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.
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.
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