ragingyoghurt

Category Archives: trip

you know that episode of “friends”, where joey is halfway through reading “little women”, and it’s not looking too good for beth, so to spare joey any trauma, rachel puts the book in the freezer? i wish someone had taken the copy of “oscar and lucinda” i was reading, and shoved it deep, deep in the frosty depths of one of the three freezers in the old house at the rock.

but, no. and now, trauma. i’d thought it would be a good chronological following on from “the secret river”. how can a man, peter carey, invent such a story within the confines of an average-sized human head? my head tries to blog a lucky last entry for the year, and i get distracted on some other page, pondering the second chance to avail myself of the complete “sex and the city” boxset, with portable pink dvd player, now only $269.83… and an hour (and one fireworks display) later, i’m finishing paragraph number two.

tops.

i looked out the balcony earlier this afternoon, and saw the barge moored a little way off, and it struck me like a kick in the guts, that it had been a whole year since i posted pictures of the amazing fireworks display i’d seen, just me perched on the balcony railing, and i remembered it so clearly, like it was maybe just a couple of weeks ago. not fifty-two.

but so. a week in the parched country heart of new south wales, with not too much to do but read about new south wales a hundred and fifty years ago. midway through, i asked the boy, “i wonder, if all the migrants ever left tomorrow, would the aborigines go back to their dreamtime existence, or would they…” i wasn’t sure exactly how to continue: would they successfully take over the lifestyle shaped by this many years of white settlement? would they keep sniffing glue and petrol? would they embark on a crazy spree of looting and pillaging?

but the boy, being quick, seemed to pick up where i had trailed off. “well, the centrelink cheques would dry up pretty quickly, wouldn’t they?” which, i guess, still leaves the question unanswered. thinking, on the outside, is most unproductive.

but for the most part, in the last week, we sat around, moving from one room to another, trying to find the cool room on the hot days, and the warm room on the strange freezing ones. we ate ham, ham, ham over days and days, and then for a change we headed up (twice!) to the chinee restaurant at the rock bowling club, the only restaurant in town, and the only eating establishment (out of two) open over xmas.

short soup, honey king prawns, sizzling beef, prawn crackers, fried rice (with ham), vegetable omelette, combination chow mein, satay chicken, steamed dimsims, garlic king prawns, mongolian lamb, sizzling black pepper steak, deluxe combination. and a plate of hot chips, thanks.

we cut slabs out of the tray of baklava from the hellenic bakery, warmed them in the microwave and topped them with blue ribbon vanilla ice cream. we went through tins of beetroot. we sliced more ham off the bone. we devoured a festive pavlova, green in the base and crowned in a cloud of pink whipped cream. there were two birthdays, and four birthday cakes. there were boxes (and boxes) of lindt chocolates. on the last night, there was a magnificent sausage sizzle with fifty or so assorted snags, a large glass bowl holding two tins worth of whole baby beetroots, a small melanine bowl of buttered, salted corn. a pity, the salad from a couple nights before did not make a re-appearance: sliced hard boiled eggs and sliced celery, in mayonnaise. yum.

two hours now to the big fireworks display. the nine o’clock one — family fireworks — which this year could be seen from our balcony, and which must have cost an extra billion or so dollars, only succeeded in perplexing the kid. head buried in the boy’s shoulder while we two gasped and wowed, and really meant it! they can make pink fireworks which explode into the outline of lovehearts! and this new one, which quietly puffs out into clusters of golddust, just lovely.

happy new year. see you ’round.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 31 December 2006 at 8:36 pm

permalink | filed under bookshelf, breakfast, cake, chocolate, dinner, lunch, snacks, trip

going walkabout.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 8 September 2006 at 8:20 am

permalink | filed under trip

the thing about having a list of things you might like to do when you go somewhere, even if it’s a very small list, is that you might end up not being able to do any of it. so that even though you might have eaten chocolate until it seeped out your pores, the fact that you didn’t eat any chocolate from the one place you really wanted to… well, it makes you feel like you’ve sort of failed, doesn’t it?

right now i would like to go to a nice hotel, just me, where there is room service, an in-house DVD library, and a cakeshop next door.

i need to recover from my week away:

—

by the time we get to melbourne, at 3pm on a friday afternoon, we have already been on the road for a couple of days. this means there have already been pies filled with lamb mince in rich brown gravy and pies filled with creme patisserie and syrupy raspberries. in fact, as a testament to the cake frenzy i found myself in on thursday afternoon, the recipt from the bakery reads: 1 beesting, 1 snickerdoodle, 1 raspberry harvest cake, 1 fruit eccle, 1 cup of tea. it wasn’t all for me! i like buying cake for other people!

our brand spankin’ new serviced apartment (complete with stainless steel galley kitchen and villeroy-boch china) is touted as being on the edge of carlton, so i kinda figured we’d be feasting italian every day. however, the reality is a billowy outpost quite a hike away. nevertheless, it is on the tram route straight to the city, so before too long we’re riding into the sunset and reacquainting ourselves with the monstrosity that is federation square

— it’s not as ugly as it used to be —

and having hot soupy noodles in chinatown.

and then what does one do in melbourne on a drizzly friday night, when holidaying with a toddler? one takes the kid back to the hotel, washes her and puts her to bed, puts the boy on babysitting duty before he can arrange to go out drinking with his friend, and then one catches the tram back into the city to see you am i at the forum.

i’d seen the poster as we walked along the twilit streets and thought i’d call up to see if there were still tickets. who knows? who knows if people still go out to see 90s aussie rock? maybe it would be sold out. but it wasn’t. when i rocked up (so to speak), the crowd was like the mid-to-late nineties; comforting, in a way, like so many plaid shirts. the theatre is a gorgeous old building, with a gilded foyer, and a hall full of banquet seating. there are classical sculptures perched over the bar, and the domed ceiling is blue like the evening. i found myself a spot inbetween the dancefloor and the seats, on a step, so i could see.

i last saw you am i, like, in 1998. so long ago. friday night, they sound the same (maybe louder). sound as ever, as it were. tim prefaces every second song with, “you think that’s a corker, wait till you hear this one!” (and it’s true!), and punctuates with windmills. it’s all fun and good until the stupid girls in two groups to my front and back start getting drunk and falling over. on me. repeatedly. and they think it’s funny, and their friends do too. and what the hell is wrong with people these days? well, what is wrong with girls then, because the boys in the group look over my way and smile, and say things like, “would you like to stand in front of me so you can see?” and “i have a spare beer, would you like it?”

even though i turn on my heels right after the final encore, and bypass the merch stand selling footy scarves with YOU AM I woven into various team colours, i miss the last tram and walk for a bit in the rain before a taxi comes by. it’s nice.

the next morning we walk past bakery lane…

…en route to the queen victoria markets, with its aisles upon aisles of fruit and veg, and its warren on delicatessenal delights such as picked octopus and festive sausages (you will see, if you squint, one of these starbusts says “wedding sausage”).

but i resist the lure of the salami, and even the hot kranski with sauerkraut. or any number of continental pastries; this morning the spinach and cheese borek calls to me. it all works out in the end though, because the boy goes back in after his sausage, and reappears with a wedge of kolace: a yeasty base topped with poppyseeds, sugary ground walnuts, sour cherry jam, and soft white cheese. thank you, boy.

come back later. i’ll tell ya all about it.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 16 July 2006 at 11:25 am

permalink | filed under boy, breakfast, cake, dinner, lunch, soundtrack, trip

it is with some sadness that i am retiring my faithful old backpack, with its frayed edges, wayward (completely broken off, for the second time) shoulder strap, and gruesome stains on the inside. i bought it several years ago in a shop full of cute things in new york city, and even then, i think it hung around my cupboard for a few months before i finally put it to use. this was some time in 1998, and the first time i carried it out, i stowed my takeaway salad lunch, and when i got back to my desk i discovered that at the bottom of my pristine bag was a puddle of oily, vinegary salad dressing. that first week, every time i caught a whiff of the lingering odour, i felt a little bit sour.

this bag was mostly waterproof (from the outside, at least, and hey, it had kept the salad dressing sealed in), and it was the perfect size for carrying magazines around. it had a recipe for cherry pie on one side, and on the other, “fluffy pudding”. it was made by super planning co., who also brought you mr. friendly. a pedigree bag.

people always wanted to know where i got my bag; strangers in the street would stop me and ask, and i always felt like a bit of a dick when i answered, “new york”. but i carried it everywhere, and when one of the straps broke off a few years ago, i stitched it back on, and it carried on like a champ. even through the sudden but brief infestation of ants. i had it with me as i boarded the plane to london three months ago. it was full of books and magazines and snacks and toys and cameras and passports, and when i picked it up after the boarding announcement, the tired strap gave way.

since then it has sat on the floor, first in the corner of nellie‘s spare room in her london flat, and then propped up against my bookshelf in the study. i’ve been making do with a couple of totes, one calico and the other dark denim. which is fine and all, but i fear the weight on one shoulder is doing terrible things to my back. (well. that and the lack of yoga or swimming.)

so, i’m finally breaking out the new one, a long-ago gift from nellie, from the same shop even, from when she was a new york city girl. it’s sort of the same, but not quite the same. it’s coming on a mini roadtrip with me — tomorrow we wind our way down to melbourne. i don’t have much planned, except to have a sausage at the markets, some chocolate at koko black, and read my new new yorker, in which there is an indepth article on pastry.

see you in a little bit.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 4 July 2006 at 10:34 pm

permalink | filed under (after a) fashion, trip

anytime now, though i’m not sure in which order, my child will awake from her nap, and my mother and my aunt will arrive on my doorstep. this will be the cue to bundle everyone off to bar italia for a late sunday lunch. who knows what treats and surprises will be in store: a tiramisu-affogato? a great big sugo stain down the front of my shirt? in fact, while getting dressed earlier, i took the child’s grubby paws into consideration, and put on a black tshirt.

there is a bar italia in london too; you’ve probably been reading about it at stellou for several months now… “the boys at bar italia this… the boys at bar italia that…”

the first time nellie took me there was about 10.30 on a tuesday night, post-drizzle, and more importantly, post-“fame, the musical” at the aldych. we were still gobsmacked by what passes for musical theatre these days (and outraged at the lack of the song, “fame”), and felt we had to sit down to something sweet to recover our sense of balance. while the hot chocolate and tiramisu were ultimately forgettable (and really, i can’t even remember if that’s what i actually had), the street theatre that unfolded before us — drunken, dischevelled yobbo taunts dapper black bouncer — was an enjoyable few minutes.

but we were back for lunch a week later, and a pizza was ordered. what a pizza!

all thin, crunchy crust with a modest amount of melty cheese. and on top, just left to wilt at their own sweet pace, several handfuls of rocket and great sheets of prosciutto. a large bottle of chili oil had preceded the pizza, and was put to good use. one of the best pizze ever, oh yes.

addendum: no saucy stains on anyone, not even the baby! a ricotta cannoli split five ways was our reward.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 21 May 2006 at 1:16 pm

permalink | filed under kid, lunch, nellie, snacks, trip

since nothing happens around here except for vile illnesses, i thought i’d tell you about the sunday morning in london, about two and a half weeks ago, when we waited for the rain to stop before deciding that, yes, we would catch a bus up to the columbia road flower market.

at the bus stop, a slightly dishevelled woman tried to sell us a suitcase. “£20 in the shops, but i’ll let you have it for ten.” we demurred. it would have been hell trying to drag that thing through the thoroughfare of the market. for what we discovered is that the sunday market is a stretch of road with stalls set up on either side, selling all manner of potted plants and cut flowers. aside from the brief moment where nellie stopped to buy a mint plant — how’s the mint plant, nellicent? — we were just propelled down the middle of the street, people shoving, stepping on my shoelaces, being nudged in the heels by the wheels of our pram.

“it’s empty!” hissed an indignant woman.
“they just brought it along to bang into people with,” replied her fella.

because clearly we like to drag this unwieldy charriot out and wrestle with it on sunday mornings. no, silly english people, because if a baby was sitting in that pram, someone would have crushed her legs and another one, maybe you, would have taken her eye out with a potted cactus.

i don’t know how long that stretch of road was, or really even how long it took us to get through it. but some time later, we came to the clearing, and there was sunshine and fresh air, and also the real reason we had come all this way: treacle.

i had read in some travel magazine, before leaving australia, that the best cupcake shop in all of england was to be found at the columbia road flower market. they are only open when the market is, those scant six hours every week. we sold our mother this excursion on the promise of flowers. she played along.

the plate glass window was all brown diagonal stripes, and inside, past the vintage and modern and modern-vintage crockery, was a glass counter with drawers full of cupcakes. they were small and large (well, regular, then), and randomly decorated. oh those little cupcakes!

we could only pop in and out of the shop quite furtively at this stage, because we were waiting to meet friends for a tapas lunch across the road, and by the time we were ready for cake, the numbers had dwindled. there were just enough for us to make a modest selection: the baby had her own mini chocolate cupcake iced in blue; nellie had a vanilla cupcake topped with smarties; and i think i got the best one: chocolate with pink icing and red sugar (and rogue blue sprinkle). the cake was light, moist and very chocolatey, and frosting just the right side of sweet. the sugar was crunchy.

after i finished it, standing outside by the kerb, i wanted another. unfortunately, we were in polite company, and also, we had a plane to catch. sigh.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 17 May 2006 at 2:09 pm

permalink | filed under cake, trip

here are two hot chocolates i had in london.

the first one — doesn’t it look enticing? — was from carluccio’s, the special florentine chocolate, which turned out to not be made to order. instead, it was dispensed from a constantly churning little tub perched atop a shelf high above the espresso machine. it has to be constantly churned, because, as i found out, if left to sit for any period of time, a skin quickly forms. the drink itself is like a runny pudding, and tastes a bit of cornstarch. whuh?

the second one was from the tate modern. you can get a plain hot chocolate, or one with cream and marsmallows. they skimp on neither.

well folks, i’m on to my third variant of cold in about five weeks, horrible squishy bouts of spongyhead and phlegm in hues spanning the spectrum from clear to bright green to murky brown. in between each cold are endless spasms of residual asthmatic coughing.

tonight i washed down an antihistamine, a couple of puffs from a purple inhaler, and a vitamin c pill with a glass of tea. i’m not sure if this renders the medication useless. at least, i mean, it can’t be bad; not like washing down valium with bourbon, for example. we shall see.

the tea is from a can that i’ve had in and out of the fridge for the last year or so (though i wouldn’t be surprised if it actually turned out to be two years old). what happens is, i put it in the fridge, planning to drink it, and then in the meantime an influx of new groceries makes me take it out again to make room. but so tonight, it is finally over, this in-and-out tea saga.

this is what the can says:
“It’s time to Pure. Pure life,
pure time, with pure mind.
Pure taste, with heart.
Little sugar, just black,
pure tea. In Famouse House.”

you see why i had to get it.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 16 May 2006 at 8:47 pm

permalink | filed under chocolate, drink, packaging, trip

your trusty correspondent on the isle of wight, circa 1974, already cultivating a sneer of disdain for anything less than artisanal gelato (though still happy to guzzle whatever you might stick in front of her).

just as it was thirty years ago, it was my father’s idea to make a trip to the isle of wight this time ’round. what i thought was, eh, it’s in a beatles’ song; can’t be bad. we even rented a cottage.

in two days on the isle of wight, in-between car ferries, it is theoretically possible to have six, maybe eight, cream teas. this would depend on whether or not you’d have a cream tea at teatime, after substituting cream teas for all other main meals. the number of cream teas we actually ended up having is: two. hngh. but don’t hand-lettered signs like this make you want to go the extra mile?

no? what about this one?

the sign outside the first tea shoppe we tumbled into, late in the afternoon after a rainy morning spent in a flamingo park, which served up their clotted cream in hygienically sealed plastic tubs:

mmm… appetising… but after the lid was removed and the crusty yellow cream scum scraped off the top, all went according to plan.

the next day we had much more luck with cinammon scones and already-decanted cream.

but it’s not all about cream teas is it? what of the other regional british delights one may encounter on this wee island off the main island? amidst warning noises emitted by those who’d already seen behind the counter, my father ordered a cappuccino in a sandwich shoppe in an olde village. how they make it is, the guy behind the counter tears open a little sachet with the word “cappuccino” printed gaily on it, empties it into a cup, adds hot water and stirs. it’s even pre-sweetened. when it arrives at the table, it will be accompanied by a little square of good dark chocolate. if you ordered a normal coffee instead, you might whiten it with this:

“a blend of glucose syrup and vegetable fat”

i’m not saying the food on the isle of wight is not tasty. there was the first meal off the boat, in a greasy diner on the main street of ryde, where a mother sat fagging into her son’s chips, and the friendly counter woman warned me against the king-sized breakfast on the basis of it being really quite big (and also containing black pudding); the delicious and authentic indian takeaway later that night: curry, biryani and chapati eaten in the toasty warm kitchen of our cottage; and then dinner at the crab the following evening: a brie, mushroom and cranberry wellington, in which everything was wrapped in puff pastry and served with potatoes, vegetables and a jug of mustard-watercress sauce.

but it’s not all about gorging oneself on rich food is it? what of your father’s longing to rekindle the magic of your childhood, when no-one had disappointed anyone else, and years of recrimination and regret had yet to become an insurmountable heap? see, now he has a fresh baby with whom to begin anew.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 11 May 2006 at 2:18 pm

permalink | filed under cake, dinner, lunch, trip

i bought a bacon hock today, for the purpose of making a bean soup, and i was somewhat taken aback by how much the hocks looked like a pile of feet, lying all higgledy-piggledy in the glass-fronted trough of the supermarket deli. tasty, though.

for dessert, i finally ate one of the macaron that my mother was given, gratis, by the head counter girl at yauatcha on the afternoon of our departure from london, because — “eh, kakilang!” — they were both from malaysia. lucky for me, my mother does not really like sweet things. when we got back to singapore, i left the bag on the kitchen counter overnight, under the misimpression that it was hermetically sealed. hey, i checked! but in the morning, i discovered that it was fastened only with a pretty pink ribbon, and that the cluster of brightly coloured macaron were quite imploding from the tropical humidity. let me explain: if i so much as nudged one, it gave. i was so alarmed, i whisked them into the fridge, and refrigerated they have remained, all the way back to sydney.

while we admired the macaron, back in london, my sister said that yauatcha didn’t make just any plain old flavoured macaron, and that these would be raspberry –something or lemon-something or green tea-something. i couldn’t tell what the something was in the bright pink one i had tonight, but even in its slightly squishy, slightly crumbled, slightly jetlagged form, it was um, really good. maybe even better than one of the ones i had a laduree. maybe.

the laduree story is, one drizzly sunday afternoon, after a slightly fraught luncheon (in which the child discovered how to undo the fancy birdcage-style highchair in which she was perched, and refused to sit in it any longer, and had to be walked around the harrod’s food hall, which calmed us both down immeasurably) of roasted scallops on parmesan risotto with vanilla-infused oil, my sister and i had two macaron and a cup of laduree-blend tea. each. for the information, i think hers were lime-chocolate and caramel. mine were rose and chocolate. the tea was floral. my mother, being neither a fan of sweet things nor tea, sat back and nursed the sleeping baby. as we made our way through the macaron, we offered bites to our mother. she was very obliging, even as she nodded then grimaced after each one. “i don’t really like sweet things,” she intoned, and we offered her sips of tea to wash them down.

when it was all over, it was duly noted that our mother, who refuses sweet things and cups of tea, had had one whole macaron and a cup of tea.

i have been coughing for a month. i am very tired.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 10 May 2006 at 9:31 pm

permalink | filed under cake, kid, nellie, snacks, trip

another day, another truffle.

what with the late morning spent meeping at squirrels, and then chasing first ducks, and then the royal horses, up and down the length of st james park, and then giving up on the non-event that was the changing of the guard, we were quite ready for lunch… when the baby gave up fighting the pram straps, and fell asleep.

in such a situation it is best to keep moving, so we found ourselves trundling up piccadilly just as the london drizzle kicked in. fortuitously we were right by fortnum and mason.

one of my favourite touristy things to do is to go to supermarkets in new cities, and gawk at packaging, and fondle bags of exotic potato chips, and buy interesting-flavoured yoghurts. i had been feeling quite slack, because it had taken me a whole week (and a day) before setting foot in the sainsbury’s down the road and round the corner from the apartment. true, i had already been to the food hall of the local marks and spencer, but we were in a rush to get somewhere else, and there was only enough time for a cursory supermarket sweep of the aisles, a pathetic exercise that yielded just a bottle of orange juice with crushed raspberries.

note to self: go back to M&S food hall.

note to self: and, um, waitrose?

but here we were, stepping through the heavy doors of fortnum and mason, and finding outselves sandwiched between tea on the left and chocolate on the right. i was immediately troubled because i wanted to buy it all. the fancy honey; the ten drinks coaster-sized tablets of single origin chocolate (from ten places of origin), individually wrapped in coloured tissue and bound in twine; the majorcan sea salt with crushed hibiscus petals… you see? it’s crazyfood, and i was slightly crazed, quite addled, as i stood before the truffle counter (chocolate truffles, although the pig-digging sort is also available, in little glass bottles, in a locked glass cabinet, for a rather large sum of money) trying to figure out which ones i really wanted.

four hours later (an exaggeration, you think?) i handed over the equivalent of $36, for two dozen pieces of chocolate, which doesn’t sound too bad, innit? i also bought a canister of convivial yorkshire crisps — “luxury hand made crisps” in the almost exotic flavour of sourcream, dill and mustard. and some promising biscuits: clotted cream shortbread and marmalade oatmeal, with no hydrogenated vegetable oils, and instead, about one quarter butter!

my question now is, which truffle shall i have with my cup of tea? after which the question will be, when shall i make a return trip to fortnum and mason to buy all that tea which i managed not to today?

posted by ragingyoghurt on 25 April 2006 at 8:29 pm

permalink | filed under around town, shoping, snacks, trip

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