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.
The quest continues.
I made easter birds nests:
They needed more chocolate but still think they’re going to taste good.
Otherwise, Easter without the long weekend, family, pets and farm fucking sucks.
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.