Belle does a bad thing...

Gentle reader, as I have previously mentioned – I am, and always have been, very much a good girl. Aside from the occasional incident when I’ve “lost my balance” on the ferry, and ended up grabbing a man’s buttocks instead of a hand rail (oops), I have largely led an innocent – if not a sheltered - life.

The photo above serves only to demonstrate that, whereas another person may see that sign and think of a double entendre, for myself – I was only interested in being somewhere of cultural / European significance (Bratwurst representing Germanic culture in this instance). Now, moving on…

Whilst there are many things I don’t mind doing (waging war on cockroaches, assaulting handsome males whilst on public transport, eating all my flatmates chocolate and then reacting with shock when she looks accusingly at me – there are only the 2 of us in the flat – as if I have no idea who the mystery sweet-toothed snacker could be, etc.) – I have always known what the boundaries are. The boundary rests firmly with wallabies, which (to my mind, at least) are so adorable, so ridiculously cute, that merely a picture of one can get me squealing.

Now – bear with me, I’m not getting side tracked, however much it sounds like I am – I recently had the pleasure of going to Melbourne.

Being a dedicated Sydneysider, I haven’t – on my 2 previous visits – quite “got” Melbourne. I know the Australians all say how European it is, but being European myself, I didn’t think that was the case. Aesthetically, as well, it isn’t as picture perfect as Sydney – I mean, it takes a hell of a lot to beat that Harbour. But, because I have family there who mean a great deal to me, I took it upon myself to return. And suddenly – the fog of Melbourne miscomprehension was lifted. I got it. I saw the charms of its laneways, the variety of its theatre, the cultural microcosms of its suburbs. It’s not European to me in that it is not steeped in the kind of history I associate with Europe, but it is drowning in interesting places to go, things to see or do, and – best of all for Gannet de Sydney – places to eat. And it is in one such place to eat – Sarti – that my story unfolds.

There for a GNA (or for those who don’t speak Australian / in acronyms – Girls’ Night Out) – the drinks were flowing, and had been for some time. My cousin who I was there with is the kind of petite, delicate looking girl who is always my downfall on nights like this. You see, despite frequent warnings that she might have to carry me home, she continued to peer pressure me into drinking (at least – to explain the copious amounts I drank that night, that’s the excuse I’m using…) – and thinking that she was matching me glass for glass, and that surely anything her small frame could handle, mine could too – I carried on. Now curiously, despite my own logical assumption that if her blood stream could handle it, so could mine – there is no scientific evidence at all to suggest that 2 women drinking together are any less likely to feel the after-effects of alcohol, if at the time of drinking, both think they’ll “probably be fine”. Whatever. The science is not what matters here, it’s the end result. And that was that the need to eat was becoming dangerously apparent, for me at least. And given my inebriated state / love of trying new things / however you want to explain it – I gave a cursory look at the menu and saw that wallabee escalope with thistles was my alcohol absorbent of choice.

Reader, at this point I can make no apologies. The wallabee was delicious. It was like its whole purpose in life was to melt in my mouth, make my taste buds explode, and bring me to quasi-orgasmic culinary ecstasy. Do I feel slightly evil in retrospect? Undeniably – yes. But would I do it again? To quote Meg Ryan – “yes, yes, oh – yes!”

Gentle reader, here is what I have found on this latest voyage of Australian and self discovery:

·         My enjoyment of food has – in this case – far out weighed my previously assumed ironclad boundaries. My love of wallabies has been sacrificed – literally and metaphorically – at the altar of gastronomic enjoyment

·         I will never, ever under-estimate the potency of drinking with my cousin again. The girl has mad skills.

·         Seeing people I love, in a place I now love, will make for some very special future holidays.

Boys and Girls, I’ll write again soon. But for now, I need to go and lie down in a darkened room…

Love,

Belle de Sydney, #1 Melbourne fan

Above - the helpless wallaby. I really do feel bad now.

The joys of domesticity...

Boys and Girls,

It has been a relatively quiet couple of weeks for Belle. The big move-in, now complete, left me drained emotionally, physically, fiscally and culinarily.

Now, here's the thing.I love to cook. I may in fact be a 1950s housewife trapped in the guise of a modern, body-rocking, party-hopping (not really actually - I generally like to be asleep by 10pm. Sad, I know), simile-twisting, cupcaking-making badass. (Hmmmm. Not sure that someone who owns a cardigan and bakes can ever really be thought of as a badass, but anyway...)

Nevertheless. Of all the loves that have come and gone in my life (scrunchies / Boyzone / putting on "dancing shows" for family and friends / Westlife *cringe* / trying to bring back the boater single-handedly - I was a very "individual" child) - cooking has, for me, remained a constant. Possibly because it gives me that all important opportunity to dive head first into a vat of food, without needing to be ashamed. Suddenly, you're not pigging out, you're just "taste testing". And maybe something needs to be "taste tested" dozens of times. Or even more, if molten chocolate is involved. I'm just saying.

Now, being exhausted from schlepping (education time - that is a Yiddish word for having an arduous journey, in some form or another. For example - "Did you see Haskell lately? He had to SCHELPP all the way over here, on a fool's errand. Meshuganah." (I'll teach you that one later).) - where was I? Yes, being tired from the schlepping, I anticipated. Being tired emotionally (a tiny bit of homesickness kicked in, I admit) - well that was to be expected as well.

Financially... all I can say is pink fairy lights with rose buds are worth it. And that whilst a gentleman may never kiss and tell, nor does a lady shop and reveal her bank balance. True?

But culinarily? Are you kidding me?! That was going to be the best part. The freedom to cook. To make whatever my heart desired.

However.

It turns out my heart is actually pretty boring, when it comes to this at least. In the last month, I have eaten a lot of salad, pumpkin, and chicken. So much, indeed, that I may turn into one of the 3, or a bizarre combination of all of them (Jack-o-Lantern face, green tinged skin, feathers sprouting? Yikes).

So the other evening, I decided it was time to branch out. If Belle can be adventurous with her love life (remember Gollum, and the date that almost was?), she can sure be adventurous with her food too. Oh yes. The culinary excitement revolution was coming. Thus, pumpkin chilli recipe firmly in hand, I began to cook. And cook. And cook. And taste. And spit it out. And add more things, in an increasingly desperate, feverishly desperate, desire to make it taste half decent.

Gentle reader - I have harsh standards. We have already established this. Therefore, my harshest - and most dominating critic - can only be myself when it comes to many things, including my cooking (although my father can be a close second.... In fact, my poor stepmother dreads a meal out with us both. If we're harsh on ourselves, we're worse when we're paying for the experience. I think the suggestion of "grabbing a quick bite out" leaves her flushed with fear and anticipation of the embarrassment we may cause her. Oops...). But oh, oh how I failed with my most recent efforts. My lovely flatemate, sensing not so much a temper tantrum as a storm of self-despair, hastily tried to reassure me that "it was quite nice, really. Maybe, maybe if you mixed it in with something..?" (This being said whilst she backed away slowly, trying desperately to reach a "safe zone".)

Boys and girls, here is the problem. I have excitement in many areas of my life. I have fun and interesting friends, who bring (drag) me to nights out I wouldn't otherwise go to (including one in Redfern... Hmmm. For those of you who don't know Redfern, it's not synonymous with law-abiding citizens, or those who are necessarily sober / not under the influence of something, much of the time. Not quite the place that yours truly fits in all too well...).

I have interesting dates (although quite whether that's a plus point for a date I'm not sure. I mean, yes, the guy telling you he's a drug dealer makes for a conversation piece, but someone you want a long term - or even short term - relationship with? I don't think so!). (In fact, saying that - any single, stable, emotionally available, decent men should feel free, at this point to contact me. I'm not saying you're not interesting, just dependable. And that could be rather nice right now).

I have even more "unusual" family (remember the Mexican?).

So, it seems that "Dull" is simply not in my vocabulary.  And dull food even less so. Life's too short, chocolate's too good, and my standards are too high. The disappointing pumpkin chilli ended up in the bin. I dined on rice crackers and tinned tuna this evening, and can feel the weight of my own disappointment descending upon me.

Like my discarded dates, the pumpkin chilli has been consigned to history - part of the closed box of bad thoughts I don't like to think about (unless it's to laugh at. Indeed, one of my best friends and I still regularly wet ourselves (metaphorically) about our respective ex-boyfriends, and some of their more bizarre moments. But that, friends, is a story for another time...)

But let's be honest. The pumpkin chilli is a more serious disappointment than my ex boyfriend(s). An ex-boyfriend can always be blamed for any mistakes or failures (JOKING...ish) whereas in this case - the problem was entirely my own. Or maybe the recipe, actually. Yes, thinking about it. Actually, I blame the recipe...

An ex-boyfriend doesn't leave you to just eat a dinner of ryvita and tinned goods (although in the case of one of my exes, I wish he had. His culinary efforts were poisonous at best).

But, at least with a failed recipe - it spurs you on. Makes you think of your future happiness, with recipes that work, food that tastes good, and the knowledge that your flatmate can venture into the kitchen when you're there without having to worry about you having an "episode"every time something doesn't quite go to plan. (Worryingly, I'm seeing increasing similarities between my dating, and my cooking. Oh dear).

So what joys of domesticity can I leave you with, really?

Ok, the cooking hasn't been me bringing my A-game, but that can change. And it will. I vow not to have another kitchen disaster (if it can possibly be avoided. And if it can't - I blame the recipe).

But, at least I have successfully warded off the attacks of 3 cockroaches (yes, really.Why the buggers like me so much I don't know), and 2 huntsman spiders (UGH). I have hosted my first dinner part (using food entirely bought from a deli, but still - I hosted it) which was a rousing success, and led to multiple columns of praise in the Sydney society pages (ok, not quite, but it could have). And I'm settling in to a whole new way of living independently stiry-fry free. And that has to be good.

My friends, I'll write again soon.

Until then,

Belle x

PS For those of you desperate to know - Meshuganah - another Yiddish word, this time for a crazy person.