COOKIE. CUTTER. SHARK.

The Universe Made Me Do It

Immediately on returning from travels and before making plans for the next trip (thus locking myself into a saving budget in which there is no room to move) is the only time I can bring myself to throw large lumps of money at things that do not involve me getting on a plane.

I want it noted that I tried to be a responsible, sensible, forward-planning adult and purchase a necessary item of household white goods, and I want it noted that I have been thwarted from doing this by three centimetres.

Permanently.

Guess I'll just have to use that money on a ticket to Europe, right?

Well. Shucks. Damn. And poot.

In light of this failure, I have no alternative but to drink this pear cider and start making vegetable soup under the influence.

The Bachelor

A co-worker asked me what was for dinner tonight. "Probably peanut butter toast," I said, without really thinking. "That's, um...nutritious." She disapproved of my dinner, I think.

Someone completely unrelated told me I was "such a teenager" upon hearing of my dinner practices.

First of all, I live alone. Cooking for one is not worth the hassle. There's no one else to do the dishes either.
Second, dinner isn't my big meal for the day. Lunch is, it makes more sense. After work I get home and sit here, so eating a proper cooked meal seems like a waste of food-converted-into-energy.
Third, I'm not a teenager.

I'm a bachelor, and I shall bloody well live like one.

And I happen to really like peanut butter toast.

Normally I'd have a cup of tea with my peanut butter toast, but tonight I'm having grog. The official definition of grog is watered down rum. I have no mixers nor the motivation to go out and get any.

The cobbler on Lonsdale Street is quite a straight-faced gruff man, and with his rich and abrupt accent from the heart of Eastern Europe he can come across as just plain grumpy. I suspected first impressions were misleading, and my suspicions were rewarded with him gently insisting that my quiet Friday night at home must have one glass of red wine. At least one.

I don't have any red wine, or any wine at all, as I have no palate for the stuff. The grog is a crude bacheloresque substitute, as I always do what I'm told.

Now I'm going to walk around with no pants on and drink milk from the carton.

Sniff Mah Pillow

I made vegetable soup yesterday. My arms and wrists are right buggered from all the chopping and stirring, and my flat smells like soup. My whole flat. Everything. I went to bed last night and mmmm, yes indeedy, my pillow smelt like soup.

If this isn't a compelling argument to never cook again, I don't know what is.

The smell is still hanging around. Possibly if it was, I don't know, something with a tomato base, I wouldn't find having hair that smells like lunch so off putting. But vegetable soup only smells good when it's hot and you're hanging over the bowl. Old, cold, stale vegetable soup is unattractive, to say the least.

My only course of action is to cook bacon.

I'm not even hungry, but dammit, there will be bacon.

Presents!

SATAY. You see? Looks like vomit. And shit. Smells like fabulous, tastes like fucking fabulous ON A STICK. Dad, who was born in Malaysia and thus has a well-trained palate in this area, made a lot of grunting noises when eating, and ended up with the largest pile of sticks on his plate at the end, ergo, recipe is now tested and certified fabulous.


Mum made up skewers of apricots, prunes, and chicken liver wrapped in bacon, which I admit when she first mentioned, I was highly dubious of. But then we popped them on the barbie, and they smelt great, and then I ate one and it tasted even better. Seriously unexpectedly amazing, and did not look like vomit as I had nothing to do with the creation.

Dad also taught me a neat trick for reviving cucumber that's gone a little soft; soak it in a little vinegar for a while. Makes it crunchy again. 'cause you can't have satay without cucumber.

I took some pictures of the trifle, but the trifle was such a monster, such a behemoth, such a blasphemy against the order of the universe that even Lovecraft would pause and say, come on now, that's getting a bit silly, and the pictures didn't really do it justice and it's probably for the best that such an unholy creation remain unrecorded.

It looked like vomit AND snot AND blood clots. Tasted like miracle vunderbar! I won't use shop bought custard again though. It was too runny, and didn't set like a trifle is supposed to.


Poor Sam got a grass seed stuck in his paw a couple of days ago. Very minor, but it did require taking him to the vets and having them knock him out in order to remove it. IT IS ENORMOUS. The vet gave it to us, for some reason, it's sitting by the fruit bowl. We've taken to calling it the Demon Seed. Sam isn't allowed to lick his paw, hence the collar. We alternate between calling him Bucket, Satellite Dish and Space Dog. Well, I call him Space Dog. Mum doesn't like it, as it makes her think of Laika. He's not a victim of human science, however, he's a Space Dog like a cool frood, taking your messages from Mars, hullo, you've reached Planet Tessa, Canine Branch, How May I Help Ewe? SO CUTE.

As the subject line indicates, I have a present for you, should you wish to have one. Namely, recipe for Fabulous Satay, as given to Mum by one Audrey Wong more than twenty years ago. Thank you, Audrey, whoever and whereever you are!

Printed on type-writer, copied on thermal paper, and to continue the tradition, photographed and uploaded, for your nomming pleasure. Click for the larger picture.

lustrous, bright, soft and nutrient

I was after soba noodles, but my local supermarket had none, so I picked these up instead, hoping they were a rought equvalent (they're not, they're for soup, not cold and dry). When I was prepping them I read the instructions on the back, and thought I would share them with you. 'cause they're pretty special.



I'm not sure what 'souted' is, and just cooked them the normal way I cook every and any sort of noodle. I particularly like the 'specialty' ribbon wrapped around each bunch. Could easily replace the word with 'caution', or 'toxic material'.

They're really nice noodles, by the way.

"The name's Crocker."

"Betty Crocker."

Yeah, I made Dad triceratops biscuits for Father's Day. I don't know if he liked them or not. I liked them.

After a mad search for envelopes I thought I had and did not have, the magazines were dropped in the post this morning. Arthur Miller should get his before the end of the week; you internetaional kids will have to wait and see. I've no idea how long they'll take, but it was airmail, so it shouldn't be too long.

I feel bad for those of you who missed out, so if you want to send me your postal address anyway, I think I have some squid and cuttlefish postcards still lying around. Somewhere. Possibly.

I'm having some trouble with myself. After a lovely couple of months respite the universe is reasserting itself, and the axis of Planet Tessa is a bit wobbly. I've also manaegd to fall behind on my own work, which is pretty impressive considering I don't actually have any deadlines to meet. Regardless, I'm behind, so blogging will be sparse for a while.

To keep you entertained while I am gone, I give you the end of the world, a la big ass asteroid.

Food Of The Gods, When They Can’t Get Anything Better (Which Is Never, Because Really, You’re Not Much Of A God If You Can’t Get Betterer Food)

Buy the smallest brown onion you can find. No, smaller. There’ll be a smaller one in there somewhere.

Take it home and chop it finely. Finer. Lean away from the rising tear gas, whup, too late. Now you’re crying, and it’s too late to realise that maybe you shouldn’t have cut the onion first.

Throw half the onion out. I understand that onions must be included in some recipes for the sake of taste, but I’m not that keen on onion. Put the remaining onion in a big bowl. Cry some more.

Start chopping mushrooms. In my opinion, there’s no such thing as too much mushroom, but some other random heathen scumbags beg to differ. Chop as much as you like. I love peeling mushrooms, and the knife slides through them like nothing else, which is one of the reasons anything I cook with mushrooms has too much mushroom. Cover the onion with the mushroom. Maybe you’ll stop crying soon?

Chop some broccoli. This doesn’t add anything to the taste or texture, I’m just not comfortable cooking several meals worth of food that doesn’t contain some green. Don’t put the stems in, they never soften up. Just trim the bibbly bits. These will get everywhere, all over the bench and the floor. At least you’re not crying now.

Tear half a cooked chook to pieces. Little shreds. With your fingers. Knives are for pussies. Try not to eat too much of the chicken, as by this point you’ll realise that you’re fucking STARVING and you haven’t even turned the stove on yet.

Turn stove on. Drop oil in pan. Drop crushed garlic in pan. Drop risotto rice in pan. Some more. Is that enough? Can’t tell. Some more. Maybe? Dunno. Some more. Some more. Oh, that’ll do. Mix it around in the oil.

Add white wine. This is an exciting new step. While the recipe has always called for white wine, I’ve never been able to find those little satchets of wine for cooking before. I have no idea how much to put in. I put the lot in. This is a bad move. Don’t do this. There is such a thing as too much white wine. Put, I don’t know, less in. You cooking people know better than me.

Add chicken stock. Stir. Listen to stove make strange groaning sound. Stir. Make cup of tea. Stir. Nibble things. Stir. Add more stock. Stir. Drink tea. Stir. Restart album. Stir. Drink tea. Stir. Add pepper. Nibble more things. Stir. And more stock. Stir. Stare at the wall. Stir. Remember to turn fan on. Stir. Add more stock. Stir. Fiddle with heat. Stir. Scatch head. Stir. Nibble things. Stir. Drink remainder of tepid tea. Stir. Add more stock. Stir. Stare at wall. Stir. Rinse mug. Stir. Boil kettle again. Stir. Make another cup of tea. Stir. Add more stock. Stir. Get slightly impatient and dump chicken/broccoli/mushrooms/onion in pan. Stir enegetically. Add more stock. Stir. Change spoon arms. Stir. Go get chair and sit in front of stove. Stir. Add more stock. Stir. Drink tea. Stir. Stare at wall. Stir. Compose longwinded posts in your head. Stir. Add more stock. Stir. Taste. Realise rice isn’t nearly cooked. Add all remaining stock. Stir. Turn heat up. Stir. Turn heat down. Stir. Add water. Stir. Quietly starve to death. Stir. Watch clock not go faster. Stir. Add water. Stir. Stir furiously. Stir anti-clockwise. Stir in swirly patterns. Stir in secret letters. Stir.

Go to toilet.

Add shaved parmesan. Stir. Add more. Stir. Add more. Stir. Add more, hell, when is it going to actually look like it’s made a difference? Add more. Stir. Taste. Can’t taste parmesan. Dump remainder of bag in pan. Stir. Taste. Still can’t taste parmesan. Stir. This batch tastes bland. Stir. Ponder why. Stir. Theorise that a cooked chook from the chook shop on the corner does not containing the delicious seasoning of a Safeway cooked chook, which is what is normally used. Stir. Decided this to be true. Stir. Vote to only use Safeway cooked chooks from here on. Stir. Ponder the obstacle of there being no Safeway nearby whatsoever. Stir. Realise two and a half hours have passed and you’re feeling faint from hunger.

At this point, you’ll have to decided for yourself when it’s done, according to how thick you like your risotto. Either way, if you like it thick or runny, by now it should look fucking disgusting. It should look like the bottom of an old garbage can. It should look like serious vomit. Your arm should hurt like a bitch. You arm should hurt so bad you can’t even lift a fork, you can’t even feed yourself and have no choice but to just not eat this disgusting looking meal you’ve just created. So you slap it in Tupperware containers where it looks even grosser, and walk away.



At about 10.39pm, you’ll remember that you haven’t actually put the containers in the freezer, and you’ll have to get out of your nice snugly warm bed and do so or who knows what it will look like in the morning.

This has been Cooking With Sir Tessa.

Suckers.