My Inner Bhangra

Let me preface this post by saying I am the most uncoordinated person you will ever meet. Nowhere is this more true than in your friendly neighbourhood aerobics class. When everyone else is grapevine-ing to the left, I'm heading right. When the skinny bitches are turning in a circle leading with their left hip, I'm heading on a one way trip to the opposite corner of the room with my right hip. What I lack in ability or coordination, I make up for in enthusiasm...or at least I HOPE I do, because that way everyone can say, "Who is that moron in the corner going the
wrong way? Ah well, at least she looks like she is having fun!"

Late last year my friend Jewel (name changed to protect the innocent) got married in a full traditional Indian soiree. Included in the lead up to the big day was a Bollywood dance lesson for her nearest and dearest, which included me.

Hmmm. Let's consider the dangers of this.

Flailing arms.
Gyrating hips.
Random shoulder shrugging at high speed.
Hands flicking in multiple directions.
Boobs shimmying.
Feet tapping.
Legs kicking out wildly.

...and that's me dancing on a good day!

Ummm, yeah. Thanks but...no.

Jewel had other ideas, so it was that I found myself in a hot room with 30 other chicks waving my arms around and in general feeling like a giant Ooompah Loompah. An hour later, pouring with sweat, I had a huge smile on my face. It was exhilarating, it was fun, it was hilariously funny, and it was a damn good workout. Silly me said as much to Jewel, who suggested that post-wedding, we take this dancing biz up as an actual hobby.

*insert maniacal laughter here* You're kidding, right?

Fast forward several months, and I am turning over a new, get-out-of-my-comfort-zone leaf. So I mentioned to Jewel that maybe we should take another look at the whole hippy-hippy-shake business. It took less than 4 hours and she had emailed me a list of Bollywood dancing schools, complete with times, costs, and how we were going to get there (as we live on opposite sides of Melbourne.) Tonight was our first class...and honestly, I can't remember when I've had quite that much fun while getting some serious exercise.

I was pouring with sweat, grinning like an idiot and I found myself bloody grateful that nobody there gave two shits about my coordination of my (lack of) dancing skills. Not to mention, I was grateful that there was no turning or grapevine-ing involved. I also found myself grateful that, in Jewel, I've found a friend who I trust enough to see me shaking my groove thing in what must surely be a highly unflattering manner.

Driving home tonight, I realised something. All those Bollywood stars? They're damn skinny. Not to mention HOT. So if subjecting myself to a bit of Bangra/Indian Rock-n-Roll/Reckless Abandon once a week is the price I have to pay, then I'm happily paying. I don't know that this will become a forever thing, but it's a great addition to my 5-day-a-week gym habit I've developed. PLUS, I get to see Jewel once a week - and she's totally fab, so that's an added bonus.

If I didn't know better, I'd say that I am starting to - shock, horror! - quite like the me that is emerging from the detox shell.

Foodie Readings & Other Stuff

Having previously talked about my adoration of libraries, and of books in general, I feel I should admit that mostly I read crap. Chick-lit, crime fiction, so-obvious-it's-almost-ridiculous whodunnits, and so on. Occasionally I'll pick up something great, more often it's escapist reading of the highest order. Recently I picked up the above book: Finding Betty Crocker: The Secret Life of America's First Lady of Food. I'm don't read a huge number of non-recipe food-related books but this one caught my eye as I've always liked Betty. Not that we're friends or anything, just that I'd grown up using "her" products and she really was a symbol of Americana food.

Needless to say I came crashing back down to earth when I found out that she wasn't real. She was simply a marketing tool devised by some seriously clever folk at Gold Medal Flour. The book traces the history of Betty - from her appearances in newspapers to radio shows to live appearances to guest spots on TV. For many women (and men) she was the end-all-and-be-all in kitchen wisdom and hope, in particular during the Depression. Even Eleanor Roosevelt wrote to Betty asking for cooking advice! There are also a number of photos tracing Betty's visual history; from what she looked like in the early print ads to her more recent portrait updates. A bit like Barbie, Betty doesn't really age - in fact she seems to be getting a bit younger as time goes on (and minus the Botox!)

As far as the book itself, it was an interesting, quick read - while not a total page-turner, it still provided a fascinating insight into the world of baking marketing. In addition to following Betty the woman it also follows the product line, including noting the "horror" of the baking public when cake mixes first became available. Now, of course, there are whole cookbooks devoted to baking via a cake mix (sacrilege, people. Sacrilege!) An interesting read - for bakers and non-bakers alike.

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Readers of this blog will know that on occasion I mention my friends...and to protect their innocence I tend to refer to them by various nicknames. Now one of those nicknames/people has taken on a blogging life of their own! Go on over there, have a look and be supportive, okay? Not only because I said so, but because, well... I said so!

The Baker's Wife goes online!

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...and for those following the resolution, all is going well. Most weeks have far exceeded the 140 minute mark, and I'm really getting into it. I will admit some days it's harder to find those 20 minutes than I thought. Other days, I find myself lo0king at the watch and thinking, "40 minutes already? How did that happen?" More on this later on. In the meantime, be prepared for a phone call from me. :)

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...and lastly, in "hungry three" news, First Grade starts tomorrow. I am sitting here resisting the urge to start crying and yelling, "My babies! My babies!" (although I reserve the right to do that tomorrow after I've dropped them off.)

My Tallest Cake Yet

....90 cm/3 feet in height
....6 kilos (13.2 pounds) in red icing
....approx 12 kilos/26.4lbs in weight
....1 kilo/2.2 lbs cocoa powder
....2+ kilos/4.5+ lbs dark chocolate
....8 elephants
....more edible gold balls than I could count
....10 gold paisleys
....3 cans of gold spray paint
....2 trips to the hardware store
...1 metre/3'3" of wooden dowelling

....and one happy, gorgeous wedding couple.


....which is precisely why I love my job.

RAS - Long Distance

This RAS (Random Act of Sweetness) was committed long distance. Sadly the recipient won't get to actually eat the product, but I was definetly thinking of him when I baked it (and subsequently ate it.) I am of course referring to Cameron. I have known Cameron for about 13 years now (yes, really Cam! Can you believe?!) but interestingly enough have spent only about a week or so being in the same geographical area as he is in. How we "met" is an interesting story in itself - his girlfriend at the time went to college with me, while he was several states away at a different college. She, being the IT/computer person and me being the clueless one, became friends and she taught me how to use email, the 'net, and everything in between. For purposes of practice, she would use his email address for me...so I'd send a "Hi, you don't know me, I'm just figuring this out!" email to him, and so on. Needless to say their relationship didn't last past that semester, but Cameron and I shared a love of food, wine, books, (eventually) technology, talking, laughing...and so on and so forth. As the years went by, it became harder and harder to maintain a relationship in person - every time it was Spring break, I'd invariably leave Colorado to go home to California a day before he came home to Colorado from Pennsylvania. As a result we learned about one another through faxes (yes, really), emails, and the odd time when we overlapped in the same city for more than 20 minutes. These days both of us are married (to other people), and we don't email as frequently as we should, but I will always consider him a great friend, a great listener, and the only person on whom blue hair actually seemed appealing.

Cameron, this one is for you. Note, when I normally make this, I stuff it full of walnuts and raisins, and throw a confetti on the top of: chopped dried apricots, pepitas, sesame seeds, sunflower seeds, more raisins, dust of cinnamon, more walnut pieces, and whatever detritus yummy bits I can find in the cupboard. In this case as I knew it was going to be fed to a non-nut eater plus a bunch of "what's that yucky stuff on top?" kids, it was done plain and thus not as good as I'd have liked. The recipe, though, works well so I'm sharing it here. Feel free to increase and decrease spices as you like.

Cameron, when next our paths cross, I promise a freshly baked, thickly-iced, swoon-worthy carrot cake, complete with the glace carrot on top. Just for you. And me. And if they're very, very good, we might share some with Wife & Child. :)

Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Icing

1 cup (4 oz) self-raising flour
1 cup (4 oz) plain flour
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp ground ginger
1/s tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp bicarb of soda (baking soda)
1 cup (8 oz) oil
1 cup (6 oz) soft brown sugar
1/2 cup (4 oz) golden syrup (in the US, I'd experiment with maple syrup)
4 eggs
2 1/2 cups grated carrot
1/2 cup (2 oz) chopped walnuts or pecans

Icing:
350g (12oz) cream cheese, softened
120g (4 oz) butter, softened
3 cups (12 oz) icing sugar
2 tsp vanilla
1-2 tsp lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 160C/315F. Grease a 23cm (9 inch) deep tin and line the base and sides with baking paper. Sift the flours, spices and soda into a large bowl and set aside.

Whisk together the oil, syrup, sugar and eggs. Slowly stir the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients until smooth. Stir in the carrots and nuts. Pour into the greased tin and bake for about 1 1/2 hours, or until a skewer comes out clean. Cool in the tin and then on a rack.

Icing: Bung it all in a mixer and turn it on, mix until it's smooth and scrummy looking. Try to avoid sticking your finger in it while the mixer is going.

Slice the cake diagonally across into two even pieces (bonus points: slice into three!). Splodge the icing in the middle, put the top back on, ice all over the top and sides and then go for broke decorating with yummy stuff (bonus points: marzipan carrots for each slice!) Enjoy.

The Untold Benefit of Parenting

I am very fortunate to work for a company that provides lunch for its employees every day. Come noon, all of us sit down to a gorgeous, chef-made, calorie-laden, bloody yummy lunch. Some choose to go outside, alternating between a lungful of smoke and a mouthful of risotto. Others choose to eat inside the kitchen, inhale lunch within 2 bites, and then disappear to god-knows-where. Then there are the nerds, of which I am a proud member. We choose to sit at the (indoor, very swish) communal table and benches, eating among work friends, sharing a laugh, and not enjoying the benefits of second-hand smoke. In recent months we've begun a bit of a lunchtime tradition - the trivia challenge. Both The Age and The Herald Sun have trivia quizzes in them every day, so we use these as the basis. As time has gone on, and the competition has become more fierce, the experience has gotten more entertaining and frustrating in equal measures. I've realised how little useless, random knowledge I posses, and how much I care about that lack of knowledge. The previous days' winner becomes the "Quiz Master" for the day, and as such has the power to invoke (or revoke) as many rules as they like. So on some days, you have to wait for the entire question to be read. On others, jump in at will but suffer the embarrassment of lost points if your answer is wrong. Either way it's an entertaining way to spend a quarter-hour or so. My own place in this bloodbath of trivia and pointless information ass-kicking is as a shouter. I tend to either say nothing, or just guess repeatedly in a really loud voice. Some days, I am without a run on the board - other days, I come in a respectable 3rd or 4th. Either way my competitive self wants to win, right?

Last week, I had my chance. The questions are worth different points based on difficulty - 1 for an easy one, 2 for a medium hard, and 3 for a hard question. I wasn't faring particularly well that day (thanks to the if-it's-wrong-you-lose-points rule) - and then came the following 3 point question:

"What is the name of the purple Teletubby?"

A hush fell over the room as everyone looked at one another with a mixture of vague amusement and total clueless-ness. At this point, the Quiz Master looked at me and said, "emzee? Surely you gotta know this!" (Okay, he used my real name, but otherwise this is an accurate account.)

I did. It's Tinky-Winky. I had my moment of glory, my basking in the sunshine of my clever-ness, my this-is-why-I-had-kids moment, my overall brilliance, and in that few glorious seconds, there was nobody in the world but me. The spotlight of smarty-pants shone right on top of my MENSA head, as I basked in complete self-promotion. Yes, it's true, I rock.

Sadly, it was to be a fleeting fame. I then proceeded to scream my way through the next few and ended up with a score of -2 for the day.

Ahhh, well. Win some, lose some, commit trivial suicide in some.

The Epicurean Parent

A recent (post-preggo hormone induced but nontheless thought-provoking) email from The Baker's Wife asks, "Can one be a parent and a foodie?" Her question actually goes one further than that - asking if one can live in the (outer) suburbs and be satisfied as a foodie. For the purposes of this post, I'm sticking with the first part of the dilemma. For me the answer as to whether a parent can be a foodie or not is simple: No, if you consider a foodie to be one who (often) indulges in good food and wine. (Unless you have loads of disposable income.) Yes, if you consider being a foodie one who appreciates fine food and wine, with no requirement that they indulge in it.

For me the definition of a foodie is both of those - one who appreciates good food and wine (and usually, cooking with one and drinking about the other) and one who has the means to indulge in both, fairly often. However The Epicurean Parent (damn, that would have made a good blog title) is often one or the other. The Epicurean DINK or SINK (double/single income, no kids) is definetly both of those. Put simply, being a foodie requires a decent amount of money and reliable, easy transport (a point also made by The Baker's Wife). Once you become a parent, your disposable income decreases dramatically, as does your ability to get to that little shop which sells the most divine cakes, or the little fromagerie with the gorgeous farmhouse blue vein. On the financial front, it's not just the ability to buy the gorgeous bits and pieces - it's the minimum $10 an hour for the babysitter, who can't stay past the third course of the degustation menu anyway. Of course you could load the kid into the car for the trip to the Turkish hole-in-the-wall bakery selling heavenly bourek... but then add another half hour at least to the journey.

I am a big believer in taking children to restaurants - and I don't just mean the sort with a $5 kids special which includes the minuscule scoop of shitty vanilla at the end. I think they should learn to enjoy the finer things in life, to develop broad palettes, to experience all edible life has to offer beyond things fried. At the same time, I don't think children belong in all restaurants, and frankly there are some where I definetly do not want them crossing the threshold. So the dilemma of being a foodie, and a parent, is a difficult one.

As The Baker's Wife said (email quoted without her permission - sorry babe):

"When I am surrounded by other committed suburbanites, like our families and old school friends, there is no problem, because they have forgotten what they're missing. Day old bread and crusty pre-sliced prosciutto are de rigeur. But my regular friends are different. And this ex-London/Paris/Albert Park/City chick has come to rely on the availability and accessibility of beautiful produce. I want jamon at $120p/kg on a ten minute tram ride from me, even if I can't afford it. I want figs and almonds and baclava cheap and I want someone with a gruff foreign accent to sell it to me."

As you can see, a foodie soul definetly beats within TBW's chest, doesn't it? So how do we solve the problem of the Epicurean parent? The one who wants the farmhouse cheese, the aged smallgoods, the vine-ripened tomatoes and the Victoria Street pho - the one for whom the $5 kids special is starting to look a little, well, like a greasy pizza and crappy vanilla ice cream. Honestly, the solution for me has been to grab a bit of foodie love whenever I can. So I drag the kids to the outdoor food events - and find things I think/hope they will enjoy. I plan (expensive, so totally worth it) occasional dinners out with other foodie friends, leaving DH behind. I plan date nights with DH at similar establishments, so he gets a bit of foodie love too. I indulge in the odd bit of expensive cheese or fabulous dips. The kids come along to foodie markets (Melbourne is fortunate to have many) and eat the beautiful seasonal fruit while I eat the smoked salmon (although, come to think of it, they eat that too. Epicurean children are an expensive habit.) I learn how to replicate some of these delicacies in my own kitchen. Most of all, though, I never really stop learning about food - reading articles in the paper, reading foodie blogs, asking my fellow co-workers, bosses or teachers - and so on. Being a foodie is not all about eating out - it's a hobby, a habit, and an addiction. So I manage to be an Epicurean Parent - but on a smaller scale than I did before kids. Why? Because I know that the minute these kids hit 18, I'm headed for Nobu. In London.

With Friends Like These

Adult friendships are way, way harder than 7th grade friendships. Socially speaking, 7th grade is the most hideous time in one's life - you're awkward, kinda ugly, you think everyone hates you, girls are at their peak of mean-ness and evil gossip is the norm. Compared to that, though, adult friendships are worse. They're just so damn complicated.

Most adults I know make their new friends (as in, friends who are not from high school, college, or their stint working at Subway) via work. However, the friends you make at work often stay at work - and it can be hard to get them to the status of real friends. If you do manage to elevate them to outside-of-work friend, then you have potential problems: a) outside of work you find out they're really clingy annoying weirdo freakazoids, b) work issues become enmeshed in friend issues and then it's a mess when you claim credit for their work or c) in a moment of drunken weakness, you're forced to admit that you earn more than they do and then they give you the evil eye at work ever after. See? Complicated.

Once you have kids, there is a whole new social set of people who can become potential friends. These are the parents of your kids' friends - so in effect you are just piggy backing on your kids' social graces. Dangerous move, that. Piggyback friends are all good and well until either a) your kid now hates that kid, b) you want your kid to hate that kid, because that kid is an ill-behaved mongrel, or c) your kid loves that kid but the mom/parents are total clingy annoying weirdo freakazoids. See? Complicated.

See the problem? Making new, normal adult friends is hard. There is also the issue of the friend you don't want. The person who really puts themselves out there. Extends the hand of friendship. Passes the olive branch. Buys you a latte and a muffin. Calls you just to see what your weekend plans are. Says a lot of "Call me!" or "Yeah, we should totally do that!" It's nice, right? To be, well, pursued in that manner. Nice until you realise that you have less than nothing in common and conversation is a painful, painful affair. More painful than a crusty ear and a alcohol swab (and I would know). Still, they doggedly pursue you, and you're not really sure why. So you're left with the friend you really don't want to have, but out of mercy or boredom or god-knows-what, you're stuck with 'em. An added complication in your life.

Sometimes you get lucky. I met XABF at work, and until it all went horribly, horribly wrong, we had 7 brilliant years. I met Poppet's Mum via our kids (and our mutual laughter at their attempts to dance) and that's a lovely friendship. I've recently met The Baker's Wife at work, and she's so damn fab I'd date her if she or I was single, not married, and either of us were into that. I could go on. Suffice it to say I've been lucky, but plenty of times in life I've found myself lonely and wondering if it's because I smell.

In the end I came to the very emzee conclusion that I don't smell. It's just that adult friendships seem a lot harder than the ones I made in seventh grade, when I really DID smell, and had bad hair. Anyway, in honour of my lack of smell and my lack of bad hair, I'm encouraging you all to make a new friend today. Pass the branch, pay for the latte (and muffin, ya cheapskate), whatever - let's just be a bit nicer to someone today. Who knows? You might have the same clingy annoying weirdo freakazoid habits in common.