Chopper

I’m having one of those three-monthly cycles. It must be connected to the moon, or the tides, or a combination of the two, but I woke up this morning, and, after having gone for a long walk and begun a batch of pasta dough, I couldn’t shake that sneaky Chopper feeling.

No, I’m not about to join a gang and get homicidal. But I am feeling compelled to cut my hair.

If I had to describe my relationship with my hair in Facebook terms, the only appropriate box to tick would be ‘it’s complicated’.

Partly enabled my miraculous ability to grow hair at superhuman speed (handy when it comes to the hair on your head, not so much when it comes to the hair on your legs) I’ve dramatically shifted my hairstyle, cut, and colour, so fast that I’ve given myself whiplash. My BA at uni was marked by abrupt changes, at least three times a year, with the associated style reworking. Looking back, I’m amazed I ever got any yooni work done – although, to be fair, there’s no better place to read Weber than under a stylist’s scissors.

For the last while, though, my hair has remained remarkably static. In’08 I decided to grow out my choppy, dark brown Pob. Does anyone else remember the Pob, or Posh Spice Bob, which hit the hairdressing scene around October 07? I was an ‘early adopter’ of this trend – characterised by a super short back with long straight layers around the face – at the behest of my talented but also single-mindedly-determined former hairdresser, and, whilst I loved how sleek the overall look was, I didn’t like the amount of washing and straightening involved. So, after a couple of months of experimenting with a shaggy Pob (as per my current drivers’ licence photo), I decided, in the name of ease and economy, that lengths were the way for me. Unfortunately, this meant the end of my first major hairdressing relationship – and if you thought breaking up with a boyfriend/girlfriend was hard, wait till you have to break up with a stylist…

All through 08 and 09, I grew and grew. Anyone who has had to grow out a shortish haircut will know that this takes dedication, even with my prodigious hair growing abilities. Lots of bobby pins and product were enlisted, and, as photos of the time show, there’s not a lot of nice things that can be said about how my hair looked until, about the middle of 09, I hit my goal – shoulder grazing hair – and could finally put it up without looking like a shorn sheep.

Yet I remained unsatisfied. The colour – a very dark brown, almost black, that I’d been doing myself at home, had to go. I looked, on a bad day, like Professor Snape’s boobier cousin. I decided it was time to abandon the bottle brunette and go native, with the help of a hairdresser, and, paradoxically, a whole heap of peroxide.

What, though, is native? As any sociologist or anthropologist will tell you, the idea of the ‘Native’ and the ‘Natural’ is a social construction –a bit of a myth in layperson speak. And my natural hair seems to bust all myths we tend to create around people’s natural hair colour. Here’s the first myth my hair busts: The Curtains match the Carpet, or, The Collar matches the Cuffs. My natural hair colour is completely different – I mean, diametrically opposed – to my eyebrows and, er, other hairy parts of my body, and has been since I was a child. Namely, the hair on my head is fair, and the rest of my hair, and my eyes, are dark dark brown. So, myth of matchy-matchy hair and eye colours? Busted.

The second myth that my hair and I bust is that Your Hair is Always the Same Colour, one Day/Month/Year to the next. Much like Nymphadora Tonks, to make another Harry Potter reference, my hair colour changes, by itself, all the time. In the space of a day, my follicular range goes from light golden blonde to mid brown, and back again – I am not joking – all without any intervention on my part (I’m working on being able to change my hair red when I’m angry, like Tonks, but so far have only succeeded in turning my face an alarming shade of beetroot, more like Uncle Vernon than Tonks. More practice might be needed). The changeability of my natural hair colour is so dramatic that I’ve often had arguments with people who are convinced I’ve done a swiftie with a bottle of peroxide or a dark tint, and it’s taken careful scalp inspections to convince them of my colour’s authenticity. Slightly awkward doing this in cafes. So, again, my hair and I just keep on smashing up those cultural myths about ‘natural’ and ‘native’ tresses.

But back to the story. My new hairdresser decided that going native would be a delicate process. Gradually, over a couple of five hour foiling sessions (there was a LOT of dark dye build up at the ends), I wound up with a soft, integrated blend of blondy-browny streaks, which would better facilitate the growing back in of my ‘natural’ colour (those dastardly social constructions, again) without having to do a radical chop n’ grow.

It’s been almost 18 months since my last artificial modification, and, aside from one trim, I haven’t meddled, attacked, abused or preened my hair in any way. Instead, I’ve been letting it unfurl on its own, and treating it as gently as possible – Lush shampoos, conditioners, and treatments are great for this, if you’re after a recommendation.

By and large, my hair, when left to its own forms of expression, has been good to me. There’s been less washing, less bad hair days, and, indeed, with the help of Tony and Guy Dry Shampoo, more great hair days.

And my hair feels amazing. I’ve always had soft-to-touch fine hair, so much so that at first year parties people would line up to stroke my hair (although maybe that was something to do with that scary-looking punch they were all drinking? Quite possibly…) but since letting nature take its course it’s cashmere soft.

So, why did I wake up this morning with the overwhelming urge to run up to the shops, find the nearest hairdresser, and beg him or her to chop my beautiful hair all off and perform a radical Jackson Pollock dye job? Perhaps we all have a little bit of Chopper – a little homicidal maniac, with tats and a scary moe - inside of us.

Total Perfection

For Christmas this year, I gifted Tessy Halberton, my big little brother’s lovely girlfriend, a rather special cookbook – Heston Blumenthal’s Total Perfection. Has anybody seen, read, or coveted it? It’s not simply a cookbook, although there are recipes in it. Heston, in Total Perfection, goes on a quest for the perfect version of a dozen classic dishes that are commonly made and eaten in people’s homes – things like spaghetti bolognaise, black forest cake, fish and chips, and roast potatoes.

I hope Tessy won’t mind if I admit this was not disinterested gift giving – I had a blast browsing through the book on Christmas day – but I fell in love with the concept of the book and just had to find someone to give it to. Knowing that Tessy thinks Heston is fairly close to Total Perfection himself, I knew she would be the perfect recipient.

Thinking about Heston’s quest for culinary Total Perfection got me pondering my quest for Sartorial Total Perfection. I think I’ve always had in my head a Platonic Ideal Wardrobe – not quite the capsule wardrobe of white shirts and LBD’s that fashion editors advocate, but the Ideal Wardrobe For Everything I Need To Do On A Semi Regular Basis. I often feel like my whole life has been a quest for this Platonic Ideal Wardrobe, my own personal Total Perfection – but with a catch. Unlike Heston, who can definitively trace the origins and give the for-all-time perfect recipe for Roast Chicken, thereby achieving Total Perfection, the shadows in my Platonic Ideal Wardrobe are constantly shifting and changing – not much, but enough that my Platonic Ideal Wardrobe is always under review. Additionally, even when I do hit upon a Platonic Ideal Wardrobe piece, inevitably, through wear and tear, it will cease to be a part of the Platonic Idea Wardrobe. Sad but true – as I wrote in the very first post on this blog, fashion is so exciting because we live our lives in it, and unfortunately our garments are often casualties of this lively engagement with fashion.

You can see that the quest for sartorial Total Perfection is a little more complicated than the quest for culinary Total Perfection. But just because something is complicated is absolutely not an excuse to give up on it (a sentiment that, if I were Vice Chancellor, all PhD students would have forcibly tattooed on the backs of their hands by way of an orientation and welcome to Higher Degree Research).

So, what are the most important elements of my Platonic Ideal Wardrobe, as it stands, at the very present?

The Summer Sandal



These are a particularly important, and particularly challenging, part of my quest for Total Wardrobe Perfection, for a couple of reasons. Number One: I have incredibly wide feet, with high arches, and narrow heels. This makes shopping for shoes that are actually going to get heavy duty wear akin to the quest for the holy grail. These sandals have been a godsend this summer, because, for the first time in years, I have a leather sandal-type shoe, which does not look orthopaedic, has a decent yet sturdy heel, is well ventilated and can accommodate all of my particular foot quirks. In short, I have achieved Total Summer Sandal Perfection, thanks to Joanne Mercer. But, as mentioned above, once perfection has been achieved, there is the matter of taking care of wear and tear. I’ve already had the inner leather lining replaced, and the toes are beginning to scuff. After careful ministrations to these scuffs and scratches, no one is too much the wiser, but still, the quest for the perfect summer sandal is one that I know I will face again and again after these sandals have retired to the cave of desecrated Platonic ideals.

The Black Pump



While we’re on the subject of shoes, I would be remiss if I left out my other Platonic Ideal Shoe – my black pumps. These were a serendipitous purchase last February when I was in Scotland. At 12 pounds, made from leather and featuring a cute ruff at the top, I decided it was worth the suitcase squish to bring these home. Upon arrival, I commenced kicking myself for not buying these super comfortable, goes-with-everything bargains in the two other colours available, and I haven’t stopped kicking myself since. Again, like the summer sandals, what makes these shoes ideal is that they have a heel, and it’s substantial, but it’s also broad and well balanced with the rest of the shoe, giving maximum walking comfort. But, like my summer sandals, these too are constantly being taken to the Shoe Hospital for reconstructive surgery – replacing the lining and the heel caps. Incidentally, would anyone else from ANU join me in requesting that we re-do the pebblecrete that dominates our campus walkways? I’m blaming this uneven, hard surface for ripping to shreds the heel caps on most of my good shoes. Just saying, if we want to regain and maintain our status as a world class institution, we need to think of these things.

The It’s Too Hot To Live Dress



Luckily, this year we have had a cooler summer than usual in the ‘[Berra. I say luckily, because, for me, summer is the worst time of year. I melt, literally, as soon as we climb past 28 degrees. I don’t know why – I guess I’m just a naturally warm blooded – but whilst I can tolerate winter comfortably with a good coat and a big scarf, I simply cannot deal with heat, and I find myself entering a state of complete discombobulation in December, only regaining complete use of my faculties in March. As the Dreamboat said the other week, without any tone of facetion, it’s too hot to live. Aside from trying to live when it’s simply too hot to, the matter of how to dress oneself when it’s boiling is another quest for Total Perfection I seem to be perpetually on. Summers past, I had a nice rotation of floral sundresses, with very daring necklines, which worked well and kept me moderately cool. However, I got sick of sunburnt cleavage – it’s almost as painful as a sunburnt bottom, the misfortune of which I have experienced (but that’s a post for another time). I also became concerned about the more serious impacts of sun exposure to my décolletage, tanned hide not being a look I am particularly keen on, at least outside of shoes and bags. So, this summer I’ve steered away from my flirty florals and towards a modified, sun safe (ish) too-hot-to-live-dress. Although it’s not totally perfect – it’s not as flattering or as flirty as I would like – and I have got a little bit over it in the last few days, it has seen me through the worst of the hot summer days that global warming will continue to inflict on us.

The Miss Honey



Just as Roald Dahl’s Miss Honey is the Platonic Ideal of teachers, I’ve titled my Platonic Ideal Teaching Dresses ‘Miss Honeys’. Since starting tutoring in July 2009, my ideas teaching outfit has been reworked and refined. I’ve now concluded that the best teaching outfits are based on a dress with the following features: A high (ish) neckline, a fitted bodice, a knee length fitted skirt OR an above the knee flared/pleased skirt. Additional features include the capacity for a top underneath and/or a cardigan over the top, belting optional, and colourful scarves, bags, and interesting jewellery a must. I have four dresses which are more or less perfect Miss Honeys, but, as always with Platonic Ideals, rotation and replacement is imperative. What I love about this particular way of dressing is that it is ‘on message’ – I’m friendly and approachable, but I take tutoring seriously – but it’s also very easy to wear. Because of the dress’ simplicity, there are minimal elements that can go wrong. And, when you are facing a class of twenty hostile and confused first years, or a lecture theatre of two hundred of the same, the less things that can go wrong, the better.

The Belt



I can’t really think of any superlatives for the belt – maybe because I can’t put my gratitude toward my collection of belts into words. Over time, they’ve moulded to the contours of my waist, and consequentially look a little worn and tired in these photographs. But, they still do the trick – of holding in place a blousy top, of showing the world that I have a shape, of reminding me by a little gentle pressure that perhaps I don’t need that third piece of cake with afternoon tea. One of the blessings of being an hourglass-y shape is that all you need to do with the vast majority of outfits is add a belt, preferably wide with a large buckle, at your waist, and you instantly look better. Kaftan? Add a belt. Skirt and Top? Add a Belt. Vintage Dress that’s a little too big? Add a belt. Daggy trackies and a hoodie? Add a belt – ok, maybe not in this instance, but I think you get my drift – there’s almost no silhouette problem that an artful belting can’t remedy.

The Black Cardigan



Like my Miss Honeys, the black cardigans in my life are what I turn to when I need something reliable – something reassuringly plain and simple, like a cup of English breakfast tea with a splash of milk. They’re never going to grab a headline, or be the feature of an outfit, but nothing works better to warm you up, or cover up some wobbly upper arms. Like so many of my Platonic Ideal collection, my current crop of black cardis is a little worse for repeated wear – my favourite one, a black wool v-neck Veronica Maine with tortishell buttons, has been carefully washed, darned and de-linted at the end of the last three autumns, ready for winter, but I think this year it will be retired back to the cave, provided, of course, that I can find something similarly ideal with which to replace it. Ah, the never ending quest for Total Perfection.

The Party Piece



Of course, I’m not always in the mood for something plain and reassuring like a black cardigan, or charmingly elegant and appropriate, like my Miss Honeys. Sometimes, the only way to go about getting dressed is to put on your devil-may-care boots, (literal or metaphorical) and get down with your bad self, even if you’re just catching the bus to the city to buy moisturiser and towels. On days like that, you need the Platonic Ideal Party Piece – a garment that crashes the party, chugs a bottle of champagne, and yet still charms the pants off everybody with her look at moi charm. Kitch, kooky and completely one-of a kind defines the ideal party piece for me. It’s probably for these reasons that many of my party pieces are vintage. A party piece is born, not made, and for these reasons you must always snap one up when you see it, no iffs, buts, or maybes.

Reader, there it is – a snapshot of my Platonic Ideal wardrobe. But, as always, the quest for Total Perfection is far from over, and I look forward to sharing with you, in the coming months, the search for the perfect boot, the perfect bra, and the perfect pair of old-fashioned stockings. Yes, the quest for Total Perfection is a long and arduous, but what is life without ideals?

Days Off (Sort of…)

Looking at the calendars on the fridge this morning (thanks Gai Brodtman and The Sydney Morning Herald!), I realised it’s getting to that time of year where the year actually begins. We should scrap the idea of January One as the beginning of the year, for, in my town at least, the year doesn’t really kick off until after the last Australia/Hottest100/Invasion Day party on the 26th hurrahs its last hurrah. Most Canberrans, as I write, have either just got back, or are slowly making their way back, from the coast, from visiting the relations elsewhere, or from lazing in patches of cool with a good book… In shot, only now is the return to real life taking place.



Both fortunately and unfortunately, I’m not one of those people. The sweet, relentless tide of real life has continued to pull me along this summer. I had this idea that instead of taking a break in summer 2010/11, I’d do my PhD fieldwork. This would mean being able to continue to teach through 2011 without having to do the triple-juggling-act of PhD writing, teaching and time in the field. A time efficient decision, which will put me firmly on track with my thesis (theoretically at least). However, it effectively means, no holidays – by which I mean a stretch of time greater than 10 days in a row off, with no emails, no liaising with key stakeholders, no marking, and no talking or thinking about work – until June 2011.

Coupled with my fieldwork schedule, which requires me to suspend all premise of weekly and daily routine in order to gain a more comprehensive data set, and a batch of contract work marking first year essays, I think you can begin to understand why my regular Monday posting did not occur yesterday. I am discombobulated without my normal sense of the weekly rhythms.

So, whilst you’ve heard the disadvantages of a working summer in the last two paragraphs, I feel I must also tell you, and depict photographically, the advantages of an erratic and unpredictable schedule, and a lack of time off. Chiefly, that Tuesday mornings spent making jam, and writing out beloved recipes for beloved friends feels just like bliss. That is, before I get back in the saddle for some more fieldwork tonight!

Visiting Friends

Like old friends, stories are always there for us when we need them. Like friends and friendships, the stories grow and change. We read and relate to different parts of them at different times, but I believe our favourite stories and our favourite friends, those that tell us the most about ourselves, often in ways we otherwise can’t express, are always carried in our hearts.

One of my stories that feels more like a friend is Sex And The City. Like many of you out there, no doubt, I encountered SATC for the first time after one of those confusing First Grown Up Break Ups. I walked down to my local DVD store, and rented the first couple of discs of the first season, mainly as a way to pass the time. Within the first five minutes, I was smiling, and within the first ten minutes, I’d laughed for the first time in what felt like an age. By the end of the first episode, I’d completely forgotten about whatsisname, and was irrevocably in love with Mr Big. It also lead me to wear some ridiculously oversized floral corsages, in the style of Carrie. Whether or not this was a good idea, only time will tell…




As any anthropologist worth their salt will tell you, the stories that we tell ourselves, as individuals and as a society, reveal a lot about ourselves. Take fairy tales, for instance. They’re a fusion of patriarchal and Christian values, folk traditions, and useful advice – scatter stones if you’re lost in the forest, don’t take lollies from strangers, don’t eat the porridge of strangers – actually, just avoid strangers and their foodstuffs altogether. Good advice.

Just like fairy tales, SATC isn’t at all realistic – no-one, in real life, could live life like the gals do. But the SATC story had a germ of reality that meant that I, and my close friends, kept returning to those stories. SATC became a guidebook to the confusing world of dating and men we found ourselves faced with, a terrain which our loving, well intentioned mothers didn’t know or understand. Particular episodes are like well thumbed pages of books that I watched – watch - when the need was – is - especially pressing. 2008, for me, will be the year of that episode from season one where Carrie throws a Fillet O’ Fish at Big, after he announces he’s leaving her, and their relationship, for Paris. Watching that episode evokes that year like nothing else.

The two films that were spinoffs from SATC met a mixed reception. I saw the first one with a dear friend of mine, who, not being a fan, sat patiently through the film with me while I ooohed and aaaaahed and had the time of my life, for I loved that first film to tiny smithereens. All of it. Every last bit (that poor friend of mine deserves a medal for their stellar performance in the friendship Olympics, then and always).Yes, I could see that it had changed from the first series – perhaps it was slightly more materialistic now than it was, a little louder and brasher – but I could see through all the shiny new clothes and the make up and see my old friend – that SATC story.

It was only last night that I decided it was time to drop in on my old friend’s latest incantation – SATC 2. I’d heard lots of horrible things about my story-slash-friend. I’d heard they’d sold out. I’d heard the years hadn’t been kind. I’d heard I would hate it.

I loved it from the opening bars of the theme tune.

I think what made SATC 2 and I fall right back into high-heeled step was that although the costumes have changed (for the worse), the story is the same. The story revealed myself and my culture, consoled me with its familiarity, and made me feel like I could make sense of my world. Really, it was like afternoon tea with an old friend. Yes, SATC was a different woman to who she was when we first met 6 (oh my word!) years ago. But deep down, her story’s the same - that good friends matter, that they’re worth time and effort, and that they are as extraordinary and precious as black diamonds (as an aside, I am completely in love with Carrie’s ring – amazing).

Yes, Sex And The City is (pun alert) Carrie-d in my heart. And what esteemed company it keeps there.

Collective Wisdom

Does anybody else love ABC’s Collectors as much as I do? In the desert that is summer broadcasting, the lack of Collectors is something I’ve felt more keenly than other telivisual deprivations. (This post is going to get no less nana-ish, by the way, so if premature aging offends, tune out now). There’s something compelling about hearing stories of people who have spent their lives collecting Stuff. From the obscure (key rings) to the obvious (Wedgewood), from the ridiculous (paper napkins) to the sublime (art), I find people and their Stuff fascinating.

It’s become a trend to make the claim, however dubious, that one is ‘not materialistic’. The amount of times I’ve been told that true freedom is being able to fit all your worldly goods in a Kathmandu trekking pack is fast approaching triple figures. I once dated a boy, amazingly for quite some time, who refused to buy the correct sized sheets for his bed (a king single – bad design idea # 153) because he ‘didn’t want to be tied down with Stuff’. Given that I have rather a lot of soft, cuddly, freshly-washed-at-all-times high thread count bed linen, the relationship was clearly doomed from the beginning. The point that I’m trying to make, in a roundabout way, readers, is that it’s cool to not be Stuffed in the most literal sense of the word – to be without Stuff.

But I have a confession to make. I love Stuff. I love buying Stuff. I love tracking Stuff down in second hand shops. I love getting Stuff as presents. I love being given Stuff for any old reason. I love using Stuff. I love organising Stuff. I love looking at Stuff. I love passing Stuff on to other people when I no longer need it. There isn’t much about Stuff I don’t love.

The environmental and social ethics of consumption are things I might write about in the future, when there are several fewer deadlines looming over my head. In brief defence of my Stuff Loving, the vast majority of my Stuff is actually recycled – it’s on its second or third lease on life. Which allows me to add a new Love to my reasons why I love my (second or third hand) Stuff: I love saving Stuff from becoming landfill. In other defences, I bus to uni when possible, buy as little as possible in plastic wrap, and pay the extra monies for GreenChoice electricity.

But let’s leave the moral high ground relatively untrammelled, and get back to talking about the glorious business of Stuff.

For a while now, inspired by collectors and my enjoyment of Stuff, I’ve been toying with the idea of starting a collection myself. The question arose: out of all the wonderful sorts of Stuff out there, what particular item of Stuff should I collect?

My collectable Stuff, I decided, had to fit into some tight categories. Numero Uno: Inexpensive. Easy enough to understand. Numero Two-o. Useful. Out with collecting figurines, then. Numero Three-o. Must not take up a lot of space, be breakable, smelly, collect dust, or attract vermin. I’m a renter – again, easy enough to understand all of these specifications. And, Numero Final-o, it had to be something I like. After all, what’s the point of collecting something if you don’t?

All last year I pondered what it is I should collect, but nothing seemed to be quite right. Until, after unwrapping my Christmas presents from Kitty Gillfeather and Clementine Kemp, the perfect Stuff to collect dawned on me.

Tea Towels.





(Don’t laugh, you were warned that this post involved premature aging).

When I sat back and though about it, it made perfect sense. Tea towels are inexpensive – even the top of the range Irish linen ones rarely go for more than $30. They are highly useful – everyone needs a tea towel within grabbing distance in the kitchen. They are compact, and, if laundered correctly, don’t smell, and don’t collect dust or little creatures. Tea towels, although humble, combine two things I really love – kitchen stuff and textiles – in the one practical object, and, are a fabulous blank canvas for all sorts of beautiful designs, cheeky slogans, and cheesy touristy gimmickry that I so love. Furthermore, there’s a nice sense of legacy in collecting tea towels – MamaK always keeps a large family of tea towels in rotation.

Popping Kitty and Clem’s presents into the linen cupboard – a funky Babushka print and a Hamlin Fistula Hospital charity design respectively - it turns out I already had a fair start on a good collection of tea towels.




Over the years, they’ve persistently found their way into my Christmas and birthday piles, and, in an almost subconscious gesture to what I knew I myself loved, I have always been one of those annoying people who gives tea towels as gifts, welcome or not.

Oh, and if I may allow myself to edge a toe onto the moral high ground? Tea towels are biodegradable.

Recipes that Keep On Giving: Honey Baked Lentils.

Too much of too-muchness is glorious, isn’t it?

Except for the day afterwards.

Returning to my humble abode after a lovely few days of camping out at the parents, I’ve decided to make good use of a much anticipated Christmas present and cook a dinner that, whilst richly flavoured and a pleasure to eat, is low-fat, low-sugar, low-GI, high fibre, gluten and dairy free, and vegetarian – even vegan, if you’re flexible.

Normally I don’t restrict what I eat in light of any of those particular dietary requirements. After Christmas, however, a meal that fits all of those bills is not so much of an act of restrictive discipline, but more of a compassionate gesture to my system, in the hopes that it will forgive me, for I know what I have done, and it was BAD.

As for the much anticipated present? Well, let me tell you – or rather, let me show you…




It’s a Le Creuset! Those of you who are serious cooks, or those of you who’ve just watched Julie and Julia, will know that Le Creuset is the Alpha Romeo of kitchen brands. And mine is red.



Along with kindness towards my body, taking this baby out for a test drive is a further compelling reason why tonight’s dinner needed to be Le Creusefied.

So, here is my recipe for Honey Baked Lentils, served with steamed snow peas and soft polenta. I hope that your tummy appreciates your compassion as much as I hope mine will.

Honey Baked Lentils with Steamed Snow Peas and Soft Polenta

Honey Baked Lentils – serves 4, and freezes beautifully.

1 cup black, brown, or green lentils
½ an onion, chopped
2 ½ cups water
2 teaspoons vegetable stock powder (ensure this is a vegan, dairy and gluten free brand if these are core values for you)
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons honey (Here’s where the veganism of this dish is called into question. I personally think that bees are pretty darn happy buzzing around and making abundant rivers of honey, but I may just be an unenlightened philistine when it comes to bee rights. How about we all just do what we know is right in our hearts, m-kay?)
2 tablespoons oil (I use 1 tablespoon sesame oil, 1 tablespoon extra virgin)
2 garlic cloves, crushed
A large knob (about 4cm) ginger, grated. (As a side note, who decided that anything measuring 4cm merited the descriptor ‘a large knob’? Every recipe I read seems to use 4cm as the benchmark for large. In most other contexts a 4cm knob would warrant a completely different descriptor regarding size – ‘small’, ‘miniscule’, or ‘medically interesting’ are all adjectives I would use. Perhaps I should henceforth refer to all 4cm knobs of ginger as size challenged but lovely once you get to know it? But I digress…)
2 bay leaves
2 teaspoons ground cumin
3 teaspoons chilli flakes (more or less, depending on how hot you like it)

1. Preheat oven to 100 Celcius.
2. In your Le Creuset…




or, if you’re still waiting on Santa to make you a member of the Kitchen Equipment Elite, in a medium sized casserole dish with lid, combine all ingredients.
3. Place casserole dish or Le Creuset in your preheated oven for 2 and a half hours, or until lentils are soft and most if the liquid has been absorbed. You can shorten the cooking time by increasing your oven temperature to about 160 Celsius, which means you only have to wait an hour and a half for dinner. The resultant lentils are still amazingly tasty, but will probably be even better the next day, as the flavours will have had more of a chance to get to know one another. Whereas if you let them mingle in a very slow oven for three hours, the resultant flavours have had time to work out their differences and harmonise into a beautiful marriage without the need for a period in the cold wasteland of the refrigerator.

Soft Polenta and Steamed Snow Peas – this makes enough for just me, so adjust to suit yourself and the number you are feeding accordingly. It’s also a nifty way to kill two birds with one stone – you cook the snow peas in the steam emitted by the water you have to heat for the polenta.

Approx. 250g super fresh snow peas, topped and tailed, and cut into largish chunks.
1/3 of a cup instant polenta (you can get this at most supermarkets – it’s in the isle with the flours and other baking goods).
Water
Salt, pepper, olive oil, and/or butter (again, depending on taste, dietary requirements, and how much cheese you ate at Christmas).

1. Place about a cup and a half of water in the bottom of a saucepan which can be fitted with your steamer. Set over a high heat.
2. Pop the snow peas into the steamer, arrange your steamer over your pot of water, which should be heating up nicely now, and cover with a lid, so as not to loose any precious steam.
3. Give the snow peas between one and three minutes, until they are done as you like. Remove from steamer, replacing the saucepan lid. If you’re the kind of person who likes to blanche things, then blanche your peas. I just think it wastes ice cubes and makes your peas cold, but if you like cold soggy vegetables I’ll only judge you a little.
4. Set the table, even if it’s just you, with a cheerful tablecloth, soft fabric napkins, pretty bowls (another Christmas present from my lovely big little brother and his lovely girlfriend) and nice cutlery.




Don’t argue with me, just do it, it’s a very important step in this recipe.




5. Select a dining companion from your bookshelf. Tonight, I’m dining with Paul Kelly.




Paul and I go way back, and his ‘mongrel memoir’, his words not mine, was a welcome addition to my Christmas stocking. It’s the perfect reading for a dinner as soothing and compassionate as this one.
6. By the time you’ve faffed around with the peas, the table, and the bookshelf, the water should be at a good boil (there is method to my madness, as mama-K often says). Add in your polenta. The packet says ‘in a slow, steady, stream’, but I throw it in the pot and stir like hell.
7. Continue to stir until your polenta thickens – this shouldn’t be much longer than a couple of minutes. As the title implies, I like my polenta relatively soft, so I can tell that it’s done because it’s about the consistency of thick porridge. It also has the propensity to spit boiling hot dollops of polenta out of the pot and onto the stovetop, or an unsuspecting forearm, when it’s at this stage.
8. When it’s all getting a bit too difficult, remove polenta from heat, and add in your salt, pepper, oil and/or butter.
9. Pile the polenta into a bowl, top with a spoonful of the lentils, and the snow peas.




10. Eat, read, and drink some sparkling mineral water. Fell your inner equilibrium mercifully restored.

Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.

N.B. This was originally supposed to be an excited post about a wonderful new dress that I recently acquired. It was going to be full of beautiful photos, capturing sumptuous fabric, vintage styling, and va-va-voom shaping, and would make you all green with envy. I’d been thinking about it all week.

Monday comes around. I position said dress on hanger, in front of some artfully arranged flowers, because that’s how I roll. And proceeded to shoot.



Oh dear.



Pride comes before a fall.



Multiple falls, as you can see.





No matter what I did, the dress looked awful. The only way that I was going to take a half decent photograph of it was to put the damned thing on, and photograph myself. But, of course, this blog is based on me being anonymous (like a fashion superhero, remember??) and so a photograph of the dress would, on account of the charming neckline detailing, result in a photograph of my face. Which ruled it out as an option.

Although this seems like a bit of a blah thing to happen on a Monday, it’s actually proved something I’ve long suspected. Photographs are not representative of the real world – or rather, they represent it, but often poorly. I swear to you, this dress looks amazing in real life. Maybe the inability to capture its amazingness lies in my photographic naivety. Be that as it may. But it proves the point that I have been stressing to many of you – and you know who you are – that my reluctance to be photographed is not entirely down to self consciousness, but to the fact that I actually don’t translate well into film, as an objective fact rather than a distorted self-perception.

Now that I have a top-five ranked dress that’s in the same boat as me, I feel a lot better about this. Because I’ve proven, once and for all, that beautiful things can look pez in photographs.

The only thing for me to do, dear readers, is to tell you the story of how I met this dress, excluding the photographs I originally imagined, and let you use your imaginations…

I’d just finished a particularly gruelling fieldwork session when I got one of those wonderful instinctual nudgings.

For some people, their instinctual nudgings take the form of warnings about impending disasters, or loved ones in peril. For me, 99 times out of 100, these instinctual nudgings are shopping related. They go something like this:

‘Behold, blessed child, and praise the name of style, for, in the hallowed halls of David Jones, await pair of shoes. Make haste and rejoicing, for they will be in your size and on sale. But hark, on the morrow they shall be vanished, and all that remains will be dust and size sevens.’

Or, alternately:

‘BE NOT AFRAID, oh sanctified stylist, for that thing-you-need-but-do-not-know-as-yet-that-you-need, is nigh! Look to your left – no, the other left – and ye who have eyes shall see that fabulous vintage bread bin on ye exalted shelf.’

Some people think that hearing voices means you’re insane, but I like to believe it just makes you a bit special. Kind of like the wise men in the Christmas story.

Anyway, I have long learnt to listen to these voices, as they are always – without fail – correct on all matters of purchasing. So, when I heard said voice:

‘Glad tidings to you, wanderer in the wilderness of an Unnamed Fieldwork Location. Under the distant star of Fyshwick, in the little town of Down Memory Lane, awaits a dress. Oh come, all ye faithful, and be joyful in the triumph of the perfect vintage dress.’

I knew that, in spite of my gnawing hunger, tired feet, and field notes that would grow expodentially the more hours I left between end of fieldwork and typing them up, I had no choice but to do as the voice said. So, off I trundled to Fyshwick.

Again, I wish to stress that this blog is in no way sponsored, and, just like last week’s post about the farmer’s markets, this is purely a savvy tip from one shopper to another, but you really must go to Down Memory Lane. Located at the very end of Geelong St in Fyshwick (just keep driving, when I say it’s at the very end I mean the absolute absolute very end), Down Memory Lane is a treasure trove of antiques, collectables, clothes, books and furniture. I make a point of going at least once a month, a whole lot more in the lead up to Christmas, and always come away with something wonderful at a bargain price. It’s also one of the cleanest and most organised establishments I know of, which makes shopping there doubly nice – no need to disinfect the new-to-you goods when you get them home.

Arriving at DML, as I’m abbreviating it, I dutifully listened to the voice in my head and started trawling the racks of vintage clothing. There was a lot there which I liked, but nothing that I LOVED. Nothing, that is, that I was moved enough to get naked for. I always think that you should apply the same rules to shopping for clothes as you do with boys. If you’re moved enough by them that you’re ready and willing to get naked for them, then it – the dress or the boy – will probably reward the time and the effort of disrobing.

I was beginning to think, after a good quarter hour trawl, that my instincts had failed me, and that perhaps my subconscious was merely generating a phantasmic excuse to get me out of some fieldwork that had boarded the train to headache land. I turned in the direction of the hat rack.

But then, ladies and gentlemen, I saw it. I want to avoid the cliché of the dress buried under a mound of others, shoved at the end of the rack, amongst a swathe of dresses that were extra small, but I can’t here, because it’s one hundred percent true. A chink of rich brown fabric poked out from between some pasty florals. I investigated, and my investigations were rewarded with the following:

An Australian made, early 60's, chocolate brown pure wool double-knit jersey boucle fitted sheath with rear vent.

Sing, chiors of angels, sing in exultation. I don’t need to add any more to the description above, because I’m sure you’ve got the picture in your mind. It’s the pinnacle of vintage perfection.

I raced to the change room, threw the dress over my head, and slid the zipper up my back.

Ding dong merrily on high, it fitted! Perfectly! A centimeter shorter than ideal, but the hem, being generous, could be adjusted. I couldn’t get back into my normal clothes and hand over my cash fast enough.

Driving back to write up my fieldnotes, I almost had an accident, so adoringly was my gaze focused on the parcel occupying the passenger seat. I like to think that the fashion gods were smiling down on me then, and protected me from a rather unfortunate incident. Which, for any parties concerned about my driving, was actually the fault of another vehicle to give way – I was just a bit slow activating my defensive driving skills on account of reverent worship.

It all worked out in the end, and the dress is now hanging on the drying rack, gently dropping its hem without the harsh assistance of a hot iron and steam. I will hem it, and wear it, and love it, all the days of my life, or at least until it falls off my back in tatters. Amen.