Sunday, January 29, 2012

Could it be TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld? And Other Fish Parenting Dramas.

I’ve held off writing about this for the last week, scared to jinx anything, but I am now pleased to report that, after months of umming and ahhhing, I now am the proud owner of a fish tank. A rather glamorous tropical fish tank, if you must know, replete with plant life and two (for now) rather charming angel fish.

They are called TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld and DiamondsAndPearls. I think I should rename myself TheMostAwesomeBestowerOfNamesOfAllTime. This coming week I plan on adding a couple of suckerfish to the tank to help keep algae down. I think I’m going to have to lewdly name the suckers DirtyMind and IWannaBeYourLover. Eventually, I hope to have about 6 angelfish and 2 suckers, but I’ve been advised that it’s best to establish a fish population gradually. Something about bacteria, filters, and the alignment of Neptune and Pluto, no doubt. But back to the original story…

A couple of Fridays ago, Zsuzannah Verona and I made our way out to Fyshwick (what a wonderful suburb of Canberra – so much more to it than porn and pyrotechnics) to investigate fish options. A half hour later, Zusannah Verona and I were loading my car with an aquarium, a heater, a filter, some rocks and plants, a ph tester kit, some fish food…but no fish! This was because, according to the friendly man at the fish store, the tank needed to be established, the ph tested, the filter operationalised, and the temperature juuuust right before my fishy friends would be able to call my apartment their home. (This is the benefit of going to a reputable aquarium supplier – they really know their stuff and can get quite bossy about it, in the BEST possible way). Given the amount of (highly enjoyable) fuss and preparation my fish were demanding, I felt it only reasonable that they have diva-tastic names to reflect this. Hence, Zsusannah and I settled on Prince Song Titles as the naming theme for the fish. I feel that The Purple One would deem this most appropriate.

Zusannah excelled herself in her petgodparent duties. Without her calm guidance, I am convinced that the filter would have been put together wrong, the tank insufficiently filled, and the plants poorly arranged. We went out and ate some pho to celebrate (incidentally, Vietman CafĂ© at Woden does a fantastic pho – well worth a visit).

Perhaps, though, celebrations were premature. When I went back to the fish store later that afternoon, having double checked to satisfy myself that, yes, the tank was ideally ph’d, heated, and planted, I realised, rather foolishly, that I was going to have to delicately balance my small plastic bag containing two teeny tiny and quite scared angel fish while I drove the ten minutes back to my place.

What I should have done, with hindsight, was rest the bag on my lap as I drove. What I did, really really foolishly, was sit the bag in the passenger seat footwell, which meant that every time I turned a corner, the unsecured bag rolled about chaotically, giving my fish a significantly more traumatic start to life than I had planned. Fish parenting FAIL.

Clearly, though, angel fish have evolved to survive owner stupidity, and I was relieved to see when I pulled up at my apartment that the fish, although disoriented, had not retreated to that great aquarium in the sky.

The dramas were not to end there, though. Following my instructions to the letter, I allowed the fish to float in their bag in the tank for ten minutes to grow accustomed to the temperature. So far so good. Then, I opened the bag, submerged it to allow some tank water in, and allowed the fish to gently get used to their new water for about fifteen minutes. I went away to answer some emails, and came back to see how my piscean friends were doing.

DiamondsAndPearls was the only fish in the bag.

I had lost TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld.

(At this point, it’s worth mentioning that DiamondsAndPearls is pure white, and TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld is black. The background of my fish tank is black. Perfect camouflage, much?)

I searched high, I searched low. I rustled all the tank plants. I took apart the heater and filter, dreading that TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld had met a tragic end in the filtration pump. No sign. I checked behind the tank, fearing that she’d committed hari-kari and jumped over the edge. No little black fish corpses were to be seen. I was just about to give up and concede incompetence in the fish parenting stakes when, from behind a large green leaf, I glimpsed a shimmer of black tail.

Could it be TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld??

Ten minutes later, I saw movement over near the driftwood I had installed for fishtacular fun and games. Definite proof of life, and proof that I am not completely incompetent in the fish parenting stakes, despite some early setbacks.

A week and a bit has passed, and, while DiamondsAndPearls, her showier tank companion, is all over the attention-from-the-humans thing like white on rice, TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld, like all things of true beauty, can only be seen when you aren’t looking for her. But when you do catch a glimpse, it’s plain to see the reason why I couldn’t name her anything else.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Gym Fashions: Discuss.

Since last spring, I’ve been going to Body Pump classes a couple of times a week at my local gym. And, by golly, I love Pump. I love the daggy music, especially the bicep track to a dreadful cover of ‘Eye of the Tiger’. I love that my local gym is run by the YMCA, and, as such, is a bit more budget than other gyms I’ve gone to in the past. I love that there are no mirrors in the group fitness room (seriously, I do not need to see myself from all possible angles as I tone). I love that I can feel my body getting stronger and that, after that first ten minutes, the endorphins kick in and I’m having a blast even though muscles I never thought I had are aching. I love the smug feeling I get when reading health recommendations regarding physical exercise, because I’m Just Do(ing) It. I love the sexual-political innuendo that Pump instructors slip in (tee hee) – yes, I can go deeper, can you? YES, OH, YES, WE CAN.

What I don’t love, though, is gym fashion. It’s the (sweaty) pits. I personally can’t do the Lorna Jane esque work out outfit – a singlet in a pastel colour, motivational slogan optional, and a pair of three quarter length leggings. Which, incidentally, become transparent when sweaty – your call as to whether you want the person behind you to know far too much about you after you’ve shared a deep and meaningful squat track together.

Some people can get away with the cute gym girl look. Specifically Elle Woods. Others can’t. Specifically me, although Elle and I share a lot of other commonalities (a subject for another post). See the problem is, I’m no gym poser. When I go, I go hard (tee hee). So, I get hot. Really hot. And Sweaty. Really sweaty, and sweaty everywhere, even, bizarrely, my elbows. It’s like they’re crying little tears of sweat. That cute pastel outfit? It’s soaked and clinging two minutes into the squat track. Me? I’m just a hot mess (and not in a good way).

So what I’ve been wearing of late to the gym is my around the house outfit - Gasp – because it is comfortable and I don’t have to be distracted by it during my workout. I can instead concentrate on perfect form, and that bead of sweat about to drip from the end of my nose. I’m OK with the bottom portion of this outfit, namely my country road grey marle track pants – they’re cotton, so they breathe, and they’re dark enough to not show sweat. They’re also rather flattering, if a pair of track pants can be called such. (Next winter I’m buying myself three pairs: one for home, one for gym, and one for those visits to Costco or greater Queanbeyan when only your best going out trackies will do).

On top, though, is where the real problems begin. I’ve been wearing my grey marle ANU tee shirt. Which I love to bits, like all my ANU tee shirts before it. It’s big and baggy, which means I’m deliciously cool and comfortable in it. It’s also long, which is great for my longer torso, particularly as I don’t want to share my belly with everyone in class during overhead lifting sets. It’s also got a super high crew neck, so I, and my Pump classmates, are safe from accidental boob flashes (I have seen this happen A LOT at gyms. I refuse to let my nipples become a pair of bouncy statistics)

Problem is, though, it’s the most singularly unflattering garment in all creation. I honestly feel the need to walk around each member of class after we finish, and explain to them that, actually, I’m normally pretty stylish, and, actually, yes, I have a waist, a real one, under the overhanging outcrop of my bust, and, actually, no, I’m not a swamp creature, and, actually, yes, I do dress in colours other than grey marle. Although, to be fair, most people, myself included, are so thoroughly Pumped out that they don’t give a damn about style, waists, busts, swamps and grey marle. Just get me a hot shower and some tiger balm, stat.

Maybe this whole ANU tee shirt thing is a good learning exercise for me, proving that yes, I can look like a total dag, go out, in public, with other people, and still have a great time. But I still think (to use a Pumpism) that I ought to BRING IT a bit more in the style stakes at the gym, without compromising the physicality that is, after all, the aim of the game.

So this week, in between setting exams, grading papers, and writing thesis, I’m going in search of Gym Tee Shirt Perfection. And I’m going hard. Because, OH YES, I can.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Fifty ways to leave your hair care regime

Dear Trichomania American Cream (Lush Trichomania Shampoo, DISCONTINUED, Lush American Cream Conditioner, $33.95 for a 500g bottle),

They say breaking up with a hairdresser is one of the hardest breaks a woman has to make. It’s not true. This is by far the hardest thing I’ve done (since this morning’s Pump class). Tirchomania American Cream, you’ve been my hair care regime for the last two years, but it’s over. The writing has been on the (shower) wall for quite some time.

You came to me at a difficult point in my hair cycle. I was growing out of some unhealthy colouring habits, and had been abusing silicone based hair care products for far longer than I care to remember. It’s a common phase for young girls in their early twenties, but I now know, being common doesn’t make something OK.

In many ways, you saved my hair from a downward spiral of aggressive dyes and smothering repair treatments. From that very first time in the shower, you unleashed something powerful on my follicles. Your smell alone – vanilla, coconut, a hint of citrus – intoxicated me. Your deep conditioning thrilled me. You were smooth, banishing my flyaways and frizz with your honey-sweet caresses. You bought my hair, gently, back to life after one too many bleach jobs.

We were good together, you and I. Never had I had such good hair. People stopped me in the street to ask what I was doing, and my answer, immediately, joyfully, was you. I thought I’d found the one.

Then, about a year in, things changed. Was it just me, or did your once sweet smell become cloying? Did your smoothing and conditioning drag me down? Every hair care regime goes through a period of adjustment. Maybe this was ours? Each passing week, though, bought no change. Instead, my hair became increasingly suboptimal.

And, then, I cheated on you. You were out of stock. I was desperate. My hair was filthy. It needed a wash. So I found a little bottle of I Love Juicy (Lush I Love Juicy Shampoo, $10.95 per 100g bottle). Although I Love Juicy’s banana-ey overtones made me gag, it did leave my roots voluminously invigorated. It was then I realised what was missing between us. I’d glimpsed what life could be like with bouncy, full, luscious hair. I threw away that little bottle of I Love Juicy, willing to give things another shot with you. But I couldn’t forget that incredible root lift that my sneaky bottle of I Love Juicy had given me.

Things went downhill fast. Rinsing thoroughly, I was still overwhelmed by your sticky residue. My hair clung limply to my scalp. I was using a can of dry shampoo (Batiste Tropicana Dry Shampoo, $9.95 per 100g bottle) a week. You know that’s not healthy - for hair, for the environment, for my budget. My ends were split and frazzled from too many attempts at the inverted-head-vigrous-hair-volumising-brush-up (don’t try that without a note from your chiropractor) by way of a desperate attempt to shake some life back into my hair. And yet we still couldn’t get the volume up.

So it’s time for us to part ways. No, I don’t want to keep trying till the end of the bottle. I’ve gone out and got myself a new regime, so I’m afraid it’s bin time for you. It seems cold, such an unceremonious goodbye after so many good times together. But Big Veganese (Lush Big Shampoo, $25.95 for a 330g pot, Lush Veganese Conditoner, $23.50 per 250g bottle) gives me root lift and volume like you never could. It’s entirely vegan too. Not that that matters, but I admire commitment to a cause.

I’ll remember you fondly, even though things got so lank at the end. I’m sure there are plenty of women out there who will appreciate all you have to offer – your sweet smell, your deep conditioning, and your soothing smoothness. Indeed, I heartily endorse you as a hair care product, and wish you many happy shower times together. But I’m no longer one of those women who wants what you have to offer. My hair needs invigoration, my hair needs energy, my hair needs the fresh smell of lime and sea salt, my hair needs root lift, root lift you just can’t give me.

Take care, we’ll always have Chifley (not quite the same as we’ll always have Paris, is it?)

Peg

Xoxo

Ps: this post, as with every post on this blog, is unsponsored. It’s just hair care advice from one woman to another, no subtext, no hidden messages, no financial incentives. Enjoy!

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Celebrity Chef Redux Chicken, Sweet Potato and Amond Stew

I think someone (hello, former students of mine) should do a sociological study of Australian food culture as expressed through the recipes section of Good Weekend magazine. (If you would like someone to help you prepare and taste test recipes, I am your go-to girl). Charting the social, economic, ethical and aesthetic dimensions of food consumption in Australia would be fasciminating indeed, as my friend Mimi Goss would say.

If a student of mine were to undertake this course of study, I would strongly hope that they would come out swinging against the current celebrity chef responsible for the food pages. I won’t name names, but he is, I find, singularly irritating, to the point where I’ve begun to skip his columns as, firstly, I, and no one I know, could afford the first five items on the ingredients list for an ‘everyday meal’, and, secondly, no one I know would want to spend the five hours in the kitchen sharpening our Furli knives to slither kingfish sashimi between coming home from work, running out to the gym, or just, you know, having a life.

Except, every now and then, I look at a recipe and go…hmmm, with a bit of tweaking and a simplification/economisation, there is potential for a halfway decent recipe. Sometimes even a good one.

Such is the case with my Celebrity Cher Redux Chicken, Sweet Potato and Almond Stew. The initial recipe provided by He Who Shall Not Be Named featured lamb backstrap, but I modified it to use rump steak, and then, as in the following recipe, chicken thighs. I liked the beef stew, but something about chicken, cinnamon and sweet potato is too terrifically right for me to not give you the white meat version.

If you’re worried about the whole stew-in-summer thing, don’t be. This actually tastes fresh (I think it’s the lime and mint) and, if you serve it cooled down a little from piping hot, it’s rather pleasant on a balmy evening, particularly if you wash it down with chilled sarsaparilla as Clementine Kemp and I did this past Friday.

Celebrity Cher Redux Chicken, Sweet Potato and Almond Stew

Serves 5

600g chicken thigh fillets, cut into inch-ish chunks
Olive oil
2 onions, chopped

Heat a little oil in large casserole dish (I use my le cruset). Fry onions and chicken over medium heat with a pinch of salt until chicken begins to turn white. Throw in the following…

1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon cinnamon
6 bruised cardomon pods

And cook until fragrant. Now add in…

1 teaspoon chicken stock powder
1 teaspoon vegetable stock powder
Enough water to ONLY JUST COVER the chicken
(or, instead of the above, a carton of liquid chicken stock)

Bring this briefly to the boil and turn to the lowest simmer possible. It’s now time, while you wait for the pot to boil, to add…

About half to three quarters of a cup of chopped pitted dates
A really generous splash of lime juice (we’re probably in the vicinity of a quarter cup)
A teaspoon of palm sugar (or brown sugar, or just some extra dates)

Put the lid on your casserole dish and leave on a very low heat, while you peel and chop into inch-ish chunks...

Two medium large sweet potatoes

Which you then place on a baking tray, toss with some olive oil and salt, and roast at 200 degrees or until tender. By this time, your chicken should have been in the pot for just over an hour, and well on the way to being tender and delicious. If you chicken is not quite slow-cooked enough, leave the potatoes in your (turned off) oven. Once the chicken has cooked until it’s tender and lovely, add in the roasted sweet potatoes and allow to sit off the heat for ten minutes to infuse. Meanwhile, chop a large handful of fresh mint and a large handful of almonds, and garnish your stew.

Serve with steamed rice and some quickly pan tossed greens. As one of Farmer Wants a Wife’s more…special…farmers would say, winner winner chicken dinner.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Home.

You unload box after box. You haphazardly assemble furniture on the run, chugging pickled tea. You realise your bookshelf is missing a crucial brace to hold it true – you resolve to leave it leaning until you can get another brace from IKEA. You put off perfect pantry planning for a later date. You place vases wherever there is a clear surface. You plug in the new kettle, microwave, toaster, at the nearest power socket.

You know, one day, it will be Home.

A week in you rearrange the pots on your balcony – the thyme and oregano die in the deep shade and from your overzealous watering, but the lemon balm thrives.

Within the fortnight you have changed the position of the futon. You have hung all the pictures, you have scrounged new ones to go alongside. You are developing quite the collection.

A month has passed. You spend an afternoon DIY-ing that old dresser you picked up from the dumpster at your old place. You admire the results, and yourself admiring them, in the dresser’s oversized mirror.

You wonder, after five weeks, how so much dust can gather in a bathtub.

You realise, in week six, it’s because you love that breeze sweeping through the apartment when you leave all the windows and doors open, the breeze that brings dust from the renovations across the road. You swipe the dust from the bathtub each week when you clean, because you love that breeze.

Two months in, you journey to Sydney, amongst other things, to go to IKEA and get a brace for that precariously leaning bookshelf. Homeward bound and just passed Sutton, you realise you spent $300 and forgot to buy the brace. Your bookcase reproaches you every time you walk through the front door and see it, leaning.

Nine weeks after you collect the keys, and after working from home grading papers and coordinating distance ed for two courses, you realise that the study is not working. You rearrange some pictures, put some fresh flowers in a jug, swap some cushions over, and it works again. But that rug, you think, that rug will need to go sometime soon. You resolve to workshop rug options another day, you must get back to work.

Between Christmas and New Year, your father comes over and braces your bookshelves with steel webbing from Magnet Mart. You walk in the front door, you see your bookshelf, braced true and straight. You, and your books, are home.