypnotized me. I was hooked and kept schlepping from middle suburbia into this exotic other world. My shoes brought me here. They belonged here.

One sultry summer evening, I didn’t feel like going out but had read in a well-meaning friend’s book on dating rules that the first step is just showing up. So I climbed into the low cut black dress that celebrated my curves and my comfortable, reliable red shoes. I did get compliments on my shoes. Small positive words buoyed me. The glass full of wine didn’t hurt either.

Then there was the Italian chef I had previously dated. I was now single. Again, it had been a relationship that didn’t pan out for any apparent reason. I wasn’t hung up on it. We’d both been invited to a party up country by the chef who had originally set us up on our first date. Not exactly a blind date, we had known each other through mutual friends.

Now country parties don’t normally seem like a heels kind of occasion but they had hired a function space and bungalows for the event. And I wanted to impress. I wanted to be the one who was in control. I wanted to be the one to choose to sleep with him or not.

It was going to be a great weekend. I’d taken the time off work, which was rare for me. Parties thrown by chefs are always good. Hospitality people like to drink and I’m not talking casks of Jacobs Creek. Platters groaned with piles of antipasto, cheese, seafood and more. Each surface offered up something delightful to eat or drink.

 It was late summer and the drive north was through some dry land indeed. Different shades of brown stretched from one side of the horizon to the other. Bushfires had raged across the hills only a year or two prior and many of the guests were somewhat twitchy. The firestorm was still a very real memory for most.

 I’m not a country girl though I worked out that way for many years and had grown to have an understanding of why people chose to live in such an area even though it was remote from the city with the very real threat of bushfire each summer. For me, I was always happy to return to my middle suburban life.

So I brought my shoes along with me. My red wrap dress and the heels worked their magic. I loved that evening. An entertaining group of people - I was with my tribe. I belonged even though I’d only met a handful of them before. I ate and drank with vigor, even danced to delightfully daggy 1980’s music. We did spend the night together. Though nothing further eventuated between us, I was fine with that.

Ten years on the shoes have seen better days – chunks out of the wooden heel, paint rubbed off the rear piece of leather, straps loose and soles very thin. Can they be rehabilitated? Should they be rehabilitated? Are they still relevant in my life? Am I painting a souvenir of times gone by or immortalizing a beloved item in my life?

A few days later, I find myself at the cobbler.  She is a short, spunky woman about my age who I slightly want to be. She seems to have found a trade she believes in and loves, that tires her but makes her feel useful. Her calloused, stained hands turn the shoes over and over, evaluating them while I try and explain what I hope for them. I’m not sure if what I’m asking is possible. How can I explain to her in just a few minutes what these mean to me, why I can’t seem to accept that they may have reached the end of their life? She finally looks up and smiles. I think things are going to be okay.

Food as love.

If you’ve ever read  The Five Languages of Love book, or done one of those flippant Facebook quizzes, you’ve probably heard of the concept that we fall into particular camps regarding how we express our love for another – romantic or otherwise. Inconveniently, we also use this filter to perceive the actions of others as loving or not. If you’re curious, feel free to do an online search for the relevant terms and discover if you do perceive the actions of others as loving, and I will use the term nurturing as well. The fun bit is seeing if you and your partner, if you have one, view things the same way. I’m betting you don’t.

One of the main ways I demonstrate my love towards someone is to cook for them. Food is and has always been a big part of my life so this isn’t exactly surprising. I recall being sixteen and cooking a dish which at the time was not only a favourite of mine but also I considered being fairly cutting edge. Please bear in mind it was the 1980’s.

There was this guy I was trying to impress and hopefully get further along the baseball diamond scenario with (first base, second base – you with me?).  I even had two versions of this winner dish. The classic version was pan fried chicken breast fillet with a bacon and avocado cream sauce. I know, told you it would be classic. My alternative version was pasta with a chicken, bacon, avocado and cream sauce. Even now as I type these words, I cringe at the thought of dry stringy chicken meat (which I’m sure it was with the fear of food poisoning looming over my head), hard cooked nubs of bacon and under-ripe soapy tasting avocado in a too sweet creamy bath.

I can’t remember his name only that my parents had gone away to their beach house for the weekend and the coast was clear. I can picture a pimply face, short dark hair and him leaning against the kitchen bench whilst I tried to win him over with my kitchen confidence. The wine was Mateus rose – that classic semi-sweet from Portugal. I won’t reveal how well my efforts were received as my mum might read this.

A really beautiful part of the school that my children attended was the rosters that were set up when the class had a new mother. Healthy meals were provided that would nourish the family of the new baby. It was a Steiner school that my children attended so many dietary variations such as vegetarian, allium/dairy/gluten-free and so on had to be respected.

Only a few years ago, one gentleman I had started dating was quite strict on only consuming free range meats and had been lamenting the dearth of smallgoods that fit with his self-imposed parameters. My local organic store stocked a wide selection so I gathered salamis, sliced cured products and sausages into a bouquet complete with tissue paper wrapping. Again, decorum will prevent me from delving into precisely how grateful he was but I’m sure you can figure it out.

What I’m saying is nourishing people with food is one significant way that I show how I care. Of course, I do like compliments and affirmations of I love you but if I cook for you, it’s because I love you. The next bit is figuring out how other people are saying it to me.

Word Con 2, graphic novels and me

First up at Word Con 2 last week, was Robyn Doreian in conversation with Simon McKeown. Writing for illustrative text has been a subject of ups and downs for me. I don’t read graphic novels or comics so I really had to work hard at finding aspects that I could relate to and work with.

Simon’s comics have a strong Victorian thread as they centre on the grand old hotels of Bendigo. The second in his projected series of ten, ‘The True History of the Whipstick Sound’, obviously features many musical references. One double page spread shows album covers of fictional bands. It is this sort of extra layer of information that I really enjoy and thanks to Simon’s prompting I went back to scour a reference book I own – “1000 Record Covers” by Michael Ochs (see links here and here).

It made me consider my own relationship with music, which I will admit is not overly deep. I do remember a second hand record store that was on Burke Road in Camberwell. Records were displayed in liberated milk crates alphabetically but not by style. Personally I thought this was a genius approach as I became exposed to things I made never have previously come across. There was a turntable with a pair of headphones controlled by the grumpy staff – just like in the movies. For a middle suburban teenage girl, it was all very exotic. I uncovered The Damned there.

And for those who are curious, below is a mock up of the front cover and one internal page of the comic I’ve been working on. 

The story centres on a woman with taste synaethesia and her journey in life. You can read the prologue here

Gretel - prologue to a graphic novel I'm working on

She couldn’t help it. It was part of her. It wasn’t something that she one day decided to do or something that she could turn on or off. All her life, people had told her to just ignore it. You couldn’t just ignore it. It was distracting. People were distracting. It wasn’t a simple thing to walk down to the shops for a newspaper. She liked to wear smudged sunglasses and an old cap low on her head to avoid any unwanted attention from people. She mostly wore drab grey loose clothing. Her eyes looked only a few steps ahead so she didn’t actively walk into someone. That would be the worst. Catching someone’s eye or having to engage in conversation was bad enough. Physical touch was too much.

She read somewhere that it had something to do with extra links in the brain. Doctors had wanted to study her brain but she had no interest in submitting herself to endless rounds of tests and scans. Letting her body go into one of those huge expensive machines wasn’t part of her plan. Not that she really had a plan. Her plans usually went as far as what work and other obligations she had that week. Family birthdays, sure, were kind of hard to get out of but she avoided appointments where possible. She hadn’t been to the dentist in five years and had started to worry if that sensitivity in her top right teeth was actually a problem. The thought of someone’s hands in her mouth was more than she could bare.

Who knows what the dentist or their assistant would taste like? Thirty year old carpet, skin that has spent too many hours in the sun all sweaty and salty or over-heated milk sickly sweet and sour. They never tasted like warm cherry pie or straight from the oven chocolate cookies. With all of the possible tastes in this world, why was it that she encountered more unpleasant than pleasant ones. Did other taste synesthetics experience the same thing? She didn’t know anyone else with her gift so couldn’t answer the question.

She’d never met another taste synesthetic. She first learned the term when she was a teenager. Wikipedia and internet chat rooms were her salvation. A doctor had declared his diagnosis one day after years of visits. Lexical-gustatory synaesthesia to be precise. As a baby, the notes on her Maternal Child record book noted that she had been ‘failing to thrive’. Her mother had always fussed over her poor eating habits as a child and hoped that things would improve when she started school. Surely her peer group would provide a positive influence. They didn’t.

 She was petit and found it easy to fade into the corners. At recess and lunch time she managed to appear occupied with packing up classroom activities, tidying her desk or taking a trip to the bathroom. Her teachers never seemed to notice that she spent more time unpacking her individually wrapped lunch items than she did consuming them.

The crackers and the carrot sticks had to be in separate containers. Cheese slices had to be a particular brand and kept cool. Cross contamination and possible food spoilage were easy excuses for food to be put in the large round file in the corner of the classroom. Other kids turfed their dry crusts and browned apple cores amongst the scrunched waxed paper and plastic scraps. Gretel became adept at hiding her mother’s homemade treats in between the foil and brown paper bags of the class’ detritus.

After school she would retire to her room and sit with her favourite blanket under the desk that her mother had kept from her own childhood. Her mother envisioned the little girl at the desk reading her beloved books saved from her own childhood, cutting and gluing artistic creations or drawing grand designs on endless supplies of paper. Instead, Gretel would sit leaning against the wooden desk, with the afternoon sun streaming through dusty net curtains onto her legs until she succumbed to snooze-land.

Her mother was grateful that Gretel didn’t come home from school and plop in front of the TV like other children she knew. She assumed that the school day exhausted her sweet little girl. Gretel lacked energy partly due to her lack of food consumption but also because she found interaction with other people so energy zapping. They were too stimulating, too distracting, too much. She couldn’t watch TV or go to the movies. All those people, all those words and sounds each with their own taste. Everything got too much. One would be lid ice-cream, another would be defrosted bread, synthetic maple syrup, damp grass, raw potato, and ear-wax or week old kitty litter.

She could understand the appeal of texture and temperature when it came to food but flavour as embodied in food was a foreign concept to Gretel. She would taste flavours thousands of times a day and so didn’t experience hunger as others did. Flavour went beyond sweet, salty, sour, bitter and umami. She had tried and failed to describe the taste of vinyl car upholstery after hours in the sun. Oily, sweaty and flaccid went only part way there. It was also earthy and sweet with a lingering hint of musty leaves. It was only the recurrent grumble of her stomach and weakness in her limbs that defined hunger for Gretel.

Her sixth grade teacher had tasted of vanilla ice cream. Mr Whitehall gave her a brain freeze. She found it difficult to concentrate as she held her head back, pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and covered her mouth and nose with her hands. WikiHow users voted these the most effective methods for dealing with brain freeze. She wasn’t so sure.

cheese glorious cheese

Is cheese life beyond death?

Cheese represents decomposition in edible form. Milk, which represents the sustenance of life for calves, is the main raw material for cheese. Bacteria which already exist within the natural environment of a farm at least, if not in a modern scrubbed home then interact with this sitting milk. Time plus milk plus bacteria will add up to a delicious product.

Does eating cheese take us closer to death and life beyond death?

What cheese would I like to be reincarnated as? Currently I really like the fresh, lemony goats cheese rounds about 120g in weight, white and off white in colour and though classified as a semi-soft cheese, at times it can be almost runny. It’s perfect for me when it still has about one third chalky centre. Over ripe it can have quite a strong ammonia character.

Either that or Appenzeller which is a semi hard from north eastern Switzerland. It exhibits a lovely ‘stinky socks’ aroma, is straw yellow in colour and has tiny holes within its hard rind. The big pay-out is the washed rind. Different  producers use cider, wine or a herbal brine never disclosing their many years old secret recipe. Whilst I love a big chunk hacked off the block, it also makes a fabulous grilled cheese on toast.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2511272/Would-eat-cheese-HUMAN-FEET-ARMPITS.html

The above linked article refers to a project whereby human bacteria was deliberately used in the creation of cheese. I was disappointed that no one apparently consumed the end product. Would I? Absolutely I would. I’d definitely eat cheese made from my own bacteria. I wonder if I’d want to know about the person who donated the bacteria or if I prefer the anonymity.

I’m not a very spiritual person but can’t help but flirt with the greater concepts of life and death and reincarnation. I usually dance around my fluid ideas regarding these when asked. Cheese is a very concrete incarnation of these big ideas.

Well that’s my excuse for my high consumption.

Ommmmming

Seated on our green cotton bolsters in the yoga shala or yoga room, the goddesses are assembled in a circle ready for our group meditation. Loose light clothing and the obligatory mosquito repellent to scent my ankles and neck and I’m ready to send love and good vibes to my compadres. Laura, our yoga goddess, looks calm and relaxed in her stretch leggings and loose singlet. Pale blonde hair pulled back off her face, she is the epitome of a yoga teacher. Tall and slim her lithe limbs appear so at home in poses that confuse and elude me though she continues to encourage us “no matter what body turned up for you on the mat this morning.” This morning to finish off our week’s retreat, we have an OM circle. This mantra chanting is supposed to provide vibrational healing both mentally and emotionally.

Laura explains how the session will run with a short personal meditation then the OM circle with the use of mala beads. Mala beads are a string of 108 beads and a central ‘sumeru’ or summit bead.  Essentially the string of beads is a tool to keep the mind on the meditation practice. Made from woods, seeds or crystals, the beads are held in the right hand, rotating them around the circle but never across the summit bead. As to why there are 108 beads on a string of mala beads? Well, there are no doubt 108 answers to this question, most playing with the mathematics of the numerals and how they intersect with the universe.

We each will chant ‘OM’ as a group 108 times. At each interval of 5, one goddess will lay down in the centre of the circle face up with arms outstretched palms upwards. Each will experience the circle differently. No expectations and no pre-conceptions .Focussing on my breath and centring my mind, I get better at the whole omming thing as the chant progresses. When I’m tapped gently on the knee, it’s my turn in the centre. I feel the cool hard floorboards beneath me. Across my skin I sense the breeze from the fan or as I like to think of it the breath of the divine Goddess blowing her healing energy into my abdomen. The work of Papa Bagus yesterday is supported by the Goddess circle this morning. There’s no pain in my intestinal region only a strong awareness of this area.

When we’ve reached the final bead, we are lead through a short prayer and an awakening ritual ready to prepare us for the day ahead. Hands together palms touching at heart centre and gently rub them together to warm then place over our closed eyes, let the early morning light filter in as I slowly blink my eyes open. Stretching the limbs and we all wander over the few paces to our breakfast table.

Platters of brightly coloured tropical fruits are offered up each morning for our viewing and consuming pleasure. Dragonfuit of such a strong shade of fuchsia with tiny black seeds that it looks like a child coloured it in. Snake fruit with scaly brown skin and an off white fibrous perfumed flesh. Mango is less creamy and sweet than I’m used and slightly astringent. Papaya perfectly ripe and not the least bit funky. Mangosteen is a delight once you cut through the thick skin and reveal its sweet white flesh. There are also the tastiest eggs poached or scrambled as you like, seedy brown bread and juices in new combinations each day.

Sitting here at the table, I think about how I’m going to miss having a selection of tasty healthy foods prepared freshly for me at each meal. There will be no limitless spa treatments at my disposal. I, personally, will miss Yeni’s strong fingers tracing the muscles of my back.  My white cotton sheets won’t be changed each day with the corner turned down and a small inspirational affirmation card on my pillow. The lyrical sounds of the housekeeping staff talking to each in Balinese will no longer be a soundtrack to my afternoons lazing on the couches in the lounge.

Good thing I’m looking forward to going home.

The art and romance of Balinese cooking

A seemingly young boy, though he legally has to be 17 at least in order to hold a driving licence, picks Simone and I up from our villas a couple of hours after breakfast. Our Balinese cooking class scheduled for today is to be held at Hotel Tugu Bali in Canggu Beach. Sleepier than Seminyak it draws a less of the Aussie bogan and more of the surfer type though it is still a month off from the start of surfing season (the busiest time in Bali which stretches til mid September) as Joyce informed me yesterday.  I start to wonder what a season means in regards to surfing. Is it when the particular style of wave begins to appear or is it in regards competitions? I don’t actually care enough to seek the answer out though.

Greeted on arrival by our chef de jour, a short woman introduces herself as Sri. Iboe Soelastri, I later discover is the cooking guru who won’t allow Sri to finish a dish until the perfect taste profile has been reached. Following a recipe is all nice and well for us simple folk but being guided by over forty years of experience, our guru advises of more salt or sugar or lime to balance. This much older woman of indeterminate age would chop the beef and chicken with a cleaver to a fine mince, whilst overseeing our ministrations from the corner of her eyes. She had mastered the subtle skill of wielding the large sharp knife through the meat with one hand whilst her second hand massaged and rotated the meat but also watching our preparation so the pace of the dishes was on time and in order.

Our first dish was to be a minced spiced beef parcel wrapped and steamed in banana leaves. Banana leaves are ubiquitous here. Folded and made into boxes to hold offerings of flowers and incense , lining the steamer basket and placed underneath dishes for presentation, they literally do grow on trees. In the segregated boxes next to our chopping boards lay a rainbow of ingredients. Garlic, smallish shallots, long thin red chillies, green chillies, small orange hot chillies, fresh tomato, kaffir lime leaves and their small fragrant fruit, large wedges of fresh coconut, Indonesian bay leaves, lemongrass stalks, shrimp paste, palm sugar, candlenuts, ginger, galangal, lesser galangal, turmeric, coriander seeds, and two types of peppercorns.

Sri shows us to how to rub the long red mild chillies between our hands back and forth. This loosens the seeds so when you slice it open they fall out easily. Lemongrass will get the root ends bashed firmly with the handle of the knife to break up the fibres. Some of the bulbs get peeled and some don’t and I can’t see a pattern but I duly do as I’m instructed. Large shards of coconut were grilled over the open flame, slightly catching alight adding a lovely charred edge.

Under the low roof of our open air kitchen, the heat is getting to us. The sweat doesn’t take long to drip down my back between my shoulder blades and run down my thighs. My linen skirt and loose top cling to me now damp skin. I’m thankful when they produce refrigerated wet towels to cool ourselves with. I keep reminding myself that one of retreat co-ordinators referred to this season as winter this morning as she wrapped her scarf around her neck. I see local people in jeans and jumpers and shake my head.

We grind our spice pastes on a lava stone mortar and pestle unlike anything I’d ever seen. About the size of a dinner plate, it is mostly flat with small pits. The technique involves a rocking back and forth of the pestle and long dragging strokes. The chillies and shallots release their juices to help bind the pastes. Some pastes were fried off in coconut oil, others boiled in water to achieve a more mellow flavour.  We take many photos of different stages to illuminate the recipes we are provided with at the end. We amateurs are relegated to chopping the chillies, garlic, galangal and so on then many sweat inducing minutes of mortar and pestle work. Absent-mindedly I wipe the sweat off my upper lip with my hand and soon the familiar warmth of chilli burn is felt on my skin. Next time, I’ll use the edge of my cheesecloth apron.

Nasi goreng Jawa or fried rice and lawar kacang panjang or snake bean and toasted coconut salad are our second and third dishes that flesh out our Tugu cooking class. Mrs Mandy and Mrs Simon (sic) are then served their creations in the cool dark restaurant of the hotel. We only manage to make small in roads into the consumption of our delightful meal as it’s only 11am and we’ve not managed to work up enough of an appetite. Kindly they prepare the remainders for us to take back to the other goddess at the retreat. Before we are delivered back, I can’t resist a stroll down to their private beach for a stickybeak. I know I said that I’d be content not to step one foot on the beach this trip and technically that is still valid. Across a back lane there is a large lawn area with sun beds, raised open daybeds and the obligatory hotel staff to indulge your every whim. Under the oppressive sun, I looked out towards the grey sand and gently breaking water and decided that nothing was to be gained walking another 200m to feel sand under my toes. I was more than happy to leave the skin cancer seekers to their own devices.

Food packed up and driver summoned we’re very happy to be ferried in air conditioned comfort back to the retreat where the quiet and mostly empty grounds are now a familiar sight.

Final Tokyo chapter

Walking up a side street we spied a coolroom of hanging meat on the second floor of a restaurant. Naturally we were drawn to investigate. Gonpachi hadn't exactly satisfied. Up we wandered and soon we found ourselves sitting down with some jamon, terrine, cheese and baguette, a rose wine for me and a red wine for Steve = Happy days! 

This place was a delicious, delightful respite. Le Petit Marche in a back street of Roppongi was just what the doctor(chef?) ordered. Fortunately it was mostly patronised by Asian customers with only one other Western couple (American, I think).

 It was from here that we walked up to Kento's - a 50s/60s pop club which although was a bar, looked more like an american diner. The band does 15 minutes on, 15 minutes off throughout the evening of american 50s/60s pop - with the occasional Abba song thrown in for good measure. The band is appropriately attired and coiffed wooing the audience who really seem to get into the swing of things even if they have little to no sense of musical timing. I drank some sweet garishly coloured cocktails; Steve had some 12 year old Yamazaki whiskey. All was somehow right with the world.

Coming home along the main street where lots of restaurants and clubs are situated was a different experience altogether. So many noisy westerners that I became quite resentful. It's an odd feeling because I am a westerner but I was almost offended by the presence of so many westerners. I'm still processing that bit.

One guy deliberately tried to bump into me either to pickpocket(of which I had nothing on me) or to 'cop a feel'. Either intentions aren't pleasing but that's honestly the only unpleasant experience like that on the whole trip.
All in all, despite many instances of language barrier, we have fared very well. Japanese people, as a culture, are very honest. They also, on the whole, have very good english language skills. Way better than our ridiculously small grasp of Japanese.
Note to self - learn more basic language skills of the country I'm travelling to.

First leg of the journey

Saturday March 29 2014

Current location: Kuala Lumpur – Low Cost Carrier Terminal

We flew from Melbourne at 1.30am landing 8 or so hours later at 6.30am in Malaysia. Originally we were only transiting through (with a layover of 7 hours) but since we wanted to use the lounge with showers, food etc. we had to enter the country to get landside to use the lounge. Ah, well.

It’s now 5 hours later and it was definitely worth the extra queuing. Far more to see and do over this side. Premium Plaza Lounge is very comfortable and worth the entry price.

Actually we are both very happy with Air Asia X so far – very clean, newish fit out of the plane. Our first point of contact being the check-in staff at Melbourne was very positive. She checked our baggage all the way through to Tokyo, got us the row to ourselves and added to that she was cheerful and pleasant throughout.

I’m very happy with such an easy start to the journey. Steve is wary as we’ve still another leg of our journey to go. I guess I’m just grateful for how it’s proceeding so far. I believe we are due to arrive at Haneda airport at 11pm Tokyo time so we should sleep well by the time we’ve taxied to our hotel.

A few weeks ago a Malaysian Airlines plane (MH370) went missing without a trace. Obviously there was much wild conjecture about what transpired. There’s an American program on the TV here in the lounge about the missing flight but nobody really seems to be watching it. Interestingly we are travelling with Malaysian Airlines low cost sibling Air Asia X.

We humans seem to lose interest in things very quickly. Clearly this is partly an innate quality and the fast pace of media I our modern world capitalises and possibly extends this attribute.

There’s food on offer here in the lounge and it’s most very edible. There’s simple rice congee, fried rice, thin spicy vegetarian noodles (my pick of the bunch) scrambled eggs, baked beans, toast, cereal and some apples/oranges. For gratis, I’m mostly satisfied. Tea, coffee, soft drink, juice and local Tiger beer round it all out quite nicely.

I’ve got my feet up; I’m cleanly showered and I’m relaxing just nicely.

6pm

We are about halfway through our flight to Tokyo. There’s a young child screaming their lungs out – poor thing (and parent/s). Both flights have actually been relatively peaceful {we did upgrade to Air Asia X’s ‘quiet zone’}

I commented to Steve whilst we were browsing a bookshop in KL airport that I felt certain assumptions could be made regarding local culture seeing as a large percentage of shelf space was given over to business management texts. Certainly, this was not something I had noticed in Australia or America for that point.

Peanut Butter Brownies

Some of you will think I’ve finally gone too far and some of you will think I’ve come just far enough. 

     

Peanut Butter Brownies….

No, it’s nothing quite as simple as swirling some peanut butter through your standard brownie mix…oh no!

First you make the almost sickeningly rich fudgey brownie base layer, then when that has cooled you whip up a butter creamy peanut butter layer and smooth that neatly (?) over then once that has set to some degree in the fridge you drizzle over chocolate ganache and sprinkle chopped peanuts.

Oh, I should have mentioned don’t try and achieve anything else that day. Between the dishes created, the time spent gathering your ingredients at the supermarket, measuring, baking then cooling and you sneaking a taste at every stage it pretty took up the bulk of my day – though perhaps I should mention that I didn’t get out of bed till noon.

The point is this – I’m on holidays. My time is my own. If I want to waste a day making a recipe that has caught my eye some months ago but I can’t justify making as I’ll probably only have a small piece of as it actually even reads too rich for my blood – then I will!

At this point, it’s almost 6pm and it’s setting in the fridge.  Maybe, I should start thinking about what to do for the kids for dinner. For myself, I couldn’t touch another thing. My senses have been satiated by the mere act of cooking that dish, and if I’m to be honest, which I am, all the sneaky little tastes along the way.

This evening I look forward to browsing another half dozen cookbooks I picked up recently from the library. Who knows what will happen next?

Here’ s an abbreviated version of the recipe. The odd quantities come from the fact that I translated it from an American recipe.

1/Melt 250g butter + 285g dark chocolate together.

Whisk 1 cup white sugar + 1 cup brown sugar + 3 eggs together

Combine sugar and chocolate mixes together.

Stir in 1 cup plain flour + 1/3 cup cocoa powder (both sifted)

Bake for 30 min @ 180 degrees in a 33cm x 23cm lined tin then cool

2/ Blend 185g butter + 1 cup smooth peanut butter(just short of 375g jar)

Then add 2 cups icing sugar and 1 tsp vanilla and mix till creamy.

Spread evenly over cooled brownie base (smooth with the back of a spoon heated in hot water) then refrigerate.

3/ Heat 1/3 cup cream and whisk in 115g chocolate bits and stir. Drizzle artistically over peanut butter layer and sprinkle with ½ cup chopped peanuts..

Ta da!

Taking it easy on myself this Christmas

So I've decided to take it easy on myself this Christmas period.

Regarding presents, I've mostly shopped local this year. Sure it's a warm and fuzzy thing to do avoiding big crazy busy shopping centres and supporting your small local businesses, but it's more than that. The small amount extra I may spend per item is well out-weighed by the reduced time and stress I've experienced. For me, it's worth it. Maybe I even spend less all up which means we consume less and the world will be slightly better off for it. I have also put time and personal effort into my presents making them more meaningful for me to give and hopefully the recipients to receive.

Christmas lunch is at my place this year. This is a good thing. I can relax and have a few glasses (or more ) of vino without counting my intake due to driving. I know the host is relaxed about entertaining which in turn makes the whole event much less stressful.

I've decided to keep it simple with the food. Luckily we have a long tradition in my family of everyone bringing something in order to spread the load, and cost, of the big family lunch. This year will be no different. Family members are delegated their tasks early on so plans can be made.

Instead of our regular peking duck wraps for entree, I've settled upon my chipotle pulled pork. It's a slow cook, do-ahead dish that will be cooked plenty of time in advance then re-heated to go in wraps with choices of salsa, hot sauces, coleslaw and my partner's most excellent guacamole( I delegated the sides...see how easy that was..).  

Main will be olive oil confit of salmon. Simply heat the oil with aromatics - bay leave, peppercorn, garlic etc - then pour the hot oil over the salmon into an earthenware dish and let it do its magic. This will be done sometime during the late morning and then it will be ready in time for lunch. Very little effort and no stress of watching oven temperatures or times. Salads provided by sister in law. Ham courtesy of mum. Ice cream plum pudding and the best mince tarts thanks to my sister and voila - Christmas lunch is done!

Yes, I'm eschewing traditional anglo-saxon hot Christmas lunch but I've always done things my way, so why stop now?

I've also cancelled any unnecessary appointments and avoiding extraneous travel as December traffic is always worse I reckon. I'm suggesting to friends that we catch up in January when we've all got a little more time, instead of trying to fit everything in before December 25. I'm saying no to things if my heart is not in it. A friend once told me that if it's NOT yes, then it's no. She's right. 

Anyway, that's my two cents worth.

Bucket lists

What do we think of them? Like them or not like them? Do you have one? How up to date is it? How long since you managed to tick something off it?

They can be good incentive to get you up off your butt and out there into the world. Some people really enjoy ticking things off the list. For me, I like to make sure that the items are actually possible to achieve....for me. No point having it full of highly improbable things like travelling to space or running a marathon - neither of which I should point actually appeal to me although I know certain friends for which these are very real events.

Basically mine has expired - not that generally I believe in the old 'use by date' concept. Fundamentally I reckon we've become lazy and want  someone else to tell us when it's okay to use a product. Use your brain people!Look at it...smell it.. taste a bit of it. Cheese 'past' it's use by date? - Fabulous it's usually reduced and now it's in peak ready to eat condition! My favourite!

I read some interesting stuff on the interwebs recently ( who knew this thing would take off like it has AND be so useful ) about an art project that harvested bacteria from a variety of human sources and developed some cheese from said innovative bacteria strains. 

Now, I know plenty will disagree with me but I was a little let down that the cheese wasn't actually consumed by anyone. I thought it was such a missed opportunity to close the circle, if you like. Would I have tried it? Probably. I'm not too queasy when it comes to food. Cheese is essentially off milk anyway...
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2511272/Would-eat-cheese-HUMAN-FEET-ARMPITS.html


But I digress...gee I've never done that before (you, stop laughing!)

So basically I think I need a new bucket list.

There's a slight problem. I don't seem to want anything. My life is going so well in all aspects that I genuinely don't crave anything. It's particularly annoying for my partner at this festive time of year. 

My list used to include things like - eat a trashy hot dog and drink a beer from a plastic cup whilst watching a baseball game in America, have matzo ball soup in a Brooklyn diner, go to an uber cool NYC club and drink an over priced cocktail that I'd never heard of before. Yes, I see the theme too - food and drink and entirely acheivable.

So what's on my new list - not much so far. Definitely eating and drinking around Spain and Italy. Visit New Orleans with my man who has great passion for the city. But mostly, I think it's to do what I'm doing. Paint, write, cook, walk, laugh, read, talk, meet people, draw, play, take joy in each day and more.

I'm grateful for the simple things

I am grateful for the simple things in my life.

The other day for lunch I made sliced tomatoes on toast. Simple and simply delicious. On locally made organic sourdough toast, I placed thickly sliced softly ripe tomatoes and some peppery basil just picked from my garden. Freshly cracked white pepper and salt crystals finished it off nicely. Truly yum!

It looked pretty and tasted pretty delicious.

I remember, during my childhood, my dad enjoying a similar breakfast at times (albeit without the home grown basil). It's funny the things that stick in your mind. I also remember the tinny sound of the clock radio on top of the fridge broadcasting the horse racing programs on a Saturday morning. I remember my surprise when I learnt that trams have the ability to go around corners - I'd only ever seen them go in straight lines. I also remember that comforting feeling of their always being somebody around. In a house where I was the youngest of four children, it was a warm fuzzy feeling having someone always there.

I'm grateful for my childhood - no complaints or blaming here thank you very much.

I'm grateful for good friends and family that enrich my life.

I'm grateful for happy, healthy children.

I'm grateful for restful,restorative sleep.

I'm grateful for the many opportunities life offers me.

I'm grateful to live a comfortable life.

Oh what a beautiful day

Last week, I indulged my newly healthy again self and took myself to the National Gallery of Victoria. After tramming it up St. Kilda Rd and alighting at the appropriate stop I halted to take it all in - the schoolkids, the out of town tourists, the chinese guy busking and the little kids discovering the water wall at the entrance for the first time.

Straight through the main foyer I walked then paused looking up at the kaleidoscope of stained glass and out through the rear doors into the secret garden that many people don't know even exists.I  remember once being taken there as a kid on a school excursion and although the surrounding building have crept up, it still provides an elusive peace in the centre of the chaotic city. If you've never been, I suggest you go.

After my artistic wanders, I wandered up to Hosier Lane for a fresher take on art - the plethora of graffitti that constantly turns over. From here, it's a natural stumble into Mo Vida for a glass of rosado and anchovy on crouton with smoked tomato sorbet. Throw in crispy fried pig's tail with green mole  and beef cheeks braised in pedro ximenez with cauliflower puree and another glass of that delicous dry spanish pink wine and I'm one happy camper.

Oh what a beautiful day!