Asian delegations to my workplace always bring the better goodies as gestures of heartfelt appreciation.
This time: cookies that look like blob-shaped gingernuts and an ornate mankerchief (the photo shows it in the paper bag).
UPDATE: the cookies are the most amazing sugar cookies I’ve ever eaten. Mother. Fucker.
The little woman in the office next to mine saw this and instantly thought of me. How nice.
Since it arrived mid last week I think it would be safe to say that we’ve sucked our way through over half the 60 chupa chups it originally housed.
Feeling… healthy.
Of the Top 10 Meat Consuming Countries, New Zealand comes a paltry fifth.
Fifth.
I… I really don’t know what to say to this.
Alcohol has been a frequent and desperately needed part of my life of late. The reasons for why are unimportant. What is important is how my preferences seem to have adjusted away from the old staple of South gin and Indian tonic water with a wedge of cucumber to the sweet sweet juice of the grapevine.
The shift away from gin to white wine could be seen as a nod to convenience. No need for mixers, cucumber or fiddly preparation that get in the way of a swift and heady swig. The cost is also not too bad. The incapacitating effect it has on me is also gratefully delayed from the relatively immediate hit I usually get from a tall gin appropriately imbued with a heavy pouring thumb.
The thing though is that I normally enjoy the ritual of preparation that goes with enjoying every aspect of an experience. I’m also hardly lacking in funds, especially of late. It similarly isn’t that big a deal if I get drunk in a hurry or I don’t.
Riesling, gewurztraminer, pinot blanc and pinot gris have featured fairly heavily in the empties left in my wake the last few months. Whether the sweeter end or the sharper end, they’ve all been rather magnificent. To taste. To savour. To enjoy discreetly.
I have a few bottles scattered around my office, secreted away in boxes that I know no-one else at work would ever think to go near. Sure this might be the hallmark of an unhealthy habit intruding on my work environment and job security, but a boy has his needs and the work still gets done when it needs to get done. If you worked a job like mine, you’d have your own supply close to hand.
One of the perils of being a person of physical stature is that one often needs to drink more to reach the same point others of lesser physical stature would usually require. I’m also a person of appetite and for whom moderation is an unpleasant and unnecessary word.
For all I understand my reasons for drinking and for drinking as much as I do, the why of what I drink more often now than I used to still seems to escape me. Change isn’t always good and gin provides such deep unabiding pleasure for me that this shift away from its clean embrace has me almost worried what else is changing in my life.
Ok, there are two moments of amazingness to relate about this photo.
I really don’t know what it is about this stuff that I find so very very satisfying. If anything, this now means I no longer have to trade wagyu for diplomatic Pocari Sweat.
Does anyone know if the sachet kind is any good against the… well, wet kind of Pocari Sweat?
Right. So, Saturday. Felt absolutely rubbish after the night before. We’re talking curled up into a ball kinda nauseous. And yet! And yet we still managed to crawl out into the overcast outside world to market with the farmers. Bought some chicken and pistachio terrine (so good), beetroot, sweetcorn and other assorted goods for events I’ll cover under Day Six.
The afternoon was all N64-ported Legend Of Zelda: Majora’s Mask. To be honest, I was still too miserable a state to play but I did help in my own way (rapid-fire walkthroughs) while Josh played instead. The game is incredibly dated (it was registered back in 2000) and the graphics really rather laughable (clipping aplenty), but it was still fun to watch.
The late afternoon was opera in the park with the MSO. It was the last of a four concert series at the Sidney Myer Bowl (I haven’t been there since Daft Punk a few years back) and the song choice seemed rather festive with Au Fond Du Temple Saint from Bizet’s Les Pecheurs Des Perles (The Pearl Fishers) a particular favourite of mine. That said, we got there when the opening act, the Melbourne Youth Orchestra, were performing a particularly Disney-esque waltz. In the break between the MYO and the MSO it started to rain and our resolve abandoned us for the tram-ride out to Carlton to drink beer with Ned and Luke and others.
Was fun although they’d already had enough to be well past us on the alcohol stakes so we soon said our goodbyes and headed off to Palm for birthday drinks with Josh and others. What I saw of the rooftop bar seemed pleasant enough and the beer was pretty drinkable. We then excused ourselves while the others went on to see Amanda Lepore.
I remember eating when we got back to the flat but not a lot more.
Suffice to say I’ve swiftly become a cheap drunk. Shameful.
Most of last Friday was spent nurturing a terrible hangover in the air-conditioned confines of Chez Yarraville as the heat outside was just ridiculous.
I did manage to dart out in the morning to the shops to pick up bacon but Jesus did I feel the worse for wear for it. The heat. The nausea. Too much. The savoury french toast was rather delicious though.
My night was dedicated to good food and wine with Ed and good food and wine we did enjoy. We started drinking at Von Haus, moved on to eat and drink at Bar Lourhina and then finished up drinking and smoking at Madame Brussels. Definitely be looking for a repeat with the man the next time I’m in Melbourne.
The night then finished with gin and juice back in Yarraville and an hour long phone call with a gaymer in Queensland. I don’t know who was more drunk or most of what we talked about but I do remember it took him a while to stop laughing about muh accunt.
So much pinot gris. So very very much pinot gris. And asparagus cooked in lemon butter with grated pecorino and consumed through the awesome medium of sourdough baguette.
Ladies and gentlemen, my fair readers, I am THE drunken master in the kitchen.
Please do feel free to bask in the collected magnificence of my sojourn at Chez Yarraville.
