I’m still adjusting to life after hospital so I won’t be writing about the conference but I can give you my ‘cricket highlights’: I met lots of ace folks, ate lots of ace food and got to hang out with some (shock horror) non-foodie mates. Hours of Test matches in a non-airconditioned home after having moved from the UK to Australia is possibly character building but really bloody boring. The highlights after the news bulletin, however, is another matter.
It was, of course, good to head home. Lately I find I miss England so I decided to try my hand at making trifle, as one does when one misses home (no, I don’t quite get it either).
To warm up, I deliberately started with a piss-easy recipe: it’s common knowledge I’ve little prowess to speak of in the kitchen – nope, it’s not a schtick, it’s actual fact. Not really something I’m particularly proud of, it just is. There are several boring reasons for this, none of which I feel the need to disclose. Anyway, I couldn’t fully read the recipe @eatnik had posted on ze twitters, so I Googled a few and started with one entitled ‘big berry trifle’.
Fair warning: I got dumped so no more fancy photos: for now, it’ll be my crummy phone ones. Back to the blog’s roots, yo.
To say I mucked around with the quantities and used an inadequately deep dish would be an understatement. Make sure you don’t do the latter!
Line your dish with slices of the Swiss roll. Squish them up and fill any spaces you see.
Top with the sliced strawberries, raspberries and blueberries.
Pour vanilla custard on top of the fruit layer.
Slather raspberry yoghurt over fruit and custard.
I managed to barely fit one more Swiss roll layer on top of all this, then smoothed the whipped cream over said layer. At which point it became clear my dish wasn’t deep enough…dear god, trifle-making is becoming a metaphor for my life…
Enjoy with a cup of strong tea and the promise of a coronary. I was going to have a glass of elderflower cordial but it was too gloomy an afternoon.
It’s been a week and the trifle is still edible. It’s also nicer a couple of days after being assembled.
When I first started food blogging, it was to escape the drudgery and soul-destroying nature of the penultimate job I had: the job sucked but I had wonderful employers who were sympathetic to my chronic illness and I left my job at the door because I wasn’t interested in the politics. I just wanted to be employed in the hope of being ‘cured’ like my father insisted. He told me to stop dreaming, get real and get used to the fact that everyone has jobs they hate. Even as ‘grown-ups’, it amazes me that we still do stupid shit to get our parents off our backs. I’d known for a while I wasn’t well enough to work but I stuck it out for him. I figured, being a dutiful Asian child, I owed it to him.
This may or may not have been coloured by the fact that both my parents are suffering psychiatric nurses. Don’t get me wrong, both my parents are highly skilled at what they do but it’s not for the love or the ‘calling’ or if it was, that part of them died a long time ago. They did what they had to to make sure wankers like me could go to uni and read books for fun and learn weirdo early music instruments and for that, I’ll always be grateful (if unemployable, sorry Mum and Dad).
After a year of antibiotics for recurring infections and general burnout, living became difficult and I had to quit my job. For a month, I tried to get my health back and got back into yoga which according to this vitriolic commenter, makes me even more of a wanker. It did offer some respite: I started sleeping better, physical ailments cleared up and though I was exceedingly poor, I was happy and even cooking, dear god. For people. I can only really cook when I’m happy and healthy which is shit for my poor 9-to-5 partner.
Then I got it into my head that I’d try the employment thing again even though I was barely on the mend, got jerked around by a place I actually really enjoyed working at who dismissed me without due consideration of the fact that people go away over the Christmas holidays. It was devastating: I was just getting back on my feet and I got told they couldn’t afford me and they dumped me there and then. Everyone came back from holidays and as I’d predicted, things picked up. I was asked back. It was a hard decision to not choose to return but the lesson had been learnt the hard way: if I were disposable when things were rough, who was to say it wouldn’t happen again, soon?
I’d worked really, really hard to not let my actual chronic illness get in the way of that job. It wasn’t glamorous and I wasn’t paid well, being but a lowly ‘sandwich artist’, I liked to joke. The clientele were absolutely lovely and it was nice getting back into a routine of working, writing and sometimes being ‘normal’. At times, my bastard insomnia even granted me reprieve.
Sadly some chronic illnesses have periods of aggravation and eventually I did end up in hospital. Sometimes these things can’t be avoided. One of the hot, young nurses upon learning that I had a food blog (I hope he’s reading this: if so, he now knows I think he’s hot, haha) thought it would be hilarious to do a joke blog post on the culinary…’offerings’ that the patients had to experience. For reasons of confidentiality, alas, I cannot divulge the name of said excellent health institution.
I spent a good few weeks in hospital and I am ashamed to admit that upon admission I was of a portly nature (yes, yes, more so than now. Thankfully this gives me immunity from being a hipster, phew). This was largely due to only having one fucking gigantic daily meal and spending twelve hours of the daytime asleep. Not that good for your metabolism. Such only-sleep-and-eat behaviour in hospital was not tolerated. You got yanked out of bed for medication and food at all the ‘right’ times. Initially, being a late riser, I rarely made it down in time for breakfast which had the usual breakfasty type cereal and toast items. They exercised a fair bit of leniency for me, knowing I generally slept like shit.
But you bloody well bet I was there for some serious lunchtime action.
Firstly, the humble sandwich. Alas, no pics.
The sandwiches were freshly made and my personal favourites were – always with brown bread, you understand – cheese, ham and tomato, or chicken and salad (Oxford comma intentional). We did have many communal bean and potato salads available to us but once I saw one lady pick up and immediately put down a piece of salami on a communal plate, I didn’t go near any of those. Shame, I’m rather a fan of the potato salad even though it’s probably not highly nutritious. The thing I liked about sandwiches was if you wanted to take a couple and retreat to the quiet of your room, you were free to do so. A luxury as hospital cafeterias can be fairly depressing places – as some of my devoted visitors will attest.
Generally, for lunches I stuck to sandwiches though on the odd special occasion, I did indulge in fish and chips, sans chips much to the cafeteria serviceperson’s confusion. The fish and the batter were top notch, I kid you not. Succulent fish and crispy batter. Mind you after a few weeks of sandwiches, I think they could have deep fried cardboard and I would have inhaled it.
Ah, but it was at dinnertime that the hospital cafeteria shone. One special evening, I gave in to the epic carb craving and had some indeterminate pasta bake thing. The sauce wasn’t too bad – rich and creamy but the pasta was stodgy and…dare I say, I got my cardboard craving wish granted.
I generally made a policy of avoiding carbs as much as I could and filled up on protein and steamed vegies, as is evidenced by my next few dinners.
Here we have some roast pork with gravy and the requisite steamed vegies.
What about roast lamb with mint jelly and…steamed vegies? Uh yeah, they may have given me too much meat.
On a particularly adventurous day, I sampled the shepherd’s pie. Where was the potato topping, waaaaaaaah???
And the day I succumbed to dessert…being British, I love a good trifle. Give me a slice of that childhood memory any day! The following picture illustrates something that apparently resembles trifle but in what manner, I am yet truly to learn. Admittedly, the medication I was on at the time had a good hand in making me hurl and the appearance of this dish did nothing to quell this unfortunate side effect (I didn’t finish it).
There were a few dishes I didn’t get to photograph such as the butter chicken diluted for the less…intrepid eater and without fail, Sunday evening pavlova for dessert. I was very fortunate that loved ones came to deliver takeaway packages of repute often and reminded me of the culinary delights waiting for me, as I dreamed of the great outdoors…
Hospitals are generally pretty shit places. I am not one to cry in public (thank god for the Anglo-Indian parent raising me to have the stiff upper lip and all that) but a few times, I did turn up to the cafeteria in near tears, overwhelmed by the loneliness of knowing that life was continuing outside and thus highlighting my insignificance. What a fucking cliché, existentialist nausea in soulless hospital, groan. The staff always had a kind smile, a nice word or two and were always happy to give an extra helping of food and kindness if one desired it.
So if any of the staff at said anonymous hospital read this, I want to say thank you for looking after me, for being so caring and for making it feel like it wasn’t just your job to care. Oh and for the limitless supply of Arnotts sweet and dry biscuits (dry was important because often a lot of folks can’t eat much because of treatment), Twinings tea and Bega cheese. Pretty sure I drank my body weight in chamomile and peppermint tea during my stay.
You guys better hide this mug because should I ever have occasion to ‘visit’ again, I can assure you, it will be leaving with me…giggle. Don’t even like dogs that much!
I’m sure all you hip cats are familiar with the Feltron reports, these amazing records of beauty that makes Percy Grainger look sane. Grainger was an obsessive saver and chronicler of his life (it’s myth but the rumour that his cancerous balls preserved in formalin exist somewhere in the Grainger Museum on the Parkville Campus of Melbourne University – dream large guys!). As part of one compulsory musicology subject I took, it required working at the Grainger Museum and doing some Grainger-related research.
One afternoon, I was present when a fifty-year old archive box was emptied out. A small object was wrapped in tissue paper and very carefully unwrapped.
It turned out be a fifty-year-old piece of chocolate bitten into by Grainger’s mother. You could see her teethmarks. Macabre and yet fascinating.
So Feltron ain’t got nothing on him, though we all too can keep similar such statistics by using Daytum. I use Daytum like a mofo but only have displays of things like what I read for public show.
The following zinester, Deth P. Sun of Berkeley, CA has made a zine that to me was what I imagine an analogue Feltron report to look like – it is an obsessive document from September 2009 to February 2010 chronicling what the author has eaten in illustrated form. Both obsessive, a little unsettling and inspiring an odd sort of protectiveness for someone I don’t know and will never ever meet.
In some sort of solidarity, I thought it’d be fun to post partial contents of the pantry of the place I currently call home. Getting a glimpse into a bad cookie-foodie’s pantry is a bit…confessional. Try not to judge me…too harshly.
So is the zine any good? Yes! The illustrations while candid are adorable and carefully drawn and it’s pretty text-sparse given it’s a visual record. See below for an example of a page that typically outlines the author’s consumption which begs some assumptions and questions – he does not really eat that much, or dine out a lot. It makes me wonder just how much this reveals about the author – is he not affluent or struggles financially? Is he not fond of dining out? Does he (and this is uttered in genuine concern) have issues with eating and perhaps not eat as much as he should?
It’s a bit of a different story when he’s on what looks to be holidays and I confess I am relieved to see a lot more entries for the days on the following page.
An utterly charming zine, purchased at zine Mecca Sticky Institute in the Degraves St subway (conveniently located across from Cup of Truth, mmm…). I did buy it a while back for $4 so it might not be around anymore but I highly recommend it if you can find it.
It’s a really meticulous, intimate snapshot into an artist’s life and particularly commendable is the zinester really putting themselves out there for intense scrutiny. That often makes for the best art, would you not agree?