Happy New Year, everybody! Or, as I like to say, Thank Gosh The Party Season Is (Almost) Over For Another Year.
Right there, folks, is a clanging admission of my introversion. I wish I could be one of those people who party hops with gay abandon, getting high on the smell of Jatz, buzzing from witty repartee with charming strangers.
Problem is, I’m just not that particular flavour of fudge sundae.
While nice to see so many of y’all, I’m kind of exhausted by January. I’ve a strong desire to curl up with a book, a bowl of something cool and delicious to eat, and a blasting air conditioner, in the interests of restoring both mind and body from one too many brushed with festive cheer.
The book of the moment, and the reason why I’ve resolved to be more honest about my introversion, is ‘Quiet’, by Susan Cain. If anything about the above paragraphs resonates, you need to read this book. Reading it, I’ve been wondering if SC has been secretly following me around, peering inside my head, my entire life. She’s even written about some silly little introvert behaviours - behaviours which I hitherto believed to be Peggy-exclusive - which are actually quite common in the 50% of the population who are introverts. Apparently, a lot of other introverts frequent the loo multiple times a day, not to answer nature’s call, but for a bit of peace and quiet. And I thought I was the only one! The things you read…
The bowl-food of the moment, and the principal subject of this post, is Sesame Tofu Noodles. I’ve been making this for a while, but feel that it is a recipe particularly suited to these hot, depleted, post-festive weeks. The best thing about this recipe is that it’s spectacularly easy, and makes just enough for one hungry introvert to slurp while reading.
Sesame Tofu Noodles
Ingredients
150g silken tofu, cubed
1 clove garlic, whole but bashed with the flat of a knife
1 spring onion, finely sliced
1 tablespoon sesame seeds (you could toast them, if you liked)
1 tablespoon mirin
1 tablespoon soy sauce (plus extra, to taste)
1 heaped tablespoon tahini
1 teaspoon rice wine vinegar
Chilli flakes (only if you want them, this is fine without)
1 head bock choi, sliced
A couple of stems of Chinese broccoli, sliced
A good handful of green beans and/or snow peas, sliced
90g soba noodles
Chopped coriander, and/or Vietnamese mint, and/or Thai basil
1. Place tofu, garlic clove, sliced spring onion, sesame seeds, mirin, soy sauce, tahini, rice wine vinegar, and chilli flakes in the bowl that you intend to eat from (less washing up). Mix. Place in fridge to chill until you are just about ready to eat.
2. Boil a pot of salted water. While it comes to the boil, rinse your greens thoroughly.
3. Cook your soba noodles in the boiling salted water for about 3 minutes, or until almost done.
4. When your noodles are almost cooked, add in your washed greens to the pot. Cook for a further minute.
5. Drain noodles and vegies in a colander. Rinse under cold running water.
6. Remove the garlic clove from the tofu/dressing mixture. Add the noodle/vegetable mixture to the tofu/dressing mixture, and stir to thoroughly coat – tongs are the best for this. Taste test and adjust with extra soy sauce, salt, pepper or chilli.
7. Sprinkle with chopped herbs, and eat on the couch.
PS: you could easily make this gluten free, by substituting a cake of rice vermicelli for the soba noodles. If that’s your thing, just cook the rice noodles as per the packet instructions and blanch your vegies separately.
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Dear Christmas
Dear Christmas,
You can be a real bitch.
The endless Christmas parties that start in November. NO-VEM-BER (NO-WAY, more like). The obfuscation, in your seasonal fug, of several loved ones’ birthdays I’d like to celebrate on their own merits, rather than as an afterthought to your excessive fanfare. The increased presence of numpty shoppers (I mean, I know not everyone is as prodigiously gifted a shopper as me, but, for the love of sweet baby Jesus, step aside and let me show you how you burn plastic). The increased presence of Christmas carols. The increased presence of misbehaving relations. The increased presence of plastic decorations. The sugar comas. The humidity. The mosquitoes. The pre-packaged turkey stuffing.
Having digested the above statements (the same cannot be said about pre-packaged turkey stuffing), it may be hard for you to believe what I have to say next. But, in spite of appearances, I love you, Christmas, like the way Mark Darcy loves Bridget Jones: just the way you are. And here’s why:
• Shortbread stars, dusted with sugar and wrapped in cello bags;
• MamaK and PapaK’s three cats maliciously eyeing off the Christmas tree;
• Discovering new favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. If you haven’t done so already, get yourselves down to Lonsdale St Traders – it’s a trip;
• Reconnecting with old favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. Mrs Peterson’s new range is swell, and Able and Game are now doing tea towels. Be still, my beating heart;
• Cinnamon and nutmeg, in everything;
• Comparing family chaos dispatches with my most understanding friends;
• Mangoes and cherries, the perfect antidotes to commercial, over-processed food;
• Christmas Morning Craft, an evolving part of our family ritual. This year, we’re ironicaly painting garden gnomes;
• Decorating my writing desk with stars as a cheesy reminder to aim high in the last throes of PhDrafting; and, best of all
• Knowing that, at some point on December 25, something hilarious will go down (it always does), and the six of us will laugh so hard our food-stuffed stomachs will ache till New Year’s.
It’s because of this, Christmas, that I forgive you for being a bitch. In fact, you’re rather grand, and I’m glad you stopped by at the end of a hectic-fantastic (Hectastic?) year.
Because, deep down, you and I both know your secret: that really, you’re alright.
Lots of love,
Peggy
Xoxoxo
Ps in the interests of getting the PhDrafting PhDone, this is my last post for 2012. Merry Christmas all, and a happy new year. I’m sure it’s going to be merry and bright!
You can be a real bitch.
The endless Christmas parties that start in November. NO-VEM-BER (NO-WAY, more like). The obfuscation, in your seasonal fug, of several loved ones’ birthdays I’d like to celebrate on their own merits, rather than as an afterthought to your excessive fanfare. The increased presence of numpty shoppers (I mean, I know not everyone is as prodigiously gifted a shopper as me, but, for the love of sweet baby Jesus, step aside and let me show you how you burn plastic). The increased presence of Christmas carols. The increased presence of misbehaving relations. The increased presence of plastic decorations. The sugar comas. The humidity. The mosquitoes. The pre-packaged turkey stuffing.
Having digested the above statements (the same cannot be said about pre-packaged turkey stuffing), it may be hard for you to believe what I have to say next. But, in spite of appearances, I love you, Christmas, like the way Mark Darcy loves Bridget Jones: just the way you are. And here’s why:
• Shortbread stars, dusted with sugar and wrapped in cello bags;
• MamaK and PapaK’s three cats maliciously eyeing off the Christmas tree;
• Discovering new favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. If you haven’t done so already, get yourselves down to Lonsdale St Traders – it’s a trip;
• Reconnecting with old favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. Mrs Peterson’s new range is swell, and Able and Game are now doing tea towels. Be still, my beating heart;
• Cinnamon and nutmeg, in everything;
• Comparing family chaos dispatches with my most understanding friends;
• Mangoes and cherries, the perfect antidotes to commercial, over-processed food;
• Christmas Morning Craft, an evolving part of our family ritual. This year, we’re ironicaly painting garden gnomes;
• Decorating my writing desk with stars as a cheesy reminder to aim high in the last throes of PhDrafting; and, best of all
• Knowing that, at some point on December 25, something hilarious will go down (it always does), and the six of us will laugh so hard our food-stuffed stomachs will ache till New Year’s.
It’s because of this, Christmas, that I forgive you for being a bitch. In fact, you’re rather grand, and I’m glad you stopped by at the end of a hectic-fantastic (Hectastic?) year.
Because, deep down, you and I both know your secret: that really, you’re alright.
Lots of love,
Peggy
Xoxoxo
Ps in the interests of getting the PhDrafting PhDone, this is my last post for 2012. Merry Christmas all, and a happy new year. I’m sure it’s going to be merry and bright!
Sunday, December 2, 2012
On the Art of Shopping
As we enter December, the month consecrated to the Gods of Consumerism, it behoves me to share my meditations on the art of shopping. Some of my acquaintance would say that I am a prodigiously gifted shopper, with a superior understanding, practical and theoretical, of all aspect of shopping.
I’m inclined to agree with them.
In my extensive experience, there are two distinct modes of shopping. The first is the planned offensive. The second is the stealth strike.
The first type of shopping – the planned offensive– is the tactically safe choice. The most successful planned offensives are the result of careful reconnaissance. Like a gambler studying the form guide, or a trader monitoring stocks, the shopper needs to be aware of who is doing what in the retail arena to best inform their strike and maximise its tactical utility. Online shopping, e-newsletters, and company websites are principal sources of intelligence, and should be regularly consulted.
For instance: back in October, it came to my attention that the Undercurrent market was occurring the last weekend of November, at the National Portrait Gallery. Ten minutes reconnaissance on stallholders websites confirmed what I suspected: that Undercurrent presented a tactical opportunity to do the vast majority of my (considerable) Christmas and December/January birthday shopping in one fell swoop. From October onwards, I began a concerted savings effort to facilitate this retail offensive. Last Saturday, within the space of 90 minutes, I came, saw, conquered, pillaged those markets like Ghangis Kahn raiding a small Eurasian village. All under budget, no less (Wayne Swan: call me).
Yet, while it was immensely satisfying to return home - the acrid smell of burning plastic emanating from my wallet a pleasant reminder of battles fought and won - pouring over my spoils left me somewhat cold. Although it was a technically brilliant piece of shopping, well planned, well budgeted, well executed, last Saturday was missing something critical. It was too tactical, too safe.
For, you see, the true shopper – and we are rare beasts indeed – has an instinct for retail, an instinct honed over years of patient self-discipline, reflection, and practice. It’s an instinct that propels them to undertake rash, bold, sudden action: to stealth strike. Stealth strikes, while illogical at the outset, inevitably result in the most pyrotechnic of victories, provided that the true shopper unswervingly trusts their instincts. Like a fisherman who knows when the trout are running, like the hunter who knows where bears shit in the woods, a true shopper can sniff the air and detect the faintest whiff of smoke that informs them that a sale is on. This is why shopping is an art, not a science: it must be felt. And a visa card must always, always, be kept loaded in preparation for a stealth strike.
To wit: one Friday, typing away at my computer at work, I smelt a sale. Flexing off twenty minutes early, MamaK and I hit the shops (N.B: true shoppers are most often loan wolves, mavericks acting without their platoon, stealth striking in isolation. Occasionally, the art of shopping is passed down through a bloodline, mother to daughter, who shop in teams or packs. This is how dynasties are born). Fortune the bold: shoes were on sale. Our first hit yielded five pairs of leather work shoes for $200. About to head to the car, MamaK suggested that perhaps another lap could yield further results. Never one to deny the instinct of a true shopper, we did another lap. Two more pairs of shoes, on an even more spectacular sale, were secured.
While I acknowledge that my purchase of seven pairs of shoes may be regarded as somewhat rash, I think it is more accurately a masterful display of the art of shopping, and a demonstration of tactical brilliance. For, as Canberra residents know, our supply chains are unreliable: just as you make hay while the sun shines, in this town, you always buy the shoes when they are on sale.
I’m inclined to agree with them.
In my extensive experience, there are two distinct modes of shopping. The first is the planned offensive. The second is the stealth strike.
The first type of shopping – the planned offensive– is the tactically safe choice. The most successful planned offensives are the result of careful reconnaissance. Like a gambler studying the form guide, or a trader monitoring stocks, the shopper needs to be aware of who is doing what in the retail arena to best inform their strike and maximise its tactical utility. Online shopping, e-newsletters, and company websites are principal sources of intelligence, and should be regularly consulted.
For instance: back in October, it came to my attention that the Undercurrent market was occurring the last weekend of November, at the National Portrait Gallery. Ten minutes reconnaissance on stallholders websites confirmed what I suspected: that Undercurrent presented a tactical opportunity to do the vast majority of my (considerable) Christmas and December/January birthday shopping in one fell swoop. From October onwards, I began a concerted savings effort to facilitate this retail offensive. Last Saturday, within the space of 90 minutes, I came, saw, conquered, pillaged those markets like Ghangis Kahn raiding a small Eurasian village. All under budget, no less (Wayne Swan: call me).
Yet, while it was immensely satisfying to return home - the acrid smell of burning plastic emanating from my wallet a pleasant reminder of battles fought and won - pouring over my spoils left me somewhat cold. Although it was a technically brilliant piece of shopping, well planned, well budgeted, well executed, last Saturday was missing something critical. It was too tactical, too safe.
For, you see, the true shopper – and we are rare beasts indeed – has an instinct for retail, an instinct honed over years of patient self-discipline, reflection, and practice. It’s an instinct that propels them to undertake rash, bold, sudden action: to stealth strike. Stealth strikes, while illogical at the outset, inevitably result in the most pyrotechnic of victories, provided that the true shopper unswervingly trusts their instincts. Like a fisherman who knows when the trout are running, like the hunter who knows where bears shit in the woods, a true shopper can sniff the air and detect the faintest whiff of smoke that informs them that a sale is on. This is why shopping is an art, not a science: it must be felt. And a visa card must always, always, be kept loaded in preparation for a stealth strike.
To wit: one Friday, typing away at my computer at work, I smelt a sale. Flexing off twenty minutes early, MamaK and I hit the shops (N.B: true shoppers are most often loan wolves, mavericks acting without their platoon, stealth striking in isolation. Occasionally, the art of shopping is passed down through a bloodline, mother to daughter, who shop in teams or packs. This is how dynasties are born). Fortune the bold: shoes were on sale. Our first hit yielded five pairs of leather work shoes for $200. About to head to the car, MamaK suggested that perhaps another lap could yield further results. Never one to deny the instinct of a true shopper, we did another lap. Two more pairs of shoes, on an even more spectacular sale, were secured.
While I acknowledge that my purchase of seven pairs of shoes may be regarded as somewhat rash, I think it is more accurately a masterful display of the art of shopping, and a demonstration of tactical brilliance. For, as Canberra residents know, our supply chains are unreliable: just as you make hay while the sun shines, in this town, you always buy the shoes when they are on sale.
Monday, December 19, 2011
A Very Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year
Well, people, the 2011 blogging year is drawing to a close for me. Long story short, I’ve decided that due to work commitments this will be my last post for 2011 – but I will be back, all engines running, the first Monday in January to keep on sharing my thoughts and ramblings with y’all.
I suppose, then, that it’s appropriate to reflect on 2011 as a year. The more I speak to people, the more I realise that 2011 has been…well, if 2011 were a student, and I was talking to her parents at Parent Teacher Night, I’d probably say something along the lines of:
‘While I’ve really enjoyed having 2011 in my class, certain aspects of her behaviour have been…challenging. Problematic. Disruptive. Hurtful to me and the other students. Why can’t 2011 just leave me alone? I don’t understand!! I want my classroom back!!!!!!! I want my life back!!!!!!!!!’ (exits, sobbing, to the staffroom).
I’m not alone in feeling this way about 2011. Everyone I have been speaking to about this in the last few weeks has been looking forward to putting this year to bed and welcoming a new one. Change has seemed to be a pretty major element of what people in my life, and what I, have had happen in 2011. The kicker is, it’s not been easy or exciting change. Believe it or not, I normally like change. Shake it up, baby, turn and face the strain. What’s made this year’s changes that my crew and I have experienced non-easy and non-exciting is that they’ve been hard changes, changes that required leaps into the dark, naked without a parachute. Changes that, for some, involved painful choices to separate from significant others. Changes that involved for others giving up on some dreams. Or moving houses and lives, or just taking on a whole lot of hard hard hard work with the end in sight but a long way off. My year included all those things, and TWO bouts of the worst food poisoning I’ve ever had in my life, within a month of each other. If I’d have known what was ahead of me, gastro wise, in 2011, I would not have laughed so hard in the food poisoning scene in Briedsmaids. Just saying.
What I’ve learnt from 2011, other than sushi is always a seriously bad idea, is that people are made of pretty tough stuff. Because, in spite of 2011’s better attempts to break our spirits and run amok, we are all still here, still talking, still living, still believing in each other, and, most importantly, still hoping for a brighter 2012.
It’s in this spirit of hoping for a brighter 2012 that I’m sharing with you my wishlist for 2012. I stole this idea from Kitty Gilfeather, who, rather than making new years resolutions, writes a wishlist of what she hopes for in 2012. It takes away the threat of failure implied by resolutions, and instead replaces them with the warm, happy glow of anticipation. Here’s what I’m working with so far:
• Read more good books.
• Wear matching underwear at all times.
• Buy a fabulous thing for my apartment each season (I’m thinking my summer purchase might be a cowhide rug for le boudoir– thoughts?).
• Kick corporate wardrobe butt.
• Update my CV every 6 months to reflect awesomeness.
• Keep fresh flowers at my desk.
• Listen to albums in full, rather than skipping to singles.
And, most importantly, I feel:
• Drink mojitos, with lots and lots of ice, on my balcony, watching thunderstorms.
So bye for now, lovelies, and see you in 2012. Which, might I just say, already looks pretty swell.
I suppose, then, that it’s appropriate to reflect on 2011 as a year. The more I speak to people, the more I realise that 2011 has been…well, if 2011 were a student, and I was talking to her parents at Parent Teacher Night, I’d probably say something along the lines of:
‘While I’ve really enjoyed having 2011 in my class, certain aspects of her behaviour have been…challenging. Problematic. Disruptive. Hurtful to me and the other students. Why can’t 2011 just leave me alone? I don’t understand!! I want my classroom back!!!!!!! I want my life back!!!!!!!!!’ (exits, sobbing, to the staffroom).
I’m not alone in feeling this way about 2011. Everyone I have been speaking to about this in the last few weeks has been looking forward to putting this year to bed and welcoming a new one. Change has seemed to be a pretty major element of what people in my life, and what I, have had happen in 2011. The kicker is, it’s not been easy or exciting change. Believe it or not, I normally like change. Shake it up, baby, turn and face the strain. What’s made this year’s changes that my crew and I have experienced non-easy and non-exciting is that they’ve been hard changes, changes that required leaps into the dark, naked without a parachute. Changes that, for some, involved painful choices to separate from significant others. Changes that involved for others giving up on some dreams. Or moving houses and lives, or just taking on a whole lot of hard hard hard work with the end in sight but a long way off. My year included all those things, and TWO bouts of the worst food poisoning I’ve ever had in my life, within a month of each other. If I’d have known what was ahead of me, gastro wise, in 2011, I would not have laughed so hard in the food poisoning scene in Briedsmaids. Just saying.
What I’ve learnt from 2011, other than sushi is always a seriously bad idea, is that people are made of pretty tough stuff. Because, in spite of 2011’s better attempts to break our spirits and run amok, we are all still here, still talking, still living, still believing in each other, and, most importantly, still hoping for a brighter 2012.
It’s in this spirit of hoping for a brighter 2012 that I’m sharing with you my wishlist for 2012. I stole this idea from Kitty Gilfeather, who, rather than making new years resolutions, writes a wishlist of what she hopes for in 2012. It takes away the threat of failure implied by resolutions, and instead replaces them with the warm, happy glow of anticipation. Here’s what I’m working with so far:
• Read more good books.
• Wear matching underwear at all times.
• Buy a fabulous thing for my apartment each season (I’m thinking my summer purchase might be a cowhide rug for le boudoir– thoughts?).
• Kick corporate wardrobe butt.
• Update my CV every 6 months to reflect awesomeness.
• Keep fresh flowers at my desk.
• Listen to albums in full, rather than skipping to singles.
And, most importantly, I feel:
• Drink mojitos, with lots and lots of ice, on my balcony, watching thunderstorms.
So bye for now, lovelies, and see you in 2012. Which, might I just say, already looks pretty swell.
Monday, November 28, 2011
The Nativity Story
Last Christmas (I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away…)
Excuse me, Wham! and I share a profound spiritual connection. Anyway, last Christmas, I wrote about how much I love the silly season here on this blog. This year (to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special…) I would like to share with you again my yuletide yearnings.
Christmas, in my family, is the big kahuna of celebrations. And in a family that celebrate exceptionally well and regularly - we end every week with a Sunday night feast - the big celebration really is...big! Maxtreme is probably a closer definition.
To give you an idea, MamaK’s list of Christmas baking (this is just for us, not Christmas gift baking, or Christmas deserts, or Christmas main meals, or Christmas snacks…), consists of the following items:
Shortbread
Cranberry Macarons
Pistachio Macarons
Amaretto Macarons
Almond Pears
Rum balls
Biscotti
Marmalade and Macadamia Cookies
Nigella’s spiced nuts
(This list has been revised downwards from previous years. Believe.)
It has been ever thus in our household, and here begins our nativity story. From my earliest memories of Christmas, we’ve had this nativity set. I don’t know where MamaK got it from, although I believe she’s had it since before she married PapaK, which makes it pretty old.
Anyway, the ceramic figures of Mary and Joseph, the wise men, the shepherds, the angel (my favorite) and Baby Jesus, whose face had been lovingly glued back on after a minor face-separating-from-body mishap, were the most special part of decorating our house at Christmas time. After all the other decorations had been placed carefully, after all the cards were hung on strings around our house, after I’d draped myself in itchy tinsel and admired the effect, the nativity was taken from its special bag at the bottom of the suitcase of Christmas decorations. Carefully, we would unwrap the pastel tissue protecting each piece, tissue as soft and filmy as silk from careful folding and refolding, year after year.
In the Disney version of family:
We’d then gather around, hushed and reverent, as MamaK retold the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, and the birth of the baby in the manger. My two brothers and I would be filled with wonder at the birth of the Christ child, and proceed to sing Silent Night in perfect harmony, as we gazed upon the serene faces of Baby Jesus and Friends.
What actually happened in the real life version of our family:
We’d have an epic, EPIC battle about who got to arrange the nativity. Which would inevitably end in a truly un-Christ-like morass of hair pulling, sulking, screaming and pouting. I don’t know why arranging the nativity, of all things, was the pinnacle of Christmas decorating (see my earlier comments about my tinsel love), but the chief nativitiser was a bitterly sought after position in our pecking order. The losers would inevitably profess that life was so unfair and that they never ever got to do anything they wanted to do, EVER. Poor MamaK’s please for sharing and being nice would fall on six deaf little ears.
Things simmered down a bit as we passed into our teens, although the nativity always occupied pride of place in our Christmas display, and everyone freely expressed their opinions on where it would be best placed. So, it was with much surprise that MamaK and PapaK, over ciders and schnitzels at the Durham (again, celebrating – the cause this time? Because it was Wednesday), announced that their new nativity set had arrived.
What? New Nativity? But what about the old one?? We all cried in perfect harmony.
Well, we don’t need two…the parental sheepishly said.
The thought of Mary and Joseph, wonky Baby Jesus, the shepherds and the wise men and the angel, sitting in the bottom of the Christmas decoration suitcase, ensconced in their silky tissue, unloved and un fought over, was clearly too much for my brothers and I to bear.
Before I could open my mouth with a suggestion, my BigLittleBrother suggested that perhaps, now we were all living in our own places, we could have a shared care arrangement of the nativity set, each of us having custody on a rotating basis. And in refutation of our lifetime-long nativity rivalry, my brothers both suggested that I should have the nativity in this, the first year of its rotation, as I am the eldest.
So, this year, I’m looking forward to having Baby Jesus and the whole motley crew in my apartment, watching over my Christmas. But more importantly, I’m looking forward to wrapping them in their crumpled, soft tissue, and passing them on to my brother and Tessy Halberton next Christmas, to watch over them in their turn. After all, Christmas is all about sharing and being nice. We know this now.
Excuse me, Wham! and I share a profound spiritual connection. Anyway, last Christmas, I wrote about how much I love the silly season here on this blog. This year (to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special…) I would like to share with you again my yuletide yearnings.
Christmas, in my family, is the big kahuna of celebrations. And in a family that celebrate exceptionally well and regularly - we end every week with a Sunday night feast - the big celebration really is...big! Maxtreme is probably a closer definition.
To give you an idea, MamaK’s list of Christmas baking (this is just for us, not Christmas gift baking, or Christmas deserts, or Christmas main meals, or Christmas snacks…), consists of the following items:
Shortbread
Cranberry Macarons
Pistachio Macarons
Amaretto Macarons
Almond Pears
Rum balls
Biscotti
Marmalade and Macadamia Cookies
Nigella’s spiced nuts
(This list has been revised downwards from previous years. Believe.)
It has been ever thus in our household, and here begins our nativity story. From my earliest memories of Christmas, we’ve had this nativity set. I don’t know where MamaK got it from, although I believe she’s had it since before she married PapaK, which makes it pretty old.
Anyway, the ceramic figures of Mary and Joseph, the wise men, the shepherds, the angel (my favorite) and Baby Jesus, whose face had been lovingly glued back on after a minor face-separating-from-body mishap, were the most special part of decorating our house at Christmas time. After all the other decorations had been placed carefully, after all the cards were hung on strings around our house, after I’d draped myself in itchy tinsel and admired the effect, the nativity was taken from its special bag at the bottom of the suitcase of Christmas decorations. Carefully, we would unwrap the pastel tissue protecting each piece, tissue as soft and filmy as silk from careful folding and refolding, year after year.
In the Disney version of family:
We’d then gather around, hushed and reverent, as MamaK retold the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, and the birth of the baby in the manger. My two brothers and I would be filled with wonder at the birth of the Christ child, and proceed to sing Silent Night in perfect harmony, as we gazed upon the serene faces of Baby Jesus and Friends.
What actually happened in the real life version of our family:
We’d have an epic, EPIC battle about who got to arrange the nativity. Which would inevitably end in a truly un-Christ-like morass of hair pulling, sulking, screaming and pouting. I don’t know why arranging the nativity, of all things, was the pinnacle of Christmas decorating (see my earlier comments about my tinsel love), but the chief nativitiser was a bitterly sought after position in our pecking order. The losers would inevitably profess that life was so unfair and that they never ever got to do anything they wanted to do, EVER. Poor MamaK’s please for sharing and being nice would fall on six deaf little ears.
Things simmered down a bit as we passed into our teens, although the nativity always occupied pride of place in our Christmas display, and everyone freely expressed their opinions on where it would be best placed. So, it was with much surprise that MamaK and PapaK, over ciders and schnitzels at the Durham (again, celebrating – the cause this time? Because it was Wednesday), announced that their new nativity set had arrived.
What? New Nativity? But what about the old one?? We all cried in perfect harmony.
Well, we don’t need two…the parental sheepishly said.
The thought of Mary and Joseph, wonky Baby Jesus, the shepherds and the wise men and the angel, sitting in the bottom of the Christmas decoration suitcase, ensconced in their silky tissue, unloved and un fought over, was clearly too much for my brothers and I to bear.
Before I could open my mouth with a suggestion, my BigLittleBrother suggested that perhaps, now we were all living in our own places, we could have a shared care arrangement of the nativity set, each of us having custody on a rotating basis. And in refutation of our lifetime-long nativity rivalry, my brothers both suggested that I should have the nativity in this, the first year of its rotation, as I am the eldest.
So, this year, I’m looking forward to having Baby Jesus and the whole motley crew in my apartment, watching over my Christmas. But more importantly, I’m looking forward to wrapping them in their crumpled, soft tissue, and passing them on to my brother and Tessy Halberton next Christmas, to watch over them in their turn. After all, Christmas is all about sharing and being nice. We know this now.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Recipes that Keep On Giving: Honey Baked Lentils.
Too much of too-muchness is glorious, isn’t it?
Except for the day afterwards.
Returning to my humble abode after a lovely few days of camping out at the parents, I’ve decided to make good use of a much anticipated Christmas present and cook a dinner that, whilst richly flavoured and a pleasure to eat, is low-fat, low-sugar, low-GI, high fibre, gluten and dairy free, and vegetarian – even vegan, if you’re flexible.
Normally I don’t restrict what I eat in light of any of those particular dietary requirements. After Christmas, however, a meal that fits all of those bills is not so much of an act of restrictive discipline, but more of a compassionate gesture to my system, in the hopes that it will forgive me, for I know what I have done, and it was BAD.
As for the much anticipated present? Well, let me tell you – or rather, let me show you…
It’s a Le Creuset! Those of you who are serious cooks, or those of you who’ve just watched Julie and Julia, will know that Le Creuset is the Alpha Romeo of kitchen brands. And mine is red.
Along with kindness towards my body, taking this baby out for a test drive is a further compelling reason why tonight’s dinner needed to be Le Creusefied.
So, here is my recipe for Honey Baked Lentils, served with steamed snow peas and soft polenta. I hope that your tummy appreciates your compassion as much as I hope mine will.
Honey Baked Lentils with Steamed Snow Peas and Soft Polenta
Honey Baked Lentils – serves 4, and freezes beautifully.
1 cup black, brown, or green lentils
½ an onion, chopped
2 ½ cups water
2 teaspoons vegetable stock powder (ensure this is a vegan, dairy and gluten free brand if these are core values for you)
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons honey (Here’s where the veganism of this dish is called into question. I personally think that bees are pretty darn happy buzzing around and making abundant rivers of honey, but I may just be an unenlightened philistine when it comes to bee rights. How about we all just do what we know is right in our hearts, m-kay?)
2 tablespoons oil (I use 1 tablespoon sesame oil, 1 tablespoon extra virgin)
2 garlic cloves, crushed
A large knob (about 4cm) ginger, grated. (As a side note, who decided that anything measuring 4cm merited the descriptor ‘a large knob’? Every recipe I read seems to use 4cm as the benchmark for large. In most other contexts a 4cm knob would warrant a completely different descriptor regarding size – ‘small’, ‘miniscule’, or ‘medically interesting’ are all adjectives I would use. Perhaps I should henceforth refer to all 4cm knobs of ginger as size challenged but lovely once you get to know it? But I digress…)
2 bay leaves
2 teaspoons ground cumin
3 teaspoons chilli flakes (more or less, depending on how hot you like it)
1. Preheat oven to 100 Celcius.
2. In your Le Creuset…
or, if you’re still waiting on Santa to make you a member of the Kitchen Equipment Elite, in a medium sized casserole dish with lid, combine all ingredients.
3. Place casserole dish or Le Creuset in your preheated oven for 2 and a half hours, or until lentils are soft and most if the liquid has been absorbed. You can shorten the cooking time by increasing your oven temperature to about 160 Celsius, which means you only have to wait an hour and a half for dinner. The resultant lentils are still amazingly tasty, but will probably be even better the next day, as the flavours will have had more of a chance to get to know one another. Whereas if you let them mingle in a very slow oven for three hours, the resultant flavours have had time to work out their differences and harmonise into a beautiful marriage without the need for a period in the cold wasteland of the refrigerator.
Soft Polenta and Steamed Snow Peas – this makes enough for just me, so adjust to suit yourself and the number you are feeding accordingly. It’s also a nifty way to kill two birds with one stone – you cook the snow peas in the steam emitted by the water you have to heat for the polenta.
Approx. 250g super fresh snow peas, topped and tailed, and cut into largish chunks.
1/3 of a cup instant polenta (you can get this at most supermarkets – it’s in the isle with the flours and other baking goods).
Water
Salt, pepper, olive oil, and/or butter (again, depending on taste, dietary requirements, and how much cheese you ate at Christmas).
1. Place about a cup and a half of water in the bottom of a saucepan which can be fitted with your steamer. Set over a high heat.
2. Pop the snow peas into the steamer, arrange your steamer over your pot of water, which should be heating up nicely now, and cover with a lid, so as not to loose any precious steam.
3. Give the snow peas between one and three minutes, until they are done as you like. Remove from steamer, replacing the saucepan lid. If you’re the kind of person who likes to blanche things, then blanche your peas. I just think it wastes ice cubes and makes your peas cold, but if you like cold soggy vegetables I’ll only judge you a little.
4. Set the table, even if it’s just you, with a cheerful tablecloth, soft fabric napkins, pretty bowls (another Christmas present from my lovely big little brother and his lovely girlfriend) and nice cutlery.
Don’t argue with me, just do it, it’s a very important step in this recipe.
5. Select a dining companion from your bookshelf. Tonight, I’m dining with Paul Kelly.
Paul and I go way back, and his ‘mongrel memoir’, his words not mine, was a welcome addition to my Christmas stocking. It’s the perfect reading for a dinner as soothing and compassionate as this one.
6. By the time you’ve faffed around with the peas, the table, and the bookshelf, the water should be at a good boil (there is method to my madness, as mama-K often says). Add in your polenta. The packet says ‘in a slow, steady, stream’, but I throw it in the pot and stir like hell.
7. Continue to stir until your polenta thickens – this shouldn’t be much longer than a couple of minutes. As the title implies, I like my polenta relatively soft, so I can tell that it’s done because it’s about the consistency of thick porridge. It also has the propensity to spit boiling hot dollops of polenta out of the pot and onto the stovetop, or an unsuspecting forearm, when it’s at this stage.
8. When it’s all getting a bit too difficult, remove polenta from heat, and add in your salt, pepper, oil and/or butter.
9. Pile the polenta into a bowl, top with a spoonful of the lentils, and the snow peas.
10. Eat, read, and drink some sparkling mineral water. Fell your inner equilibrium mercifully restored.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.
N.B. This was originally supposed to be an excited post about a wonderful new dress that I recently acquired. It was going to be full of beautiful photos, capturing sumptuous fabric, vintage styling, and va-va-voom shaping, and would make you all green with envy. I’d been thinking about it all week.
Monday comes around. I position said dress on hanger, in front of some artfully arranged flowers, because that’s how I roll. And proceeded to shoot.
Oh dear.
Pride comes before a fall.
Multiple falls, as you can see.
No matter what I did, the dress looked awful. The only way that I was going to take a half decent photograph of it was to put the damned thing on, and photograph myself. But, of course, this blog is based on me being anonymous (like a fashion superhero, remember??) and so a photograph of the dress would, on account of the charming neckline detailing, result in a photograph of my face. Which ruled it out as an option.
Although this seems like a bit of a blah thing to happen on a Monday, it’s actually proved something I’ve long suspected. Photographs are not representative of the real world – or rather, they represent it, but often poorly. I swear to you, this dress looks amazing in real life. Maybe the inability to capture its amazingness lies in my photographic naivety. Be that as it may. But it proves the point that I have been stressing to many of you – and you know who you are – that my reluctance to be photographed is not entirely down to self consciousness, but to the fact that I actually don’t translate well into film, as an objective fact rather than a distorted self-perception.
Now that I have a top-five ranked dress that’s in the same boat as me, I feel a lot better about this. Because I’ve proven, once and for all, that beautiful things can look pez in photographs.
The only thing for me to do, dear readers, is to tell you the story of how I met this dress, excluding the photographs I originally imagined, and let you use your imaginations…
I’d just finished a particularly gruelling fieldwork session when I got one of those wonderful instinctual nudgings.
For some people, their instinctual nudgings take the form of warnings about impending disasters, or loved ones in peril. For me, 99 times out of 100, these instinctual nudgings are shopping related. They go something like this:
‘Behold, blessed child, and praise the name of style, for, in the hallowed halls of David Jones, await pair of shoes. Make haste and rejoicing, for they will be in your size and on sale. But hark, on the morrow they shall be vanished, and all that remains will be dust and size sevens.’
Or, alternately:
‘BE NOT AFRAID, oh sanctified stylist, for that thing-you-need-but-do-not-know-as-yet-that-you-need, is nigh! Look to your left – no, the other left – and ye who have eyes shall see that fabulous vintage bread bin on ye exalted shelf.’
Some people think that hearing voices means you’re insane, but I like to believe it just makes you a bit special. Kind of like the wise men in the Christmas story.
Anyway, I have long learnt to listen to these voices, as they are always – without fail – correct on all matters of purchasing. So, when I heard said voice:
‘Glad tidings to you, wanderer in the wilderness of an Unnamed Fieldwork Location. Under the distant star of Fyshwick, in the little town of Down Memory Lane, awaits a dress. Oh come, all ye faithful, and be joyful in the triumph of the perfect vintage dress.’
I knew that, in spite of my gnawing hunger, tired feet, and field notes that would grow expodentially the more hours I left between end of fieldwork and typing them up, I had no choice but to do as the voice said. So, off I trundled to Fyshwick.
Again, I wish to stress that this blog is in no way sponsored, and, just like last week’s post about the farmer’s markets, this is purely a savvy tip from one shopper to another, but you really must go to Down Memory Lane. Located at the very end of Geelong St in Fyshwick (just keep driving, when I say it’s at the very end I mean the absolute absolute very end), Down Memory Lane is a treasure trove of antiques, collectables, clothes, books and furniture. I make a point of going at least once a month, a whole lot more in the lead up to Christmas, and always come away with something wonderful at a bargain price. It’s also one of the cleanest and most organised establishments I know of, which makes shopping there doubly nice – no need to disinfect the new-to-you goods when you get them home.
Arriving at DML, as I’m abbreviating it, I dutifully listened to the voice in my head and started trawling the racks of vintage clothing. There was a lot there which I liked, but nothing that I LOVED. Nothing, that is, that I was moved enough to get naked for. I always think that you should apply the same rules to shopping for clothes as you do with boys. If you’re moved enough by them that you’re ready and willing to get naked for them, then it – the dress or the boy – will probably reward the time and the effort of disrobing.
I was beginning to think, after a good quarter hour trawl, that my instincts had failed me, and that perhaps my subconscious was merely generating a phantasmic excuse to get me out of some fieldwork that had boarded the train to headache land. I turned in the direction of the hat rack.
But then, ladies and gentlemen, I saw it. I want to avoid the cliché of the dress buried under a mound of others, shoved at the end of the rack, amongst a swathe of dresses that were extra small, but I can’t here, because it’s one hundred percent true. A chink of rich brown fabric poked out from between some pasty florals. I investigated, and my investigations were rewarded with the following:
An Australian made, early 60's, chocolate brown pure wool double-knit jersey boucle fitted sheath with rear vent.
Sing, chiors of angels, sing in exultation. I don’t need to add any more to the description above, because I’m sure you’ve got the picture in your mind. It’s the pinnacle of vintage perfection.
I raced to the change room, threw the dress over my head, and slid the zipper up my back.
Ding dong merrily on high, it fitted! Perfectly! A centimeter shorter than ideal, but the hem, being generous, could be adjusted. I couldn’t get back into my normal clothes and hand over my cash fast enough.
Driving back to write up my fieldnotes, I almost had an accident, so adoringly was my gaze focused on the parcel occupying the passenger seat. I like to think that the fashion gods were smiling down on me then, and protected me from a rather unfortunate incident. Which, for any parties concerned about my driving, was actually the fault of another vehicle to give way – I was just a bit slow activating my defensive driving skills on account of reverent worship.
It all worked out in the end, and the dress is now hanging on the drying rack, gently dropping its hem without the harsh assistance of a hot iron and steam. I will hem it, and wear it, and love it, all the days of my life, or at least until it falls off my back in tatters. Amen.
Monday comes around. I position said dress on hanger, in front of some artfully arranged flowers, because that’s how I roll. And proceeded to shoot.
Oh dear.
Pride comes before a fall.
Multiple falls, as you can see.
No matter what I did, the dress looked awful. The only way that I was going to take a half decent photograph of it was to put the damned thing on, and photograph myself. But, of course, this blog is based on me being anonymous (like a fashion superhero, remember??) and so a photograph of the dress would, on account of the charming neckline detailing, result in a photograph of my face. Which ruled it out as an option.
Although this seems like a bit of a blah thing to happen on a Monday, it’s actually proved something I’ve long suspected. Photographs are not representative of the real world – or rather, they represent it, but often poorly. I swear to you, this dress looks amazing in real life. Maybe the inability to capture its amazingness lies in my photographic naivety. Be that as it may. But it proves the point that I have been stressing to many of you – and you know who you are – that my reluctance to be photographed is not entirely down to self consciousness, but to the fact that I actually don’t translate well into film, as an objective fact rather than a distorted self-perception.
Now that I have a top-five ranked dress that’s in the same boat as me, I feel a lot better about this. Because I’ve proven, once and for all, that beautiful things can look pez in photographs.
The only thing for me to do, dear readers, is to tell you the story of how I met this dress, excluding the photographs I originally imagined, and let you use your imaginations…
I’d just finished a particularly gruelling fieldwork session when I got one of those wonderful instinctual nudgings.
For some people, their instinctual nudgings take the form of warnings about impending disasters, or loved ones in peril. For me, 99 times out of 100, these instinctual nudgings are shopping related. They go something like this:
‘Behold, blessed child, and praise the name of style, for, in the hallowed halls of David Jones, await pair of shoes. Make haste and rejoicing, for they will be in your size and on sale. But hark, on the morrow they shall be vanished, and all that remains will be dust and size sevens.’
Or, alternately:
‘BE NOT AFRAID, oh sanctified stylist, for that thing-you-need-but-do-not-know-as-yet-that-you-need, is nigh! Look to your left – no, the other left – and ye who have eyes shall see that fabulous vintage bread bin on ye exalted shelf.’
Some people think that hearing voices means you’re insane, but I like to believe it just makes you a bit special. Kind of like the wise men in the Christmas story.
Anyway, I have long learnt to listen to these voices, as they are always – without fail – correct on all matters of purchasing. So, when I heard said voice:
‘Glad tidings to you, wanderer in the wilderness of an Unnamed Fieldwork Location. Under the distant star of Fyshwick, in the little town of Down Memory Lane, awaits a dress. Oh come, all ye faithful, and be joyful in the triumph of the perfect vintage dress.’
I knew that, in spite of my gnawing hunger, tired feet, and field notes that would grow expodentially the more hours I left between end of fieldwork and typing them up, I had no choice but to do as the voice said. So, off I trundled to Fyshwick.
Again, I wish to stress that this blog is in no way sponsored, and, just like last week’s post about the farmer’s markets, this is purely a savvy tip from one shopper to another, but you really must go to Down Memory Lane. Located at the very end of Geelong St in Fyshwick (just keep driving, when I say it’s at the very end I mean the absolute absolute very end), Down Memory Lane is a treasure trove of antiques, collectables, clothes, books and furniture. I make a point of going at least once a month, a whole lot more in the lead up to Christmas, and always come away with something wonderful at a bargain price. It’s also one of the cleanest and most organised establishments I know of, which makes shopping there doubly nice – no need to disinfect the new-to-you goods when you get them home.
Arriving at DML, as I’m abbreviating it, I dutifully listened to the voice in my head and started trawling the racks of vintage clothing. There was a lot there which I liked, but nothing that I LOVED. Nothing, that is, that I was moved enough to get naked for. I always think that you should apply the same rules to shopping for clothes as you do with boys. If you’re moved enough by them that you’re ready and willing to get naked for them, then it – the dress or the boy – will probably reward the time and the effort of disrobing.
I was beginning to think, after a good quarter hour trawl, that my instincts had failed me, and that perhaps my subconscious was merely generating a phantasmic excuse to get me out of some fieldwork that had boarded the train to headache land. I turned in the direction of the hat rack.
But then, ladies and gentlemen, I saw it. I want to avoid the cliché of the dress buried under a mound of others, shoved at the end of the rack, amongst a swathe of dresses that were extra small, but I can’t here, because it’s one hundred percent true. A chink of rich brown fabric poked out from between some pasty florals. I investigated, and my investigations were rewarded with the following:
An Australian made, early 60's, chocolate brown pure wool double-knit jersey boucle fitted sheath with rear vent.
Sing, chiors of angels, sing in exultation. I don’t need to add any more to the description above, because I’m sure you’ve got the picture in your mind. It’s the pinnacle of vintage perfection.
I raced to the change room, threw the dress over my head, and slid the zipper up my back.
Ding dong merrily on high, it fitted! Perfectly! A centimeter shorter than ideal, but the hem, being generous, could be adjusted. I couldn’t get back into my normal clothes and hand over my cash fast enough.
Driving back to write up my fieldnotes, I almost had an accident, so adoringly was my gaze focused on the parcel occupying the passenger seat. I like to think that the fashion gods were smiling down on me then, and protected me from a rather unfortunate incident. Which, for any parties concerned about my driving, was actually the fault of another vehicle to give way – I was just a bit slow activating my defensive driving skills on account of reverent worship.
It all worked out in the end, and the dress is now hanging on the drying rack, gently dropping its hem without the harsh assistance of a hot iron and steam. I will hem it, and wear it, and love it, all the days of my life, or at least until it falls off my back in tatters. Amen.
Monday, December 6, 2010
It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas…
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas at chez Peggy. And I couldn’t be happier.
I think the only people who get more excited about Christmas than I are, in order, department store CEO’s, children under five, and mixed fruit manufactures.
If you, like the Dreamboat and several other people I could mention but won’t, don’t particularly get your knickers in a twist about the fact that it’s NOW ONLY NINETEEN DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS, I promise I won’t be striking you off my Christmas card list. I can see the logic in not being too keen on all the enforced jollity, relating to relatives you’d rather not be related to, and carpark traumas at every major shopping outlet in the ‘berra.
But then, when you really boil it down, the way we celebrate Christmas is about things that I fundamentally love: family, food and drink, shopping for gifts, and decorating. Topped off with a speech from a real live queen, as opposed to a drag one.
Yes, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year.
So, in this time of hustle and bustle, here are some musings from me on the things that I fundamentally love about Christmas, complete with pictures.
Family tops the list of things that make Christmas special for me. Going shopping with Papa-K for Mama-K’s Christmas presents and watching him agonise over what she would like best. Mama-K’s cooking – which, every year, she attempts to cut back on but actually ends up doing more of, because she can’t resist adding some new recipes to the Christmas classics.
Big Little brother and his lovely girlfriend’s early Christmas surprises, both of which are gracing my tree very handsomely. Little Little brother’s preferences for certain unorthodox Christmas gifts – he once bought me a blind spot mirror and a can of mushy peas. True story.
And then there’s the food. So much food. Food in amounts that at other times of the year would be considered obscene, but, for some strange reason, seems perfectly moderate at Christmas time. There are so many foods I could write about – stuffing, almond pears, trifle, prawns, oysters, rumballs…but I’ll pick my favourite Christmas food for sharing with you here. Christmas isn’t Christmas without shortbread.
It’s so simple, but somehow so satisfying, to see a little fleet of vintage shortbread tins (my packaging of choice this year) filled and ready to be gifted away.
Batches and batches of shortbread are made at Christmas time, to the point where I’m almost too sick of it to eat any – almost. One year I worked out I’d made nineteen batches…this year I think I’ll try and keep it to a more moderate fifteen. Although, with the help of a couple of mama-k’s particularly deadly Santa’s Little Helpers, the traditional family Christmas cocktail, I may become slightly more ambitious in my shortbread making. The dangers of the demon drink…
On to other addictions, Christmas is a time for shopping. Shopping with gay abandon. Shopping is something that I adore, but, as mentioned before on this blog, it’s something I have to be rather disciplined about, with the budgetary constraints common to all students. However, Christmas is a time to release all those pent up shopping urges that have been simmering away all year.
And the best bit is, no-one will think any less of you for shopping a lot at Christmas, because you’re not shopping for yourself, you’re shopping for gifts.
I may have to put a little boast in here: I’ve actually already done all of my shopping, except for perishables and a couple of small afterthougthy things. Some people would say that this is a symptom of being very organised: yes, that’s true. Mainly, though, starting shopping in October is a symptom of how much I enjoy it – by starting sooner, I can luxuriate in the pleasures of shopping for that little bit longer. Oh, and for those of you who hate shopping and can’t face the mall or the high street from Mid-November onwards? Go online. There are some fabulous sites – Nordic Fusion, Heart and Heim, and, of course, Etsy – where I have no doubt you’ll be able to locate that perfect gift without having to locate a carpark.
So, the family have been assembled, the menu decided, the presents shopped for and wrapped – now it’s time to decorate. I have a horrible feeling that one day, when I’m really old, I’ll live in a nice quiet cul de sac – AND DECK MY HOUSE OUT IN SO MANY FAIRY LIGHTS I CAUSE DAILY BLACKOUTS OF THE ENTIRE SUBURB. Just kidding...for the moment.
Christmas decorating is a whole lot of fun, and why restrict yourself to just a tree? With a little bit of invention, you can include (tasteful) touches of Christmas all around you. The apartment I live in, being so small, means that wherever you are, you can see the Christmas tree – but that still hasn’t stopped me from decorating the entrance way, the microwave, the bookshelf, and the window ledge above the sink. I wonder what Virginia Boots will say when she gets back from Melbourne?
In all seriousness, I will add a note of caution with Christmas decorating. Avoid further seasonal hassles by placing your decs in disused spaces around your home – tops of microwaves, bookshelves and window ledges are great for this reason. Mama-K once had the genius idea of hanging a series of red baubles from the door lintel. Ever single time I walked through the door, I copped a dong to the head. Not great, when coupled with the after-effects of a Santa’s Little Helper.
I think it’s going to be impossible to stop me from writing more about Christmas between now and the big day, but for now I’ll leave you with these above thoughts, and hope that you are enjoying your pre-christmassing as much as I am, and that you’re all looking Christmassy Fabulous.
I think the only people who get more excited about Christmas than I are, in order, department store CEO’s, children under five, and mixed fruit manufactures.
If you, like the Dreamboat and several other people I could mention but won’t, don’t particularly get your knickers in a twist about the fact that it’s NOW ONLY NINETEEN DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS, I promise I won’t be striking you off my Christmas card list. I can see the logic in not being too keen on all the enforced jollity, relating to relatives you’d rather not be related to, and carpark traumas at every major shopping outlet in the ‘berra.
But then, when you really boil it down, the way we celebrate Christmas is about things that I fundamentally love: family, food and drink, shopping for gifts, and decorating. Topped off with a speech from a real live queen, as opposed to a drag one.
Yes, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year.
So, in this time of hustle and bustle, here are some musings from me on the things that I fundamentally love about Christmas, complete with pictures.
Family tops the list of things that make Christmas special for me. Going shopping with Papa-K for Mama-K’s Christmas presents and watching him agonise over what she would like best. Mama-K’s cooking – which, every year, she attempts to cut back on but actually ends up doing more of, because she can’t resist adding some new recipes to the Christmas classics.
Big Little brother and his lovely girlfriend’s early Christmas surprises, both of which are gracing my tree very handsomely. Little Little brother’s preferences for certain unorthodox Christmas gifts – he once bought me a blind spot mirror and a can of mushy peas. True story.
And then there’s the food. So much food. Food in amounts that at other times of the year would be considered obscene, but, for some strange reason, seems perfectly moderate at Christmas time. There are so many foods I could write about – stuffing, almond pears, trifle, prawns, oysters, rumballs…but I’ll pick my favourite Christmas food for sharing with you here. Christmas isn’t Christmas without shortbread.
It’s so simple, but somehow so satisfying, to see a little fleet of vintage shortbread tins (my packaging of choice this year) filled and ready to be gifted away.
Batches and batches of shortbread are made at Christmas time, to the point where I’m almost too sick of it to eat any – almost. One year I worked out I’d made nineteen batches…this year I think I’ll try and keep it to a more moderate fifteen. Although, with the help of a couple of mama-k’s particularly deadly Santa’s Little Helpers, the traditional family Christmas cocktail, I may become slightly more ambitious in my shortbread making. The dangers of the demon drink…
On to other addictions, Christmas is a time for shopping. Shopping with gay abandon. Shopping is something that I adore, but, as mentioned before on this blog, it’s something I have to be rather disciplined about, with the budgetary constraints common to all students. However, Christmas is a time to release all those pent up shopping urges that have been simmering away all year.
And the best bit is, no-one will think any less of you for shopping a lot at Christmas, because you’re not shopping for yourself, you’re shopping for gifts.
I may have to put a little boast in here: I’ve actually already done all of my shopping, except for perishables and a couple of small afterthougthy things. Some people would say that this is a symptom of being very organised: yes, that’s true. Mainly, though, starting shopping in October is a symptom of how much I enjoy it – by starting sooner, I can luxuriate in the pleasures of shopping for that little bit longer. Oh, and for those of you who hate shopping and can’t face the mall or the high street from Mid-November onwards? Go online. There are some fabulous sites – Nordic Fusion, Heart and Heim, and, of course, Etsy – where I have no doubt you’ll be able to locate that perfect gift without having to locate a carpark.
So, the family have been assembled, the menu decided, the presents shopped for and wrapped – now it’s time to decorate. I have a horrible feeling that one day, when I’m really old, I’ll live in a nice quiet cul de sac – AND DECK MY HOUSE OUT IN SO MANY FAIRY LIGHTS I CAUSE DAILY BLACKOUTS OF THE ENTIRE SUBURB. Just kidding...for the moment.
Christmas decorating is a whole lot of fun, and why restrict yourself to just a tree? With a little bit of invention, you can include (tasteful) touches of Christmas all around you. The apartment I live in, being so small, means that wherever you are, you can see the Christmas tree – but that still hasn’t stopped me from decorating the entrance way, the microwave, the bookshelf, and the window ledge above the sink. I wonder what Virginia Boots will say when she gets back from Melbourne?
In all seriousness, I will add a note of caution with Christmas decorating. Avoid further seasonal hassles by placing your decs in disused spaces around your home – tops of microwaves, bookshelves and window ledges are great for this reason. Mama-K once had the genius idea of hanging a series of red baubles from the door lintel. Ever single time I walked through the door, I copped a dong to the head. Not great, when coupled with the after-effects of a Santa’s Little Helper.
I think it’s going to be impossible to stop me from writing more about Christmas between now and the big day, but for now I’ll leave you with these above thoughts, and hope that you are enjoying your pre-christmassing as much as I am, and that you’re all looking Christmassy Fabulous.
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