Well last week, I was meant to be in Christchurch for a work conference. Thankfully (for me and my workmates, not for Christchurch), the earthquake happened before we arrived. Around a week before we arrived, actually. And like the ace project managers that we are, my colleague and I put aside everything and re-organised what had taken me more than a month in just a few days. Yes, HIRE ME, I’M ACE. AND I had a nauseating virus that kept me bedridden for the entire week before our departure. Nauseating. Virus.
So off we went. To Auckland. Yes, still New Zealand, but there’s much airspace and some water that separates the two locations. Lookit:
To be honest, the best part of the new arrangements was that we ended up flying Emirate instead of Jetstar and I was able to down a bottle of Moet. Yeeha!
Besides all of the conferency knowledge that filled my brain (like, how to sleep with my eyes wide open, how to make 2 hours feel like 7, sweet is better than savoury at morning tea, etc), I did some walking around the fair city of Auckland and found the Texan Arts School - yes, you heard me - the Texan Arts School. In New Zealand. Specialising in New Zealand artists. Like Lester Hall. Here’s something he prepared earlier.
"Miss Kiwiana Stamp" by Lester Hall
They also had this in Texas, which is now sitting pretty above my pop-art kitchen doorway.
Ironically, JJ and I don’t wear watches and I have a rather aggressive dislike of THE TIME. But it’s not a clock really, is it? It’s a cultural icon (which means nothing to JJ, given that he was born into 24-hour cable TV, hence his less-than-underwhelming reaction – “Oh. Huh. Right.”).
Certainly brings back memories of bedtime, doesn’t it.
I think I’ve broken a few of my toes. My wrist, which I had x-rayed the other day (because of that rollerskating injury, nuff said), was crashed into and my ears are ringing a merry tune. But it’s ok. Sent me back to the pub days, Party to Belfast, garage rock, a whirling dervish on the dancefloor, except not as much space. My advice is, as always, don’t resist the direction of the mosh pit; you’ll just end up with an injury.
I’m babbling. And that’s how I felt at the Children Collide gig at the Corner Hotel.
I made THE most amazing bread yesterday, if I say so myself. This is going to be one of those ones that I’ll want to play around with and perfect.
Recipe for a good sized loaf: 4 cups plain flour 2-3 cups warm water 1 tsp dry yeast 1 tsp salt
Mix the water and yeast in a large bowl. Add the sifted flour and salt to make a thick, but sticky, dough. It shouldn’t be as thick as regular dough but not runny although it’s this stickiness or wetness that creates the telltale chiabatta “holes”. Do not overwork it. Mix until combined and that’s it. Cover with gladwrap and leave for 12 hours. That’s right, 12 hours!
Preheat the oven to around 180c. Turn the dough out onto a floured baking tray (you can use polenta instead of flour). Bake for around 1 hour – the colour should be a really deep golden brown.
You can add anything to the dough before you set it to rise – caraway seeds might be nice.
This is gorgeously chewy and dense chiabatta!
So that was the success story. Now for the disaster. How could the Australian Women’s Weekly let me down??? I followed their recipe for lamingtons and while they look great (in fact, I reckon they look better than the AWW ones), and they tasted great too, the cake was so thick and dense! Lamingtons should be light… (oh, yes, I MIGHT have forgotten that I didn’t use cornflour – didn’t have any – so maybe it wasn’t the recipe’s fault. Whatever.)
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I’ll be watching a film and I’ll be, like, “Man, I wish I had written that screenplay.”
Like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Or I’ll be listening to a song and think: “Man, I wish I’d come up with that lyric.”
Like:
“…Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on Angel Hair and babys breath
Broken hymen of your highness I’m left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back” (Nirvana – Heart Shaped Box)
Or I’ll be watching a TV show or film and think: “Man, I wish I’d written thay line.”
Like this classic from Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead:
and: “God! What is your childhood trauma?!” (Cordelia to Buffy in Buffy the Vampire Slayer)
Or I’ll be reading a book and think, “Man, I wish I’d written that book.”
Seriously, Hollywood Ending is like nothing I’ve read of late. It’s set in one of my favourite places in the world, LA, and even though I’m only halfway in, it captures the voices of local and bored kids who have that nuanced way of looking at the world and avoiding themselves thanks to all of the shit they surround themselves with. I love a tale told with sad irony. I love the jaded descriptions of faded Hollywood. Of old folks with long memories and young folks with nothing to do. Of D-listers hanging out in West Hollywood in the hope of being discovered by the paparazzi. It’s spunky writing by Kathy Charles. I wish I’d written it.
But anyway, here’s something I DO wish I’d written, and, um, I actually did.
