Being slack is my new forte.

So, I was wandering through the supermarket with my housemate last week and saw one of those instant packets of Japanese Curry mixes. I bought one, thinking that I would never use it, but really, I felt lazy today.

Well, I don’t know about degrees of lazy. There is the whole walking-past-a-jap-take-out-store-and-getting-curry type of lazy and the use-a-packet-mix lazy. I was the latter, mainly because I felt the need to cook, but not to go to too much effort.

I know, I know…I’m annoying.

Still, I managed to make a tofu curry and get my weeks worth of monosodium glutamate in one hit, so I am up for the week.

Packet curry, oh yeah.
Serves 5

Brown rice

1 onion, diced
a handful of mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
4 carrots, cut into even chunks
1 head of broccoli, stem cut into chunks and florets kept aside
1 packet of Golden Curry mix

Firm tofu, cut into half centimetre slices

Wash your rice and place in the rice cooker with water. Don’t forget to turn this on or you’ll have your curry with no rice. I have done this on so many occasions on where I have to cook rice. Yes, I am human, and arrogant. Who would have thought?
In a pot, add some oil and fry off the onion with the mushrooms on a medium heat. After a few minutes, add the carrot and some salt, turn the heat up and put the lid on. After about five minutes, add the broccoli stem and water to cover and inch over the vegetables. Cook for about ten to fifteen minutes or till the carrots are soft.
When the rice is a minute from being done, add the broccoli florets to the rice cooker to steam. I only do this so I have one less thing to wash. Yes, lazy.
Then, heat a pan on high and fry off the tofu to your desired doneness. Depending on my mood, sometimes I like it just warm and charred on the outside, to being quite crispy. Salt it.
Add the curry mix to the pot of cooked vegetables by crumbling it in and stirring till it thickens.
Then, serve in a bowl. I kind of wish I had lotus root pickles, but hey, I am satisfied.
Obviously your vegetables can change here, but this is just what I had.

So, so lazy.

Another Win

for [our house number] Cardigan.

The boys were making a meaty pasta sauce and wanted to add some balsamic vinegar to it. Then, Lute knocks on my door and says,

“Is it normal for balsamic vinegar to solidify?”
Me- “Errrrrr, not that I know of.”

So, he holds it upside down, like this:

Another reason why I cannot possibly leave this house.

It appears

that a BROAST is happening at my house at the moment.

BROAST; a hipster invented compound noun.
Bros who roast.
Guys with skinny jeans sitting in the kitchen with vegetables, using cookie sheets as roasting trays and two legs of lamb which are being stuffed with herbs, that will probably dry out in the oven instead of cook, talking about macking on underaged girls. I’m not a self-proclaimed feminist, but at least I have dignity.

Me (returning from the market)- Dude, you know that beetroots take around three to four hours to cook…and those are huge.
Boy 1- Oh…well, we can microwave them.
Me- *facepalm*

I would take a photo, but I would also go for a run if it didn’t just rain the entirety of the Seine on my head.

God help me.
Oh, and my knives! Oh, my knives! Enough to use exclamation marks for poignancy.

Here, watch a video of a NT pig eating grass instead.

And if it wasn’t enough

after the Blogger’s meet up, I went to the Bohemian Masquerade Ball at the Thornbury Theatre.

On the way to the afterparty, I saw this.

I am aware that this means that I took a photo on the street through security fencing after one in the morning with drunkards filtering down the street.

But, I will undoubtedly go back and buy small goods.

Velimirovic Bora
689 High St,
Thornbury, 3071
(03) 9484 2935

Because you’ll be reading this on everyone else’s blog

I decided to be unoriginal and do much the same.

Yes, we the food-geek, techno-chic (ahem, Ed: live meet-up Twitterer), sticky-fingered, omnomnom monsters got together at the Commoner and basically ate ourselves into cheese-dream, sugar-comas on the afternoon of the 7th.

Was that a messy sentence?

I am not going to try and list everyone that attended, because I will undoubtedly leave someone out. That is just how my brain works…and really, after posting and hitting the edit button is more work than I care to do right now.

So, I will let the pictures do the talking, not that pictures talk, but neither does text unless read aloud.

The Commoner let us use their wood oven, which Sarah and Sandra used to make Flammkuchen.

They also donated Mt Zero olives to us, which had been warmed with fresh herbs and olive oil.

They set the tables for us, but, with being the container kings of Fitzroy, we had to unset the tables and take it over. You can see Agnes‘ friands, Sarah’s “The Rock’s Cookies” and her hand cutting the Flammkuchen and Brian’s bread and dips.
Gee, I wonder who made these? I loved the peach and cinnamon macarons. Oh, love.

Sarah and I decided we were not going to be too gluttonous and halved a violet and peach and cinnamon maracon. Um, sorry for destroying it, Duncan, but it was for the greater good.

Hmm, and underneath, no, it isn’t roll call, we are just getting more and more connected.
Thanh made a carrot cake and
“slightly burnt” blondies. Personally, I didn’t taste the burnt, and I have to admit I didn’t get to eat one of these till I got home as I was way too full.
Keep reading and you will find my reason.

Claire made these very appropriately sized passionfruit cookies which I would have kept eating if it were not for my brain and stomach working together to destroy me.

Now, before I get to the cheese, I would like to say that I didn’t take a photo of some things, mainly because I was too busy eating. That happens, kind of like jumping into a dumpster with one of your close friends on a Tuesday night, only to find dented cans of deodorant.

Sorry, what?

Fiona brought dips
Agnes also brought chicken wings
There were more dips from Cath
Jack brought grapes, walnuts and dates and
Joel brought figs from his garden.

Not that any of these should be overlooked, especially if I ate it with all that cheese.
Apologies now if I forgot anything.

Sorry, did someone say CHEESE???
Ed brought cheese from Will Studd, aka Calendar Cheese Co man, aka the guy who wrote my bible.
This was my favourite cheese. Pretend that Claire and I didn’t take a quarter of the wheel that was left back to our own abodes.
I can only describe this in one way: it was the sex, especially with the figs. I did try and look around for cracked pepper, but alas…

The chevre. Very soft, sticky and surprisingly, not as pungent as I thought it was going to be.

Camembert. I didn’t try this one, I was too busy with the rest. I won’t pretend that I ate any of the cheeses with bread or crackers. Personally, with the limited space in me, something was deemed unnecessary and yes, I gorged on cheese on its own.

And, the cheddar which Sarah fell in love with. Like Claire and I, she took the remaining chunk home. Clever girl.

I did say I would expose her though, and now I will.

If you ever see an off-angle slice taken from a piece of cake, or pie or tart…you shall understand that it is Sarah’s calling card. She robs you of symmetry.


And again!

And Brian of Fitzroyalty, giving me a very bread-dipped thumbs up, like a true champion.

Till next time, bitches!


So, the problem here is how I transport this one without destroying it.

Salted caramel and dark chocolate tart.

50g butter
50g icing sugar
1 egg
140g plain flour

Salted caramel
135g sugar
50ml cream
60g butter

Chocolate ganache
110g dark chocolate (I used 70%)
1/2 cup of cream

Make your dough by creaming the icing sugar with the butter. Add the egg and then bring it together with the flour.
Don’t do what I did and use the food processor because you used it for the Pissaladiere. Worst move ever.
Refrigerate the dough in cling film for an hour or so. Till it is cold and hard.

Roll it out on a well greased tray.
Blind bake for 10 minutes at 180 degrees Celsius and then, remove the weights and bake until golden. Around 10 minutes.

Make the caramel by placing the sugar in a pot and cooking it until it is a deep brown.
Then, add your butter and cream as a stopper with the mixture off the heat. Stir and then place back on the heat. Add salt to taste as you stir to combine and pour on the base of the tart.

Then, make your ganache by melting the chocolate and cream together and pour it over the caramel. This is a picture of it before I banged the tray a few times to get the air bubbles out.
Refrigerate until it properly sets and then figure out how you’re going to take it to Fitzroy when the tin has a removable bottom which you cannot control.

People, you are eating this one…suggestions???

Fat for the fat for the day of the morrow.

Yeah, so, I cooked and baked. I can’t bring myself to just bake and fall under the “chick who bakes” pigeon hole.

Obviously, this is for tomorrow’s meet up.

There is only one problem that I realised after this crap…

how the hell I get the tart there without completely fucking it up the arse.


175g bakers flour
60g cold butter
14g dried yeast
warm water
pinch of sugar
1 egg, lightly beaten

4 onions, sliced
2 tomatoes
2 cloves of garlic

Anchovy fillets
Olives in oil, pit them yourself.

Start by making the base. Cut the butter in the flour till it resembles bread crumbs.
Mix the yeast with warm water and a pinch of sugar to activate it. When it starts to bubble, add the egg and whisk it in.
Mix with the flour mixture till it pulls together and set aside in a warm place till it doubles in size.

In that time, make the topping.

Ice bath. You will need this for the tomatoes. You’re going to make a concasse. That is pronounced “con-ca-say.” It is when you skin and seed the tomatoes. Cut an X on the base of the tomatoes and take out the core. Bring a pot of water to the boil and drop in the tomatoes for say…a minute.
Drain and place in the ice bath.

You can already see the skin pulling away from the pulp.


While the tomatoes are sitting, slice the onions and dice the garlic.

So totally naked.

Seed the tomatoes by scraping out the insides with a spoon. Here, we see tomato vomit.

And dice the flesh. See, it’s worth it. Trust me.

Cook the onions down with a generous glug of oil, the tomatoes, thyme to taste, a pinch of sugar until it is thick and there is no moisture. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Take out the dough and punch it down and roll it out on a well floured surface.

Arrange by placing the onion down, and latticing the anchovies and dotting in the olives.

Bake in a pre-heated oven at 200 degrees Celsius for around 20 minutes or till the base is crisp and brown. Hmmm, salty deliciousness.

This may or may not make your housemates hate you for not letting them eat it.

Stand back and gloat…and drink a beer before completing your next task.

Did I tell you?

I am back at uni and I have already skipped two classes.
And I have reasons.
I refuse to learn the German alphabet again, which is actually the Latin alphabet, and also, after a weekend of grant applications, I refuse to sit in a class and talk about the processes of writing grant applications.

This now leads me to my definitive realisations about my supposed higher education.

The things that I have learnt from attending Melbourne University.

1. I have learnt nothing.
I am the type of person who will actively research and go out and learn on my own. Studying has actually just made me lose interest and discover my pain threshold does actually have a limit and that I am very good at ignoring people while maintaining a look of interest.

2. A philosophy class in first year study is a very good time to work out conversions for baking in your head.

I sat a class called “Reason and Passion” in first year. This was a combination of art history and philosophy and ‘learning’ the hot and cold nature of the mind and sensation. Because of point 1, I was able to work out ways to get a better crumb in certain cakes and breads I was obsessed with perfecting at the time. Give it a couple of months and you will understand when I present the Persimmon Loaf that I always dedicate to Anne-Margaret. I have given her the recipe about 12 times and she has never made it, and always looses it. And the conversions…it is usually because I half/multiply recipes for purposes of feeding my friends and also, I hate baking in cup measurements. Really, baking is science and a cup is fallible. 200g on the other hand is always going to be 200g.

3. No amount of baking and humming to yourself will ever erase the image of THAT chick, naked and dancing in THAT class.
Erm, I tried. It didn’t help. Oh, and cheese was something I left out of the equation. If I was going to disassociate things from my mind, it would also run the risk of associating things as well. I was not going to risk my beloved. This happened both in first and second year. It is also one of the reasons why I stopped taking theatre classes and realised that tutors don’t remember what the hell you did the year before.

4. I don’t care about (insert writer/philosopher/practitioner here), just let me fucking write already. Being forced to analyse things also makes me lose my love.
I loved writing, and when I started writing at Uni, I started hating it. This is particularly painful when it is my major. I think my style has been severely effected by it, so, I will spend my year in completing my arts management minor in viewing the world as a steaming shit-heap again so I can get my energy back.

5. When someone says they like the way you think, it is a sign that you’re depressed again.

This happens a lot in classes where I either have to workshop or have an opinion on something. It also seems to be happening again, which comes me also moving away from the effect of uni on my life and fulfilling my goal stipulated in point 4. Funnily enough, universities love emotionally challenged people and I am technically “disabled” according to Melbourne Uni because my depression is so debilitating. So, I am going to ride that train all the way to graduation and use it to my advantage.

6. How to identify a hipster.
A what? I was so glad I didn’t know about these fuckers when I was in first year, and then, slowly they crept into my consciousness, always proclaiming everything to be “cool” or “boss” and that you should “check it” because it is “totes cool.”
Also, they wear very tight pants, cannot sit or stand properly, are malnutritioned and therefore bad posture, have an addition to something, probably in a band or about to start a band, have not washed their hair since they started going through puberty, have no intellect, usually smell homeless, all their clothes are borrowed, are unemployed, but on their parent’s pay roll, think bisexuality is “cool” and proclaim to be, but have never actually fucked anyone of the same sex, oh, and they’re “cool.” There is a lot more, but you get the idea.

7. That because of point 6, you can wear sunglasses in a lecture and sleep without anyone noticing.
Hipsters usually wear sunglasses all the time, and with the amount of hair they possess, generally only reveal 10% of their faces to their lecturers/tutors. This is advantageous to any other person, because you are able to sleep in class and look like a potato and be mistaken for a hipster when you really just can’t be bothered listening to Deleuze’s interpretation of Proust and his fucking madelines again. Third year.

8. That if you don’t spend time at uni outside of your classes, people think you have dropped out, are that more elusive and are therefore cooler.
This is not necessarily a good thing.
See also the next point: People are idiots.

9. People are idiots.
This may sound like a widely known fact, but when you’re in a class with a woman who cannot stop fake tanning and keeps asking if 1500 words on an essay is enough when 2000 words is the standard in third year, surprise, surprise…people are idiots.
See also: People asking tutors out on dates when they are so naively oblivious to the fact that said tutor is either a raging lesbian or raving queen, especially after mentioning how much fun they had in the “gay scene” in London. Oh, and did I mention…they’re studying Creative Arts?
See also: The people who repeat everything that the tutor says, but ending the sentence with “is that right,” so they think that they can sound smarter than everyone else, when everyone else actually knows that the person is a fucking tosser.

10. It is better to starve than to eat at Union House.
Unless you eat at the food co-op, but you also have to bear that fucking tosser, mentioned in point 9 sitting at a table EVERY SINGLE FUCKING TIME you’re there.

11. College students are the scum of the earth.
See point 9 and 3 for clarification.

12. I don’t care if you’re a lesbian, or queer, or gay.
I went to MacRob, for fuck’s sake. We are lesbian central. This also means that all our teachers are either married or gay and our brother school is Melbourne High, house of the queer. So, if you’re complaining about people not accepting you, stop creating the divide by segregating the “queer” from “straight.” There is no war, you’re just at uni and you finally realised you can slut around. Good for you, now get your fanjax out of my face and have a shower.
I actually like being your friend when you’re not bitching about how you have crabs AGAIN and keep asking when I am going to switch sides.

13. Uni is actually an obstacle in my life.
So, because of all the previous points, uni is really just something getting in my way of actually having enough time to achieve what I want. My degree means nothing becuase my course no longer exists, because of the Melbourne Model, so I graduate with a Bachelor of “what course is that?” It is a waste of time and I am sitting here with my motivation and energy drained.

It is only week one.

In fact, I am so demotivated that I haven’t cooked in three days. I have been eating raw vegetables again and today, a frozen vegan pie from La Panella.
Oh, I heated it first.

Notice the ticket infringement notice in the background of this that I am NOT going to pay? I am writing for it to be reviewed on the basis of having awful period pain and therefore unable to validate the ticket that I actually bought. Then, give them the list of side-affects of having an IUD, being allergic to Leverongestradt and a medical certificate stating so.
I can also not say that I didn’t lather this golden beauty in tomato sauce. I love the stuff. Yes, I admit it. Surprise seeing as I am not Americano…hey?

Also, eating pies? Sigh. I went to the Preston Market with my sister the other week and didn’t but groceries because I already had. And, because of the boys, I have developed an addiction to these mushroom pies, loaded with TVP and lacking animal fats. Yes…vegan.

If you haven’t already noticed from this blog post, I am depressed again and I have to go see someone about getting more sleeping tablets, and maybe a “the-rapist” to yell at for a while.


La Panella
465 High St, Preston
03 9478 4443

What the fuck

is this doing in my fridge???



NB: Yes, in normal house-mate fashion, I did turn this over to take a photo of the heinous crime so it could be examined in full force in the privacy of my own room. Then, I returned to the fridge, and flipped it back over so it looked the way it did before I touched it.

I don’t know why, for some reason, it just seems polite. Also, I don’t want people to think that their plastic cheese is hot property.


I also just realised…

Jarred pesto.

*double sob*