How do we carry on now that Masterchef is over?
For those not in the know, it's basically American Idol with foie gras and fancy knives. It's hosted by two strangely endearing blokes who don't understand the concept of Inside Voices, so they constantly bark at the contestants, I WANNA SEE A NICE PLAYDA FOOD and NOW THAT'S BEWDIFULLY SEASONED!
The contestants are mostly earnest Former Bankers or Ex-Barristers who gave up high-flying careers to pursue their Passion for Food. This intrigues me as I don't think I could sacrifice even my low-flying career until I was 100% certain that the Passion was 100% secure and paid near enough to the low-flying career that I wouldn't need to live in a cardboard box. But on the telly, Passion RULES and people can chuck their jobs with gay abandon.
The final episode was both compelling and insane (and beautifully live blogged by Anna Pickard) Shouty Aussie was reduced to tears by Emily's beetroot tagliatelle and Shouty Bald insisted that EVERY YEAR THEY. JUST. GET. BEDDA AN BEDDA! Curly James was eventually declared the winner of the suitably curly Masterchef trophy.
It was so easy to be swept up in such culinary drama but Gareth brought some perspective to the table:
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"Whoever wins… IT WILL CHANGE. THEIR. LIVES" |
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"It DOESN'T get any TOUGHER THAN THIS" |
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"They're just COOKING THE DINNER!" |
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Sunshine lends a wholesome air to the toun. I saw a girl walking to the park with a frisbee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Then I saw a peacock stop to pick up an abandonded chip. He fanned out his tail and tilted his head back, chip clenched in his tiny beak. I fumbled for my camera but the posing bastard gulped it down before I could focus.
Speaking of chips, we went out to [Anstruther](http://www.shauny.org/pussycat/2004/04/cast_away.php) the other night. Nothing says summer like hot grease by the sea! I also wanted photographic evidence of a chip butty for my Dietgirl blog. I'd mentioned recently that Gareth was [a devotee](http://www.dietgirl.org/dietgirl/2008/04/steamy-windows.html) and some people were baffled and/or intrigued by the idea of carb on carb action.
Five years ago I would have been horrified, but now I see poetry in the bland, fluffy white roll, lubed up with butter and stuffed with flaccid fries.
Ask for a chip butty at the Anstruther chippie and your butty shall runneth over:
Gareth likes to eat the overflow first, building anticipation for the main event.
I went for the fish supper as usual. I had brought along my special Australianising Kit: chicken salt and a lemon. Back home you get lemon with fish by default, but over here you have to ask for it and they think you're a freak. The chicken salt, which doesn't contain actual chickens, was purchased for a ludicrous sum at the Australia Shop in Covent Garden a few years ago. I could take it or leave the stuff when I actually lived in Oz, but now flavoured sodium is a tasty, pathetic way of clinging to my roots.
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ARRGHHHH! This weekend, for sure.]]>
Recently I sent a parcel to Hollie and James, my wee brother and sister. It cost £30 to send about £5 worth of British sweets and crisps. But that's the grand tradition of the long distance care package - the postage is always at least five times the value of the contents. The ratio may have been higher for Mum's parcel - she sent me a bagful of loose change left over from her last visit. I could just hear her voice as I pawed through the pennies, *They're no good to me now, you might as well use them!* This 2p coin has had an exciting life - from Scotland to Australia and back again.
Right now I'm watching a film on BBC4 about [Scott Walker.](http://www.bbc.co.uk/films/2007/04/23/scott_walker_30_century_man_2007_review.shtml) You know, that bloke that David Bowie, Radiohead, Pulp et al always namecheck. So far the film is 50% interesting information and 50% random shots of famous musicians nodding with their eyes closed, Scotty crooning in the background.
What I have been wondering for many years is, why do Men of Rock always have such skinny legs? When I think of the Beatles I think of their twig-like pins in those natty grey suits. Mick Jagger, AC/DC, Johnny Rotten, every boofheaded hipster in the NME. All of 'em!
Which comes first - the body or the rock? Do blokes hit the age of 16 or so and look in the mirror, *Right. I've got no arse and tiny legs, I'd better join a band!* Or do the legs come later; a product of the rock lifestyle - sex, drugs and malnourishment. Are there heaps of really talented bottom-heavy blokes sulking in their bedrooms, not even trying because they know they won't look good in drainpipe jeans?
If you can think of someone truly rockin' with chunky thighs let me know!
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It's the love that dare not speak its name: woman and teapot. Behold the [Brown Betty,](http://www.englishteastore.com/brbete.html) a Christmas gift from the in-laws. Made in England, sensible and sturdy; its a vessel that would steer one through great Wars and Depressions. Or just perch regally on the crappy IKEA coffee table of some modern-day nitwit.
(Does anyone know where to find a good tea cozy these days?!)
So my [book](http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0552155780?ie=UTF8&tag=dietgirl-21&linkCode=as2&camp=1634&creative=6738&creativeASIN=0552155780) officially came out yesterday. I went stalking through Edinburgh's bookshops, just to make sure it really existed. And it did! That is, if you could spot it amongst the ten trillion Paul McKenna books. *I Can Make You Thin* is his current blockbuster. How can I compete with such a bold celebrity promise? Maybe I should have called my book *I Can't Make You Thin, But You Can Giggle At The Incompetent Adventures Of A Nobody.*
It was an exciting day. I hid behind a stack of books at Waterstones for twenty minutes, staking out the New Year's Resolutions display 
and summoning all my ESP powers. *Pick it up! Somebody, pick it up pleeease! Nooo! Not the bloody McKenna!*
So my ESP stinks, but I was happy just to be there. I went home, made some pasta and bawled while chopping the onions. I think I was a wee bit overwhelmed and emotional that all this writing and editing and insanity actually led to a finished product. *The road is loooong... with many a wiiiiinding turn.* If anyone is still out there reading this steaming pile of neglect -- thank you. It was a rather lonely and miserable day 7.5 years ago when I started WNP; it seemed like a new-fangled way for the inept to connect. I ended up finding so many good people and rediscovering how much fun it was to hammer away at a keyboard.
To celebrate publication day in hardcore style, the teapot made its debut and I made a batch of [pikelets,](http://www.taste.com.au/recipes/5757/pikelets) those stumpy Australian pancake-y treats. Turns out they're the same thing as Scotch Pancakes, but I prefer to call them pikelets because it's one of the greatest words to say in an Aussie accent... POIKE-LETS!
Happy new year, groovy groovers!]]>
But now that I actually live in the land of Handy Andy, I refuse to Decorate with poncy Emulsion. WE PAINT WITH PAINT, dammit.
Gareth and I have begun the tedious process of tarting up our flat. We started in 2005 with the spare bedroom then abandoned the project due to lack of interest. But now we have the fancy [Shower!](http://www.shauny.org/pussycat/2007/12/wet_and_wild.php) everything else looks really scabby.
Doing DIY on the weekend feels so grown-up and depressing. The next step is matching fleeces and [Midsomer Murders](http://www.midsomermurders.net/) and the general End of Fun. I've heard of people painting their houses and going on to experience enjoyment in their lives, but it still feels like a slippery slope.
It's going alright so far. I accidentally walked through the paint tray and trekked paint through the flat then Gareth's roller disintegrated and distributed pube-like debris all over the ceiling, but that seemed more productive than last time when he knocked a five-litre paint tin off the ladder and coated himself, ceiling and carpet in Dulux Buttermilk.
My problem is a tendency to stand around waiting for instructions instead of getting stuck into the work. Once again I must attribute this to the Mothership as she used to tell me I was too messy to help with the painting. Instead I had to be her Roller Slave. She'd stand on a bar stool to paint the high bits, and when the roller ran dry she'd hold it out without even looking at me, and issue the snooty command, "LOAD!"
I'd put more paint on the roller and pass it back up so she didn't have to get off the chair and do it herself. Most times she'd hand it straight back, declaring it to be coated with too much or not enough paint. "RELOAD!" And how my whole body would twitch with the urge to paint over her eyeballs. ]]>
