Macarons!

I’m attempting something difficult. Something challenging. Something that often results in failure and existential crisis. Something that, should it succeed, will be worth the angst.

PhD?

No (or, rather, yes, but not what I’m writing about today).

MACARONS!



These babies have become the latest in culinary cool. And, like so many cool things (Glee, leggings, chai), I resisted Le Mac for quite a long time. Of course, they were nice to eat, but only if someone else made them, for they appeared to be far too much hassle to make on my own – besides which, ageing egg whites seems positively disgusting.

But I’ve now RSVP’d (fashionably late) to the macaron party, after a weekend workshop with MamaK and Tessy Halberton. Although our demonstrator made no bones about the fact the macarons just sometimes do not work, Tessy, MamaK and I were buoyed by enthusiasm, and no small amount of sugar from the macarons we nibbled throughout the workshop. We’ve booked in a macaron-making date in MamaK’s well equipped kitchen this Sunday – wish us luck!

However, this morning, thinking of the special birthdays for special people I have coming up, I thought I would being initial preparations for my own batch of macarons…



Including ageing the egg whites, which, thankfully, can be done in the refrigerator. As this photo illustrates, I have also weighed the egg whites. I NEVER NORMALLY DO THIS, but the demonstrator, in our weekend workshop, was most emphatic about liquid to dry ratios. Frankly, quite a lot of fuss and bother before the sun’s properly risen - but a perfect macaron will be worth the effort.



After all, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet – sorry, a macaron.

My Parents (And Godparents) Are, In All Likelihood, Cooler Than Yours.

This weekend just gone my Fairy Godmother and Fairy Godfather came to stay with MamaK and PapaK. As with most friendships as old as the one between my parents and godparents, hilarity ensued - perhaps because enough time has passed that small talk and propriety are irrelevant, and you can get on with the business of being very, very silly indeed. So silly, that my BigLittleBrother and I had to be separated, least we set off another giggle loop (it didn’t work, I could hear him from the lounge room, and snorted cabbage salad through my nose. I couldn’t help it, PapaK and the Fairy Godfather were still talking about probes).

My parents got so silly, sometime while the meat was being probed on the BBQ, they decided to crack open their wedding album. Judging by the dust, it hasn’t been looked at since they got married, in 1985.

Take note of the year, readers. MamaK and PapaK got married. In 1985. If you share my passionate interest in Brideality, you will know that 1985 was the pinnacle of the 80s, and, thus, the pinnacle of 80s weddings. Think taffeta. Think carnations. Think ruffles – for the blokes. Think Lady Di (may she rest in peace). In short, think BIG. REALLY REALLY BIG. THINK THE BIGGEST YOU CAN AND THEN TIMES THIS BY THE POWER OF TEN. And you may be getting close to how BIG everything Wedding was in the 80s.

As we leafed though the photos of the big day more than 25 years ago, a startling realisation dawned. My parents were cool. Really cool. In fact, so cool, and so anti-trend, were they, that I think they may just have been hipsters.

Take note, ye the jury, of exhibit a. My mother’s dress. Note how it has a vintage aesthetic, is demure yet charming, and is exactly the opposite of the 80s silhouette we know and love? As a good hipster girl, my mother knew that there’s nothing worse than conventionality, a fact reflected in her dress.


And exhibit b. My father’s moustache. Like all good hipster men, PapaK has a ‘tache, and, in this instance, can legitimately claim that he had one ‘before everyone else, and before they were cool’. Because he had one before present day hipsters were even born.


Exhibit c, ladies and gentlemen, is the bridesmaids’ dresses. Note how charming my Fairy Godmother and her fellow maids look, in simple dresses, which, in true hipster spirit, my mother made for them. Note, also, this particularly gorgeous shot of MamaK and the Fairy Godmother. They look like they’ve been caught doing something naughty and sharing a giggle. For the record, they still looked EXACTLY LIKE THIS at many points on the weekend.




Exhibit d refers to the style in which the photographs were taken – spontaneous, candid, and overexposed. Apparently, this was to do with the photographer botching up at the last minute, then overcharging my parents. So my folks instead relied instead upon the happy snaps of guests to fill their album. Something which the more hipster bridal magazines I hide in my desk at work (for scary moments when only Brideality will do) advocate as a way of creating ‘charming’ photo moments. Except, in my parent’s case, these charming moments were in the stead of an overpriced photographer, so there’s an added authenticity to these shots that makes them deeply, deeply cool.I particularly like the shot of the priest with a ciggy (look closely, it's there), and the groomsman picking out an eye crustie. My Fairy Godfather, a last minute guest (he’d only just met my Godmother), even pioneered some early photobombing, but sadly it didn’t scan well so I haven’t included it below – sorry, Fairy Godfather!







But I think, what gives the day more hipster cred than anything else mentioned above, is that my parents were true to themselves, and their style, in an era when the trend was not in step with them. The fact that, twenty six years down the track, their wedding photos look as fresh and lovely as they did all those years ago, is testament to how very cool, and how very true to themselves – in short, how very hipster – my parents were, and, in many ways, sill are.



So, yeah, I mean, it’s not like it’s a competition or anything, but my mum and dad, were, in all likelyhood, way cooler than yours.

A-Waiting

Hi All,

My apologies again - I have missed my usual Monday/Tuesday posting this week. It's not for want of trying, though!

You see, the post is written, and a-waiting on my laptop, but the very special pictures to go with it are a-waiting didgitalization - and, due to me not having a scanner, this won't occur till Thursday or Friday.

But, I can assure you, it will be worth the wait!

Love,

Peggy xoxox

Twee Monster

Sometimes it’s hard to stay cool, calm and grown up. Sometimes, you just want to embrace your inner three year old, and wear everything that’s pink, sparkly, motif-ed and pastel all at once.

This morning, I found myself gripped by the Twee Monster. Imagine the bastard love child of Julie Andrews (circa The Sound of Music) and Elton John (circa now and forevermore) – and you’re getting close to what my personal Twee Monster looks like.
You see, on what was shaping up to be a boring, let’s wear what’s clean day (I was doing two loads of washing), a rather lovely surprise was left on my doorstep by Australia post. It was an early birthday present from Clementine Kemp – a beautiful vintage sundress, full skirted, in the most darling turquoise polka dot. Before I knew it, I’d been stealth hit by the twee monster. I was wearing four different shades of pastel (turquoise, lemon, pink, lilac), three different motifs (polka dots, cherries, bows), two rings on the one hand (to tie in both the turquoise and lilac elements, natch), and one very distressed look on my face.

These are the consequences of overexposure to Elton John in the womb, and a childhood full of wholesome family entertainment. Clearly, urgent action needed to be taken.

So, how best to counterbalance the ravages of the Twee Monster?

It’s quite simple. I’ve got two words for you:

Black, and leather.

As exhibit A shows, I kept the foundational elements of the Twee outfit:


But added, as per exhibit B:


A big black leather bag, a tan leather belt, and some simple black onyx studs, and, like magic, the Twee Monster disappeared, back into its colour matched cave, with a copy of Elton’s greatest hits and the boxed commemorative Sound of Music DVD by way of consolation.

Except, then, the weather changed, and I had to start from scratch with today’s outfit…ah well, can’t win all your battles!

The Future’s So Bright I’ve Got To Wear Shades…

Many summers ago, during a companionable swim on a perfect South Coast beach, a suntanned, 19 year old Peggy glibly declared to her handsome swimming companion that 24 was her ‘Scary Age’. The age at which she would begin to see herself as an adult. The age at which she would begin to achieve adult things. The age at which she would begin using anti-wrinkle eye cream.

In a few short weeks, readers, I am turning 24.

What does this Scary Age mean now that I’m staring down its barrel? Well, I guess my 19 year old self was right – I can no longer see myself as anything but an adult, because I am doing all those adult things which seemed so far away at 19. I’ve moved out of home. I’m no longer working in retail. I’ve moved on from my first car (R.I.P LaShonda) to a car with power windows and central locking, and 4 doors. I’ve finished one degree and am midway through a PhD. I no longer drink and smoke like I used to. I’m punctual, at least more punctual than I used to be. I have rich and beautiful relationships with many loved ones. I bake my own sourdough bread. In short, readers, I feel very grown up, and ready to tackle The Scary Age head on.

There still remains the issue, though, of wrinkles, and the necessary commencement of early prevention measures. Last semester I noticed that I had a groove on my forehead, in a rather unusual spot – high up, and near my hairline. My first wrinkle. I immediately began to pull faces at the mirror. What facial expression was it that I was using to give myself an early onset wrinkle at 23? I tried smiling. It wasn’t a happy wrinkle. Ok, frowning then – still no corresponding line. Brows furrowed in deep contemplation of life’s mysteries? Nope. It was only when I gave up the silly game of pulling faces at the mirror, and let my incredulity at this whole situation show on my face, that it became plain. As the saying goes, you get the face you deserve at 50 (or 23), and the face I apparently deserve is the face of incredulity.

Cue existential crisis.

Since this disturbing discovery of my persistent incredulity, I have been trying earnestly to think un-incredulous thoughts. So far, so unsuccessful. There are too many WTF moments in life, particularly when you mark first year essays with the frequency that I do. So, I have compensated for my inability to be credulous by drinking lots of water, eating lots of avocados, and, most importantly, wearing sunglasses. All the time. Hence the title of this post.

You see, I feel like I can face anything that The Scary Age, and all the ages after me, throws my way when I’m ensconced in a pair of oversized shades. Somehow, putting them on makes me feel collected and together, like I am competent and can do all these grown up things I have to – and want to – do.

Like working on a perfect summer’s day rather than swimming at that perfect beach.

To Be Clichéd…

I wore a cute outfit today. Here’s a picture.

The dress is vintage – I modified the skirt from an a-line to a pencil shape after watching Christina Hendrix’s Joan in Mad Men. The neckline detailing, though, is what makes this dress – that little flash of cream at the neck and sleeves really lifts this frock.

The shoes are my summer-go-to sandals I blogged about a couple of weeks ago.

The bag is a favourite Skipping Girl from years ago that Mamma-K and I share.

The jewellery is a mixture of favourite pieces, but I like the way that the round shapes pick up and accentuate the darling fabric-covered button detail from the neckline of the dress.

All in all, a pretty picture, wouldn’t you say?

But, aye, here’s the rub. This isn’t the outfit that I wanted to wear today. It’s valentines day, and I wanted to wear this outfit. Here’s another picture.

The dress was a $20 bargain from DFO, made all the sweeter because I had been eyeing it off at five times as much in the retail store. Notice how from a distance the print looks like polka dots, but, up close, it’s actually love hearts? Blows my mind.

The earrings – adorable – were $3 from Diva. There’s a rather large part of me that enjoys ghetto name jewellery a little too much. Until such time as someone gets me massive earrings with ‘Peggy’ emblazoned in 9 carat, I think these ‘love’s are a workable compromise.

The bag is my daily lug-all, but picks up the red from the dress’s heart print. So, reader, why did I go with the former, rather than the latter, outfit?

It all comes down to expectations and clichés. About conforming to expectations – in my own way as much as possible – and avoiding clichés.

You see, as I was kneading bread yesterday afternoon (I have become a sourdough tragic – but that’s the topic for next week’s blog), it occurred to me that in addition to my usual fieldwork commitments, and, of course, valentine’s day dinner at mine with the Dreamboat, I was due back at Yooni for the semester’s official kick off. I had a departmental seminar to go to, and, like any season’s kick off, everybody was going to be there.

‘Well, Peggy, wear the Love outfit’, I said to myself, ‘It’s not like anyone there will notice, and, if they do, they will surely enjoy the outfit for its campy kitch as much as you do.’

‘But, on the other hand’, I said to myself, ‘What if people pick today to notice outfits? What if they don’t get the campy kitch message that, I believe, this outfit conveys? What if, by its femininity and its cliché young-girl-in-love-on-valentine-day connotations, my special outfit goes from cute and fun to silly and immature? Is that really a semantic risk you want to take?’.

This dilemma kept me occupied until my bread was kneaded. And I came to the conclusion that, sad as it made me to dismiss my Love outfit on this, the most appropriate day of the year for it, I knew that it wouldn’t make me comfortable in the seminar.

Nobody gets dressed in a vacuum. This would be quite difficult on a practical level, from my meagre understanding of physics. When we get dressed, we are participating in a network of cultural symbols and contexts. Furthermore, our bodies, without us being able to do anything about it, also carry symbolic cultural value, via our genders, sizes, ages, and defining features. As much I would like to be able to wear whatever I want to, where I want to, whenever I want to, I’m not able to escape the cultural connotations of my clothing choices, and how they interact with the way that people ‘read’ my body. Perhaps this is more to do with being a cowardly custard on my part – and I accept that I am not a particularly brave person – but I simply can’t bring myself to throw sartorial caution and the opinions of others to the wind. I will always dress for myself, but I also dress for others, and I think, in some way, we all do that.

Although, maybe I could get away with the ghetto fabulous earrings…

Come By Chance

One of my favourite picture books as a child was called ‘Come By Chance’. I can’t remember exactly how this story ended, but it was about a lonely woman who comes upon a tumbled-down old house. The house is in need of a little TLC, as was the woman. Slowly but surely, the woman fixes up the old house, making it warm and cosy, and provides shelter for all sorts of animals when a storm hits. From thereon in my memory goes blank – if anybody else remembers how the story ends, I’m happy to be reminded.

What I’ve loved about that story is the sense of being able to rescue things – that, with a little attention and time, even the most dilapidated and desperate can be made whole.

So, where was I last Thursday morning, during the middle of a freakishly heavy downpour in our nations capital?

I was rescuing a dresser, single handedly, from my apartment’s dumpster, and dragging all 40+ kilos of it up three flights of stairs.

With a thorough airing out, some new knobs,


some pretty pot plants,


and a string of darling paper lanterns,



I think she scrubs up quite well, don’t you?