Thursday, November 24, 2005
Skin a bunny-rabbit
Dorset Deep Dish Rabbit PieHalf a kilo of rabbit fillets, seasoned flour, fresh sage or thyme and streaky bacon; breadcrumbs, rind of one lemon, one egg, pepper, salt and one cup of milk
Preheat oven to 160°. Dredge rabbit fillets in seasoned flour an pack tighly in a deep pie dish, no more than two layers deep. Snip bacon pieces over the rabbit and scatter with freshly-picked herb leaves.
Pour in milk to just about cover the rabbit. Mix Breadcrumbs, lemon rind and egg, season, and press firmly over the meat to form a crust. Bake for 1½ hours.
YUM.
With thanks to Artbyelaine, The Collingwood Children's Farm Farmers' Market and The Bible.
Monday, November 21, 2005
I want to ride my bicycle...
A few months ago, right, well, half a year ago, I was happily riding my bike to and fro the workplace. It's only about 20 minutes or so, a coupla hills, a park, some tramlines and I'm there. It takes about the same amount of time as driving—unfortunately for my route, PT just doesn't cut it, and couldn't unless someone were to drill a whopping great tunnel under the Exhibtion Building. It's kinda sad, because I love me my PT, ever since that rockin' LGB train-set I had as a little skander. I have been a slut for infrastructure ever since. [Note to self: locate old train-set.][Note to LGB: Why the fuck do you need a massive flash intro with techno soundtrack for a manufacturer of model trains?] But, taking a tram (yes, non-Melbournites, a tram!) would take me about 40 minutes and entail at least 2 changes. Shite.
So, earlier in the year, I was cycling. Doesn't that word sound genteel? All boater hats and picnics. I didn't have a pushie of my own, and my olds had just moved house, and unearthed a really nice bike, a Giant mountainbike, that my mother had given my father a few years earlier in the hope he might do exercise with other parts of his body besides his elbow. No luck there.
So this bike is in very good nick (hardly used, one gentleman onwner) and about the right size for me. Bingo. I drop round to my olds to pick it up before the removalists do and find my brother has taken it and attached a kids chair to the back. No biggie, he's got a bike of his own, a road bike which he rides around Port Phillip Bay no less, a bike that reportedly set him back $8k no less. I'll get this one soon.
Eventually, after a shitload of hassling and finally turning up at his place and pretty much demanding this (let's get with the program here) MTB, I wrestle it back from him, to a soundtrack of his wife harping on, in another room but well within earshot, about how I should buy one of my own as they only cost about 400 bucks. At this point it is important to note that I had my father's blessing in this; something like "Your brother already has his own bike, yes, you can use mine, just go and bloody get it off him. It's not his, it's mine"
So there I am for a good coupla months, little flashing lights and all, pedalling off to work and back. Until the horrific incident that required a podiatrist (shout out to the lovely Anne-Marie if you're reading this), ergo no cycling for a while. It's coming up to the coldest months n shit weather n I'd worked out how to get a lift to work.
At some stage during injury time, the brother rings up to borrow this bike—his being way too flash and expensive to want to put a kiddie seat on.
"Sure" I tell him, and dutifully let him borrow the bicycle one Sunday morning. Monday arvo he asks if he can return it. "Sure" I say, "You know where the key is". Like you do.
It's there when I get home. I don't pay much attention to it. It's cold n wet n I want to get inside to the warmth and the red wine and pallet full of DVDs I have to watch for work.
About a week later, as I wander past, I notice that the bike has suddenly sprouted a pannier. Odd, why would my brother want a pannier when what he wants it for is a kiddie seat? So I look closer. The colours look the same, silver and blue. Yep, it's a giant. Something's odd. The grips are all old and worn; there's suddenly a bell; the clips for the lights are all in the wrong spots. He's returned the wrong bike.
I shrug my shoulders, and mention it to the olds the next time I see them:
"Frére has returned the wrong bike"
"What do you mean the wrong bike?"
"It's a different bike. It looks really similar, but it's not the same bike"
My mind drifted back to the time I first collected this bike from him, and thought, oh well, they must have gone and bought another bike for me so they could keep the other one. Crafty. Not too worried at this stage as it's still wintry and I sure as hell aint riding for another coupla weeks at least.
And then he rings up: "Hi Skander, can I borrow the bike again, I want to take jeune nephew for a ride."
"Sure" I say, "But it's not the same bike."
"what?"
"It's the new one you returned, not Dad's one"
"What do you mean?"
"It's the bike you returned to my place, not Dad's one that you borrowed."
"But I returned Dad's one"
"Oh no you didn't"
And so it progressed, as any conversation between brothers does. Some of you will know more about that than others, I'm sure. And so he's swearing black and blue that he returned the correct bike, and that therefore, the bike at my place, I dunno, just morphed into a similar looking but very different bicycle. Or, his logic runs, someone has broken into my house, taken one bike out of the two that are standing there next to my front door, leaving the other one, and then come back and replaced the bike they have stolen with a similar looking one, still leaving the old green Raleigh that doesn't get used, and locked the gate again on the way out.
This, strangely enough doesn't make sense to me. But I argue and get no where. And eventually it results in one of those huge family arguments where everyone has something to say and an opinion to contribute and no-one gets anywhere and everyone is talking over one another. You know the drill.
Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago. I reckon I'll give this imposter bike a go—I haven't got anything else now have I? So off I trundle, and my lord, this bike is shit. The gears don't work, the deraillieur won't even look at pulling the chain in the way I want it to, the handlebars are loose (and of course I haven't packed the allen keys) and I realise that it's a woman's MTB and about 4 sizes too small so I can pedal like hell and hardly get anywhere. True.
So, it's a dud. It's no use to me, and probably only needs a good hour or two with the mechanic and I might be able to get some money for it. But it means I have to go out and get an new bike for myself. And where oh where do I begin?
He still swears he left the correct bike at my place. I'm lucky I mentioned it to the olds as early as I did or my story would have no credibility. No credibility? Like supposing someone broke into a house, stole a bike and replaced it with a replica has credibility. Ha!
So, earlier in the year, I was cycling. Doesn't that word sound genteel? All boater hats and picnics. I didn't have a pushie of my own, and my olds had just moved house, and unearthed a really nice bike, a Giant mountainbike, that my mother had given my father a few years earlier in the hope he might do exercise with other parts of his body besides his elbow. No luck there.
So this bike is in very good nick (hardly used, one gentleman onwner) and about the right size for me. Bingo. I drop round to my olds to pick it up before the removalists do and find my brother has taken it and attached a kids chair to the back. No biggie, he's got a bike of his own, a road bike which he rides around Port Phillip Bay no less, a bike that reportedly set him back $8k no less. I'll get this one soon.
Eventually, after a shitload of hassling and finally turning up at his place and pretty much demanding this (let's get with the program here) MTB, I wrestle it back from him, to a soundtrack of his wife harping on, in another room but well within earshot, about how I should buy one of my own as they only cost about 400 bucks. At this point it is important to note that I had my father's blessing in this; something like "Your brother already has his own bike, yes, you can use mine, just go and bloody get it off him. It's not his, it's mine"
So there I am for a good coupla months, little flashing lights and all, pedalling off to work and back. Until the horrific incident that required a podiatrist (shout out to the lovely Anne-Marie if you're reading this), ergo no cycling for a while. It's coming up to the coldest months n shit weather n I'd worked out how to get a lift to work.
At some stage during injury time, the brother rings up to borrow this bike—his being way too flash and expensive to want to put a kiddie seat on.
"Sure" I tell him, and dutifully let him borrow the bicycle one Sunday morning. Monday arvo he asks if he can return it. "Sure" I say, "You know where the key is". Like you do.
It's there when I get home. I don't pay much attention to it. It's cold n wet n I want to get inside to the warmth and the red wine and pallet full of DVDs I have to watch for work.
About a week later, as I wander past, I notice that the bike has suddenly sprouted a pannier. Odd, why would my brother want a pannier when what he wants it for is a kiddie seat? So I look closer. The colours look the same, silver and blue. Yep, it's a giant. Something's odd. The grips are all old and worn; there's suddenly a bell; the clips for the lights are all in the wrong spots. He's returned the wrong bike.
I shrug my shoulders, and mention it to the olds the next time I see them:
"Frére has returned the wrong bike"
"What do you mean the wrong bike?"
"It's a different bike. It looks really similar, but it's not the same bike"
My mind drifted back to the time I first collected this bike from him, and thought, oh well, they must have gone and bought another bike for me so they could keep the other one. Crafty. Not too worried at this stage as it's still wintry and I sure as hell aint riding for another coupla weeks at least.
And then he rings up: "Hi Skander, can I borrow the bike again, I want to take jeune nephew for a ride."
"Sure" I say, "But it's not the same bike."
"what?"
"It's the new one you returned, not Dad's one"
"What do you mean?"
"It's the bike you returned to my place, not Dad's one that you borrowed."
"But I returned Dad's one"
"Oh no you didn't"
And so it progressed, as any conversation between brothers does. Some of you will know more about that than others, I'm sure. And so he's swearing black and blue that he returned the correct bike, and that therefore, the bike at my place, I dunno, just morphed into a similar looking but very different bicycle. Or, his logic runs, someone has broken into my house, taken one bike out of the two that are standing there next to my front door, leaving the other one, and then come back and replaced the bike they have stolen with a similar looking one, still leaving the old green Raleigh that doesn't get used, and locked the gate again on the way out.
This, strangely enough doesn't make sense to me. But I argue and get no where. And eventually it results in one of those huge family arguments where everyone has something to say and an opinion to contribute and no-one gets anywhere and everyone is talking over one another. You know the drill.
Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago. I reckon I'll give this imposter bike a go—I haven't got anything else now have I? So off I trundle, and my lord, this bike is shit. The gears don't work, the deraillieur won't even look at pulling the chain in the way I want it to, the handlebars are loose (and of course I haven't packed the allen keys) and I realise that it's a woman's MTB and about 4 sizes too small so I can pedal like hell and hardly get anywhere. True.
So, it's a dud. It's no use to me, and probably only needs a good hour or two with the mechanic and I might be able to get some money for it. But it means I have to go out and get an new bike for myself. And where oh where do I begin?
He still swears he left the correct bike at my place. I'm lucky I mentioned it to the olds as early as I did or my story would have no credibility. No credibility? Like supposing someone broke into a house, stole a bike and replaced it with a replica has credibility. Ha!
Friday, November 18, 2005
odds n ends
I cried at Neighbours last night.
and
Ned Zelic: dude, what's doing? I don't reckon you could'nt've had your knees any further apart. Shave around your goatee and straighten up and I shall accept your slavic testosterone seeping through my screen with much more readily.
and
Ned Zelic: dude, what's doing? I don't reckon you could'nt've had your knees any further apart. Shave around your goatee and straighten up and I shall accept your slavic testosterone seeping through my screen with much more readily.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
La Salle d'Attente
Friday, November 04, 2005
It's all about the sunnies
Thank god that's all over. But golly it was fun while it lasted.
The statistics:
The statistics:
- 216 stubbies of Melbourne Bitter
- 48 bottles of San Pellegrino
- 30 regular bottles of Trilogy
- 6 Magnums of Trilogy
- 1 bottle of Pimms No 1 Cup
- 3 bottles of lemonade
- 2 bottles of dry ginger ale
- 4 bottles os Schweppes 'lemon lime & bitters'
- mint, cucumber and ornage to garnish
- 20 bags of ice
- 2 grams of cocaine
- 162 baby chicken, coriander and almond sandwiches
- 36 mini prawn and butter lettuce baguettes with a lime mayo
- 60 sticky BBQ pork rice paper rolls with hoi sin & peach dipping sauce
- 60 middle-eastern spiced lamb meatballs with red capsicum dipping sauce
- 60 mini felafel with hummus, tahini & yoghurt sauce wrapped in flatbread
- 3 Mediterranean moulles
- 2 sides of smokin' Tom Cooper's smoked salmon, smoked the day before
- 1 fillet of beef
- 1 bag of chips
- 1 market umbrella
- 1 tressle table
- 2 table cloths
- 50 champagne flutes
- 2 red tin buckets
- 1 red tin jug
- 100 plastic cups
- 4 eskies
- 1 bunch of yellow roses
- 2 packets of serviettes
- 4 platters
- 2 car spaces
- 38 satisfied punters
- 32 degrees celsius
- 10 horse races
- 1 historic event
