ragingyoghurt

Category Archives: kid

now. where were we?

ah yes, singapore. singapore, where the daily forecast of thunderstorms will overshadow any plans one may be so bold as to make.

one day, we planned for cake. while the sun shone, we walked to the local mall. we peered into each toy capsule machine; we dined at mos burger. and then, just as the kid started getting twitchy, and the clouds rolled in, we pulled up at the icing room.

the icing room is a vision in pink — from the overwrought filigreed signage to the dainty mosaic tileage underfoot all the way to the shopgirls in their japanese fantasy waitress outfits. up front, there are mini gateaux (pink, but also in colours other than) and biscuits and macarons, and a small sitting area in which to eat them.

in the back of the shop is a row of professional rotating cake stands (and a tower of ikea stools for perching — i expect the kids’ workshops are quite well-subscribed). this is where the magic happens. so, you can just rock up, and for under $12 you get a small cake — iced in white, a perfectly primed canvas — and a tray of coloured buttercream and gels and tiny sugar flowers. for bigger bucks there are more elaborate decorations on offer, and bigger cakes, but for us, a modest start.

the kid put down a squiggle of pink. “wait,” i cautioned. “do you know what you are going to do? have you got a plan in your head of how you want it to look?”

“yes,” she said, after a pause. she added another squiggle.

and so it went.

blobs, then squiggles, then a considered placing of sugar flowers. bunting ’round the side. blobs on blobs.

and then…

it was quite amazing! so much for the modest start!

we walked home then, pleased, and it didn’t even drizzle until the very last few steps. later that night, we unveiled the cake for dessert.

it was the very best kind of light, fluffy, innocuous sponge, layered with whipped cream and tinned fruit cocktail. unexpectedly delectable. there were seconds all around. the kid may have even had thirds.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 12 May 2012 at 3:14 pm

permalink | filed under cake, kid, trip

how quickly a fortnight goes by. well. how quickly four weeks goes by — the time we were away, and then yes, how quickly the two weeks since we returned have whizzed by too. it’s not a great feeling being back. i’d rather be… anywhere but here i guess, a situation not so easily remedied because here is a state of mind, not escapable by simply shutting the door behind me past midnight and walking a quick stretch of my street, in pyjamas and socks, in the new cold. how can i extricate myself from this tangle?

fuck it. let us go back to where it was all colour and light…

…art and play.

behold. a pompom workshop, at artplay, housed inside the handsome brick building on birrarung marr. moomba weekend, there was a queue up the ramp to get in, and no wonder. when we finally made it inside, it was like the aladdin’s cave of yarn. there were balls of it everywhere, and people winding it all around the most high-tech pompom machines i’ve ever seen. whatever happened to two flimsy rings cut out of cardboard?

the kid spent… an hour? is that possible? in perpetual motion, building layers and layers of wool around her plastic bits, and made a magnificent pompom that she wore strung around her neck for the rest of the afternoon. by the end of the day, it had unravelled into an armful of string… but it’s all in the process, no?

the first time we came to artplay, last spring, it was the weekend of the big draw. there were stations set out around the room, each one offering a different drawing material and exercise: tracing a maze with pastels, or filling a grid with pencilled patterns, that sort of thing. and then, in the centre of the room, there was sticky tape.

here was the objective: to create drawings by taping and stickering the floor.

it was quite compelling! we do like sticky tape!

and then last weekend, we worked our way through a visiting maze from singapore…

…an exploration in pattern and textiles.

there were buckets of textas, and sheets of calico, and once you tired of making pattern, you could customise the maze by rearranging the removable fabric panels. the kid fashioned herself a little cubicle and kept on drawing.

while on my knees, i walked harlan through sunlit polka dots.

that afternoon i felt better, then worse, and by midweek, well, so there is a place that’s worse than worse.

but right now i have a pot of green soup to last me days, and work deadlines that will take me through the next fortnight, and maybe it’ll be ok, for now.

we should all be so lucky, should we not, to have a big, light space in which to hide away, with warm floorboards, and balls of yarn, and buckets of markers, and endless rolls of sticky tape? sometimes you need it, even if you are not a kid anymore. if you are looking to lose yourself, transforming passages — the maze — is on again this weekend.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 3 May 2012 at 10:23 pm

permalink | filed under art, kid

one sunday afternoon at the height of summer, we went for a long walk, and harlan awoke from the ensuing nap to find himself in the sunlit wonderland that is l’atelier de monsieur truffe. it’s like teleportation, i tells ya — the surprise in his eyes when he wakes and discovers he is somewhere new and different. did you ever read the short story by stephen king, “the jaunt“? like that. it was hot that day, and perhaps being our first formal cafe date together, i played it safe and ordered something i could easily eat with one hand: a fruit salad. oh, and that there iced chocolate.

how many cafes in town, you order a chocolate drink, and get some milky beverage with barely a teaspoon of chocolate power or a dribble of sugary chocolate (flavoured) sauce in the bottom? many. not this one. mister truffle serves a tall glass filled with a deep dark chocolatey elixir. it is topped with a modest scoop of good ice cream, and a generous dusting of cocoa. it is all about the chocolate. and it comes with a stripy waxed paper straw! here’s the thing: it is served over ice. this means that though the chocolate is rich, it does not have the heft of half a litre of milk to add to your stupour. it does not have a cloud of aerosol cream for distraction (and i do love cream-in-a-can). but as bitter(sweet) as the situation is, the gradual dilution of the drink through the melting of the ice keeps things on an even keel.

so that you will be completely present to enjoy your $8 bowl of fruit. the menu listed rockmelon, raspberries and passionfruit, and that is what it was. there might have been a puddle of lime syrup at the bottom of the bowl, and the strange feeling you get from paying $8 for some cut-up fruit (this was before the height of melon season, when half a melon could be had at woolies for 60c) dissipated with each juicy mouthful.

on this day, harlan was happy sitting on my lap and watching… i dunno, the shiny thing in the middle distance? there is much to see in this big, light converted warehouse: the industrial fittings, the ornamental tiles in the prettiest shade of blue, the handsome wooden shelves of chocolate (housemade single origin bars, nibs, hot chocolate shavings…) begging to come home with you, the secret window into the chocolate moulding room, the behemoths that are the vintage chocolate processing equipment taking up a good third of the room…

but so, i had such a wonderful time that afternoon, that i thought kid #1 might like it too. so as an end of school holiday excursion one day, we trundled over. completely ignoring the fact that it was a chocolate cafe, she ordered kiddie pancakes and a ginger beer. i had a hot chocolate…

again, a wonderfully chocolatey drink, with all the rich and dark, and none of the glug or warm milkiness. and such a treat to drink from the ceramic tumbler and lick froth off the smooth wooden spoon; a tactile experience all round.

and an omelette to go with, a most elegant plating of a long golden pillow, moist and soft, filled with cheese and chives.

melty, oozy cheese, the variety of which now escapes me. gruyere? fontina? something. the kid was happy enough with her pancakes and ginger beer, but after rather too many tastes of my lunch, decided that she might have to have an omelette and a chocolate bevy to herself on our next visit.

which was not too many weeks later.

i had been somewhat obsessed with the iced chocolate in the interim, and it proved to be the perfect accompaniment to the reuben-ish sandwich i ordered off the specials board. pastrami with braised cabbage and picked onion slices. melted cheese. it was somewhat breadier than i’d like, and the pastrami sliced a little thin, but it was salty and good, and came with a perfect little salad.

the omelette filling that day was hot smoked trout and zucchini flowers, but maeve gamely ordered it anyway, despite her aversion to the gourd. how generously stuffed it was with slabs of flaky pink fish; and how delicate the ribbons of zucchini flower that ended up strewn all across the plate. i must admit, i helped her finish it off — that and her own iced chocolate — but even then, at the end, she lay her head down on the counter and said, “and now, i am dead.”

i read the online reviews, and people grumble about how the atelier is a chocolate cafe not serving chocolate desserts, but this is something rarer and altogether more necessary: a purveyor of superior chocolate drinks and well crafted savoury food, and then all the fancy chocolate bars and slabs of hazelnut-studded gianduja you can fit in your arms on the way to the cash register. i expect kid #2 and i will jaunt over this way quite a bit.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 7 March 2012 at 5:19 pm

permalink | filed under chocolate, kid, lunch

“this is the last thing i will cook for you,” said my mother, before bustling into the kitchen. it was lunchtime, her final day in melbourne after five weeks of maternal duty. she had come to cook confinement food, but the first half of her time here, there was no kitchen, and the second half saw her in delicate negotiation with the boy to see who would flex whose culinary muscle on any given night. in the end, i think she only managed sesame oil chicken with ginger, stewed pork, bak kut teh, and a couple rounds of turmeric salmon. the bottle of ginger wine she’d brought with her was only half gone, the additional two bottles i received as a gift, completely untouched. her mission to brew up vast quantities of tong sam and longan tea was aborted — the vile memories of this peculiar beverage from seven years ago still lingered in the back of my throat. while still in singapore she had discussed this tea, enthusiastically. “no,” i said. so she arrived with a kilo of the herb (and four bags of dried longans). “no,” i said. so she asked again and again over the next fortnight. “no,” i said, “but are you asking until i say yes?”

“no,” she said, “but i couldn’t remember what we had decided, and i wanted to make sure.” i wonder if the wonderherb tong sam is as beneficial to short term memory as it is to milk production.

this past saturday she had planned to celebrate harlan’s month on earth with a party (when i’d told her i didn’t really have anyone to invite, she volunteered a few of her family friends and distant cousins). there would be ang ku kueh, and red eggs, and curry chicken with nasi kunyit and roti jala.

in the end, there were just red eggs, and no guests. pinkish eggs, really, when the dye didn’t quite take. the recipe called for them to be boiled for 35 to 40 minutes and then immersed in a dye bath. somehow they ended up being cooked for a good hour or so — impressively rubbery things, with thick grey circles surrounding the yolk, and blotchy patches of pink in the whites where the dye had come through the cracks, and a mildly sulfurous aroma. i’d be eating rose-tinted egg salad wraps and cold, sliced boiled eggs with matching beetroot on toast all week.

saturday evening, party plans scuttled, i took my mother to cumulus inc. for dinner, where she paid. the next morning, after she arrived back in singapore, i received a txt informing me that she’d left the roti jala mould in my kitchen. perhaps i will have curry and roti jala in my future after all.

plus i may have to make this soup again — tasty and calming enough to eat beyond the period of confinement.

marinate minced pork with cornflour, sesame oil and salt. fry julienned ginger in sesame oil, then add chopped garlic and salt. add the pork and fry until not quite browned. add water and bring to the boil. simmer. add meesua. serve with baby cos leaves (or baby spinach, in this case), and… a spoonful of ginger wine.

happy full moon, sweet baby!

posted by ragingyoghurt on 7 December 2011 at 11:04 am

permalink | filed under kid, lunch

exactly two weeks ago, i was exactly one week from my expected due date. my mum and i dropped the kid off at school, and then walked homeward, with purpose. i paused a moment to decline an kerbside invitation for morning coffee from one of the school mums. “i’m trying to fit in one last ikea excursion,” i said, “before the baby.”

two tram rides later, i filled two bags with kitchen-organisey stuff — acrylic boxes for sorting, little shelves for stacking — and ate a three course meal at the ikea cafeteria: garlicky prawn skewers on a bed of barley; a greekish salad; a tub of yoghurt.

missions accomplished, we picked the kid up from school, my mum and i, and then, when he returned from work, the boy drove us all in his spankin’ new truck to pick up the baby capsule from the rental place. we had reservations for dinner after, at a greek place in moonee ponds; the seafood platter was better than i remembered.

and then we were home, and we took ourselves to bed, and just before i fell asleep, at 11.30, i felt the slightest twinge in my belly. i gave it little thought — i’d been having braxton hickss for weeks, and i was a whole week away from the official due date, and seven years ago the kid took three days coming; i was hanging curtains on day 2. i didn’t even have a bag packed. a couple of hours later though, i realised that these contractions actually hurt! plus they seemed to be coming, and then going, with a rollicking regularity. i got out of bed, and paced. “i’m feeling contractiony,” i told the boy. i bustled about then, making my way through the checklist in the pink book i’d gotten from the hospital some months before but hadn’t really read, putting stuff in a bag. around 2, things were hurty enough that i called the hospital. i was asked questions about how far apart the contractions were, and how long they were lasting. “maybe five minutes apart?” i said, “and lasting, i dunno, like, 20, 30 seconds?” the nurse on duty replied good naturedly, “you should come in when the contractions last 60 to 90 seconds. and they will be toe-curlingly painful. we would not be having a conversation like this, if you were ready to come in.” so then i thought to time the darned things, and wouldn’t you know, they were 60 seconds long, some even 70 or 80 — i’d just been counting them out too slowly in my head. i kept packing my bag, and counting out contractions, whimpering a little, breathing deep, and then i called the hospital back. it’s true: it’s harder to speak when you’re ready to come in. i checked to see if my toes were curled. it’s undecided, though my back was in spasm. my mum was asleep on the sofabed in the lounge as we snuck out the door. “we should tell your mum we’re going,” said the boy. “hmmyesss,” i replied, “but then it will take you 20 minutes to explain to her what’s going on.” “ok, then let’s go,” he said. and we were off, me, in the back seat on all fours, on a bed of towels to keep any waters breaking over the spankin’ new upholstery, though they did not. we got to the hospital, and i paused to have a contraction against the plate glass window. the triage nurse had my file on her desk, waiting for me. out back, a midwife checked my cervix, and suddenly sprang into action, ushering me into a wheelchair and walking us efficiently — ok, let’s call it running — to catch a lift upstairs. “don’t push!” she said. she tag-team-transferred me to another midwife in another room, who said, “push, except when i tell you to stop.” and so i did. and then there was a head, and later i would be told that the head was still in its bag — the waters didn’t break until the head was out, in this sac, with amniotic fluid swirling around it like a scene from science fiction. (“it’s very good luck!” said the midwife.) i wish i could’ve seen it. but i was standing braced against the bed, one foot on the ground, the other on the mattress, pushing, and then stopping, and then waiting for another contraction to push the body out. and another. and then there he was, kid #2.

harlan. 5 november 2011, 3.41am.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 18 November 2011 at 12:51 pm

permalink | filed under kid

the kid turned seven during the week. se7en! i’d thought i might have a new kitchen in by today, or at least new kitchen cabinets, but no. in fact, i had no kitchen, and no cabinets — just a big empty room with an assortment of wires and pipes sticking out of the walls, and several large holes in said walls where the previous beige tiles and their grey grout — and occasional blue and yellow chequerboard accents — had been gouged out.

still, it was a good day for a party.

it is important when one has no kitchen, to plan a party with minimal cooking. actually, no cooking whatsoever. my party prep in the morning involved emptying bags into bowls, and the cursoriest bit of cutting up fruit. probably should have emptied a couple more bags; the gummy lollies — two bowls by this stage — were the first to go.

fun activities of the night before, after removing the last vestiges of debris from the ex-kitchen, included making pizza bunting for the backyard clothesline. you see, it was a pizza party!

the kids were herded out back for a spot of pizza craft — a free flow of red paint in lieu of passata, a stack of sticky circles and origami paper, some tubes of glitter and a bowl of spangles, and six rounds of cardboard. there were crayons too, but they melted in the late morning sun.

i ordered three of domino’s finest over the phone, and then i joined in the crafty mayhem. here is my neat and tidy sausage and mushroom pizza:

and here is the freeform expression of a wild-and-spirited guest, who started off with a pretty conventional pizza, and then painted over the lot with red, and then most of a bottle of craft glue, and then stuck to it as many sheets of coloured paper and circle stickers as she could:

it’s all in the process, innit? amazing.

and then i scrubbed the thick circle of gluey paint and fairy dust off the table, just in time for the pizza delivery.

there was cake after, of course, after the aforementioned wild-and-spirited guest scaled the cubby house and then the fence, and danced provocatively upon the neighbour’s shed. a rainbow ice cream cake which made another girl sad because she doesn’t like ice cream, and whose candles were prematurely blown out by the wild-and-spirited guest and had to be relit…

nonetheless, i think it probably worked out in the end. happy birthday, kid!

posted by ragingyoghurt on 23 October 2011 at 9:57 pm

permalink | filed under ice cream, kid

i’m getting that feeling now, of having to cram the sydney experience into the short time left we have in this fair city. in the last four months, for example, we have been to the maltese cafe on crown street, thrice. that’s a lot of pastizzi.

i should perhaps have introduced the kid to this hallowed bastion of crunchy little pastries a little earlier. i used to come here back in the 90s, when i laid out pop magazines up the street, and the whole artroom would break out at lunchtime and split a plate of pastizzi. good times.

it’s nice sitting here, in this slightly shabby room, with an assortment of savoury (and sweet) pastries before you. it will please you to note that the china is heavy and, crucially, mismatched.

15 years ago, the pastizzi were 30 or 40c a piece, and you could feed three hungry flying monkeys for just over $5. now, one pastizz will set you back $1.50. no matter. the decor is still mostly 15-years-ago, and besides what can you get for a dollar-fiddy these days?

on her first visit, the kid was surprised to find that the mushrooms in the chicken and mushroom pastizzi were distinctly inoffensive. by her third visit, it was her standard order.

i do like the cheese and spinach pastizzi, with its light and slightly tangy filling, and i’ve also been reacquainting myself with the stodgy delight of the pea pastizzi, stuffed with the best murky-green tinned mushy peas. all the more delicious dipped into the intense tomato sauce (remember? you used to be able to order “a bit” of sauce, or “a bowl”.)

the apple pastizzi, filled with sweet stewed apples and sprinkled in sugar, is a treat in itself, but on our outings the kid understands it is to be eaten for dessert, only after she is finished with the meaty one.

we ordered a couple of ricotta and blueberry ones the first time round, but it was rather heavier on ricotta than it need to be (and consequently, somewhat lighter on the berries).

the pastries are always hot, and if you are lucky enough to have it straight out of the oven, the friendly man behind the counter will caution you that it is especially hot. oh, delicious crunchy flaky pastry.

the last time we were there, this saturday past, the kid said, “i LOVE this place. i think that we cannot move to melbourne anymore.” i know exactly what she means. round the corner, some well-stenciled graffiti reminds me why coming to surry hills feels a little bit like home.

and the sydney experience continues. the maltese cafe is just far enough away from gelato messina that the stroll down oxford street then victoria street will make it possible to have a delightful second dessert (or y’know just dessert if you were sensible enough not to have apple pastizzi at lunchtime).

last saturday there were so many new flavours that i had to have a three-scoop cup just to feel like i wasn’t missing out. in case this ended up being the last time i got to come to messina (probably not though), i finally indulged my fond memory of the coconut-lychee gelato. it was just as wonderful as i remembered.

i had a small taste of the sprightly and refreshing pink grapefruit and aperol sorbet — “hello sailor!”, it was called — but decided that i’d have to have the peach and amaretti. oh! it was peachy, and studded with crunchy chunks of crumbled biscuits.

a scoop of rosewater and almond praline gelato in the most agreeable shade of pink rounded out the selection. the delicate hue echoed the very faint flavour of rose, which seemed overshadowed by the aggressively crunchy candied almonds.

the kid had her own yoghurt and berry cone, and nursed it by the plate glass window in the back, utterly fascinated by the freshly churned gelato coming out of the machine in the kitchen. we watched as they dispensed cherry, and then coconut, and then once the coconut was all done, the gelato man came out front to the counter and proferred a cone of it to the kid.

we ambled out then, back into the sun, towards more sydney experience (pumpkin sourdough at infinity, a modest selection of chocolatey treats at kakawa, and then a stroll through hyde park for a gander at the archibald fountain). the coconut gelato was impossibly smooth and lush.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 26 November 2010 at 11:28 am

permalink | filed under around town, ice cream, kid, lunch, snacks

reading of dawn’s art collection over at handmadelove reminded me that i’ve been meaning to photograph my cake painting for the longest time. this is what greets me each morning when i wake up, and what sends me off to dreamtime as i lean over to turn off my lamp each night.

strangely enough, i have never had a cake dream. perhaps my average daily cake intake is enough to keep it permeating my subconsciousness.

i remember discussing the painting with the artist, lucy culliton, whom i was lucky enough to meet at the gallery, and who was kind enough to counsel me through choosing which of her paintings i wanted up on my wall. she had originally painted the background pink, she said, but right at the end, had decided to paint it over with white, allowing the barest whisper of pinkish hue to show through.

i like the pale primaries of the painting: pink, blue and yellow rallying round the golden crumby cake.

perched on top, an old advertising card for tea, procured at arthur’s circus a little while ago, and a vintage price tag that my kind sister mailed me last year.

elsewhere in the house, the art is not quite as fancy, but i love it anyway. here is the wall above my computer, filled with stuff the kid has done, mostly from last year at preschool. i’ll be sad to take it all down when we pack up the house, but we’re fast running out of wall space anyway.

i recently started the kid her own tumblr page for her current output, but so far have been not very good at scanning and uploading. it couldn’t be that hard for an almost-six-year-old to learn to use a scanner, could it?

posted by ragingyoghurt on 25 August 2010 at 3:26 pm

permalink | filed under art, kid

more pink cake! we found ourselves in newtown on friday afternoon, quite famished, and stopped into black star on our way to an errand. being close to the end of trade, there wasn’t all that much left in the counter. on the counter, however, was a large jar of macarons. such pale, encrusted beauties. when i learnt they were rose and lilac, i was a little bit hesitant, because apart from rose, i am not a fan of floral flavours in food.

i should not have worried. the biscuit was crisp and then chewy, and then all heady rose perfume wrapped up in smooth ganache.

it was so good in fact, that post-errand, even with the sidewalk stools piled up high and the countergirl wiping down the counter for the day, we sweet-talked our way into buying another one.

on saturday, an impromptu and fun excursion with my cousin took a displeasing turn after lunch when we found no cake in the city.

no. cake.

to be precise: we did not want dried-out-from-sitting-in-the-display-case-all-week cake (city center); we did not quite want fancy french moussey gateaux (the rocks); we did not want spongy airline chinatown cake (chinatown). two of us wouldn’t have minded cupcakes, but one of us has an ideological issue with them. so we went our separate ways and in lieu of cake, the kid got her first pair of lace-up shoes: silver all stars.

zoom-zoom.

and we saved the cupcakes for sunday. this is what you get when you rock up to cupcakes on pitt and tell them you don’t need a box for your cupcakes because you are going to eat them right away: a little cardboard cupcake caddy. adorable, no? my zero-packaging plans were derailed, but if i remember to tuck it into my wallet, i will always be ready for a cupcake on the run.

i expect i will always be ready for this raspberry cupcake: moist raspberry cake, and a fat swirl (and then some!) of raspberry buttercream. infinitely pleasing, and gone in four chomps.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 25 August 2010 at 12:24 am

permalink | filed under around town, cake, kid, snacks

but we haven’t been making a habit of sailing off to bedtime on a big maudlin cloud, no. for example, mere pages before charlotte was dispatched, we read of templeton’s all-night bender, eating discarded fairground food. there was an illustration on the page: a line drawing of the corpulent rodent.

“he looks like matt preston,” the kid said.

“rat preston!” i countered.

oh, how we laughed.

ah, life after masterchef. what to do with the extra six or however-many-hours-it-was per week? i must be finding something worthy on which to fritter it away, because i have absolutely nothing to show for it.

the kid, on the other hand, assures me that she will be participating in junior masterchef as soon as she is able. so we shall spend the next two years in training. i set her dicing bacon, and then slicing olives, and not three olives in she had sent the knife into her finger, and was whimpering in a most pitiful manner. she spent the rest of dinner prep curled up on the couch, finger aloft, watching “snow white”.

she had really been counting on callum winning, and in the week before the masterchef final, had prepared this drawing celebrating his victory. judging from the masterchef logo on her shirt, i think she had projected herself into this reality too. in this reality, i wear tiaras and long slinky gowns, and my hair goes down to my feet.

ahhh… disappointment on all counts.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 3 August 2010 at 3:55 pm

permalink | filed under bookshelf, drawn, kid, tv

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