It’s Fathers’ Day here in Australia, and what better day to write about my dad, PapaK.
There are lots of things I could write about my dad. I could write, for instance, about how he sets the (very high) bar for all the men in my life.
About his limited grasp on pop culture, which, over the years, has lead to dad:
a) searching for Pearl Jam in the Spreads isle of Woolies;
b) summarising the Harry Potter books/films thusly - ‘the bad man put himself in the snake’;
c) asking for an ‘Ub (rhymes with Hub) four-oh’ CD and being told in no uncertain terms by the sales assistant that ‘actually it’s UB40, sir’.
d) responding to my excitement about Beyonce and Jay Z’s pregnancy by suggesting we could throw the baby shower at Chez Papa/MamaK – ‘we can fire up the BBQ and put the big table under the shady tree’ – not realising that Beyonce and Jay Z are: i) not people I actually know in real life, ii) mega famous, and, iii) probably not BBQ-and-a-big-table-under-the-shady-tree people.
(On that last point: I’ll admit my excitement was a little over involved and dad could be forgiven for thinking that Bey and Jay were close personal friends of mine).
About his endless texts, phone calls, and emails from overseas that make you fell like you’re right there with him – down to what he had for breakfast (cereal).
About how he can’t read maps. At all.
About the time in the early 1980s that he king hit Michael Hutchence, of INXS fame (believe).
About being sent to school with his instructions to Learn Three Things and Be Good.
About his complete inability to understand what’s going on in a film, or remember its title (‘it’s the one about the house – YOU KNOW’).
I could write about all of those things, and more. But today, I’m going to write about his excellent taste in massive, oversized, el cheapo sunnies from South East Asia.
My dad, like all good papas, brings home presents whenever he travels overseas. Along with duty free perfume, that special Jurlique hand cream MamaK and I love, undies from Marks and Spencers/Victoria’s Secret, and fancy tea and chocolates, you can bet your bottom dollar that somewhere in his luggage is a sunnies stash.
There’s nothing subtle about PapaK’s taste in sunnies. He’s a Leo: the only subtle Leos do is the meat axe variety. Any yet, he knows me well enough to pick the outlandish, oversized, embellished, ridiculous glasses that will stir something in my shy, retiring Piscean soul. He knows which shades will make me feel instantly fabulous - like Sophia Loren/Madonna/Farrah Fawcett/Dianna Ross/Jackie O - the moment I slip them on my face.
I’ve got a whole stack of shades on my dressing table, all chosen by PapaK. I wear them every day. And whenever the coffee guy, or the girl at the gym, compliments me on my awesome shades, it gives me great pride to say that:
a) they cost a grand total of $2 in a market somewhere in SEA; and
b) my cool dad chose them for me.
I’m one lucky girl to have a dad as cool as PapaK. Happy Father’s Day dad: thanks for the awesome shades, and for everything else.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Friday, June 7, 2013
Daggy Jumper Part-ay (and Bullshit, and Part-ay, and Bullshit…with apologies to Notorious BIG)
Winter is coming.
To our nation’s capital.
Now, you can, and should, cuddle up with some seasonally appropriate Game of Thrones, a hottie (hot water bottle and/or person – count your blessings if both), and a big old mug of tea/mulled wine/hot chocolate.
But, there is another strategy you can adopt to minimise seasonal chill. That strategy, my friends, is the Daggy Jumper Part-ay.
(In the context of Daggy Jumpers, the normal spelling of party just doesn’t carry enough cringe: a hyphen just has to happen here).
Hipsters have been All About The Daggy Jumper Part-ay for a fair while now. I remember, distinctly, my first encounter with a Hipster Daggy Jumper Part-ay member. This encounter was at an actual party (normal spelling), complete with all requisite winter-in-Canberra’s-Inner-North party activities, circa 2007: goon of fortune, people dancing in circles around piles of coats in a bare living room, representation from three different political parties (and factions within parties), and at least one emotional minidrama involving a love triangle and a certain young lady blowing her nose on someone else’s pashmina.
Yes, that was me. Soz.
During some post-tears circle dancing around coats, a fellow partygoer joined me in my interpretive dance moves to Architecture in Helskini’s ‘Places Like This’ (if you need a visual: imagine me waving of arms in the manner of a floaty willow tree, add in some Gumby legs). Said partygoer, otherwise unremarkable, was wearing a baggy grey handknit with an appliquéd koala bear on the front, chomping on a eucalyptus leaf (the appliquéd koala, not my wavy-arms-dance companion).
At the time, I called bullshit on his Daggy Jumper Part-ay, picked up my coat from the middle of the circle, and went outside to check out goon of fortune.
Now, six years and a whole lot of other parties after the fact, I’ve come around to the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Big Time, as one of my boyfriends from the 2007 vintage (a good year) would say.
Sourcin’
The trick to having a Daggy Jumper Part-ay, as opposed to just a Daggy Jumper, is to mix a bit of high culture with your low culture (hollah at me Adorno: Bourdieu, you, ain’t heavy, you my bro).
By this, I mean, choose a daggy jumper in luxe fibres: babysoft lambswool, buttery cashmere, so-fluffy-you-float angora, and a bit of lurex for doing the Fancy.
Sounds expensive, right? Wrong. Second hand stores are teeming with Daggy Jumper Part-ay specimens. Admittedly, you need some time on your hands and the guidance of your inner shopper intuition, but anybody with a couple of hours to spare on a Saturday can make good at their local Vinnies, Salvos or op-shop and come out with some Daggy Jumper Part-ay gold.
Just remember to check the fibre content label: you can usually tell by feel if you’re dealing with poly blend or something a bit more special, but it always pays to double check when you’re all about bigging up the luxe.
You can also ask your family and elderly friends if they have any Daggy Jumper Part-ays they can pass on to you, to keep the family’s stylin’ trads alive. Or, if a trip to Vinnies and Granny’s doesn’t turn up anything, pop into Country Road, they happen to be doing some very convincing vintage repros at the mo.
Prepin’
Once you get your Daggy Jumper Part-ay home, it pays to invest in some pre-wear prep. A gentle handwash will remove any lingering scent of dead people/menthol cigarettes/shop assistants/home brand sherry/naphthalene, and any suspicious stains that may have emanated from a previous owner’s body.
Handwashing using my chosen brand of laundry soap (Lux) also imparts a delicious scent that will make people want to cuddle you (huzzah for cuddles).
Again, check the fibre content label, but allow me to lay down the best way, by far, to handwash:
1) dissolve a small amount of Lux flakes in hot water, top up your bucket/sink/basin with cold water, and dunk your jumper thoroughly
2) watch an ep of Game of Thrones
3) empty the soapy water, refill your bucket/sink/basin with plain cold water
4) watch another ep of Game of Thrones
5) empty bucket onto pot plants/garden, pop your jumper into your washing machine, and run it through on a Rinse and Spin cycle
6) place on a flat surface to dry
7) watch eps of Game of Thrones until your Daggy Jumper Part-ay is dry
This last step is optional, but I highly recommend it: Peter Dinklage is a stone cold fox.
Stylin’
It’s absolutely pointless, in most cases, to try and achieve a slim, streamlined silhouette. Most Daggy Jumper Part-ays, especially if they’re vintage, are cut with comfort and warmth, rather than flattery, in mind. Consequentially, channel Notorious and embrace the B-I-G. Let your winter belly rolls luxuriate in the warm, non-judgemental embrace of your Daggy Jumper Part-ay.
You may wish to pair your Daggy Jumper Part-ay with a fitted jean and boots, to prove to the world at large that your form has shape. But, I don’t think the fitted jean is an essential for styling the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Really, you could wear whatever you want on your bottom half (except shorts, because they’re weird, even more so in a Canberra winter).
Basically, no-one is going to notice what’s going on south of your belly button: they’re going to be too excited by your amazing jumper, and wondering why they’re experiencing the urge to cuddle (that’s the power of Lux).
Cautionz
One further word to the wise: if you have a penchant for black fluffy Daggy Jumper Part-ays, like I do, be aware of the lint issue. It tends to gather in places that will shock you when you look in the mirror (underarms, backs, and belly buttons, oh my). It can be quite confronting, more so if you were de-Daggy Jumper Part-ay-ing in front of some lucky guy or girl (I’d imagine).
You can solve this issue by wearing a tee shirt underneath, but if that idea doesn’t appeal, consider yourself forewarned and forearmed about the armpit lint, and make sure you do a quick lint check pre boudoir.
Now, go forth, and Daggy Jumper Part-ay, because winter is coming.
To our nation’s capital.
Now, you can, and should, cuddle up with some seasonally appropriate Game of Thrones, a hottie (hot water bottle and/or person – count your blessings if both), and a big old mug of tea/mulled wine/hot chocolate.
But, there is another strategy you can adopt to minimise seasonal chill. That strategy, my friends, is the Daggy Jumper Part-ay.
(In the context of Daggy Jumpers, the normal spelling of party just doesn’t carry enough cringe: a hyphen just has to happen here).
Hipsters have been All About The Daggy Jumper Part-ay for a fair while now. I remember, distinctly, my first encounter with a Hipster Daggy Jumper Part-ay member. This encounter was at an actual party (normal spelling), complete with all requisite winter-in-Canberra’s-Inner-North party activities, circa 2007: goon of fortune, people dancing in circles around piles of coats in a bare living room, representation from three different political parties (and factions within parties), and at least one emotional minidrama involving a love triangle and a certain young lady blowing her nose on someone else’s pashmina.
Yes, that was me. Soz.
During some post-tears circle dancing around coats, a fellow partygoer joined me in my interpretive dance moves to Architecture in Helskini’s ‘Places Like This’ (if you need a visual: imagine me waving of arms in the manner of a floaty willow tree, add in some Gumby legs). Said partygoer, otherwise unremarkable, was wearing a baggy grey handknit with an appliquéd koala bear on the front, chomping on a eucalyptus leaf (the appliquéd koala, not my wavy-arms-dance companion).
At the time, I called bullshit on his Daggy Jumper Part-ay, picked up my coat from the middle of the circle, and went outside to check out goon of fortune.
Now, six years and a whole lot of other parties after the fact, I’ve come around to the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Big Time, as one of my boyfriends from the 2007 vintage (a good year) would say.
Sourcin’
The trick to having a Daggy Jumper Part-ay, as opposed to just a Daggy Jumper, is to mix a bit of high culture with your low culture (hollah at me Adorno: Bourdieu, you, ain’t heavy, you my bro).
By this, I mean, choose a daggy jumper in luxe fibres: babysoft lambswool, buttery cashmere, so-fluffy-you-float angora, and a bit of lurex for doing the Fancy.
Sounds expensive, right? Wrong. Second hand stores are teeming with Daggy Jumper Part-ay specimens. Admittedly, you need some time on your hands and the guidance of your inner shopper intuition, but anybody with a couple of hours to spare on a Saturday can make good at their local Vinnies, Salvos or op-shop and come out with some Daggy Jumper Part-ay gold.
Just remember to check the fibre content label: you can usually tell by feel if you’re dealing with poly blend or something a bit more special, but it always pays to double check when you’re all about bigging up the luxe.
You can also ask your family and elderly friends if they have any Daggy Jumper Part-ays they can pass on to you, to keep the family’s stylin’ trads alive. Or, if a trip to Vinnies and Granny’s doesn’t turn up anything, pop into Country Road, they happen to be doing some very convincing vintage repros at the mo.
Prepin’
Once you get your Daggy Jumper Part-ay home, it pays to invest in some pre-wear prep. A gentle handwash will remove any lingering scent of dead people/menthol cigarettes/shop assistants/home brand sherry/naphthalene, and any suspicious stains that may have emanated from a previous owner’s body.
Handwashing using my chosen brand of laundry soap (Lux) also imparts a delicious scent that will make people want to cuddle you (huzzah for cuddles).
Again, check the fibre content label, but allow me to lay down the best way, by far, to handwash:
1) dissolve a small amount of Lux flakes in hot water, top up your bucket/sink/basin with cold water, and dunk your jumper thoroughly
2) watch an ep of Game of Thrones
3) empty the soapy water, refill your bucket/sink/basin with plain cold water
4) watch another ep of Game of Thrones
5) empty bucket onto pot plants/garden, pop your jumper into your washing machine, and run it through on a Rinse and Spin cycle
6) place on a flat surface to dry
7) watch eps of Game of Thrones until your Daggy Jumper Part-ay is dry
This last step is optional, but I highly recommend it: Peter Dinklage is a stone cold fox.
Stylin’
It’s absolutely pointless, in most cases, to try and achieve a slim, streamlined silhouette. Most Daggy Jumper Part-ays, especially if they’re vintage, are cut with comfort and warmth, rather than flattery, in mind. Consequentially, channel Notorious and embrace the B-I-G. Let your winter belly rolls luxuriate in the warm, non-judgemental embrace of your Daggy Jumper Part-ay.
You may wish to pair your Daggy Jumper Part-ay with a fitted jean and boots, to prove to the world at large that your form has shape. But, I don’t think the fitted jean is an essential for styling the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Really, you could wear whatever you want on your bottom half (except shorts, because they’re weird, even more so in a Canberra winter).
Basically, no-one is going to notice what’s going on south of your belly button: they’re going to be too excited by your amazing jumper, and wondering why they’re experiencing the urge to cuddle (that’s the power of Lux).
Cautionz
One further word to the wise: if you have a penchant for black fluffy Daggy Jumper Part-ays, like I do, be aware of the lint issue. It tends to gather in places that will shock you when you look in the mirror (underarms, backs, and belly buttons, oh my). It can be quite confronting, more so if you were de-Daggy Jumper Part-ay-ing in front of some lucky guy or girl (I’d imagine).
You can solve this issue by wearing a tee shirt underneath, but if that idea doesn’t appeal, consider yourself forewarned and forearmed about the armpit lint, and make sure you do a quick lint check pre boudoir.
Now, go forth, and Daggy Jumper Part-ay, because winter is coming.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Dreams
Thunder only happens when it’s raining. Players only love you when they’re playing. So sang Stevie Niks in her (epic) ballad, ‘Dreams’.
As a person who dreams every night – and remembers at least one dream 9 out of 10 mornings - I’d like to know if there’s any truth to Niks’ assertion that one thing points to another, deeper thing.
Some of my dreams are immediately interpretable, and about as subtle as a meat axe. Dreaming, for instance, about having to finish my PhD, in three days, on a vintage typewriter with no paper, pretty clearly points to a subconscious that is wigging out about the impending submission of my thesis (could also indicate a warning about hipsters, hence the vintage typewriter). Other things I dream about are completely mundane: going grocery shopping, working out at the gym, catching buses, cleaning my apartment. Yawn.
But then sometimes - actually, more than sometimes, about once every couple of weeks - my subconscious throws me a curve ball, and I can’t make top nor tail of my dream.
The dreams which feature celebrities, in particular, often leave me particularly befuddled upon waking.
And so, unlike Niks, who, according to the song, keeps her visions to herself, I’m sharing my most memorable, and befuddling, celebrity dreams. For your interpretational pleasure.
Dream #1. St Kim Kardashian
Kim Kardashian started a grassroots program teaching underprivileged and differently abled children to read using Kindles. She was assassinated for her efforts by being sliced in half. Her body was displayed in a glass cabinet and toured around the world. A campaign was started to have Kim Kardashian canonised. Kim Kardashian was made a saint, and high schools were named in her honour. St Kim Academy, Kardashian High, etc.
Dream #2. Leonardo Di Caprio’s BFF
Leonardo Di Caprio and I were BFFs. We did everything together. It was the 50s, I was rocking an impossibly chic wardrobe. Leonardo Di Caprio wanted to experiment with a quiff. I advised against.
Dream #3. The Wilson Brothers
Owen Wilson. Luke Wilson. Tom Wilson. Yes.
Dream #4. Turning down Alexander Skarsgard
Alexander Skarsgard and I were totally into each other. I get naked. Alexander Skarsgard gets naked. I regretfully inform him that we can no longer go ahead as planned because he has no chest hair. Alexander Sharsgard is disappointed. We hug and become BFFs.
Dream #5. Julia Gillard and the ALP do The Hunger Games
Julia Gillard requested my presence on an elite tiger team to workshop youth policy. Julia Gillard and senior ALP faceless men are super nice. Julia Gillard and I have a chat about hair colour (natural vs artificial – I’m natural, she’s artificial) in the kitchenette. The tiger team take a field trip to Italy, to offices located in the base of the Coliseum. I take a wrong turn trying to get back to our meeting rooms after a loo break (NB: this element of the dream is entirely realistic and happens to me all the time in waking life). Stumble upon a secret room with profiles of youth leaders that the ALP has forced to fight to the death, hunger games style. Realise the tiger team is a front to obscure the true nature of the ALP’s youth policy (fight to the death). Return to the meeting room to confront Julia Gillard and the faceless men. Open the door to realise they know my secret.
Wake up before a satisfactory resolution is achieved.
As a person who dreams every night – and remembers at least one dream 9 out of 10 mornings - I’d like to know if there’s any truth to Niks’ assertion that one thing points to another, deeper thing.
Some of my dreams are immediately interpretable, and about as subtle as a meat axe. Dreaming, for instance, about having to finish my PhD, in three days, on a vintage typewriter with no paper, pretty clearly points to a subconscious that is wigging out about the impending submission of my thesis (could also indicate a warning about hipsters, hence the vintage typewriter). Other things I dream about are completely mundane: going grocery shopping, working out at the gym, catching buses, cleaning my apartment. Yawn.
But then sometimes - actually, more than sometimes, about once every couple of weeks - my subconscious throws me a curve ball, and I can’t make top nor tail of my dream.
The dreams which feature celebrities, in particular, often leave me particularly befuddled upon waking.
And so, unlike Niks, who, according to the song, keeps her visions to herself, I’m sharing my most memorable, and befuddling, celebrity dreams. For your interpretational pleasure.
Dream #1. St Kim Kardashian
Kim Kardashian started a grassroots program teaching underprivileged and differently abled children to read using Kindles. She was assassinated for her efforts by being sliced in half. Her body was displayed in a glass cabinet and toured around the world. A campaign was started to have Kim Kardashian canonised. Kim Kardashian was made a saint, and high schools were named in her honour. St Kim Academy, Kardashian High, etc.
Dream #2. Leonardo Di Caprio’s BFF
Leonardo Di Caprio and I were BFFs. We did everything together. It was the 50s, I was rocking an impossibly chic wardrobe. Leonardo Di Caprio wanted to experiment with a quiff. I advised against.
Dream #3. The Wilson Brothers
Owen Wilson. Luke Wilson. Tom Wilson. Yes.
Dream #4. Turning down Alexander Skarsgard
Alexander Skarsgard and I were totally into each other. I get naked. Alexander Skarsgard gets naked. I regretfully inform him that we can no longer go ahead as planned because he has no chest hair. Alexander Sharsgard is disappointed. We hug and become BFFs.
Dream #5. Julia Gillard and the ALP do The Hunger Games
Julia Gillard requested my presence on an elite tiger team to workshop youth policy. Julia Gillard and senior ALP faceless men are super nice. Julia Gillard and I have a chat about hair colour (natural vs artificial – I’m natural, she’s artificial) in the kitchenette. The tiger team take a field trip to Italy, to offices located in the base of the Coliseum. I take a wrong turn trying to get back to our meeting rooms after a loo break (NB: this element of the dream is entirely realistic and happens to me all the time in waking life). Stumble upon a secret room with profiles of youth leaders that the ALP has forced to fight to the death, hunger games style. Realise the tiger team is a front to obscure the true nature of the ALP’s youth policy (fight to the death). Return to the meeting room to confront Julia Gillard and the faceless men. Open the door to realise they know my secret.
Wake up before a satisfactory resolution is achieved.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Onesie (with apologies to Hamlet)
This weekend, in amongst autumn cleaning my apartment (spring cleaning: so passé), entertaining friends, getting back to the gym after injury, and catching a film with MamaK, I’ve been battling a great dilemma:
To Onesie, or not to Onesie?
That is the question.
I am not referring, dear readers, to one piece cossie. Nor am I referring to jumpsuits. There’s no dilemma in my mind when it comes to cozzies and jumpsuits: I like cozzies and jumpsuits. I have time for cozzies and jumpsuits. I’ve very successfully owned multiples of both (believe).
What I am questioning, with the existential seriousness of Shakespeare’s Danish Prince, is the one piece loungewear suit, comprising of a hooded top attached to a pair of legs, made of polar fleece, with a zip fastening.
As a typical Type A personality, I’m working my way through my onesie dilemma not via a dramatic monologue, but by a list of points for, and against, the onesie.
(If Hamlet had been a Type A, he could have written a handy list too. It might have made all the difference).
To Onesie
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Onesies are warm, and they are cozy. It is possible to layer up against the Canberra chill, but there will always be little bits of you – ankles, the juncture of skivvies and leggings – vulnerable to sneaky chills (just quietly, I have a suspicion Hamlet would have found this aspect of a onesie appealing. That castle must have been some sort of draughty).
• Grown adults wearing - essentially - a babygro is hilarious, something which the lovely Miranda Hart has exploited (google Miranda Hart + Onesie Direction if you need proof). I have sufficient self awareness of my hipster tendencies to ironically enjoy this.
• You can get them in tiger print. And leopard print. And the union jack, and…
Not to Onesie
• Slippery slope: I already go more places than I should in gym leggings and baggy tee shirts. Crop top bras (comfy) have become a mainstay of my working wardrobe, even though I promised myself, at point of purchase, they were For Home Use Only (or FHUO, hollah at my APS BroDudes and SoulSistas down with document classifications). I wear slippers to the local shops to buy milk. If I get a onesie, it’s only a matter of time before I’m wearing it to the office on casual Friday – and then I’ll be Onesie Girl. Basically, my relationship with comfortable clothing is like Pandora’s Box: once opened, there's no going back.
• Onesies are sexless. I suspect that being a onesie girl means that I’d condemn myself to a lifetime of being a onesie girl in relation to other sorts of onesies. If you take my meaning.
• Everyone’s doing the onesie thing. Onesies are huge. Onesies are massive. I have sufficient self awareness of my hipster tendencies to sneer at this.
• I’m already tall, with a long body, and ample frontage. Which makes buying one piece anythings (swimmers, leotards, wonder woman outfits etc) tricky. A onesie would magnify this problem, and would, no doubt, result in wedgies. Back, and front.
I don’t yet know whether it is nobler, stylistically, to suffer the slings and arrows of Canberra’s outrageous weather. Or, to onesie – to warm, and, perchance, to cozy on through winter.
Aye, there’s the rub, alright.
To Onesie, or not to Onesie?
That is the question.
I am not referring, dear readers, to one piece cossie. Nor am I referring to jumpsuits. There’s no dilemma in my mind when it comes to cozzies and jumpsuits: I like cozzies and jumpsuits. I have time for cozzies and jumpsuits. I’ve very successfully owned multiples of both (believe).
What I am questioning, with the existential seriousness of Shakespeare’s Danish Prince, is the one piece loungewear suit, comprising of a hooded top attached to a pair of legs, made of polar fleece, with a zip fastening.
As a typical Type A personality, I’m working my way through my onesie dilemma not via a dramatic monologue, but by a list of points for, and against, the onesie.
(If Hamlet had been a Type A, he could have written a handy list too. It might have made all the difference).
To Onesie
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Onesies are warm, and they are cozy. It is possible to layer up against the Canberra chill, but there will always be little bits of you – ankles, the juncture of skivvies and leggings – vulnerable to sneaky chills (just quietly, I have a suspicion Hamlet would have found this aspect of a onesie appealing. That castle must have been some sort of draughty).
• Grown adults wearing - essentially - a babygro is hilarious, something which the lovely Miranda Hart has exploited (google Miranda Hart + Onesie Direction if you need proof). I have sufficient self awareness of my hipster tendencies to ironically enjoy this.
• You can get them in tiger print. And leopard print. And the union jack, and…
Not to Onesie
• Slippery slope: I already go more places than I should in gym leggings and baggy tee shirts. Crop top bras (comfy) have become a mainstay of my working wardrobe, even though I promised myself, at point of purchase, they were For Home Use Only (or FHUO, hollah at my APS BroDudes and SoulSistas down with document classifications). I wear slippers to the local shops to buy milk. If I get a onesie, it’s only a matter of time before I’m wearing it to the office on casual Friday – and then I’ll be Onesie Girl. Basically, my relationship with comfortable clothing is like Pandora’s Box: once opened, there's no going back.
• Onesies are sexless. I suspect that being a onesie girl means that I’d condemn myself to a lifetime of being a onesie girl in relation to other sorts of onesies. If you take my meaning.
• Everyone’s doing the onesie thing. Onesies are huge. Onesies are massive. I have sufficient self awareness of my hipster tendencies to sneer at this.
• I’m already tall, with a long body, and ample frontage. Which makes buying one piece anythings (swimmers, leotards, wonder woman outfits etc) tricky. A onesie would magnify this problem, and would, no doubt, result in wedgies. Back, and front.
I don’t yet know whether it is nobler, stylistically, to suffer the slings and arrows of Canberra’s outrageous weather. Or, to onesie – to warm, and, perchance, to cozy on through winter.
Aye, there’s the rub, alright.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Vintage Kicks
Turning 26 is a wonderous thing.
OK, OK, the Wrinkle of Incredulity on my forehead is deepening; I’ve got some fine lines growing around my eyes. My knees make that wet-cardboard creaky sound, and I’m doing lots more ‘reflective listening’ at noisy pubs, clubs and house parties. Not because I’ve become mature and wise and patient, but because I can’t actually hear what’s being said (years of earphone abuse), so I settle for ‘mm hmms’, ‘oh’s’ and what I hope is a thoughtful expression.
But back to what’s wonderous about being 26.
Being 26 means that I’ve been an Adult Woman, physiologically at least, for ten years, and have a wardrobe that is well established enough that I can pull together pieces that are, to borrow Maggie Alderson’s term, ‘Vintage Me’.
‘Vintage Me’ means clothes and accessories you’ve had for many a moon. ‘Vintage Me’, in my book, carries the ultimate styling cred. Why? Well, not only were you spectacularly chic, you are, still, spectacularly chic, AND had the foresight to keep great pieces even when they weren’t trending.
Basically, ‘Vintage Me’ = Swag + +
Particularly when the ‘Vintage me’ piece has swag already. Enter my two pairs of Doc Martin Kicks.
I bought my kicks when I started college (year 11 and 12, to all you non-ACT peeps). My college didn’t have a uniform, and, as such, 2003 was a great year for me, stylistically. My crew were rolling an early 90s look (and our own cigarettes) long before it was cool to do so.
(Insert your favorite hipster insult here)
My first pair of kicks – the classic Doc Martin boot, in an abstract black and white printed leather, purchased at Redpaths in Garema Place – were a momentous purchase, my first steps into the grungy look that would see me wear corsets, crochet cardigans, and torn, graffiti'd jeans to school.
Those kicks, along with the cherry red pair my parents bought me for Christmas, were my footwear of choice through 2003 and 2004, and well into my first year at uni. During the middle of my degree, my look took a turn towards the ladylike: my kicks were replaced by the highest of heels (my favorites: pale blue crushed velvet, gold trim, channeling Marie Antoinette). Moving out of home into cold, draughty houses and flats, I grew to love knee high boots, in all their manifestations: flat, heeled, elasticated, zippered.
Now, as a Young Professional (worst term ever – blergh) I’ve come to appreciate a Sensible Pump and Ballet Flat on a 9-5, Monday to Friday basis. But on my weekends, I’m all about putting the Sensible Pumps and Ballet Flats on one side, embracing my inner rebel and kicking it to the man - at least until 8am on Monday.
And there’s no better shoe for kicking it to the man than kicks. Particularly when said kicks are ten years old, and still kicking on.
OK, OK, the Wrinkle of Incredulity on my forehead is deepening; I’ve got some fine lines growing around my eyes. My knees make that wet-cardboard creaky sound, and I’m doing lots more ‘reflective listening’ at noisy pubs, clubs and house parties. Not because I’ve become mature and wise and patient, but because I can’t actually hear what’s being said (years of earphone abuse), so I settle for ‘mm hmms’, ‘oh’s’ and what I hope is a thoughtful expression.
But back to what’s wonderous about being 26.
Being 26 means that I’ve been an Adult Woman, physiologically at least, for ten years, and have a wardrobe that is well established enough that I can pull together pieces that are, to borrow Maggie Alderson’s term, ‘Vintage Me’.
‘Vintage Me’ means clothes and accessories you’ve had for many a moon. ‘Vintage Me’, in my book, carries the ultimate styling cred. Why? Well, not only were you spectacularly chic, you are, still, spectacularly chic, AND had the foresight to keep great pieces even when they weren’t trending.
Basically, ‘Vintage Me’ = Swag + +
Particularly when the ‘Vintage me’ piece has swag already. Enter my two pairs of Doc Martin Kicks.
I bought my kicks when I started college (year 11 and 12, to all you non-ACT peeps). My college didn’t have a uniform, and, as such, 2003 was a great year for me, stylistically. My crew were rolling an early 90s look (and our own cigarettes) long before it was cool to do so.
(Insert your favorite hipster insult here)
My first pair of kicks – the classic Doc Martin boot, in an abstract black and white printed leather, purchased at Redpaths in Garema Place – were a momentous purchase, my first steps into the grungy look that would see me wear corsets, crochet cardigans, and torn, graffiti'd jeans to school.
Those kicks, along with the cherry red pair my parents bought me for Christmas, were my footwear of choice through 2003 and 2004, and well into my first year at uni. During the middle of my degree, my look took a turn towards the ladylike: my kicks were replaced by the highest of heels (my favorites: pale blue crushed velvet, gold trim, channeling Marie Antoinette). Moving out of home into cold, draughty houses and flats, I grew to love knee high boots, in all their manifestations: flat, heeled, elasticated, zippered.
Now, as a Young Professional (worst term ever – blergh) I’ve come to appreciate a Sensible Pump and Ballet Flat on a 9-5, Monday to Friday basis. But on my weekends, I’m all about putting the Sensible Pumps and Ballet Flats on one side, embracing my inner rebel and kicking it to the man - at least until 8am on Monday.
And there’s no better shoe for kicking it to the man than kicks. Particularly when said kicks are ten years old, and still kicking on.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Bike
‘It’s just like riding a bike’, people say, when they mean that skills, once acquired, are never really lost.
For some, though, riding a bike is NOT ‘just like riding a bike’. Specifically, me.
I rode a lot as a kid: even had the requisite hot pink girls’ bike (with streamers on the handlebars: oh my). I remember coming off my bike many a time, and getting straight back on, grazed shins and all.
This changed when I was eight, and came off my bike so spectacularly that I decided bikes just weren’t for me.
It all started when I was visiting my grandparents, and had been allowed to go riding with a couple of older girls from the neighborhood.
To an eight year old girl in the 90s, twelve year olds were the absolute height of sophistication, glamor and coolness. This was before celebrity culture had really grown claws, so I, and my similarly aged friends, idolised our older neighbors/cousins/sisters like young girls today idolise the Kardashians.
Except, we aspired to our neighbours/cousins/sister’s super sleek high pony tails and scrunch socks (please tell me you remember scrunch socks), rather than Kim, Khloe and Kourtney’s questionable life choices involving videotape and diet pills.
Anyroadup, twelve year old sophisticates didn’t wear helmets, on account of their super high ponytails. So, I wasn’t either, because safety isn’t as important as a high, shiny, swooshy ponytail and being part of the cool peloton.
And, if the twelve year old cool girls were freewheeling down a big hill, I was coming along for the ride - even though the breaks on the bike I’d borrowed didn’t feel like they were working properly.
I think you can guess what happened next: my breaks failed, I crashed into a coppers’ log fence, knocked myself out, gave the twelve year old girls the fright of their lives (I should say here that underneath the cool they were actually really sweet and helped me limp home), and scored a graze on my chin that looked uncannily like a beard.
Looking back on it now, I can see that the universe was trying to teach me a valuable lesson: that suppressing my better judgement for the sake of being cool only leads to disaster (I mean, scrunch socks? Really?).
What I took away from the accident, though, was that Bikes Are Not Fun and I Will Never Ride Again.
But, eighteen years later, under the kindest and most watchful eyes of Zsuzanah Verona, I had another go at riding a bike, helmet firmly on and breaks thoroughly tested. I’ve gotten better at listening to what the universe is trying to teach me as I’ve got older. And what I learned yesterday was that:
• with a bit of help, and some gentle reminders to look ahead rather than down at my feet, that riding a bike actually is…just like riding a bike;
• riding a bike is just about the best fun ever;
• I don’t need to be part of a cool peloton when I’ve got a BFF like Zsuzannah; and, lastly
• a low chignon is really more sophisticated and helmet friendly than a high ponytail.
For some, though, riding a bike is NOT ‘just like riding a bike’. Specifically, me.
I rode a lot as a kid: even had the requisite hot pink girls’ bike (with streamers on the handlebars: oh my). I remember coming off my bike many a time, and getting straight back on, grazed shins and all.
This changed when I was eight, and came off my bike so spectacularly that I decided bikes just weren’t for me.
It all started when I was visiting my grandparents, and had been allowed to go riding with a couple of older girls from the neighborhood.
To an eight year old girl in the 90s, twelve year olds were the absolute height of sophistication, glamor and coolness. This was before celebrity culture had really grown claws, so I, and my similarly aged friends, idolised our older neighbors/cousins/sisters like young girls today idolise the Kardashians.
Except, we aspired to our neighbours/cousins/sister’s super sleek high pony tails and scrunch socks (please tell me you remember scrunch socks), rather than Kim, Khloe and Kourtney’s questionable life choices involving videotape and diet pills.
Anyroadup, twelve year old sophisticates didn’t wear helmets, on account of their super high ponytails. So, I wasn’t either, because safety isn’t as important as a high, shiny, swooshy ponytail and being part of the cool peloton.
And, if the twelve year old cool girls were freewheeling down a big hill, I was coming along for the ride - even though the breaks on the bike I’d borrowed didn’t feel like they were working properly.
I think you can guess what happened next: my breaks failed, I crashed into a coppers’ log fence, knocked myself out, gave the twelve year old girls the fright of their lives (I should say here that underneath the cool they were actually really sweet and helped me limp home), and scored a graze on my chin that looked uncannily like a beard.
Looking back on it now, I can see that the universe was trying to teach me a valuable lesson: that suppressing my better judgement for the sake of being cool only leads to disaster (I mean, scrunch socks? Really?).
What I took away from the accident, though, was that Bikes Are Not Fun and I Will Never Ride Again.
But, eighteen years later, under the kindest and most watchful eyes of Zsuzanah Verona, I had another go at riding a bike, helmet firmly on and breaks thoroughly tested. I’ve gotten better at listening to what the universe is trying to teach me as I’ve got older. And what I learned yesterday was that:
• with a bit of help, and some gentle reminders to look ahead rather than down at my feet, that riding a bike actually is…just like riding a bike;
• riding a bike is just about the best fun ever;
• I don’t need to be part of a cool peloton when I’ve got a BFF like Zsuzannah; and, lastly
• a low chignon is really more sophisticated and helmet friendly than a high ponytail.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Sydney, I’m Yours
a) Wide leg chiffon pants are not a good look on me;
b) Silk Herringbone blouses (from the sneakily hidden outlet store in Surry Hills) are;
c) Ruth Park street sign spotting fills me with excitement;
d) Iku lunches restore the soul;
e) Tear up one rainbow on Oxford St and a thousand others will grow in its place;
f) Anna Thomas designs the most beautiful women's wear imaginable;
g) Ibises’ beaks have evolved superior garbage-rifling, pond-scum-diving, and Peggy-frightening skillz;
h) Sydney heat is bad hair heat;
i) A coconut water and watching not one, but two, hideous weddings in the park at dusk makes point F OK;
j) The Hyde Park bubble man’s bubbles burst the exact moment I get my phone out to instagram them;
k) All day parking in the middle of Sydney is cheaper than all day parking in the middle of Canberra (believe);
l) Traffic jams and navigating Sydney streets are absolutely fine so long as I’ve got Zsuzannah Verona (Scotty to my Kirk);
m) It’s possible to eat rice pudding while driving if you really put your mind to it.
To paraphrase The Decemberists on Los Angeles:
Sydney, I’m yours.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
A Bajillion Other Things
Hey Girls,
I’ve just watched Seasons 1 and 2. And, to use a Shoshana-ism, Oh My F-ing G.
Girls, you blew my mind. Why?
Well, Shoshana’s hair. And Jecca’s feather coat, which is exactly like something I wore for a teaching day at uni a few years ago (believe). And how mean Marni is to Charlie.
But most importantly, Lena Dunham.
Allow me to explain.
I’ve been writing this blog for four years now, and have frequently dipped my toe into some thought-sharing about body image. My honours thesis explored body image, among other things. I inhabit a female body, a body which forces me to engage with other people’s perceptions of female bodies, mostly through comments about its size, shape, and overall composition, or its other characteristics, like birthmarks.
Consequentially, I read blogs, and newspaper and magazine articles, about women, bodies and body image, with one eye on personal and the other on academic interest.
And, Girls, I’m bored.
Achingly bored, in fact, because the conversation is the same. Has been for years. The articles mostly follow a formula:
• Personal anecdote (hook reader)
• Branch out into a wider comment (women don’t like their bodies: sad face)
• Criticism (corporations/society/patriarchy make women not like their bodies: angry face)
• Suggestion (more plus size models/less airbrushing/no botox: I’ve-had-an-idea face)
• Pseudo manifesto (let’s love our bodies: triumphant gloat face)
• Repeat ad nauseum (Peggy’s vomit face).
The worst thing about this body image conversation loop is that nothing changes. The same thoughts get published, week after week, month after month, year after year.
If talking about women’s bodies in the way that we’ve been doing for a while now worked - if it advanced anything, if women were acknowledging that their worth wasn’t determined by their physicality – we wouldn’t still be having the same conversation. Instead, we’d be talking about a bajillion other things.
Girls, you break this loop by ignoring the body image conversation. You could have easily gone down the path of making a big deal about Lena Dunham’s naked body, seen in just about every episode. Instead, it’s mentioned twice in season one, in an offhand way, and not at all in season two.
So, rather than having Hannah (Lena Dunham’s character), engage in angsty heart-to-hearts with Marni and Jecca and Shoshana about her body, Hannah has angsty heart-to-hearts about a bajillion other things, and eats cake, naked, in the bath.
It’s as if – shock, horror – Hannah’s body is not the biggest thing going on in her life.
Naomi Wolf wrote that ‘a woman wins by giving herself and other women permission – to eat; to be sexual; to age; to wear overalls, a paste tiara, a Balenciaga gown, a second-hand opera cloak, or combat boots; to cover up or go practically naked; to do whatever we choose in following – or ignoring – our own aesthetic.’
The above was written over 20 years ago now. And Girls, it’s great to see you following, ignoring, and recreating your aesthetic.
But, more importantly Girls, it’s great to see you talking about the bajillion other things that make up the rest of life, which is something I find to be the exact opposite of boring.
Yours sincerely, lots of love, and looking forward to Season three,
Peggy xox
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Road Tripping
Feeling landlocked last week, I decided to hit the open road. Sometimes, some sweet highway miles, good tunes, the morning sun on paddocks, and lots, and lots, of coffee, are just what I need.
Some would say that road tripping is running away, but I say, there are some problems, writer’s block among them, that benefit from eating some dust. A road trip won’t get the writing done, for sure, but it will take me out of myself.
What I love best about road tripping - apart from the opportunity to sing loudly, without fear of reprisal, to Bon Jovi - is that Normal is bent just a little out of shape. Danishes, usually eschewed in favor of rye toast and vegemite, become suitable breakfast foods. I drive bare-faced with the windows down; I wear my hair in a bun and don’t worry about combing kinks out when I let it down. I wear my oldest, comfiest pair of flats. Loose tees and second-wear jeans are de rigueur, along with a thrown-in-the-car-as-an-afterthought cardie for windy truck stops. I take photos of silly things, things that normally aren’t snap worthy, but somehow, when I’m road tripping, are irresistibly Instagrammable.
And while that all sounds pretty hard to beat, it gets better when my destination is somewhere, and someone, lovely: last weekend I was road tripping to meet my friend Clementine Kemp, and her puppy, in Clem’s lovely little town.
Knowing a cup of tea, apple cake, walks along the main drag, glorious thrift shop finds, juicy gossip and inappropriate conversation await at my destination just makes those sweet highway miles all the sweeter.
Some would say that road tripping is running away, but I say, there are some problems, writer’s block among them, that benefit from eating some dust. A road trip won’t get the writing done, for sure, but it will take me out of myself.
What I love best about road tripping - apart from the opportunity to sing loudly, without fear of reprisal, to Bon Jovi - is that Normal is bent just a little out of shape. Danishes, usually eschewed in favor of rye toast and vegemite, become suitable breakfast foods. I drive bare-faced with the windows down; I wear my hair in a bun and don’t worry about combing kinks out when I let it down. I wear my oldest, comfiest pair of flats. Loose tees and second-wear jeans are de rigueur, along with a thrown-in-the-car-as-an-afterthought cardie for windy truck stops. I take photos of silly things, things that normally aren’t snap worthy, but somehow, when I’m road tripping, are irresistibly Instagrammable.
And while that all sounds pretty hard to beat, it gets better when my destination is somewhere, and someone, lovely: last weekend I was road tripping to meet my friend Clementine Kemp, and her puppy, in Clem’s lovely little town.
Knowing a cup of tea, apple cake, walks along the main drag, glorious thrift shop finds, juicy gossip and inappropriate conversation await at my destination just makes those sweet highway miles all the sweeter.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Gelly
Dear Beyonce,
I had a sad realisation last week. I realised that whatever I do in my life, I will never be as cool as you.
You see, you’re just so great. Every time I see a picture of you during my morning trashy-section-of-the-newspaper browse, I do a little chair dance. Because, to quote Leo Sayer (crossing musical genres, hope that’s ok with you), you make me feel like dancing.
Even when you got into hot water about lip synching at Obama’s inauguration, I was totally on your side. As was everyone. Because, hey, you’re Beyonce, the woman who gave the world Single Ladies: how could we NOT be on your side. Now put your hands up.
(I once tried to lip synch through a bad tutorial I was taking. It didn’t work. Further proof I will never be as cool as you).
If I had to put a finger on what makes you so cool, Beyonce, it’s that you NEVER, EVER look phased, or flustered. Even when you were busted lip synching. You kind of…glide, graciously, coolly. Like a glacier moving at an accelerated pace due to human induced climate change.
I don’t glide, graciously, coolly, or in the manner of a glacier. I fall down flights of stairs. I look phased, frequently, so much so that people stop me to ask what’s wrong (NOTHING! MY FACE IS JUST LIKE THIS ON ITS OWN!) I get flustered, stumble, and land in such a way that my shoe makes a distinctly fart-like noise on the linoleum, and I feel the need to clarify to assembled colleagues that the noise they just heard was not a fart, but a fart-like-sound, a faux fart, coming from my shoe.
Beyonce, I think you can start to see why I will never be as cool as you.
I have, however, recently discovered something that makes me feel a teeny, tiny bit cool, a bit glide-y. And that’s gell nails.
You see, trying to have nice nails, when you’re as much of a terminal clutz as I am, is setting yourself up for a big disappointment. You start off, all hopeful: you prep with base coat, you apply two to three layers of colour, finish with a top coat, and BAM! Fancy fingers.
The following morning, though, you wake up with sheet marks on your nails (and nail marks on your sheets). Or, by afternoon tea time, there’s a chip on your index nail and you just can’t help but notice it every time you glance down at your hands.
SIGH.
But, in come gell nail colours. Beyonce, they give clutzes like me a little bit of hope that we may, one day, be a little bit as cool as you.
Gell colours give TWO WEEKS of chip proof, smudge proof, shiny shiny nails. That’s the kind of gelly I’m ready for, if I may mangle the chorus of your Destiny’s Child hit.
And you know something, Beyonce? It’s really cool going through life with nice nails. Even though my face is doing its thing, and I’ve got my farty shoes on.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Blue Period
I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who has a signature colour.
Of course, all my ANU homies (Haydon-to-the-Allen: REPRESENT) know what happens when you take a signature colour too far: you become Yellow Girl (FYI, I saw her undies one day while shopping at Dickson Woolies: they were black, and I felt vaguely let down).
Yellow Girl notwithstanding, I’ve always thought a signature would be kind of nice. A colour that exemplifies Peggyness: a colour that people would see and go, ahh, yes, that’s Peggy.
The problem is: which colour?
At various times, I’ve worn a lot of red: a lot of brown: a lot of green. I’ve accessorised extensively in pink. I’m the proud owner of more than one yellow dress. Purple tights and gloves, orange handbags, turquoise suede ballet flats. My love affair with neutrals will last a lifetime, and Back in Black isn’t just an ACDC song, it’s a way of life. You name the colour, and I bet I’ve got it somewhere in my wardrobe, in my accessories drawers, or in my jewellery box.
And yet, almost every outfit I’ve worn in the last few months has been built on blue.
I didn’t really notice my wardrobe was entering a blue period. Around this time last year, I bought some blue and white ceramic jewellery from Mrs Peterson’s Pottery. That winter, I found two amazing second hand blue skirts: the navy Veronika Maine pencil and the vintage ultramarine wool pleated mid-calf soon made their way into my high rotation wardrobe. Feeling my workday skirt-blouse-cardigan groove as spring arrived, I dug up an old cornflour blue silk blouse, unearthed a David Lawrence white and petrol blue abstract print shirt, and made myself a navy and white pleated shell top. Blue plastic sunglasses were brought back from Malaysia by PapaK. Christmas came, along with a swag of blue gifts: more of Mrs Peterson’s blue ceramic earrings, a multicoloured resin bangle with a glorious streak of sky blue.
Some days I wake up and look at the outfit I laid out the previous night: it’s blue-on-blue. Other days, blue creeps into my ensemble through my massive cobalt shades or my blue porcelain earrings. If any of you were wondering how far this goes, I’ve found French navy to be a pleasing stand in for black lingerie.
Picasso’s blue period lasted about four years, according to my five minute trawl of the internet. Perhaps I have found my signature colour, for the time being, at least?
Yet, the other day, dressing for work, I found myself sprucing up an otherwise neutral outfit with a dash of red; my garnet ring, my scarlet sunglasses, and those silly red knickers I keep in the drawer for a giggle.
Perhaps there’s some inherent wisdom, then, in my reluctance to fully commit to a signature colour. Some days, you just have to wear a little red.
Blue periods notwithstanding.
Of course, all my ANU homies (Haydon-to-the-Allen: REPRESENT) know what happens when you take a signature colour too far: you become Yellow Girl (FYI, I saw her undies one day while shopping at Dickson Woolies: they were black, and I felt vaguely let down).
Yellow Girl notwithstanding, I’ve always thought a signature would be kind of nice. A colour that exemplifies Peggyness: a colour that people would see and go, ahh, yes, that’s Peggy.
The problem is: which colour?
At various times, I’ve worn a lot of red: a lot of brown: a lot of green. I’ve accessorised extensively in pink. I’m the proud owner of more than one yellow dress. Purple tights and gloves, orange handbags, turquoise suede ballet flats. My love affair with neutrals will last a lifetime, and Back in Black isn’t just an ACDC song, it’s a way of life. You name the colour, and I bet I’ve got it somewhere in my wardrobe, in my accessories drawers, or in my jewellery box.
And yet, almost every outfit I’ve worn in the last few months has been built on blue.
I didn’t really notice my wardrobe was entering a blue period. Around this time last year, I bought some blue and white ceramic jewellery from Mrs Peterson’s Pottery. That winter, I found two amazing second hand blue skirts: the navy Veronika Maine pencil and the vintage ultramarine wool pleated mid-calf soon made their way into my high rotation wardrobe. Feeling my workday skirt-blouse-cardigan groove as spring arrived, I dug up an old cornflour blue silk blouse, unearthed a David Lawrence white and petrol blue abstract print shirt, and made myself a navy and white pleated shell top. Blue plastic sunglasses were brought back from Malaysia by PapaK. Christmas came, along with a swag of blue gifts: more of Mrs Peterson’s blue ceramic earrings, a multicoloured resin bangle with a glorious streak of sky blue.
Some days I wake up and look at the outfit I laid out the previous night: it’s blue-on-blue. Other days, blue creeps into my ensemble through my massive cobalt shades or my blue porcelain earrings. If any of you were wondering how far this goes, I’ve found French navy to be a pleasing stand in for black lingerie.
Picasso’s blue period lasted about four years, according to my five minute trawl of the internet. Perhaps I have found my signature colour, for the time being, at least?
Yet, the other day, dressing for work, I found myself sprucing up an otherwise neutral outfit with a dash of red; my garnet ring, my scarlet sunglasses, and those silly red knickers I keep in the drawer for a giggle.
Perhaps there’s some inherent wisdom, then, in my reluctance to fully commit to a signature colour. Some days, you just have to wear a little red.
Blue periods notwithstanding.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Crossfire Hurricane
Of all my demons, I dread procrastination the most.
Unlike pride, jealousy, or anger, whose faces I know to slam the door on, I can never make myself see the harm when procrastination comes a-knocking. I let her in and, before we know it, it’s March and those Summertime things I had to do remain undone.
Which brings me to today’s topic: why it took me a whole EIGHTEEN MONTHS of frequent, regular attendance at the gym before I ‘made time’ to buy a sports bra.
The alluring thing about procrastination is it allows you to challenge quantum physics and manipulate the laws of the universe, making and unmaking time at will.
There have been whole pockets, in the last eighteen months, where I’ve spun time into a glossy, golden expanse: afternoons re-reading Atonement (not just page 136: the whole thing); aimless Sunday driving with the windows down and Tame Impala blaring; afternoon teas, brunches, dinners, coffees, where Now was All; stolen days doing sweet FA of any significance.
When pressed on the matter of the urgent purchase of a sports bra, though, my rad procrastinatory quantum mechanics skillz emerged, and those glossy pockets of time that I’d spun out are unmade, just like that. Couldn’t possibly have gone sports bra shopping; there was a party on, a chapter to write, a job to do. Next weekend, for sure, it’ll happen.
Next weekend, and the one after the one after that happen, and keep on happening. An honest evaluation of stretch marks suggests that the old Pleasure State (with the wire poking out) does not provide adequate support in spin class.
Even still, it takes a wrinkle in the fabric of time. A scheduled lunchtime gym session thwarted by a pair of forgotten sneakers. A two-for-one lingerie deal at David Jones on my way back to the office. It was time.
I like to pretend that my iPod-priave-changeroom-danceparty-for-one (musical accompaniment: the Rolling Stone’s Jumping Jack Flash), was purely in the interests of thoroughly testing out the Bustenhalter’s bounce control.
But I’ll tell you a secret: I suspect it might have had something to do with sending procrastination on her way, and the fact that there’s no better time or place to join the Mick Jagger Strut Team than when you’ve had a win.
If said win occurs in a David Jones change room, clad in a pencil skirt and sport bra? Well, I know Mick would say it’s alright, now.
In fact, it’s a gas.
Unlike pride, jealousy, or anger, whose faces I know to slam the door on, I can never make myself see the harm when procrastination comes a-knocking. I let her in and, before we know it, it’s March and those Summertime things I had to do remain undone.
Which brings me to today’s topic: why it took me a whole EIGHTEEN MONTHS of frequent, regular attendance at the gym before I ‘made time’ to buy a sports bra.
The alluring thing about procrastination is it allows you to challenge quantum physics and manipulate the laws of the universe, making and unmaking time at will.
There have been whole pockets, in the last eighteen months, where I’ve spun time into a glossy, golden expanse: afternoons re-reading Atonement (not just page 136: the whole thing); aimless Sunday driving with the windows down and Tame Impala blaring; afternoon teas, brunches, dinners, coffees, where Now was All; stolen days doing sweet FA of any significance.
When pressed on the matter of the urgent purchase of a sports bra, though, my rad procrastinatory quantum mechanics skillz emerged, and those glossy pockets of time that I’d spun out are unmade, just like that. Couldn’t possibly have gone sports bra shopping; there was a party on, a chapter to write, a job to do. Next weekend, for sure, it’ll happen.
Next weekend, and the one after the one after that happen, and keep on happening. An honest evaluation of stretch marks suggests that the old Pleasure State (with the wire poking out) does not provide adequate support in spin class.
Even still, it takes a wrinkle in the fabric of time. A scheduled lunchtime gym session thwarted by a pair of forgotten sneakers. A two-for-one lingerie deal at David Jones on my way back to the office. It was time.
I like to pretend that my iPod-priave-changeroom-danceparty-for-one (musical accompaniment: the Rolling Stone’s Jumping Jack Flash), was purely in the interests of thoroughly testing out the Bustenhalter’s bounce control.
But I’ll tell you a secret: I suspect it might have had something to do with sending procrastination on her way, and the fact that there’s no better time or place to join the Mick Jagger Strut Team than when you’ve had a win.
If said win occurs in a David Jones change room, clad in a pencil skirt and sport bra? Well, I know Mick would say it’s alright, now.
In fact, it’s a gas.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Sesame Tofu Noodles, For Introverts
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.
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.
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 9, 2012
Summer Challenge # 2
Last summer, as those of you who are regulars here know, I set myself the challenge of (re)reading all of John Steinbeck.
Did I achieve my summer challenge? The blunt answer is no. There are still a few of Steinbeck’s books that I didn’t get around to reading.
I did, however, read just about all of them. And thoroughly enjoyable reading it was. I, for one, consider this a challenge met and mastered.
As our days are warming up, getting longer and fuller of parties, Christmas things, and long walks up big hills at dusk to catch the sunset, I’m thinking it’s time for another summer challenge.
But, what should this summer challenge be?
The obvious answer is finishing the first (exceptionally rough) draft of my PhD. I don’t think that qualifies, though, as summer challenge material. Firstly, with a bit of luck and a whole lot of power ballads, finishing the draft is on track to happen by Christmas, leaving January and February un-challenged.
Furthermore, the whole point of a summer challenge, to my mind, is that it’s got to be a teensy bit ephemeral, a little esoteric, and otherwise unrelated to everyday work/study activities. Thus, the PhD, and associated business, is not suitable summer challenge material.
Also, this year’s summer challenge needs to be compatible with finishing a PhD draft, working full time in a new role, and generally getting on with life. Which means it needs to be a flexible challenge, the sort that I can pick up and set down as need be.
Finally, it goes without saying, this year’s summer challenge needs to be fun, preferably a whole lot thereof.
Any suggestions?
Did I achieve my summer challenge? The blunt answer is no. There are still a few of Steinbeck’s books that I didn’t get around to reading.
I did, however, read just about all of them. And thoroughly enjoyable reading it was. I, for one, consider this a challenge met and mastered.
As our days are warming up, getting longer and fuller of parties, Christmas things, and long walks up big hills at dusk to catch the sunset, I’m thinking it’s time for another summer challenge.
But, what should this summer challenge be?
The obvious answer is finishing the first (exceptionally rough) draft of my PhD. I don’t think that qualifies, though, as summer challenge material. Firstly, with a bit of luck and a whole lot of power ballads, finishing the draft is on track to happen by Christmas, leaving January and February un-challenged.
Furthermore, the whole point of a summer challenge, to my mind, is that it’s got to be a teensy bit ephemeral, a little esoteric, and otherwise unrelated to everyday work/study activities. Thus, the PhD, and associated business, is not suitable summer challenge material.
Also, this year’s summer challenge needs to be compatible with finishing a PhD draft, working full time in a new role, and generally getting on with life. Which means it needs to be a flexible challenge, the sort that I can pick up and set down as need be.
Finally, it goes without saying, this year’s summer challenge needs to be fun, preferably a whole lot thereof.
Any suggestions?
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.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Salted Caramel x 3
Salted caramel is a food trend that’s been with us for the last couple of years. And, readers, this trend, pardon the pun, is worth its salt.
If you haven’t done so already, take yourself down to your nearest hipster café or restaurant, and order the salted caramel option. Believe me, if your hipster venue is truly thus, it will be there.
What I love about salted caramel is that it’s deliciously contradictory. The sweet, creamy caramel, interspersed with (ideally) still-flaky shards of salt. It’s so wrong, yet so bizarrely right, the only fitting soundtrack is the best of Prince (you have to promise me that you’ll eat salted caramel while listening to Prince at least once, just to prove that, although my suggestion sounds a little whack, it’s gosh darn perfect).
I have to admit, salted caramel is not something I make frequently, because when it comes to salted caramel, I have absolutely no self control. If it’s in my fridge, I WILL eat it. Within the day (actually, if I’m honest, within the hour).
However, when people are coming over, or when I’m invited for a leisurely BBQ with some mates, I’m more than happy to contribute something deliciously tasty as well as deliciously on trend.
To make matters even better, salted caramel is surprisingly simple. Here I’ve provided the basic salted caramel recipe, salted caramel chocolate pots, and, grandest of all, salted caramel and chocolate tart (my recipe is loosely based on one that appeared in Delicious magazine a couple of years ago, but I’ve fiddled with it sufficiently to feel comfortable calling it my own).
It’s like a salted caramel pick-your-own adventure book, where every path you pick leads to a sticky, sweet, salty end. Enjoy!
Salted Caramel (makes approximately a cup and a half of sauce, keeps in the fridge for up to a week – but let’s admit, it’s not likely to stick around for that long).
I cup sugar
1/3 cup water
125g salted butter
1/3 cup pouring cream
Sea salt flakes
1. Place sugar and water in a saucepan over medium-high heat. Swirl saucepan to dissolve sugar. Simmer, without stirring, until starting to colour – about 15 minutes. (You will need to watch this carefully, because, guaranteed, the moment you turn your back to put a load of washing on, you’ll have taken the caramel too far, and will have a horrible burnt mess in your pan).
2. Lower the heat once the caramel has started to colour. Add the chopped butter, and stir over the heat for another 5 minutes or until golden. The mixture will look hideously split at this stage. Don’t panic.
3. Take saucepan off the heat. Stir in half of the cream. Watch your split mixture magically coalesce into a cohesive caramel. Stir in the remaining cream. Gloat at your cleverness.
4. Add a PINCH of salt flakes to the caramel. You need to salt slowly, carefully: you can always add more salt, but you can’t take it out once it’s in, and it’d be such a shame to ruin some beautiful caramel. Stir, taste. Add more salt, if you feel it needs it. Repeat until your caramel is salted to the perfect point of contradiction.
5. Store in the fridge, to serve over ice cream, or, my favourite, with fresh blueberries.
Salted Caramel Chocolate Pots (Makes 6, depending on ramekin size)
1 quantity salted caramel (above)
175 g dark chocolate
1 1/3 cups pouring cream
2 eggs, beaten
Cocoa powder, to serve
1. Preheat oven to 160 degrees.
2. Distribute your salted caramel evenly between your (oven safe) ramekins, filling each ramekin to no more than 1/3 full. Place in fridge to chill.
3. Meanwhile, break chocolate into a bowl. Heat cream in either a saucepan until almost boiling, or in a microwave safe jug (watch very carefully if you are microwaving the cream to avoid overheating).
4. Pour hot cream over chocolate, and whisk until chocolate is dissolved and smooth. Whisk in eggs.
5. If you want a nice, neat divide between your caramel layer and your chocolate layer, chill the caramel for a bit longer, maybe even overnight. If, like me, you prefer an intermingled confection, pour chocolate mixture into the ramekins over the only-just-chilled caramel.
6. Bake at 160 degrees for 30-40 minutes, until the chocolate layer is just firm to touch. There will be bubbly, oozy soft bits, but these will firm up as the pots cool.
7. Dust lightly with cocoa.
8. Serve, with fresh berries and cream.
Salted Caramel and Chocolate Tart
2 sheets store bought shortcrust pastry (yes, I’m a failure as a woman for not making my own pastry)
1 quantity salted caramel (above)
1 quantity chocolate mixture from the Salted Caramel Chocolate Pots recipe (also above).
1. Preheat oven to 180 degrees.
2. Line a non-stick, 22cm diameter spring form cake pan with thawed pastry sheets. (Although you are making a tart, and would assume a tart or quiche pan would be best, I find a spring form pan the easiest, least messy way to make this). Be sure to line you pastry all the way to the top of the pan – store bought pastry will shrink considerably when cooked. Chill in freezer for ten minutes.
3. Meanwhile, assemble your salted caramel, and your chocolate mixture.
4. Remove pastry-lined tin from freezer. Blind bake for ten minutes, or until pastry is golden (Don’t know how to blind bake? It’s easy. Search for a demo video on YouTube).
5. Pour caramel into your blind baked tart case. Refrigerate (see above recipe for suggestions about separation/intermingling of layers). Top with the chocolate mixture.
6. Bake at 160 degrees for 45min-1 hour, or until the chocolate layer is just firm to touch. As with the salted caramel chocolate pots, there will be bubbly, oozy soft bits, but these will firm up as the tart cools.
7. Dust lightly with cocoa.
8. Serve with – you guessed it – berries and cream.
If you haven’t done so already, take yourself down to your nearest hipster café or restaurant, and order the salted caramel option. Believe me, if your hipster venue is truly thus, it will be there.
What I love about salted caramel is that it’s deliciously contradictory. The sweet, creamy caramel, interspersed with (ideally) still-flaky shards of salt. It’s so wrong, yet so bizarrely right, the only fitting soundtrack is the best of Prince (you have to promise me that you’ll eat salted caramel while listening to Prince at least once, just to prove that, although my suggestion sounds a little whack, it’s gosh darn perfect).
I have to admit, salted caramel is not something I make frequently, because when it comes to salted caramel, I have absolutely no self control. If it’s in my fridge, I WILL eat it. Within the day (actually, if I’m honest, within the hour).
However, when people are coming over, or when I’m invited for a leisurely BBQ with some mates, I’m more than happy to contribute something deliciously tasty as well as deliciously on trend.
To make matters even better, salted caramel is surprisingly simple. Here I’ve provided the basic salted caramel recipe, salted caramel chocolate pots, and, grandest of all, salted caramel and chocolate tart (my recipe is loosely based on one that appeared in Delicious magazine a couple of years ago, but I’ve fiddled with it sufficiently to feel comfortable calling it my own).
It’s like a salted caramel pick-your-own adventure book, where every path you pick leads to a sticky, sweet, salty end. Enjoy!
Salted Caramel (makes approximately a cup and a half of sauce, keeps in the fridge for up to a week – but let’s admit, it’s not likely to stick around for that long).
I cup sugar
1/3 cup water
125g salted butter
1/3 cup pouring cream
Sea salt flakes
1. Place sugar and water in a saucepan over medium-high heat. Swirl saucepan to dissolve sugar. Simmer, without stirring, until starting to colour – about 15 minutes. (You will need to watch this carefully, because, guaranteed, the moment you turn your back to put a load of washing on, you’ll have taken the caramel too far, and will have a horrible burnt mess in your pan).
2. Lower the heat once the caramel has started to colour. Add the chopped butter, and stir over the heat for another 5 minutes or until golden. The mixture will look hideously split at this stage. Don’t panic.
3. Take saucepan off the heat. Stir in half of the cream. Watch your split mixture magically coalesce into a cohesive caramel. Stir in the remaining cream. Gloat at your cleverness.
4. Add a PINCH of salt flakes to the caramel. You need to salt slowly, carefully: you can always add more salt, but you can’t take it out once it’s in, and it’d be such a shame to ruin some beautiful caramel. Stir, taste. Add more salt, if you feel it needs it. Repeat until your caramel is salted to the perfect point of contradiction.
5. Store in the fridge, to serve over ice cream, or, my favourite, with fresh blueberries.
Salted Caramel Chocolate Pots (Makes 6, depending on ramekin size)
1 quantity salted caramel (above)
175 g dark chocolate
1 1/3 cups pouring cream
2 eggs, beaten
Cocoa powder, to serve
1. Preheat oven to 160 degrees.
2. Distribute your salted caramel evenly between your (oven safe) ramekins, filling each ramekin to no more than 1/3 full. Place in fridge to chill.
3. Meanwhile, break chocolate into a bowl. Heat cream in either a saucepan until almost boiling, or in a microwave safe jug (watch very carefully if you are microwaving the cream to avoid overheating).
4. Pour hot cream over chocolate, and whisk until chocolate is dissolved and smooth. Whisk in eggs.
5. If you want a nice, neat divide between your caramel layer and your chocolate layer, chill the caramel for a bit longer, maybe even overnight. If, like me, you prefer an intermingled confection, pour chocolate mixture into the ramekins over the only-just-chilled caramel.
6. Bake at 160 degrees for 30-40 minutes, until the chocolate layer is just firm to touch. There will be bubbly, oozy soft bits, but these will firm up as the pots cool.
7. Dust lightly with cocoa.
8. Serve, with fresh berries and cream.
Salted Caramel and Chocolate Tart
2 sheets store bought shortcrust pastry (yes, I’m a failure as a woman for not making my own pastry)
1 quantity salted caramel (above)
1 quantity chocolate mixture from the Salted Caramel Chocolate Pots recipe (also above).
1. Preheat oven to 180 degrees.
2. Line a non-stick, 22cm diameter spring form cake pan with thawed pastry sheets. (Although you are making a tart, and would assume a tart or quiche pan would be best, I find a spring form pan the easiest, least messy way to make this). Be sure to line you pastry all the way to the top of the pan – store bought pastry will shrink considerably when cooked. Chill in freezer for ten minutes.
3. Meanwhile, assemble your salted caramel, and your chocolate mixture.
4. Remove pastry-lined tin from freezer. Blind bake for ten minutes, or until pastry is golden (Don’t know how to blind bake? It’s easy. Search for a demo video on YouTube).
5. Pour caramel into your blind baked tart case. Refrigerate (see above recipe for suggestions about separation/intermingling of layers). Top with the chocolate mixture.
6. Bake at 160 degrees for 45min-1 hour, or until the chocolate layer is just firm to touch. As with the salted caramel chocolate pots, there will be bubbly, oozy soft bits, but these will firm up as the tart cools.
7. Dust lightly with cocoa.
8. Serve with – you guessed it – berries and cream.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Llama.
Dear Brett and Jemaine, of Flight of the Concords fame,
In your song, Hurt Feelings, you ask the audience a number of questions about situations that may have, potentially, caused Hurt Feelings. Questions such as:
Have you ever been told your ass is too big?
Have you ever been asked if your hair is a wig?
Have you ever been told you’re mediocre in bed?
Have you ever been told you’ve got a weird shaped head?
Has your family ever forgotten you and drive away?
Were you ever called ‘homo’ ‘cos in school you took Drama?
Have you ever been told you look like a Llama?
I think you included this last lyric because, a) it rhymes with Drama, and, b) much of its humour derives from the fact that you wouldn’t anticipate many people would be told that they look like a Llama.
Well.
I’m writing to inform you that, actually, yes, I have been told I look like a Llama. And, yes, it did hurt my feelings.
Let me begin.
MamaK offered, generously, to cook me dinner last night. It’s nice to have someone cook you dinner at the end of the week, isn’t it? As we were eating our dinners, shooting the breeze and watching the telly, we started to play The Animal Game with reference to the people being interviewed on ABC’s ACT 7.30.
(Aside: The Animal Game is a great game. The basic gist is to look at someone, and work out what animal they most closely resemble, based on physical traits, psychological traits, or, if you’re really good at it, both. It’s spiffingly fun. You might like to consider playing it in the car next time you are on tour. For the record, MamaK is 52, I’m 25, and we were regressing after long and trying weeks)
After establishing that Interviewee A was most definitely a Rhino, and debating whether Interviewee B was a Basset Hound (my opinion), or a Doe (MamaK’s opinion), we began to list off various people in our family and what they would be. Owls, Donkeys, Wombats, Eagles, Emus, Bears and Monkeys were all mentioned.
Brett and Jemaine, I was carried away by the merriment of the situation, and did a really silly thing.
‘Go on’, I asked MamaK, ‘what animal am I?’
‘A Llama’ she replied, with no hesitation WHATSOEVER.
After I’d got over the initial shock of such an obscure and odd suggestion, I sought further clarification on the issue of my resemblance to a Llama. Because, as you suggest in your song, being told that you look like a Llama can, and indeed does, precipitate Hurt Feelings.
MamaK revealed that my resemblance to a Llama is based on the following mutual traits, physical and psychological:
• Intelligence;
• Long legs;
• Long neck;
• Protection of weaker animals;
• Smooth skin (under all that fur…point taken, I’ll book a wax this week); and
• Standing out from the crowd.
And when it’s put in those terms, it’s hard to have hurt feelings because you were told you looked like a Llama. In fact, it turns out MamaK was paying me a compliment.
So, Brett and Jemaine, maybe you should rethink the lyrics of Hurt Feelings, to reflect the fact that, after the initial shock, being told you look like a Llama is actually not that bad. They’re an obscure and hilarious animal, to be sure, but they’re also kind of rad.
Lots of love, platonic (Brett) and non platonic (Jermaine),
Peggy xoxoxox
Ps: I know that you want to know who you are in the animal game, so here it is: Brett, you’re clearly Guinea Pig. Jemaine, a Mountain Goat.
In your song, Hurt Feelings, you ask the audience a number of questions about situations that may have, potentially, caused Hurt Feelings. Questions such as:
Have you ever been told your ass is too big?
Have you ever been asked if your hair is a wig?
Have you ever been told you’re mediocre in bed?
Have you ever been told you’ve got a weird shaped head?
Has your family ever forgotten you and drive away?
Were you ever called ‘homo’ ‘cos in school you took Drama?
Have you ever been told you look like a Llama?
I think you included this last lyric because, a) it rhymes with Drama, and, b) much of its humour derives from the fact that you wouldn’t anticipate many people would be told that they look like a Llama.
Well.
I’m writing to inform you that, actually, yes, I have been told I look like a Llama. And, yes, it did hurt my feelings.
Let me begin.
MamaK offered, generously, to cook me dinner last night. It’s nice to have someone cook you dinner at the end of the week, isn’t it? As we were eating our dinners, shooting the breeze and watching the telly, we started to play The Animal Game with reference to the people being interviewed on ABC’s ACT 7.30.
(Aside: The Animal Game is a great game. The basic gist is to look at someone, and work out what animal they most closely resemble, based on physical traits, psychological traits, or, if you’re really good at it, both. It’s spiffingly fun. You might like to consider playing it in the car next time you are on tour. For the record, MamaK is 52, I’m 25, and we were regressing after long and trying weeks)
After establishing that Interviewee A was most definitely a Rhino, and debating whether Interviewee B was a Basset Hound (my opinion), or a Doe (MamaK’s opinion), we began to list off various people in our family and what they would be. Owls, Donkeys, Wombats, Eagles, Emus, Bears and Monkeys were all mentioned.
Brett and Jemaine, I was carried away by the merriment of the situation, and did a really silly thing.
‘Go on’, I asked MamaK, ‘what animal am I?’
‘A Llama’ she replied, with no hesitation WHATSOEVER.
After I’d got over the initial shock of such an obscure and odd suggestion, I sought further clarification on the issue of my resemblance to a Llama. Because, as you suggest in your song, being told that you look like a Llama can, and indeed does, precipitate Hurt Feelings.
MamaK revealed that my resemblance to a Llama is based on the following mutual traits, physical and psychological:
• Intelligence;
• Long legs;
• Long neck;
• Protection of weaker animals;
• Smooth skin (under all that fur…point taken, I’ll book a wax this week); and
• Standing out from the crowd.
And when it’s put in those terms, it’s hard to have hurt feelings because you were told you looked like a Llama. In fact, it turns out MamaK was paying me a compliment.
So, Brett and Jemaine, maybe you should rethink the lyrics of Hurt Feelings, to reflect the fact that, after the initial shock, being told you look like a Llama is actually not that bad. They’re an obscure and hilarious animal, to be sure, but they’re also kind of rad.
Lots of love, platonic (Brett) and non platonic (Jermaine),
Peggy xoxoxox
Ps: I know that you want to know who you are in the animal game, so here it is: Brett, you’re clearly Guinea Pig. Jemaine, a Mountain Goat.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
May the Force be with you
It’s been my great honour to watch a dear friend, and former student, finish her honours thesis this week. Those of you who have been there, done that, will know that an achievement this monumental deserves a Star Wars analogy: this week, a Padawan has become a Jedi.
(If the above references went over your head, your homework for this weekend is to watch Star Wars in its entirety. Use the Force to get you through the tedious prequels, and enjoy Harrison Ford circa the 70s).
Obi-Wan-Kenobi style, I’ve taken it upon myself to give my friend unsolicited advice through her honours year – for which I hope to be forgiven eventually. The most important piece of advice I have given her, though, is this: she needs to buy a significant piece of jewellery, for herself, to celebrate her achievements.
Bizzare, I know, that this advice takes precedence over all the other pieces of end-of-thesis advice I could give to a newly minted Jedi. Surely, I should advise her to sleep. To catch up with mates she hasn’t seen in an age. To symbolically burn a copy of her manuscript. To run. To go to the beach. To laugh until she can’t breathe anymore (although I have complete faith that she’s done this last one).
The reason behind my advice, though, is that something as big as finishing an honours thesis (or a Masters, or a PhD) is that it’s a long, hard journey, ultimately completed alone. While there are people beside you, people advising you, people without whom you couldn’t do it, it ultimately comes down to you, and your words (in Star Wars terms? You and the Force).
Which is why, in my view, you need to mark an achievement like finishing a thesis, and mark it well. Most importantly, you need to mark it for yourself.
It’s not enough to accept the congratulations of colleagues, friends and family. It’s not enough to know that you’ve done an amazing thing. You need to distil that amazing thing you’ve done into a symbol, something that will always and forevermore remind you that, yes, you did it.
And why jewellery, specifically? Well, let’s take a moment to think about what ‘big’ (expensive, thought-through, valuable) jewellery means in the course of a woman’s life. Typically, the ‘big’ pieces she has are given to her by others: by her parents on her 21st; by her partner to signify their engagement, and, again, on an important anniversary or birth of a child; by her children on a milestone birthday; or inherited from a family member.
What you notice, here, is that all of the ‘big’ pieces come from without – they are gifts. Whenever she wears them, she thinks of the people who gave them to her, which is what makes those ‘big’ pieces special and meaningful.
And, while it’s great to have pieces that make you think of your nearest and dearest, there’s a time and a place for jewellery that makes you think of you, and all you’ve achieved.
The first Sex and the City film explored this concept (mixing pop culture references: bear with). Samantha attends a charity auction to buy, for herself, a very expensive, very large, and, let's be honest, very ugly, ring. An anonymous bidder goes up against Samantha in the auction, driving the price higher than Samantha can afford. Miserably, she admits defeat. Later, Smith Jarrod, Samantha’s partner, presents her with the ring: Smith was the anonymous bidder, and bought the ring as a gift for Samantha.
Whenever Samantha looks at the ring, though, she sees only Smith, whereas she wanted to see herself – her achievements – whenever she looked down at it.
Now, I can appreciate why people may think that it’s selfish, or frivolous, to celebrate an achievement by spending money on something like jewellery rather than, for instance, an experience like travel, or something that benefits others. Perhaps it’s not for everyone, this whole bling thing.
All I know, though, is that whenever I put on my garnet ring, the ring I bought myself in the weeks after handing in my honours thesis, I am reminded that, yes, I did it. It’s made all the sweeter by the fact that it’s something I wear: there are patches where the soft gold has yielded to the movements of my hand; that it’s something I will, one day, be able to give to another young woman, in an ironic twist on the whole buying-jewellery-for-oneself exercise.
So, it’s with this in mind that I suggest a jewellery purchase to my dear friend, and to others who have, like her, become Jedis this week. Because not only did you have the potential (midochlorian readings off the charts), you used it and achieved something amazing, something that you should mark personally, enduringly, symbolically.
And that’s it, I’m through with my advice, and I’m hanging up my light sabre. Except for one final thing I can’t help but throw in:
May the force be with you.
Always.
(If the above references went over your head, your homework for this weekend is to watch Star Wars in its entirety. Use the Force to get you through the tedious prequels, and enjoy Harrison Ford circa the 70s).
Obi-Wan-Kenobi style, I’ve taken it upon myself to give my friend unsolicited advice through her honours year – for which I hope to be forgiven eventually. The most important piece of advice I have given her, though, is this: she needs to buy a significant piece of jewellery, for herself, to celebrate her achievements.
Bizzare, I know, that this advice takes precedence over all the other pieces of end-of-thesis advice I could give to a newly minted Jedi. Surely, I should advise her to sleep. To catch up with mates she hasn’t seen in an age. To symbolically burn a copy of her manuscript. To run. To go to the beach. To laugh until she can’t breathe anymore (although I have complete faith that she’s done this last one).
The reason behind my advice, though, is that something as big as finishing an honours thesis (or a Masters, or a PhD) is that it’s a long, hard journey, ultimately completed alone. While there are people beside you, people advising you, people without whom you couldn’t do it, it ultimately comes down to you, and your words (in Star Wars terms? You and the Force).
Which is why, in my view, you need to mark an achievement like finishing a thesis, and mark it well. Most importantly, you need to mark it for yourself.
It’s not enough to accept the congratulations of colleagues, friends and family. It’s not enough to know that you’ve done an amazing thing. You need to distil that amazing thing you’ve done into a symbol, something that will always and forevermore remind you that, yes, you did it.
And why jewellery, specifically? Well, let’s take a moment to think about what ‘big’ (expensive, thought-through, valuable) jewellery means in the course of a woman’s life. Typically, the ‘big’ pieces she has are given to her by others: by her parents on her 21st; by her partner to signify their engagement, and, again, on an important anniversary or birth of a child; by her children on a milestone birthday; or inherited from a family member.
What you notice, here, is that all of the ‘big’ pieces come from without – they are gifts. Whenever she wears them, she thinks of the people who gave them to her, which is what makes those ‘big’ pieces special and meaningful.
And, while it’s great to have pieces that make you think of your nearest and dearest, there’s a time and a place for jewellery that makes you think of you, and all you’ve achieved.
The first Sex and the City film explored this concept (mixing pop culture references: bear with). Samantha attends a charity auction to buy, for herself, a very expensive, very large, and, let's be honest, very ugly, ring. An anonymous bidder goes up against Samantha in the auction, driving the price higher than Samantha can afford. Miserably, she admits defeat. Later, Smith Jarrod, Samantha’s partner, presents her with the ring: Smith was the anonymous bidder, and bought the ring as a gift for Samantha.
Whenever Samantha looks at the ring, though, she sees only Smith, whereas she wanted to see herself – her achievements – whenever she looked down at it.
Now, I can appreciate why people may think that it’s selfish, or frivolous, to celebrate an achievement by spending money on something like jewellery rather than, for instance, an experience like travel, or something that benefits others. Perhaps it’s not for everyone, this whole bling thing.
All I know, though, is that whenever I put on my garnet ring, the ring I bought myself in the weeks after handing in my honours thesis, I am reminded that, yes, I did it. It’s made all the sweeter by the fact that it’s something I wear: there are patches where the soft gold has yielded to the movements of my hand; that it’s something I will, one day, be able to give to another young woman, in an ironic twist on the whole buying-jewellery-for-oneself exercise.
So, it’s with this in mind that I suggest a jewellery purchase to my dear friend, and to others who have, like her, become Jedis this week. Because not only did you have the potential (midochlorian readings off the charts), you used it and achieved something amazing, something that you should mark personally, enduringly, symbolically.
And that’s it, I’m through with my advice, and I’m hanging up my light sabre. Except for one final thing I can’t help but throw in:
May the force be with you.
Always.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
On Election Day Sausage Sizzles
After several weeks of hard campaigning from all major parties, it’s finally here: today is election day in the ACT.
Now, this isn’t a post where I run my political colours up the flagpole, hoping for a salute. Nor is this a serious discussion about politics in Australia at the moment. I’m a sociologist, not a political scientist, although the two disciplines are kissing cousins.
What I am going to write about is how ardently I love election days. Tune out now if democracy soap-boxing isn’t your thing: I’ll forgive you. Today, of all days, I’m feeling magnanimous.
I love election days not because I want to see the least-worst team get up, or because I have a non-sexual crush the dude who does the ABC’s election analysis (What can I say? I’m both impressed and fascinated by someone who can work a graph)
What I really love about election day is the sausage sizzles.
Election day sausage sizzles are not like Bunnings sausage sizzles that happen every Saturday, or the church-fete ones that usually have an accompanying cake stall (fairy cakes on polyester trays! Oh my!). Election day sausage sizzles are special, because, unlike a normal sausage sizzle, you won’t see the following:
• Pushing;
• Shoving;
• Grizzling from the sweaty person behind the hotplate;
• Moaning about the queue; or
• Angst about spot-holders.
Instead, what you will see, at an election day sausage sizzle, is:
• Patient waiting in line;
• Stepping aside for old folks and people with small babies;
• Cheerful BBQ cooks;
• Pleases and Thankyous;
• No talk whatsoever of politics, but, rather, pleasant conversation about the weather; and
• Tasty, tasty sausages, with onion, if you like it, and self-administered lashings of all the sauce you could want.
So what makes election day sausage sizzles different from the normal slap-some-processed-meat-on-a-hotplate?
I think it’s this: we all know that, by voting, we’ve done a tiny something that, along with the tiny somethings of everybody else, will amount to a huge something - to our government.
Although our government isn’t perfect, every time I flick to the World section of the paper, and read about Syria, or Zimbabwe, I am so grateful that our huge something, our democracy, is made up of all of our tiny somethings.
Of course, no-one talks about this in the queue for sausages at the local primary school. But we all know what we’ve just done, and we all know why we’ve done it. And it’s knowing that which, I believe, makes us behave at our best, and our most civil.
Or, perhaps it’s too much of an effort to be rude on a day when the sun is glorious and our noses are full of the sweet, sweet smell of frying onions on a hot BBQ.
Happy democracy everyone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
