via alia, it has come to my attention that this week, starting today, is national donut week. bittersweetly, it is actually national “doughnut” week, because it’s happening in the uk.
sigh. how can it be that australia does not have an initiative that lets you save the children with every donut you eat?
bleary-eyed, claggy-mouthed, stumbling through the local mall to get the weekend paper when — good lord! i was jolted awake by the wanton display of cream-filled lamington sponges in the glass case at michel’s patisserie. eight-inch rounds of sponge cake and chocolate and dessicated coconut, sandwiched around what seemed like a litre of fresh whipped cream. there was no reason why this could not be part of a healthy saturday breakfast.
and what’s this, just beyond the wall of cake? my boss from an era past, toby, and his luminescent child, alice. we were all always dazzled by the girl’s beyond pale skin, and her sparkly eyes, and her mermaid hair, all goldiblonde tendrils halfway down her back. this morning she was dressed up as a fairy, waiting for a plastic ornament not unlike herself to be placed on a cake. “i go to big school now,” she said.
toby’s got a new book out. it’s pink!
breakfast: three little bits of new norcia bakeries fig and fennel sourdough toast (my souvenir from western australia), spread with yoghurt cheese. orange juice.
it’s only a good thing when you step aboard a boat and minutes later a chipper crew member is offering you a cup of tea and a bit of apple cake. little do you know, at this stage, that just hours later you will also be offered, amongst other tasties, crayfish and soft rolls and salad, with which you can make a proficient crayfish and capsicum sandwich, to be eaten in a sunny spot on deck, where you will still be trying desperately to become warm after a short paddle in the icy waters off rottnest island.
yes, a whirlwind trip to perth can surprise you, with a boat of guys, who if not exactly “great” are definitely good; with your father willingly accompanying you to the art gallery; with your sixth aeroplane flight since christmas not being that one that kills you by plummeting out of the sky…
early on in the game, your host says approvingly, in the presence of your father, “your dad is really laid back, isn’t he?”. this is the most surprising of all, and you can only stutter, after a pause, eyes darting, “um, well, i guess he has his moments.”
happy chinese new year of the monkey!
in a jetsetting turn of events, i am about to fly to perth, to hang out with my father, aboard a “ship (apparently quite luxurious)” and a “bunch of guys [who] are just great to be with”. it turns out the guys are eight or ten stockbrokers and a real estate dealer.
help me, smee.
so. trying to stick to this plan of watching less crap tv (already slightly fallen off the rails by watching half of “the bachelor” two nights ago), it occurred to me that i should go to the strokes show instead.
the morning’s quest to purchase a ticket was initially unsuccessful. stepping off the bus and into the tail end of the post christmas sales, it wasn’t so long before i had two tins of half price christmas biscuits (amarettini limone and fruit-studded, chocolate-covered gingerbread, probably still costing more than biscuits should), two hats (an orange bucket hat, and a blue hat similar to the orange except with a much wider brim) and a pair of jeans (dark denim with pink stitching, i suspect they are a capri style, but on me the length is perfect!). fortunately i came to my senses and ignored my need to buy a scott joplin cd, and suddenly i had a strokes ticket.
my reservation about paying $72 to see the strokes, is that on the record, at least in terms of aesthetics and production, they seem like a $30 band, tops. and what good is a burgeoning australian dollar if the pleasing exchange rate doesn’t translate to cheaper concert tickets? still i was determined to watch less crap tv!
+
five minutes before the band goes on, a girl in front of me whips around, her eyes roll up and she’s on the ground. her boyfriend carries her off the dancefloor and the crowd moves in to fill the space. there are lots of short people at the show, hurrah, so five or six metres from the stage is a pretty good place to be, pointy-elbowed girls with flippy hair not withstanding. the band strut… amble on and play a clash song — “this is a clash song, by the way” — and then it’s “this song is called ‘reptilia'”, and then
du-duh. du-du-duh
du-duh. du-du-duh
du-duh. du-du-duh
du-duh. du-du-duh…
there is good-natured banter and a thought-provoking lightshow (so *that’s* where the money goes), and on-the-spot boppping on my part, and all too soon julian stroke is bargaining with the audience how many more tunes the band will play: “*ten* more? we don’t have that many songs.” so it’s three. two. one. and they’re gone in a cloud of feedback. cheering for encores? feh. they’ve milked all the adulation during the show.
am i gushing? well, yes. ROCK!
what aerodynamic piece of food can you throw a pelican, just so you can see him open his beak wide and snatch it from its trajectory?
yesterday an afternoon jaunt to centennial park saw mss amber and ella berry and me amusing ourselves with a host of pelicans, quite a few water fowl, some ducks and a few swans. sensing lunch, the pelicans swoop out of the sky, across the lake and right into the throng of smaller birds, their beaks like awnings over the heads of the others. hanging open. feed me.
we threw them stale baguettes, crusts cut from vegemite sandwiches, a few crumbs of polenta cake, and three jalsberg sandwiches.
if you only knew how many people there are out there googling “girls e@ting sh!t” and its various combinations and permutations… and how many of them find their smeary brown way to this so un-smutty page, because i just don’t learn.
in an unexpected turn, someone quite recently ended up here searching for “girls e@ting worms”. oh how we laughed, bitterly. the audience of this page is just not what i was hoping for.
*sigh*
dinner will cheer me up: puffy tofu, snow pea shoots and baby bok choy in oyster sauce corn starch gravy, over rice.
ah chinatown. where there will always be a happy chef beaming as he pushes a bowl of noodles and wontons towards you. where you will be elbowed by chinese grannies down in the markets, but it will all be made better with a $1.20 bagful of deep red tomatoes and a $1.50 fourpack of corn. and just for today, a pride of gold and silver lions roaming the streets, pulling lettuces off shop awnings, tossing their large felty-tinsely heads at passers-by.
in recent years, this question has surfaced each time chinese new year rolls around: why, amongst the piano lessons and maths tuition classes, did my mother not insist i also attend lion dance practice? now, standing on street corners in the presence of these magical beasts in their kung fu shoes, surrounded by the support team of drummers, cymbalists, pole bearers and other big sweaty dudes, i feel a sense of exhiliration, and yearning.
i too could run free like these lions, no?
running away and joining a lion dance troupe is my new second tier new year’s resolution. ahead in the list:
– draw
– draw comics
– read books
– watch less crap tv
– get back to yoga
– see friends
– be nicer
– cook meat
some things that were eaten in tasmania, where it’s 12° in summer and where people drive *old* minis, were: a slice of pink cake, a wagon wheel, and a lamb roast with such accompanying vegetables as roasted parsnip and crumbed cauliflower. also: large flavorsome strawberries, small tart apricots, and yummy yummy cherries. a lamington filled with cream and jam. a venison pie. a baked apricot custard slice. an esmerelda, which is a ball of dessicated coconut covered in hard toffee. a dark chocolate cup, filled with berries and covered in double cream.
why o why are the old people of tasmania so damn grouchy? because they lack the teeth to eat nothing but porridge?
