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.

Russian Tidbits

There is a shop near my house by the same name - that has all manner of interesting yumbly things. Walking past always reminds me of the smell of my Granpa's kitchen - strange smelly socks cheese and cured meats.

After Grandma passed away and her Swiss-german style weiner schnitzel reign that my brother and I enjoyed for so long, came to a healthy close, our traditional family meal became simple rye bread (always with carraway seeds) served with cheeses and a variety of cold sliced meats or sausage.

Oh the sausage! Usually an amazing heart stopping variety that was a smoky concoction of unknown animal variety, spices and garlic that would repeat on you for hours and no doubt be "enjoyed" by all you encountered for the rest of the day.

Granpa was Polish, but he was international in his tastes, so I am yet to identify what kind particular sausage this was. But every time I go to Russian Tidbits I can smell it in the air. Unfortunately I don't speak a scrap of Russian and the place can get pretty jam packed with short but large folk who can be a little intimidating (especially when it seems their only method of communication is yelling at the top of their hoary voices). So I am yet to overcome my crippling shyness to ask for help in selecting and preparing my smallgoods. I usually get completely overwhelmed by the smells and noise (its all a little too close to home) and snatch some cherry jam before I escape out the door and seek refuge on a park bench where I can have quiet sit down to recover.

Anyway. This, by way of random segue, is a little tribute to some of my favourite russian tidbits, in no particular order. None of which are actually edible.

Of course topping the list is my Matryoska pictured above. I had a little a set of three growing up (that was I think was actually Swiss) Unfortunately one of the dogs got a hold of it and destroyed all but the littlest one. My repressed mourning lead me to collect a few "lost" individuals at garage sales and markets along the way (but they are buried in a box somewhere that will not be located). I remember also being obsessed with this clip from Sesame Street. To me the idea of 10 nesting dolls was the ultimate, so I was pretty thrilled when I finally got this set of seven.

And I've had to fight my virgo nature and refrain from pulling the sticker off the bottom.

Next are some great children's books I've also collected over time. I love folk art, and these in particular have such great illustrations.

The first is based on the 1835 poem by Aleksandr Pushkin, published in 1969.






















The story is a tale of woe with a simple moral of those who are greedy end up with nothing. The nagging, never satisfied wife really encapsulates the "fish-wife" stereotype. Therefore, not necessarily a book I'd recommend to read to impressionable minds wanting positive role models.

But the water colour art is beautiful, and the palette timeless.

Second is the classic Peter and the Wolf.
















The illustrations are by an English artist Alan Howard, of whom I can find little information on the interwebs. But I guess we can't all be famous.






















Nevertheless his art is peppered with sweet folky motifs and a wolf who seems more hapless than big and bad. Petulant Peter gets his wolf - with due acknowledgment to the little bird who helps. Grandfather is suitably worried and gnome like. Although the hunters arrive at the last minute the fate of the wolf is relegated to being taken to the zoo - which though unlikely, I must remind myself is a classic childrens' tale (therefore generally completely unsuitable for modern children a la Brothers Grimm). So no room for a sensitive yet realistic denouemont here.

And staying on the petulant theme is this little gem:






















Essentially a Russian version of the classic gingerbread man story. He gets made, he escapes (several times) he get's all obnoxious about it and pays the ultimate sacrifice for pride and gets eaten. But the art is very nice. My favourites are the down-and-out hippie wolf (who reminds me of this guy) and the honey stealing bear (who could have stepped out of a Maurice Sendak book). Copyright info here.






















And last but not least is Vinni Puh. I adore Winnie the Pooh (or Winnie ther Pooh as Christopher Robin would stipulate). But it has to be "naked pooh" ie. E.H. Shepard - not the awful Disney stuff that makes him to be a pathetic idiot (The difference between simple and simplistic seems to be completely missed by some folk). Anyway, that is a tirade for another day.

Ample people before me have espoused the supreme merits of the Russian animated version and I would just like to include my voice amongst theirs. Quite apart from the exquisite and emotive art, Vinni himself is alive with vim and verve. Again very different from A.A Milne's subtle bear of very little brain, but delightful nevertheless. His machine-gun patois is a little astonishing at first, but soon enough natural and charming (even without subtitles). And the voice of Piglet is perfect.

Not quite the real thing... but one step on a journey of a thousand miles

In 2005 my Dad took me on a family pilgrimage back to Europe. Whilst in Poland my great Aunt introduced me to her biscuit of choice, the simple but delectable 'rose filled rogaliki'. Now I've never been particularly fond of rose flavoured foods (I suspect caused by an overdose of lack lustre turkish delight) but these little tidbits really wove their magic on me. In fact I can pretty much blame my travelling 'excess baggage' on the number of these I scoffed on my very short Polish stay.

As can be expected - being long back on the other side of the world, I've been craving their delicately floral shortbreadishness ever since. Now initially I was not too despondent, because living in an area of melbourne with a surfeit of European cake shops, I assumed tracking them down wouldn't be too hard - or at least something to scratch the itch. Alas after much searching (and sampling) none to my knowledge make these particular style treats. Not being able to speak or write Polish made googling a recipe for some morsel I did not even know the name of at that stage, actually started to give rise to a sense of panic - as you know, a spoilt palate is forever tainted... until accidentally and unintentionally I stumbled upon this photo while archiving some files - and TA DA! The name of my secret culinary desire was revealled.

There followed a scramble to translate the recipes the internet did finally proffer. Unfortunately the Polish translation engines I found only produced indecipherable hieroglyphics (largely due to the colloquial nature of a cook's instructions I later discovered). Anyone I knew and met with a slightly wog name was grilled about whether they or anyone they knew spoke or wrote Polish or happened to imbibe vast amounts of Polish vodka thereby having the requisite translation skills needed to bring me closer to my goal. I was about to insist my younger brother prostrate himself to his abusive (but suspected Polish - bless them) elderly neighbours - when by chance the friend of a friend dropped by and OMG not only spoke and read Polish but had her mother immediately on the on the phone to give sage advice and cooking directions! Bless you Al.

I was saved.

And pictured above is the fruits of this near 2 year quest. Whilst not quite on the money (in a moment of weakness I decided to have a go sans rose paste substituting plum, apricot and boysenberry) it is my first attempt at shortbread. Fears of overworking the dough and burning the jam filling were unjustified. Simple yet tasty, they are my metaphoric base camp, from which I hope to ascend to a delicately floral shortbreadish summit. Onward and upward chaps!