Pecan Sandies

I discovered a jar of pecans whilst I was cleaning out the pantry last week, so I decided to try out a recent recipe from my favourite gastro porn site.

(I'll spare you the details of my other pantry clean out cooking foray - though I remain unconvinced that quinoa, beetroot and pomegranate can't be friends)

Knowing that shortbread is finikity and having learnt my lesson from cooking blunders past, I followed the instructions TO THE LETTER. Or to the millimeter as it was in this case.

I'm not sure if my metal ruler is technically food safe, but I can attest that my biscuits were 1 inch square (+ or - 1/16th of an inch).

Obviously my keen quality assurance team (jms) found this tolerance suitable for taste testing purposes, and declared them a success.

I even managed to refrain from rerolling the scraps (god forbid the structural integrity of one's shortbread be compromised). I'm glad I did, because the texture of these biscuits was so light I swear a host of angels could be heard singing with each mouthful.

This did leave some less than photographic odds and ends that after yours truly was rendered too ill to cram any more dough into her mouth, were cooked and the QA department promptly devoured them in the name of Total Quality Management.

I'm not a huge fan of pecans - but I am a sucker for recipes that require toasted nuts. Like freshly ground coffee or baked bread, the smell of roasted nuts is one of those smells that I think makes a house feel like a home. And in this case, it really does turn a wee biscuit in to something not just nice, but delicious.

The simple act of enriching the oils with a slight caramelisation seems to take recipes to another level. That little extra step makes me feel like I am becoming an accomplished cook, and not just someone who throws stuff together when hunger dictates. Try toasting your pine nuts lightly next time you make pesto. Or add some gently toasted slivered almonds to a simple salad. Brownies (not that heaven needs improvement) do taste a little more special if you roast your hazelnuts or whatever first I am told. And I promise, the next time I make banana bread, to wave those walnut suckers near an open flame, just to see what happens.

For the sake of quality control purposes of course.























However, as I have informed my best beloved, this cook is on biscuit and cake hiatus until the delivery of a new mixer. So there.

I'm sorry folks, but an ultimatum has become necessary.

I am completely sick of wrangling my delapidated and partially melted mixer into submission. Sick of the splattering of crap all over the kitchen and the delectable smell of burning motor grease wafting throughout the house. And no, I don't want a replacement. I want one of those over priced and over blown ones that that sit along side Nigella's boobs and Jamie's "cor blimeys".

Shiny. Expensive. Cobalt Blue.

Kitchen closed 'till further notice.

Wordless Wednesday

To B or not to B

Whilst hanging out recently with my 3 yr old BF, she brought to my attention that I didn't have a Barbie doll of my own. She further suggested that if I got a my own Barbie doll, I could come over to her house and play. I was immediately smitten with the idea. Why can't a 30 something have her own Barbie?

While I know there is a raging discussion (that well intended feminists started before I was even born) about the appropriateness of Ms. B as a toy for impressionable minds. To the extent that she had a fairly extensive makeover (if going from a Dolly Parton to a Dita Von Teese bust size counts).

Unfortunately, I think the doll's demerits have been completely eclipsed by real life Barbie doll role models such as Ms. Hilton, Lohan et. al. and their questionable behaviour that is splattered all over the show.

My little friend's mother was denied a Barbie when she was growing up by her staunchly feminist mother (that should possibly have a capital F). And she in turn, intended to maintain a Barbie free zone – but eventually cracked after a protracted and difficult toilet training 'negotiation'.

However, after much discussion, we the adults have concluded (post purchase justification aside) that Barbie is OK. Not great, but also not psychologically damaging to a worrying extent.

Indeed, I survived a childhood beset with Barbie. Apart from my Lego (which I still have) Barbie proved to be the toy that got the most play longevity of all my toys. Furthermore, as a 16 year old I was markedly upset when the olds gave away my collection (without consultation) to a smaller relative. Jms and his brothers all turned out pretty good and they had (by all reports) a better collection than I (they had the spa AND the convertible).

In retrospect, I personally only developed body image issues after being given a (well intended) Dolly magazine subscription in my tweens. Jms, as far as I know, doesn't have any Barbie body issue problems (apart from a strange fixation with blue eye shadow). I admit that it is a bit of a merchandising flood gate – with matching outfits and vacuous DVDs by the truckload, but at least it gives you a moments break from the Wiggles.

But as the story predictably goes, I found myself wandering a large toy shop (looking for cheap Lego as it happens) when I found myself caught in the vortex of the pink isle. So pink it is visceral - your teeth ache with its artificial sweetness and you feel kinda claustrophobic. It is like crack for little girls and it makes parents wish they were colour blind.

The nearly bare, post-Christmas shelves showed a smattering of what I guess was second or even third tier dolls – with the exception of a handful of an "exclusive" design. A long haired temptress replete with butterfly wings and a layered blue and lilac ball gown. If I could have specified the kind of doll I'd be in to, they couldn't have done a better job (unless the dress was actually designed by Vivienne Westwood). But ultimately I walked away (read: dragged by husband).

I know I should really just wait until the op-shop down the road reopens and get a pre loved doll. It would certainly help my savings - and fly under the radar of Jms' House Deposit Plan of Ultimate Fiscal Restraint. But there was a certain something about that doll that I can't get off my mind.

I was trawling though my inspiration folder yesterday and found the following picture:






















(Many apologies, but I can't find a source for this)

So far I have fought the Blythe phenomenon tooth and nail, but as a crazy cat lady in the making, a Nikki doll is DEFINITELY on my wish list.

Obviously at its going rate on ebay (and the current list of useful items around the house that badly need replacing) it is an understatement to call it an extravagance. Simply out of the question. Not to mention that whole economic downturn thingy.

God knows why I feel I need it, but it does make a new Barbie seem a lot less over the top. Unfortunately I'd be getting a lot less aesthetic bang for my buck. A quick google image search reveals that the Barbie Mariposa Queen is just a little more 'gauche' than the 'haute' couture of my rose coloured recollection.

Dare I say garish?

Photo courtesy of Amazon.

Perhaps it was an overload of "fairy princess" games over the holidays. But then again, didn't Dolce & Gabbana do a range of over the top butterfly dresses a few years back? And Galliano and Lacroix can't seem to help vomiting lurid silk organza at every turn...

I actually have no idea what my point is here.

But I do think it might involve wanting to brush synthetic hair with a teeny comb and co-ordinate a small wardrobe. The pure escapism of matching shoes and handbags, ball gowns and up-dos without an unflattering mirror or fake tan booth in sight.

Dressing up is fun, but as an adult it seems to require so much more of a production (and hollywood tape). Barbie doesn't have to stress about underarm hair or a VPL.

And she doesn't get offended when ditched for a different game or lunch.

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday... last for 2008!

Taken in Norway by Jms

Dinner? ... "I want House!" said the 3 yr old

The lead up to Christmas is always a maelstrom of activity in everyone's lives - so I won't make excuses for not updating, but I will apologise for the unreturned phonecalls and the lack of Christmas cards to my nearest and dearest.

Nevertheless, two days before Christmas I decided I REALLY did want to make a gingerbread house.

My first, though only technically. Mum and I used to make them each year as homage to my European ancestry. However, I tended to play the role of asthetic adviser and thematic consultant. I had never actually baked, assembled and iced one on my own before.

I know IKEA sell kits, but that's just cheating as far as I am concerned. It certainly doesn't allow for the addition of mezzanine levels, juliet balconies and lighting systems.

Jms did request a Barcelona Pavilion, as we were spending Christmas in the company of designophiles.

But as it was my first attempt, I figured in the name of disaster mitigation I ought to stick to the script, and so went for the classic but basic gabled cottage design.

As you may see from the picture above, basic did however go so far as to include a table repleat with a bowl of fruit and teacups fashioned from icing. It also incuded the obligatory cat on a mat in front of the open fireplace, chintz carpet, lace curtains and paintings on the walls. Unfortunately the other photos my dearest beloved took while I was splitting the atom for the third time that day, were (ahem) out of focus. So you will just have to take my word for it's magnificence.

Better still it survived the 1 and 1/2 hour car trip down the coast on Christmas eve better than I did. After 5 hours icing it, I was a little dismayed that the host did not just want to admire it but had pulled out plates and cake forks before I'd even got it out of the box. Fortunately I managed to beat the hungry hordes off till the following day, so they could at least admire Jms' electronic work that night after the sun had gone down.

I'll try and hit up the other guests for some photos that were taken before its (energetic) demolition. Or even some of the post apocalyptic site - as there was something very poignant about the half destroyed house with it's European stamp "paintings". A bit Dresden post World War II. All it was missing was some tanks fashioned from icing and an advancing army of gingerbread men.

Unfortunately it was very well received by the other guests both asthetically and gastronimically, and as per usual, I am the victim of my own success. I have already had requests for next year including multiple storeys and MORE lights. Even the suggestion of roman ruins. But at least I have another 12 months to decided whether or not it is to be corinthian, doric or ionic columns.

Berlin to Bergen

Been back for almost a week now - long enough to know that the honeymoon is over, but not long enough to be over the jet lag nor to have finished tackling the giant pile of laundry!

In a month filled with daily paradigm shifts, its hard to distill the experience into bite sized chunks. But I guess my not-so-short list of highlights include:






















Firstly, whilst in Berlin...

Potato dumplings the size of tennis balls at the Alte Fritz Kartoffelhaus.

The subtle but exquisite Martin Gropius Bau and the Richard Avedon exhibition contained within.

















Ampelmann, amplemann, ampelmann (the East German pedestrian stop and go symbols). I (heart) amplemann.

The Jeff Koons exhibit at the Neue National Gallerie (and the freebie Blue Flower Balloon around the corner at Potsdamer Platz)






















Marvelling that a 6 pack of beer was cheaper than a 6 pack of water at the supermarket.

Seeing Eis bears (Knut!), Pandas and Flamingos all for the first time in one day (my head nearly exploded)

Snaffling the last Comme des Garcon wool jacket in the bedlam at H&M (much to the dismay of several other shoppers).

Walking, walking and more walking around Berlin's broad and stately streets.

The consumption of many berliners

(Ein Pfannkuchen wenden Sie sich bitte!)

















German MTV (and subsequently addiction to Deichkind's "Arbeit Nervt")

Tracing the scar of that infamous wall with our feet, only barely being able to comprehend its impact. Astounded that the "wall" is just one of many epoch defining moments in the city's incredible history.

















Playing with particles at the "Welt Machine" - an interactive exhibit about the building of the Large Hadron Collider at CERN.

(Nothing like observing an animated discussion about sub-atomic physics between a cute German physicist and my husband to get me all steamed up). Now that's my idea of a threesome.

















Overhearing a tour guide saying Berlin is the greatest city on earth, and quietly agreeing with him.

Then on to Copenhagen...

















Smushi at the Royal Cafe (a cross between traditional Danish smørrebrød and sushi).

The fish that got away (AKA the most wonderful pair of bright blue, knee high leather boots). Alas, not to be.

Shop after shop of to die for fashion, furniture and homewares, some more interestingly named than others.

















Being given shit for asking for orange juice with my steak by the Muscle Mary barman at a local pub in Denmark. Fair enough.

The BEST florist shops I have ever seen - Their sheer ingenuity (when winter makes fresh flowers prohibitively expensive or just plain unavailable)

Finding the Aladdin's cave of haberdashery among the tiny cobbled streets.






















And finally, when in Norway, and the picturesque town of Bergen...















Snow, snow and more snow on our arrival.
















Eating ice crystals. I love snow.

Sun, snow and sea.

















Sparklers in the snow on Sotra Island.















Tandem sledding down the hill beside the house. Very romantic (in a scary, squeally kind of way). Did I mention that I love snow?















Bergen op-shops (oh to have a suitcase big enough for all the great stuff we found).

So many shops filled with exquisite Norwegian handicrafts. No 'Made in China' here thanks.

















Glow-in-the-dark frisbee with Darcy in the snow and the inevitable snowball fight.















Snowman hate crimes.

















Following deer tracks in the snow, taken aback by the stillness and ghostliness of the forest that quickly encompassed me.

















Refraining (only just) from asking the MIL to sell all our stuff and put the animals on a plane. The Weebl's got it wrong (no offense Kenya), but Norway is the best place on earth.

(And apparently it's even better in summer)