A fraction of our 1 year anniversary shop at Costco.

Bribery.

After the Cookies & Cream Cheesecakes surprise in WIP last week, I'm expecting a whole heap of briefs to come in from the lovely folk at The Age.

I'm a bad social drinker, but some wheat beer with my chops goes down ok.

I am beyond unsophisticated when it comes to social drinks. 

I don't do coffee. An ex-boyfriend tried to make me like it many years back by forcing espressos loaded with sugar down my throat. He thought if he did this enough, I would learn to tolerate it. He also thought he'd stomp on my foot one time to prove that my toe wasn't broken - part of his 'Learn to Tolerate Domestic Violence' campaign, I suppose. Very innovative diagnostic skills for a med student...He was a dick.

And ever since the 1st time i got drunk on Stronbow's and $2 champagne at the after-party for Chess the musical in year 10, and woke up covered head-to-toe in vomit (of which i couldn't be sure was mine or a collaborative effort) I can't face beer, wine or champagne. They all taste the same. Although, dessert wine is different. I can inhale the stuff. It tastes more like Ribena than alcohol.

Last night, we got back into our Nordic cooking with Jane Lawson's 'Veal Cutlets with Wheat Beer Sauce and Vegetable Strudel'. The strudel was impeccable thanks to Don's superior puff pastry handling skills (under Jess's watchful eye) and although I did neglect to season the vegetables during the process (small oversight), we resolved the issue during post production. The combination of Hoegaarden, raisins and honey in the sauce was so phenomenal that I didn't even get one flashback of the spew chunks lodged between my way too shameless adolescent cleavage 15 years ago. 

If fancy juniper berries, beetroot and caraway seeds, you should really get your hands on this book.

 

Oink. Delicious.

"Maaaa"

People generally greet each other with a 'hi' or 'hello'. In our family, we say "g'day" with a "baaa" or a "bleat". This derived from the peculiar barking noise "be be grrr" my dad used to make when imitating the miniature Schnauzer.

The "baaa" era came to be due to the residual effect my mum's Polish soup had on those (particularly within our household) who had yet to develop the barley/bean/lentil/cabbage enzymes. When dad got a wind of this, he thought the obvious way to exchange greetings and mock our ever-present flatulence issue was the same way methane-producers of the world would address each other, with a "baaa".

This salutation further matured (after all, adults making animal noises at each other both in person and on the phone is so mature) when dad discovered that Don's parents had pet sheep that looked like goats. Now, much to my mother's embarrassment and the general confusion of those within earshot, greetings in public places are randomly generated barnyard sounds interchanged with the odd "Hi there".

Having run out of back-up lamb one weekend, and not being so keen to try Massaman dog, the next obvious option was goat. We found the Railway Goat Curry in the Gourmet Traveller  Best-Ever Chefs' Recipes mag, bought a big leg of goat, whipped up some scrumptious ghee-ful pilaf and "Voilà", or rather "Maaaa".

 

The salt drenching can continue. Phew.

PT said to go the Wagyu Burger at Cafe Vue, so we did. I thought $15 was a touch pricey but my lordy lord...this humble fare was delicious and surprisingly filling too. The home made tomato sauce came in a cute little juice bottle and was so tasty, I practically inhaled the stuff and the chips were perfect; good portion, perfectly seasoned and cute presentation. Domus and I had been concerned of late that either a) Melbourne restaurants had really dropped the ball or b) we'd screwed up our palettes from salt-overload, but i'm pleased to say that Cafe Vue and their lovely staff (who don't have botox smiles plastered to their face or feel the need to refill your water between sips like the waiters at Pan Asia) have revived my Melbourne-dining-libido. Many thanks.

Sometimes the vessels mum uses for her care packages puts me off my food.

Maybe she's afraid she'll wee on me.

The lady next to me in RPM never her turns her freaking dial. I'm trying to figure her out. Maybe she has no muscles in her legs or butt? Perhaps she's incontinent and afraid she'll wet herself (and myself) if her resistance is up too high and she has to exert herself? If this is the case than I suppose I can excuse her, but she should really let me know so I don't disrespect her the way I do now. Seriously, where does she get off dressing like a cyclist when she rides like a pussy? Perhaps getting off is in fact her mission. With the resistance so low, she's bouncing about in her seat so much she surely gets off at least 3 times in a 45 minute session. I'm going to listen out for the squeal tomorrow morning. She'd better wipe her seat good and proper at the end of the class.