ragingyoghurt

12

i took myself out to dimsum the other friday. i’d been working my way through a cold all week, and was at that stage where i’d been well enough to leave the house that morning. an hour and a bit later though, i was wilting and drippy, and just past noon, was fortuitously close by the melbourne central outpost of the oriental tea house. there were but a couple of people at a couple of tables, drinking tea, so i was a bit surprised when i asked for a table for one and was shown to a gloomy little corner banquette by a wall crafted in recycled timber. no matter: it is nice when you’re poorly to sit in a dim spot away from the rabble (of which, at this stage, there was none).

past the little corral of outdoor bench seating and the bright retail space at the front of the store, the bit where tea is drunk is large and open, smartly appointed with cafe tables and bentwood chairs in a palette of red, white and “wood”. the young staff wear crisp aprons and friendly smiles, and glide about the polished concrete floor in a most efficient manner. one of them swiftly presented me with a drinks menu, from which i chose the barley ginger tea. it showed up a few minutes later, in a fat glass with an integrated strainer. within it was a cheery melange of oolong tea leaves, dried ginger, barley and a single red date. it brewed pale, but the ginger was bitey! the barley soothed. it was just what the prickle in my throat needed.

i asked the tea delivery waiter if there were serving dimsum yet, and he hesitated. “um,” he said. “not yet.” he looked round the wooden wall into the open kitchen. “but soon!” he added, promisingly.

and really, within five minutes, a waitress came round with a tray of bamboo baskets. (and in ten minutes the volume of people in the dining room swelled like a wave. the tea house had clearly gotten its timing impeccably sorted; i was glad to be tucked away in my cosy corner.)

i picked the vegetarian dumplings from that first offering. they looked like glisteny opals with the multicoloured veggies glowing through the translucent skin. a healthy mix of carrots, turnips and shiitake mushrooms, which still retained a bit of crunch. in contrast, the dumpling skin was just the wrong side of mushy.

the king prawn dumplings, filled with coarsely chopped prawnmeat, and each topped with a whole prawn, suffered the same fate: the skin was flabby, and the prawns themselves missed the crystal crunch of the best har gows. in my basket, one dumpling was even missing its crustacean crown. (are fewer mediocre prawns than one is entitled to a blessing or a gyp?)

i took a breather and sipped my tea, and considered the possibility of another basket of dumplings. a waiter sidled by and proffered a trio in a most bewildering shade of mauve. it turned out they were roast duck dumplings. what the hell, i thought, i’m eating for two. as with the others, though the filling was generous and tasted of what was in the name (in this case, chopped duck meat, fragrant with cinnamon anise) the skin was left lacking. as was the presentation. look at how the dumplings have slid slovenly all the way onto one side of the basket. and, they’re purple.

by the time i got through my ninth dumpling, i was ready for a nap. i lingered a while by the tea display at the front of the shop — all open bowls of tea leaves and cubby holes of slick packaging — and asked if the tea balls were sold singly. turns out, no. but the smiling shopgirl was only too pleased to pack me a sample stapled up in a baggy, a most promising little orb of jasmin and lychee. “you had yumcha here today?” she asked. “how did you like it?”

“it was…” i paused. “ok. some of the dumplings were better than others.” i’d like to think i’d be back; the waitstaff are welcoming, the cafe setting an agreeable change from the usual oppressive chinese resto vibe. the one tea i had was quite delicious. but the dumplings… oh the dumplings.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 8 September 2011 at 11:51 am
permalink | filed under lunch

4

the salted caramel cupcake from little cupcakes is another beastie altogether: a fine-crumbed chocolate cake topped with a sculptural spiral of thick, sticky caramel. this one’s for the sort of person who would mainline dulce de leche if such a thing were possible. or, the kid. (i know it doesn’t look like it, but i really don’t feed her cupcakes every day.)

we ate these sitting on a step in the city one overcast afternoon, and i wish i’d had a cup of black tea handy to keep things in check; even the small, bite-sized version was enough to render me slightly delirious. it’s good though, knowing there’s a little place downtown where a lovingly hand-crafted sugar jolt can be had for a scrape over $2.

(my favourite city cupcake is probably still the pistachio cupcake from little cupcakes, which you might remember from this time last year.)

posted by ragingyoghurt on 26 August 2011 at 2:21 pm
permalink | filed under cake

1

the initial dewy-eyed glimmer of love does not last long. take this mighty cookies and cream cupcake for instance, with oreos blended into the frosting and the cake, enough to make up for the sleight-of-hand optical illusion of just half a cookie tucked into the crest of frosting. mighty as it is, ’tis no match for the superhuman cake demolition power of a kid moments out of a screening of “kung fu panda 2″. in no time at all, it is but a pile of crumbs.

i don’t expect it comes as a surprise to you that around these parts cake is its own food group. at the tail end of the last school holidays, the cupcake central workshop put out its shingle on the shiny white honeycomb tiles in a tucked-away corner at the melbourne central food court. good timing!

after you get over your mint green envy of the instore bakery’s mint green smeg fridge, the vintage kitchen scales and the cluster of luscious peachy blooms in old drink bottles, you can wrestle with the task of choosing your cupcake. i picked two: a chai latte babycake, with a salty caramel chaser.

the chai cupcake was quietly pleasing, with a subtly spiced, delicate crumb and a sprinkling of cinnamon sugar on the creamy frosting. the salted caramel number, on the other hand, was an assertive mutha: rich chocolate cake made even moister with its secret puddlicious heart of salted caramel, and an artful drizzle of the same. it really was the perfect little mouthful… and i could’ve had another five.

though i didn’t.

some weeks later, lured into the city with the promise of a special run of bacon and maple syrup cupcakes, i succumbed to this adorable red velvet cupcake. it was typically, classically cake, impecably-frosted, moist and just short of chocolatey, and in some ways better than the main event.

now, i do ordinarily love the combination of salty bacon and sweet syrup, and this cupcake, with its hidden nubbins of meaty bacon and swirl of mapley frosting was just that. the feather in the cap of course, was the generous shard of bacon, but i dunno, i found it too chewy in this instance. consider, if you will, rather than a strip of lean oven-baked bacon, a streakier alternative: a blistered red ribbon fried crisp in oil, the fat offering a little explosive crunch with each nibble. perhaps it’s a salty little foil, maybe it has a sweet maple edge. either way, mmm…

of course, the kid was nowhere as critical. after inhaling her raspberry-white chocolate cupcake, she made happy noises at all the bacony bits through her second course. she saved the meaty garnish until last, and then chewed on it for twenty minutes or so as we wandered through the city. as far as she was concerned, it was the gift that kept on giving.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 25 August 2011 at 2:39 pm
permalink | filed under cake

3

so, o em gee, i finally made it to hellenic republic. you know how it is, you move to a suburb and you think that maybe the place on the next big street might be your local, the substitute for the big trip to press club you hadn’t yet managed to wrangle? but then it turns out the next big street is just too many small streets away, and the months go by, and the little glimmer on the corner becomes the taunty glimmer in the corner of your eye as the tram trundles past. well. the boy’s parents were in town the other weekend, and i seized my chance. two weeks ahead, i emailed the restaurant wondering if perchance there was a spot for sunday luncheon open. sometime between noon and 1.30 would be good, i’d said. they wrote back fairly swiftly with an offer: 2.15, and bear in mind the restaurant closes at 4. i gladly accepted.

and so it was that we found ourselves sitting at a handsome wooden table, set so closely to the next that i could’ve reached out and helped myself to their food. i couldn’t tell which was louder: the lunchtime crush or the accompanying soundtrack of superloud eurodisco. i was excited, but the combination of noise, and hard surfaces, and hunger, and the awful knowledge that we would not be able to have one of everything off the menu was making me twitchy.

but then the food arrived. first, a loaf of bread, except about the size of a generous roll. it was delicious, crusty on the outside, soft and warm on the inside. it was $6. the smoked octopus came next, a salad of delicate slices in a tart dressing, with a tangle of caper leaves. it was delicious too, a tiny serve in a dish resembling a small ashtray, and $22. before we had even slurped it all up, we boldly ordered another one.

the food wasn’t all tiny, thankfully. we soon settled into a generous bowl of cypriot grain salad — a textural marvel in freekah, almonds, pinenuts, capers… all kinds of crunchy in one spoon, and then topped with a a dollop of thick yoghurt and a sprinkling of glistening pomegranate seeds. we couldn’t get enough of the wedge of fried cheese draped in syrupy figs, the best kind of sweet-salty combination.

by this stage, the mains had started to arrive. we’d solved the bread situation with a basket of pita, but mother-of-boy saw the golden chips headed for the next table, and had to get the kid us a bowl for ourselves. oh my word, if all chips could be like this:

and so it went. we had lamb off the spit, and baked eggplant, and a seafood casserole which looked like all the bounty of the ocean with a surprise buried treasure of rissoni, yarrs. we ate with gusto, partly because of the later-than-usual lunchtime, but mainly because everything tasted wonderful. nothing was left long enough for a photo to be taken. see the braised seafood? that was but a minute after it hit the table, and already half depleted.

back in december, we stumbled into a pastryshop in the small town of kastraki, in greece. i’d bought a tub of ekmek, essentially a trifley little thing topped with half a maraschino cherry — honey-soaked kataifi down below, whipped cream up above, and some custard in the middle. i’d bought it for me, but then once everyone had had a taste back in our room at the foot of the mountains, i found myself sharing three ways. months later, the kid — shameless masterchef groupie that she is — had been excited to learn that we’d be going to george’s restaurant, but she was most deliriously looking forward to ekmek.

amazingly, 20 minutes to closing, there was still room for dessert. the ekmek was brought to the table, and it was just beautiful. the pastry was crisp and fresh, constructed in a fat tube with a vein of smooth white custard. there were tart syrupy cherries and a fat scoop of mastic ice cream. it was a veritable wonderland of flavours and textures, and therein lay the cruel, tragic irony: it proved to be too fancy and refined an ekmek for the kid. the pastry was too shattery, and the custard too custardy (the kid does not like custard), and the ice cream had a weird tinge… of course i was more than happy to eat her share.

i still had to fight her for the cherries though.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 18 August 2011 at 11:33 pm
permalink | filed under lunch

4

but of course, i did eat that day. after the inkpad and gloves (ok, and crocheted necklace and teatowel), and the vintage letterheads and comics, i found myself in need of sustenance. i’d been reading about the cafe, mister close, for a little while, but couldn’t really figure out where in the city it was. turns out, it’s in a shopping arcade i walk through sometimes, my shortcut to chinatown. my chinatown dash usually happens around dinnertime though, and after hours, a clever sliding wall device makes quite a vanishing act of the mysterious mister close.

but here i was, right at the tail end of the what appeared to be a busy lunch crush — the eat-in area was still packed. behind the expansive front counter, the staff in sharp aprons were bustling. within the glass display, the salads and casseroles, somewhat depleted in large bowls, looked a little tired. however, the wall of readymade sandwiches was still going strong, offering such cheek-tingling combinations as grilled pumpkin – salsa agresto – buffalo mozerella – oven roasted tomato, and haloumi – roasted capsicum – eggplant – rocket – dukkah. i felt lucky to snaffle the last thyme buttered mushroom – zucchini – goats cheese.

after some minutes in the sandwich press, it was presented to me in a brown paper bag stamped with the cafe’s dapper logo. now, what to do? where in the city could i sit quietly to eat my toasted sandwich? would i find an empty bench in front of the library? could i wait the walk to the train station? would i be so unglamourous as to eat it on the train?

in the end, i took my sandwich just a few steps across the corridor to starbucks, ordered a green tea frappucino (i had seen them oh so small and innocent on the internet a few days before and had not been able to get them out of my mind) and sat at a quiet table round the back. it was a delicious frappuccino, sweet and mildly green with a lovely cloud of whipped cream on top, and i wondered why i had not had one in at least a couple of years.

the secret smuggled sandwich was delicious too — from the grilled buttery crunch of the seedy, nutty bread, to the succulent marinated mushrooms mingling saucily with the musty goats cheese, to the bitter green foil of salad leaves. mmm… salty, slippery goodness.

i thought my beverage choice made the perfect accompaniment to my perfect sandwich, however a reading of mister close’s blog revealed (with unnecessary glee, i thought) that the starbucks would be moving out. when — i do not know. clearly, an incentive for me to return sooner rather than later for the haloumi sandwich, which i’m sure it will pair just beautifully with the delicate spices of a chai frappuccino.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 13 August 2011 at 5:57 am
permalink | filed under around town, lunch

3

what the hell — let’s go for three in a row. i don’t expect people come this way anymore looking to read about food anyway, so here’s another post about printed paper.

on my way down to the comics last friday, i made a detour into city gallery — a little room at the melbourne town hall — for “paper city“, an exhibition of historical melbourne letterheads. yeah!

featuring an assortment of letters sent to the town hall since the mid-1800s, this collection showcases the evolution of design, print technology, language, industry, society and culture all in one fell swoop. even if you just go for the pretty pictures, you will witness how the overwrought charm of the victorian-era specimens eventually gave way to the unfortunate clunk of the 1980s. inbetween, there is a great mix of striking and quirky.

each piece of correspondence was worded most eloquently. each missive received was stamped and dated by the office, with an annotation by the clerk of what action was to be carried out. of course, there are some samples of lovely handwriting. ah… i used to have handwriting.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 8 August 2011 at 9:52 am
permalink | filed under around town, art

4

the grey threat that winter’s summery turn was about to end forced me out onto the streets today. that and the fact that i hadn’t really left the house in a week, and i thought i might chew my own arm off in protest. i’d been feeling blue, it’s true, and i wondered if buying myself treats would cheer me up. i tested this theory with an ink pad of sky blue, and then fingerless gloves crafted in navy wool, with white anchors handknitted into them. it totally worked!

my meandering eventually led me to “inherent vice” at the ngv studio at federation square, in which eight local comic artists have been holed up for some weeks, drawing. here you may walk freely amongst this elusive species in their (somewhat augmented) natural habitat. observe them at work. quiz them about their craft. look at their stuff.

and there was much stuff to look at: every last skerrick of wall space was covered in pictures…

every desktop a fascinating curation of bits and pieces…

(i must admit, there was more fruit than i’d expected to see on the desktops of comic artists…

…in comic-drawing mode, i’m sure it was chocolate i had within easy reach.)

this beautiful and inspiring installation is on for another week. after a couple of visits, i still gape at the walls in wonder. any minute now i might give in to the urge to draw something. good thing i didn’t gnaw off my arm after all.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 5 August 2011 at 11:34 pm
permalink | filed under around town, art

4

i didn’t fritter our weekend away eating fried potatoes, no. to the kid’s chargrin, i spent rather a lot of time in this sturdy little brick of a building just around the corner from the chiltern chip shop. contrary to what you may gather from the looks of it, it is not a historic gaol.

in fact, it is a historic printery, the home of the federal standard, a newspaper founded way back in 1859. these days it lies dormant most of the time, as it has since the paper closed in 1969 following the death of its publisher. however on the second weekend of each month the wooden door swings open, and the old machines within clank to life.

under the auspices of the national trust, a pair of personable old gentlemen trained in the ancient, ink-stained art of printing will invite you in, and tell you that everything is more or less how it was when the presses stopped running all those decades ago.

and it’s true: here and there, surrounding two 100+ year old printing presses, quaint tools hang on rusty nails

and vintage office chairs rest tiredly on threadbare carpet.

there are ancient fliers attached to the wooden walls,

or tucked into forgotten secret spots,

stacks of yellowed newsprint

sitting on stacks of shallow drawers.

lots of drawers bearing mysterious marks,

divided up into many tidy little compartments

holding a wealth of precious metal –

printing blocks in the tiniest of sizes, all neatly organised.

there are larger blocks as well, artfully carved of wood in fancy typefaces, for setting handsome headlines.

and there are trays of etched metal panels, each a work of art advertising the fine products of yesteryear.

look! it’s the new holden!

the pride of the printery though, is what its guardians consider to be the last working linotype machine in australia.

the big city newspapers used to have scores of them, i was told, but the advent of phototypesetting and computers saw these machines unceremoniously thrown out.

thrown out! this beautiful thing — borne of a genius watchmaker — with its diabolically clever mechanics.

this typesetting machine is itself adorned with type — instructional and stern

and heartbreakingly, gorgeously industrial.

and yet, the keyboard is unashamedly no-nonsense, not a hint is given as to the magic that will ensue once each key is pressed.

metal tabs are released from a large cartridge (“magazine”) above the keyboard, each one bearing a corresponding character.

once a complete line has been composed, set to a fixed width, the row of letters forms a mould into which molten lead is pressed. yes, that thar’s a cauldron of molten lead:

it cools down fast, solidifies, and is ejected.

voila. a line o’ type.

unglaze your eyes. i’m sorry to go all fangirl on you, but at this point a great metal arm swoops down, retrieves the metal tags, and then — following some turning of gears and a good deal of clicking and whirring — returns each little key to its rightful slot in the magazine. it is amazing to watch, but perhaps not quite as rivetting to read a rambling retelling of.

(if you are interested though, you could read this.)

oh, federal standard printing works… how you warm the cockles of my heart.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 20 July 2011 at 1:06 pm
permalink | filed under misc, trip

0

look what i ate during the just-gone school holidays: a small harvest of potatoes, fried up two ways. i blame the kid. we’d ambled up to the local takeaway on the main street of a little town in a northeastern corner of victoria — it’s the sort of place where under the counter there are lollies in jars to be had for 5c a piece, and behind the counter there is a handwritten board boasting such delicacies as hamburgers with the lot, pineapple fritters, banana fritters, and fish and chips and salad (which we’d ordered the last time we were in town; the salad was composed of a couple slices of tomato, some shredded carrot, a couple more raw onion rings than necessary, and half a dozen slices of tinned beetroot). this time, though, we were just after the chips… until the kid sang out, “and potato cakes. two each.”

i’m sorry to say that they were still mostly uncooked on the inside, crunchy, rather than just short of al dente. but you can tell, can’t you: compared to the golden brown chips below, the batter on the rounds of spud looks pale and flabby (much like one might look after subsisting on a winter diet of fried potatoes). not to worry. there was such a bounty of chips that even divvied up three ways (the wafting aroma of hot fat and vinegar was enough to lure the boy out from retiling the bathroom of his country estate), they proved unconquerable.

another day, i orchestrated a detour to the resurrected myrtleford butter factory, housed in a handsome brick building dating back to 1930. just look at the lovely lettering! here they churn out batons of cultured butter, salted and un-, wrapped in printed foil in a most fetching olde time design.

they had sold out of butter that day (and i can’t seem to track it down in melbourne — the perils of artisanal production, i suppose) but fortunately, mid-afternoon, the kitchen was still open for lunch.

i was having trouble picking one thing off the menu — garlic prawns? blue cheese tart in a buttermilk pastry? — when the waitress came over with a litany of specials. after she spoke the words “corned” and “silverside”, i only pretended to dally for the smallest moment before picking that.

beneath the rather aggressive balsamic glaze — to me it bordered on caustic — the meat was tender and comforting, and all sorts of salty-sweet-smoky. i was most won over, though, by the generous tumble of winter vegetables on the side. behold happiness: carrots, beans, tiny beets, brussel sprouts, cauliflower, a roasted onion and two waxy little potatoes. once my tongue had been beaten into submission (or perhaps the sauce actually did mellow over the course of the meal), the balsamic glaze served as a most agreeable accompaniment to the vegetables as well.

i was too full for a sit-down dessert after that, but from the counter display, i picked a a wedge of chocolate truffle tart to come away with me. it was thoughtfully boxed with a small tub of thick cream and berry compote. i dipped into the rich sludgy slice at random moments over the rest of the day — just a spoonful at a time was enough for an intense chocolatey burst. right before bedtime, i gave in and finished it off, inordinately pleased.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 19 July 2011 at 12:42 pm
permalink | filed under cake, chocolate, lunch, trip

1

i have memories going back thirty years, of being in the upstairs sunroom of uncle rowan’s potts point flat, overlooking the majesty of elizabeth bay. when i say “flat”, i really mean palatial early 20th century apartment with lofty ceilings and windows to match, the window panes made of the kind of glass you don’t see anymore: spotted with little air bubbles and perfect imperfections. there was a formal bedroom, meticulously curated though never used, and a formal sitting room with big puffy couches and a shrine (not creepy: life-sized oil-painted portrait and fresh flowers) to a dear and long-ago departed wife.

there was a library with tidy — labelled — shelves. throughout my childhood, he presented me with compendiums of children’s verse, or volumes of australian literature populated with muddleheaded wombats or plump bush babies. i have them, still. there was an old piano. there was the kitchen, which until more recently than you might imagine, housed one of those old fridges whose door handle operates a latch that holds the door shut. there was the time, when i visited with my aunt, and she discovered a block of coon that had met its end in the pantry cupboard. it had turned a most unearthly shade of brackish blackish green, but rowan insisted that it was fine and refused to allow her to chuck it out.

there was the formal dining room, where over a few years, the meals served became subtly though increasingly rancid, so that eventually my mother firmly insisted that we would be taking rowan out for luncheon or dinner, and returning for tea and coffee after.

tea and coffee was always taken in the sunroom — a complete service, with an assortment of little dishes and cups. there was no television, in that room, or any other, and we sat surrounded by sunlight, books and papers, and the assorted tchotchkes of a lifetime of travel. in lesser hands it might have all been a big kitsch overload, but at rowan’s it was a fascinating trove of treasures.

what happens when you’ve been away for a while, say six months or so with a lapse in regular communications, is that you might be nattering away on an interstate skype with your aunt, and she will mention in passing that she’d been to the westfield food court in the city on the way to rowan’s funeral. a month ago. the email your cousin sent with the news was apparently lost in the ether.

rowan. the last time i saw him was at lunch in october last year, at sopra across the road, when it seemed like he had mostly forgotten who i was, or at best, thought that i may have been my sister. he was 97, after all. had lived through the war as a surgeon in the navy, and then through a series of unfortunate events in more recent years that progressed from driving the wrong way down one-way streets to falling off a seaside cliff, and stepping through a rotted bathroom floor and spending the long night with a leg poking through a hole in the downstairs neighbour’s ceiling. he was tough: he was one of those old folk who took a regular ocean swim in the wintertime.

much of his life he spent training and bequeathing scholarships to younger doctors from far-flung dusty lands. a lesser-known but no less significant legacy is the appreciation i now have of a well-considered afternoon tea served on mismatched china. thank you, uncle rowan. i raise my pinkie in a farewell salute.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 11 July 2011 at 7:38 pm
permalink | filed under misc
« older posts
Newer posts »
  • Click

    • here
    • there
  • Categories

    • (after a) fashion
    • around town
    • art
    • at the movies
    • blog
    • bookshelf
    • boy
    • breakfast
    • cake
    • candy
    • chocolate
    • dinner
    • drawn
    • drink
    • grumble
    • ice cream
    • kid
    • kitchen
    • lunch
    • misc
    • nellie
    • packaging
    • shoping
    • snacks
    • something new
    • soundtrack
    • trip
    • tv
    • werk
  • Archives

    • May 2012
    • March 2012
    • February 2012
    • January 2012
    • December 2011
    • November 2011
    • October 2011
    • September 2011
    • August 2011
    • July 2011
    • June 2011
    • May 2011
    • November 2010
    • September 2010
    • August 2010
    • July 2010
    • June 2010
    • May 2010
    • April 2010
    • March 2010
    • February 2010
    • December 2009
    • November 2009
    • October 2009
    • September 2009
    • August 2009
    • February 2009
    • January 2009
    • December 2008
    • November 2008
    • October 2008
    • September 2008
    • July 2008
    • June 2008
    • May 2008
    • April 2008
    • March 2008
    • February 2008
    • January 2008
    • December 2007
    • November 2007
    • October 2007
    • September 2007
    • August 2007
    • July 2007
    • June 2007
    • May 2007
    • April 2007
    • March 2007
    • February 2007
    • January 2007
    • December 2006
    • November 2006
    • October 2006
    • September 2006
    • August 2006
    • July 2006
    • June 2006
    • May 2006
    • April 2006
    • March 2006
    • February 2006
    • January 2006
    • December 2005
    • November 2005
    • October 2005
    • September 2005
    • June 2005
    • May 2005
    • April 2005
    • March 2005
    • February 2005
    • January 2005
    • December 2004
    • November 2004
    • October 2004
    • September 2004
    • August 2004
    • July 2004
    • June 2004
    • May 2004
    • April 2004
    • March 2004
    • February 2004
    • January 2004
    • December 2003
    • November 2003
    • October 2003
    • September 2003
    • August 2003
    • July 2003
    • June 2003
    • May 2003
    • April 2003
    • March 2003
    • February 2003
    • November 2002
    • August 2002
    • March 2002
    • January 2002
    • November 2001
    • September 2001
    • September 2000
    • August 2000
    • April 2000
    • February 2000
    • January 2000
    • September 1999
    • August 1999
    • June 1999
    • February 1999
raging yoghurt blog | all content © meiying saw | theme based on corporate sandbox | powered by wordpress