Every year or so, J-man gets a new obsession. One year it was Chris Bath the newsreader, another time it was the White Stripes, then it was cooking pizza from scratch and at the moment it is brewing beer. J-man’s interest in beer has also extended to cooking and spices and flavours and experimenting in the kitchen. Let’s just say I now know so much about yeast, I could turn one bread roll into a thousand loaves and name thineself the messiah.
This whole thing has caused the biggest relationship rift since Kris Humphries pushed Kim Kardashian into the ocean while they holidayed in Bora Bora and she lost one of her $75,000 diamond earrings on the bottom of the ocean and then cried and we all thought it was the end and all the kittens in the world died.
Just two nights ago a discussion about cooking ended with J-man calling my salads “just a bunch of stuff cubed in a bowl” and my vegetarian cooking “boring”. I’m pretty sure he called my face “dead ugly” and then kicked a puppy too. Then all the kittens in the world died. Needless to say, I stormed off to the bedroom and sulked like any 25-year-old woman would do. I mean, c’mon cooking is my thing.
After travelling for six months, J-man and I learnt never to judge a city by the way it looks when you arrive. The international bus station in Berlin is a cement wasteland in the middle of a beautiful, mysterious city. The train into Venice gives you a tour of the romantic city’s bowels, rushing you past the sewerage plant and factories. The station in Sofia is a dark death chamber filled with groups of toothless men smoking cigars and eyeing you off like they’re figuring out how to bundle you into their boot and sell you into sex slavery … OK, so that’s a pretty accurate indication of what that city is like.
The only place where the first impression was the right one was San Francisco. The day we flew in, a couple of weeks before Christmas, it was cold and drizzling lightly. We drove into the city, pointing out the views of the bay, the tall terraces, the colourful rows of houses and the crazy-scary hills. The airline had lost our bags, but our sweet taxi driver was playing Buddhist chants and I felt calm, inspired and happy.
I will conveniently skip over the following four days where I totally, irrationally flipped out over loss of said bags, walked through the Tenderloin district alone and in tears and spent an inordinate amount of time crying and watching 16 and Pregnant. I’m pretty sure J-man spent an inordinate amount of time researching the best route to Reno for a quickie divorce.
The reason why I’m writing about San Francisco now, after all these months, is because I’ve actually been unsure whether I can do it justice. Here, I’ll try:
We were lucky enough to be housesitting for a lovely family and caring for their sweet black cat. We made a temporary home and spent our days cooking, exploring the neighbourhood, eating, drinking and taking excursions to different areas. One day we spent an afternoon in Golden Gate Park, before becoming immersed in Haight Street and all its amazing shops and characters. Another day we went to Chinatown, wandered down some side streets and ended up in a bustling restaurant where we were the only tourists. We went to countless movies, and dissected them over food at Mel’s Drive-in while putting old Christmas carols on the juke box. I had my first, real American pecan pie. We celebrated our first, and probably only, solo Christmas; combining our family traditions and sharing them only with each other. We hired a car for a day with the intention to end our drive by going over the Golden Gate Bridge. We got caught in terrible traffic and by the time we drove over it, I couldn’t have cared less because I was BUSTING to wee. Later we managed to convince a guy at a garage to let me use the toilet by telling him I was pregnant. We got coffees and walked along the shore at Crissy Field. We saw in the new year by having a decadent dinner and then watching the fireworks on top of a hill. I had grown a little pudgy on our trip, so every morning I climbed the hill and walked while taking in a 360-degree view of the city.
Up on that hill, I thought about just how crazy it was that we made it right through Europe and drove across America to San Francisco. Steve, just a small town gal, was here in San Fran-freakin’-cisco. I don’t mean to be all “ah-ha moment” lame, but I started to think about our future and what might be possible. When we came home, some of those hopes came true.
San Francisco is definitely my favourite place in the world.
I’m no Jack Kerouac, but I’d like to show you what a day on the road looks like.
0800 – Wake in a mysterious budget hotel room and make sure valuables and innocence are still in check.
0815 – Eat breakfast. Sometimes it comes from the red WalMart “cooler” we bought and other times it is provided by the hotel, with a healthy dose of Fox News on the side. Democrats are such idiots, y’all. Also, imma gonna picket me some funerals.
0845 – Pack the car. Originally we had a silver Honda with Michigan number plates. We called her Michelle, because she was classy like the First Lady. Michelle was in desperate need of a service though, so we had to swap her for a blue Camry hybrid in Memphis. We have named her Blanche. Please note the Girls! Girls! Girls! sign in the background, below. That should give you an idea of the calibre of our accommodation.
0900 – Set up the GPS (named Wendy, who has a beautiful Brooklyn accent and a penchant for spontaneous, illegal U-turns) to guide us to our next destination. Open door on advent calender pinned to the back of the driver’s seat.
1200 – Have an in-car snack. The best thing I’ve found at petrol stations in America, other than fresh bananas and transvestites, is a hazelnut cappuccino. I love them, but limit myself to one a week because I’m pretty sure they’re flavoured with pure corn syrup and pigs’ blood. Joel tried his first twinkie on the drive between Oklahoma City and Amarillo.
1330 – Stop at some road side attractions, which have included everything from road signs (Texas, duh), a big blue whale (just outside Tulsa, OK), VW Beetles driven into the sand (also Texas), NATURE (Texas) and dead raccoons (not shown).
1500 – Check into our new hotel, usually in the boondocks. Surf cable channels (my favourite discovery is the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills). Make prank calls to other rooms. Remove pants.
1515 – Realise we should actually do something with ourselves. Sometimes these things include having Christmas at Elvis’ house in Memphis, or having a chocolate soda at Nashville’s original soda shop (again, I have to limit myself because my trunk is getting so full of junk I’ll have to take out insurance on dat ass, just like Beyonce)
(This is our friend Garth. Garth and Dale, two of Joel’s friends from home, joined us for a couple of weeks. I don’t think they expected me to love bum jokes with such a passion)
1900 – Eat dinner. We’ve had some incredible meals in the US, but I think my favourite was barbecue in Memphis. We shared the dining room with a bunch of fat truckers, some cops and rowdy families. It was the most genuine American experience I’ve had.
In Paris I had the most amazing life moment. (“Life moment” – you can tell I’m writing live from downtown Philly while Dr Phil gabs in the background.) Was it my first sighting of the Eiffel Tower? No. Catching a glimpse of the Mona Lisa amidst a bustling bunch of losers taking blurry photos? Hells no. Walking along the Seine on a drizzly afternoon? Shutup, you sentimental losers!
Nope, I reached the height of contentedness in the Jardin des Tuileries when I bit into the most perfect, delicious, decadent, exploding-bro-fist-incredible raspberry macaron.
Here is what that moment looked like:
I didn’t think I could get much happier. That was until I mixed my two favourite things – food and massive castles – and had a picnic in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. So Frenchy, so chic, so HUNGRY.
So when we flew out of Paris, I tried to come to terms with never, ever eating such beautiful food again. It was like losing a family pet. A tasty, perfectly light and puffy family pet.
Little did I know my wildest eating dreams would come true in New York City. The following pictures need no explanation.
(Also – before I go and try a Philly cheese steak, allow me to share this terrible photo of THE WORLD’S BEST NACHOS EVER, JERKS with you.)
A few years ago, Joel and I went to a 21st in Bathurst for one of his friends. It was one of those parties that you know you could never pull off yourself. Mainly because not that many people actually like you. But also because it clearly cost a lot of money. It was in a beautiful historic hall, there were free-flowing drinks and more finger food than you could poke a wooden skewer at.
As Joel talked to his many friends, I cruised the food table and came across something that I figured was a felafel. I love felafel. As I bit into it angels sang, waves crashed on the beach and Josh Homme’s baby was conceived.
It was a deep fried, crumbed mushroom ball. They didn’t really seem to be all that popular, possibly because people saw felafel and no hommus, so I made Joel stash a couple in his pocket and I re-filled my plate over and over. Holy shit, it was fungi heaven.
Since then my life has pretty much been like an awesome episode of Shittake Gardiner and the quest for the perfect mushroom ball. I’ve searched high and low for recipes, but none seem to fit the bill. I’ve tried to satisfy my longing for ‘shrooms by making other mushroom-based foods. And while mushroom vol au vents are pretty much an orgasm wrapped in melted cheese, they’re still nothing compared to balls.
So when I spotted these in Coles, I nearly died:
Turns out that actually mushroom content is .00001% and the rest is peas.
On Saturday night Joel, Brown-town, Liam and I met up for some drinking, dancing and eating.
And I sure as hell ate all 52 of the pieces in the frozen yum cha yum box. This had a horrible effect on my ability to get tipsy – as in, I was so full of curried bits, pastry and frickin’ money bags that the alcohol had no chance of going anywhere except straight to my pea-like bladder. What a damned waste!
So we hauled our asses – mine particularly bloated and uncomfortable in my new semi-high waisted grandpa pants – up to Oxford Street.
First of all we went to Stonewall which was first for me. It was all that can be expected. Groomed muscley men, ungroomed (and as far as I could tell, straight) girls looking to pash a groomed muscley dude, groomed men dressed as ungroomed girls looking to pash a groomed muscley man, ungroomed unmuscley men hoping to pash groomed muscely men and someone’s dad in the corner.
Over there was Joel who was all, ” I don’t know what I’ll do if some guy grabs my ass” and then later, when it didn’t happen was all, “no one grabbed my ass!!”
And there was Liam who looked super proud to show us wide-eyed virgins around.
And then there was Bron and I. Her with a sore leg from standing up all day and me with severe gas and a waistband cutting into my liver and stopping blood flow to my parts. Yep, definite hotties.
Then we all delicately hopped over puddles of vomit to go to Spectrum. Which, for eight whole bucks, was severely disappointing. The bar staff were lazy and the DJ kept playing the goddamned Killers – and no, I don’t want to feel your bones on my bones.
Maybe it’s because I’m from Orange where a cover charge is only expected in brothels, but I want value for my money. I want good music, I want free-flowing drinks, I want a lucky door prize!
So we packed up our balls and left at around 1am, walked Liam back to his place and took a taxi home. The driver tried to rip us off, assuming we were so drunk we would readily agree to pay 10 extra bucks because he drove us across the bridge. Idiot.
And then we wound our clocks forward and woke up at 11. Alright!
Just as the prophets from Blink 182 told us, it’s all the small things that matter. Like roses by the stairs ‘n’ shit. Since learning that my pay doesn’t go too far, I take pleasure in cooking cakes to take for morning tea.
Fresh out the oven (and from scratch)
And so close you can lick it
I think I want to open up a cute little bakery like Maggie Gyllenhaal in Stranger Than Fiction. Save the world with cupcakes.
It’s been a wonderful Sydney sunday morning, the sun is shining, our sheets are crisp and dry and I had breakfast at bills in Surry Hills with Julia and my aunt Jenny. There have been three small blips on the Sunday radar however.
Dear Ben Mendelson,
Congratulations on having such a successful acting career. I love you in Love My Gay, and your cameo appearances in fast food ads. Generally, however, the polite response to being told you have to wait for a table is, ‘sure, my name is [ben] and I would like a table for three – me, my male friend with a ridiculous headband, and my small squeaky voiced lady friend over here.’ Rather than, ‘I can’t believe I have to queue outside a fucking restaurant for breakfast!’. Ben, Ben, Ben they obviously didn’t recognise you from your amazing few episodes in The Secret Life of Us. I did, but I still wouldn’t have made you breakfast after such a foul display of ego.
Best, Steve.
Dear shop-keeper lady at Grandma Takes a Trip,
Congratulations, you caught onto the whole vintage clothing thing early, and have made a name for yourself. I can op shop too, so don’t look at me as if I am a piece of dog shit that you brought in on your shoe.
Sincerely, Steve.
Dearest driver on the intersection of Ernest and whatever street,
Congratulations, your engine revs so hard it makes me think you have a big penis. Yes, the pedestrian light was red, but it had been green when I was about a quarter of the way across the road. You don’t need to beep at me, and your girlfriend doesn’t have to yell ‘red light’ out to me. I just ate an arseload (literally) of dairy that my body is ready to reject at any moment. It does not discriminate against leather upholstery, a nice paint job or your face.
Yours Faithfully,
Steve.
Otherwise, just a regular Sunday in Sydney.
Where Am I?
You are currently browsing the me want food category at
Poor Stevie.
