Spent an hour at the markets this morning blowing money on useless frippery like fruit, vegetables and bread. And a bit of bacon for breakfast, and a corn fed chook. All the stuff that you don't really need to bother with each week if you live on takeaway.
I don't often visit the seafood counters at the markets because they look like mayhem. They really seem like a good way to get an elbow in the guts or a few squashed toes. However, I have been eyeing off the scallops for a while, and last night, I finally got to the scallops section of my Stephanie Alexander cook book. Her cook book bible is about 5 inches thick, and it's organised alphabetically, so scallops are about 3 months reading from the front.
So I bought a kilo of scallops. I thought I was getting scallops in the half shell, but it turned out that I was getting fresh out of the ocean, uncleaned, unopened scallops. Good thing Stephanie explained how to clean the little buggers, as I had never thought of it before. I've cleaned plenty of mussels, and bashed the odd fresh abalone, and I've watched oysters being shucked in front of me, but I have never seen a fresh scallop.
Here's the thing - when you open them up, the scallop is attached to both halves of the shell with a membrane that looks like two jellyfish - a topside jellyfish and an underneath jellyfish. They peel off the shell easily enough, but cleaning the actual membrane from the scallop is tricky work. I spent a lot of time with the tap running and me ripping membranes off under the running water. After that, it was time to cut off the guts and the poo sack, which is a nasty looking black sack (not to be confused with the roe). That took plenty of time as well.
After cleaning, I had a huge bag of junk (shell, guts and membranes) and a small bread plate covered in maybe two dozen scallops. Given that they only cost $6 a kilo, I am not complaining. All I did was sprinkle on a bit of olive oil, squeeze on a touch of lime juice and then bunged them in the fridge whilst I got on with peeling the prawns.
The scallops went on the BBQ for dinner. I used one of those plastic cooking mat things, which was a waste of time. I should have put my heavy cast iron frying pan on the BBQ and done them in that (the only reason for doing them on the BBQ was to avoid stinking the house out). I did them in a pile of butter, added some fresh thyme and finished them off with a bit of white wine and lime juice. I could have done without the lime juice. The best scallops were the ones that I pushed off the plastic mat and browned a bit on the hot BBQ plate. They don't need long to cook, but I prefer them a little bit brown around the edges, rather than totally squishy. Each to their own.
Next time, I am going to look out for cleaned buggers. Sod this removing guts business.
The prawns were also a right bastard. I bought el cheapo green prawns for about $12 a kilo. They seemed like a steal, until I went to shell them. Most of them had paper thin shells. I presume they were farmed up in Vietnam or somewhere like that, and they didn't feed them enough stuff to develop a proper shell. I hate peeling prawns with crap shells. I want something crunchy that cracks off properly. Again, next time I am going to look for trawler caught prawns from somewhere like Darwin.
They cooked up ok on the BBQ, but they were not great.
So much for the fish food. I think I would have prefered a lamb chop.
Saturday, 10 February 2007
Monday, 5 February 2007
Kismet - best Turkish food in Australia
Is that a big call - best Turkish food in Australia? That's not what it says on their business card - that's what I reckon.
It's 15 years since I was in Turkey, and I have spent most of that time hankering for some good Turkish food. I think the best food that I had in Turkey was at a truckstop out in the countryside. We pulled into this place where you got a tray, wandered down a counter and pointed at bowls of stuff. For about $2, I got a feast. No one could speak much English, so it was a matter of point and then try and figure out how many Lira they were asking for.
After that, I ate in a few restaurants in Istanbul. Again, they were off the beaten track and seemed to be frequented by Turkish businessmen, or gangsters, or both, and I got too drunk to remember whether they were any good or not. I remember stumbling home in the dark asking the obligatory soldier on each corner the way back to my hotel (I had a card from the hotel). After a bit of wandering around, I figured out that four of them were sending us stupid tourists around the same block again and again.
When I got to London, I found that my brother had discovered an excellent Turkish place up the road from his place. I have no idea what it was called, but we called the owner "Jesus", as he looked the part, and we went there quite a bit as the food was simply smashing and cheap. I hope Jesus is still in business somewhere, as he will be making lots of people happy.
Unfortunately, Australia seems to be bereft of Turkish restaurants. We have plenty of Lebanese places, and the odd "Turkish" place that seems to be Lebanese with belly dancing bolted on.
Then we found Kismet in Canberra. Well, we only found it because Verve wouldn't serve us food as the kitched was closed, and Kismet was next door.
Kismet is not a restaurant. It is a takeaway place with two tables out the front. We took the two tables and ordered up a big platter of food - I think we selected one of just about everything that they served. I thought it was great, apart from the octopus, which was served cold. I am over cold octopus. It reminds me of trying to eat a washing up glove. It has to be hot off the BBQ. but apart from the octopus, it was great. I can't tell you what we ate - we just ate lots of stuff.
J had a kebab, and wasn't impressed. To start, it was not a kebab as we know it. It was not tightly wrapped - it was more of a tortilla, which meant that she managed to drop half of it in her lap. I guess you need to have some experience of eating their kebabs to avoid that disaster. She also didn't think it was as tasty or good as our local kebab guy, but as I didn't try it, I have no comment.
Somehow, kebabs in Australia just don't taste the same as they do in Greece and Turkey. I think part of it is that in those places, they actually grill big lumps of lamb on a skewer and then slide it off into your kebab. They also use good yoghurt sauce, which is not watered down and flavourless, and they use big tasty tomatoes - the kind we used to get before industrial market gardening wrecked our tomatoes. There's something a bit primordial about ordering a kebab from a bloke that is working from a chopped off 44 gallon drum BBQ and little else.
Kismet doesn't have the 44 gallon drum BBQ, as I imagine the health nazis would have a fit if they used on, but they still manage to put on a good feed. If I am ever stuck for a kebab in Canberra, I am going to Manuka to visit Kismet.
It's 15 years since I was in Turkey, and I have spent most of that time hankering for some good Turkish food. I think the best food that I had in Turkey was at a truckstop out in the countryside. We pulled into this place where you got a tray, wandered down a counter and pointed at bowls of stuff. For about $2, I got a feast. No one could speak much English, so it was a matter of point and then try and figure out how many Lira they were asking for.
After that, I ate in a few restaurants in Istanbul. Again, they were off the beaten track and seemed to be frequented by Turkish businessmen, or gangsters, or both, and I got too drunk to remember whether they were any good or not. I remember stumbling home in the dark asking the obligatory soldier on each corner the way back to my hotel (I had a card from the hotel). After a bit of wandering around, I figured out that four of them were sending us stupid tourists around the same block again and again.
When I got to London, I found that my brother had discovered an excellent Turkish place up the road from his place. I have no idea what it was called, but we called the owner "Jesus", as he looked the part, and we went there quite a bit as the food was simply smashing and cheap. I hope Jesus is still in business somewhere, as he will be making lots of people happy.
Unfortunately, Australia seems to be bereft of Turkish restaurants. We have plenty of Lebanese places, and the odd "Turkish" place that seems to be Lebanese with belly dancing bolted on.
Then we found Kismet in Canberra. Well, we only found it because Verve wouldn't serve us food as the kitched was closed, and Kismet was next door.
Kismet is not a restaurant. It is a takeaway place with two tables out the front. We took the two tables and ordered up a big platter of food - I think we selected one of just about everything that they served. I thought it was great, apart from the octopus, which was served cold. I am over cold octopus. It reminds me of trying to eat a washing up glove. It has to be hot off the BBQ. but apart from the octopus, it was great. I can't tell you what we ate - we just ate lots of stuff.
J had a kebab, and wasn't impressed. To start, it was not a kebab as we know it. It was not tightly wrapped - it was more of a tortilla, which meant that she managed to drop half of it in her lap. I guess you need to have some experience of eating their kebabs to avoid that disaster. She also didn't think it was as tasty or good as our local kebab guy, but as I didn't try it, I have no comment.
Somehow, kebabs in Australia just don't taste the same as they do in Greece and Turkey. I think part of it is that in those places, they actually grill big lumps of lamb on a skewer and then slide it off into your kebab. They also use good yoghurt sauce, which is not watered down and flavourless, and they use big tasty tomatoes - the kind we used to get before industrial market gardening wrecked our tomatoes. There's something a bit primordial about ordering a kebab from a bloke that is working from a chopped off 44 gallon drum BBQ and little else.
Kismet doesn't have the 44 gallon drum BBQ, as I imagine the health nazis would have a fit if they used on, but they still manage to put on a good feed. If I am ever stuck for a kebab in Canberra, I am going to Manuka to visit Kismet.
pizzazz cafe
Breakfast in Canberra was one hit and one miss. Pizzazz was the hit. Maybe it is pizzazz - another stupid lower case spelling. It's also in Kingston, along with about a thousand other restaurants and cafes, and I never would have gone there if sister had not taken us there.
Apparently the best place to sit is outside, which we couldn't as all the early risers got there before us and nabbed the outdoor tables. The only table we could get was in the passageway that led to the kitchen and toilets, which meant that it was impossible to let the Monkey off the leash. Which is a nightmare, as when the Monkey is full of beans (or bananas), he can go bananas. He needs to be run into the ground on a regular basis in order for adults to enjoy a quiet meal.
That being the case, most of my time was taken up with trying to handle a Monkey with one hand and fork food into my mouth with the other, all the time trying to stop him from tipping over my coffee or throwing my food on the floor. Fun.
I had a spanish omelette, as I wanted to see how they compared to the Bondi Kiosk. pizzazz did it quite differently - more like a fritatta, and they did it very well. I really enjoyed it. I wish we had gone back there the day after rather than going to that dump called artespresso.
The only downer was that they served their butter in those horrible little plastic sachets that you rip the lid off. I really, really hate those things. Partly because if left on a hot plate, the butter melts and you end up with something that looks like olive oil rather than butter. I like my butter to be cold. Not frozen, with condesation running down the sides, but cold enough that you can cut slices off it. Sadly, that was not the case at pizzazz. I poured my butter over my toast, which was a major disappointment.
Karma got his revenge though. Monkey got his hands on one and squeezed it and it burst and suddenly there was molten butter all over the comfy couch that we were sitting on. Oops. We just sat the Monkey in it and hoped that his nappy soaked most of it up before it got into the fabric. Never mix Monkeys and melted butter.
I didn't save the bill, so I can't remember what the others had (apart from pancakes) but I do know that the general result from everyone was that it was fabbo. Apart from Mr Pancake, who only gave them 2 out of 5. I thought that was a bit harsh, but he is entitled to his own opinion. I just don't know what he will eat next time we go back, as we will be going back.
But earlier, so we get an outside table.
Apparently the best place to sit is outside, which we couldn't as all the early risers got there before us and nabbed the outdoor tables. The only table we could get was in the passageway that led to the kitchen and toilets, which meant that it was impossible to let the Monkey off the leash. Which is a nightmare, as when the Monkey is full of beans (or bananas), he can go bananas. He needs to be run into the ground on a regular basis in order for adults to enjoy a quiet meal.
That being the case, most of my time was taken up with trying to handle a Monkey with one hand and fork food into my mouth with the other, all the time trying to stop him from tipping over my coffee or throwing my food on the floor. Fun.
I had a spanish omelette, as I wanted to see how they compared to the Bondi Kiosk. pizzazz did it quite differently - more like a fritatta, and they did it very well. I really enjoyed it. I wish we had gone back there the day after rather than going to that dump called artespresso.
The only downer was that they served their butter in those horrible little plastic sachets that you rip the lid off. I really, really hate those things. Partly because if left on a hot plate, the butter melts and you end up with something that looks like olive oil rather than butter. I like my butter to be cold. Not frozen, with condesation running down the sides, but cold enough that you can cut slices off it. Sadly, that was not the case at pizzazz. I poured my butter over my toast, which was a major disappointment.
Karma got his revenge though. Monkey got his hands on one and squeezed it and it burst and suddenly there was molten butter all over the comfy couch that we were sitting on. Oops. We just sat the Monkey in it and hoped that his nappy soaked most of it up before it got into the fabric. Never mix Monkeys and melted butter.
I didn't save the bill, so I can't remember what the others had (apart from pancakes) but I do know that the general result from everyone was that it was fabbo. Apart from Mr Pancake, who only gave them 2 out of 5. I thought that was a bit harsh, but he is entitled to his own opinion. I just don't know what he will eat next time we go back, as we will be going back.
But earlier, so we get an outside table.
artespresso
artespresso, smelt (or spelt) with a lower case "a" is a place of arseholes (and you can capitalise that "A" if you want to).
It used to be one of my most favouritest haunts to breakfast in Canberra. It's in Kingston, which I like. It has interested art on the walls. The coffee is generally not too bad and the food has been good.
We chowed down there on the most recent visit to our nation's capital, and I think it will be our last visit to that particular establishment.
To start with, our waitress had no sense of humour. I should have guessed as much, as she was dressed totally in black and had that serious Arts student mien about her. Brother-in-law made a hash of his order by asking for "soft eggs", to which the waitress replied "and how do you want them cooked?"
His response was, "soft".
"No, as in boiled, fried, scrambled or poached?"
"Oh", went the brother-in-law, looking a bit embarased.
When she got to me and asked how I wanted my eggs, I replied "Fresh". Everyone else at the table laughed. She just frowned at me and made a little mou that said, "Oh god, one of these tables". Not even a chuckle.
Then she came out with the cuttlery. She started by putting some down within reach of the Monkey, which is always a dumb idea as cuttlery within reach has a tabletop life expectancy of less than 5 seconds. We were sitting on the balcony, and chances are it all would have ended up out on the footpath, and we would have been accused by a humourless management of being thieving gypsies.
So I told her that the last waitress to give the Monkey a fork ended up with it jammed into her thigh, and that it took two Ambo's to remove it. Again, we thought it was funny, but then we might have still been floating from the night before, and she just made that little mou again and pushed our knives and forks around a bit.
She's going to have a shock if she has kids.
Breakfast arrived, and I was not impressed. I ordered the big breakfast, and the only difference between it and bacon and eggs was the addition of one sausage. And not a very big sausage at that. It was one of thos skinny chippolata type sausages, and it was just too wierd with eggs. I favour a big, fat fairly dull pork sausage with breakfast - something that will complement the eggs, not try and murder them. If I want to murder my eggs, I splosh a pile of chilli-type sauce on the edge of my plate and dunk them in that.
The only advantage to having the big breakfast as opposed to eggs with a side order of bacon and a side order of sausage is that the "big" breakfast cost $15 and if you did eggs, it was $8, plus $4.50 for bacon and then another $4.50 for a sausage. Add that up. And then add coffee at $3.50 a pop.
For what we got, it was appalingly expensive. I don't mind forking out $15 for a feed if it is an incredibly good feed - the kind I get at Circle - and there, the $15 bill includes the coffee.
To cap it off, the only way out of the place was to go back inside through the balcony door and then through the restaurant. Sometime after we sat down, a party of about 15 took a table just inside the door that we had to go through. Although we got there well before them, some of them were clearly quite grumpy that the waitress had to walk past them to bring us our food and drinks. When we went to leave, civil war almost broke out. They had an old granny with them, and she went berko - how dare we walk past them etc etc, why didn't we exit off the balcony (uh, because that would involve climbing over the railing and dropping about 5 feet to the footpath, and the staff might have taken that to mean that we were skipping out without paying the bill).
I could see her going nuts, and saw big problems with getting the pram past her, so I had to heave it over the balconey (not with Monkey in it).
In retrospect, given the humourless service, the muddy sausage, the appaling prices and the screeching haridan that we had to pass, maybe we should have taken the over-the-balconey option and just split.
Next time, I want to go to Verve. We tried to lunch there on the weekend, but the kitchen closed just before we got there. I'll make it back one day.
It used to be one of my most favouritest haunts to breakfast in Canberra. It's in Kingston, which I like. It has interested art on the walls. The coffee is generally not too bad and the food has been good.
We chowed down there on the most recent visit to our nation's capital, and I think it will be our last visit to that particular establishment.
To start with, our waitress had no sense of humour. I should have guessed as much, as she was dressed totally in black and had that serious Arts student mien about her. Brother-in-law made a hash of his order by asking for "soft eggs", to which the waitress replied "and how do you want them cooked?"
His response was, "soft".
"No, as in boiled, fried, scrambled or poached?"
"Oh", went the brother-in-law, looking a bit embarased.
When she got to me and asked how I wanted my eggs, I replied "Fresh". Everyone else at the table laughed. She just frowned at me and made a little mou that said, "Oh god, one of these tables". Not even a chuckle.
Then she came out with the cuttlery. She started by putting some down within reach of the Monkey, which is always a dumb idea as cuttlery within reach has a tabletop life expectancy of less than 5 seconds. We were sitting on the balcony, and chances are it all would have ended up out on the footpath, and we would have been accused by a humourless management of being thieving gypsies.
So I told her that the last waitress to give the Monkey a fork ended up with it jammed into her thigh, and that it took two Ambo's to remove it. Again, we thought it was funny, but then we might have still been floating from the night before, and she just made that little mou again and pushed our knives and forks around a bit.
She's going to have a shock if she has kids.
Breakfast arrived, and I was not impressed. I ordered the big breakfast, and the only difference between it and bacon and eggs was the addition of one sausage. And not a very big sausage at that. It was one of thos skinny chippolata type sausages, and it was just too wierd with eggs. I favour a big, fat fairly dull pork sausage with breakfast - something that will complement the eggs, not try and murder them. If I want to murder my eggs, I splosh a pile of chilli-type sauce on the edge of my plate and dunk them in that.
The only advantage to having the big breakfast as opposed to eggs with a side order of bacon and a side order of sausage is that the "big" breakfast cost $15 and if you did eggs, it was $8, plus $4.50 for bacon and then another $4.50 for a sausage. Add that up. And then add coffee at $3.50 a pop.
For what we got, it was appalingly expensive. I don't mind forking out $15 for a feed if it is an incredibly good feed - the kind I get at Circle - and there, the $15 bill includes the coffee.
To cap it off, the only way out of the place was to go back inside through the balcony door and then through the restaurant. Sometime after we sat down, a party of about 15 took a table just inside the door that we had to go through. Although we got there well before them, some of them were clearly quite grumpy that the waitress had to walk past them to bring us our food and drinks. When we went to leave, civil war almost broke out. They had an old granny with them, and she went berko - how dare we walk past them etc etc, why didn't we exit off the balcony (uh, because that would involve climbing over the railing and dropping about 5 feet to the footpath, and the staff might have taken that to mean that we were skipping out without paying the bill).
I could see her going nuts, and saw big problems with getting the pram past her, so I had to heave it over the balconey (not with Monkey in it).
In retrospect, given the humourless service, the muddy sausage, the appaling prices and the screeching haridan that we had to pass, maybe we should have taken the over-the-balconey option and just split.
Next time, I want to go to Verve. We tried to lunch there on the weekend, but the kitchen closed just before we got there. I'll make it back one day.
Is site meter crap, or am I incompetent?
I tried to sign up to site meter last night, simply to see if I get more than one hit a day (apart from me). The process is pretty straightforward, and at the end, they email you a username and password.
It's been 24 hours, and the bloody logon name and password still haven't arrived. I'm pretty sure I managed to do it without completely messing it up. Ah well, no stats for me then. I guess I will just have to assume that I am the 398th most popular site in Australia and get on with being super famous and popular.
It's a tough life.
It's been 24 hours, and the bloody logon name and password still haven't arrived. I'm pretty sure I managed to do it without completely messing it up. Ah well, no stats for me then. I guess I will just have to assume that I am the 398th most popular site in Australia and get on with being super famous and popular.
It's a tough life.
Political manifesto of the insane, or brilliant
Tex over at whackingday has posted the maddest political manifesto that I have read in ages.
Gotta say, he strikes a chord. How nice to read about someone who is not intent on leaching off the public tit for the rest of his existance.
However, I've always wondered whether Tex might be a cardigan wearing public servant by day, and Tex by night.
Gotta say, he strikes a chord. How nice to read about someone who is not intent on leaching off the public tit for the rest of his existance.
However, I've always wondered whether Tex might be a cardigan wearing public servant by day, and Tex by night.
Road terror part 214
I took the meandering route home tonight, which is designed solely to get my daily mileage up as close to 40km as it can get without going up and down the same road a few times. It takes me along Great North Road, which is OK as roads go, and is does go north, but I am not so sure that it is a great north road. The pacific highway for instance is a bigger road that goes north, but it is anything but great.
I digress. Two nice things about this particular road are that it has a cycle lane and when you get to the lights at the intersection of Lyons Rd (famous for all the Italians that live along it with concrete lyons and pink flamingoes out the front), you get a lane all to yourself. That's because it's two lanes at the lights, and they quickly merge into one lane just past the lights. The two lane thing is a pain in the arse, as all it does is encourage wankers to zoom up the left lane, tear off at the lights and then try and merge into the other lane like spastic sheepherders.
I had one of them tonight. I was almost at the lights when dickhead decides to race up along side me and cut in without warning or indicating. It was one of those dramatic moves that causes on old car with soggy springs and fading shock absorbers to wallow like a waltzing hippo, which is what the old shitbucket Datsun did.
I though about sliding up beside him and saying something like, "It's not a race, you tool", but then he leant his arm out the window sill and it looked to be covered in bad, faded prison tats.
I simply sat behind him and thought zen thoughts. I counted the number of Ibis pulling rubbish out of the litter bins (countless - like the plagues of Egypt). I tried to estimate the level of decibels of wog boy a few lanes away with his shaved up the side haircut and his 1970's retro-panelvan type mural on the bonnet (somewhat louder than a low flying jumbo). I summed up the number of awful purple or yellow mags within view (ran out of fingers and toes).
Then the lights changed. Wanker didn't have enough grunt to beat the Tarago beside him off the line. Or the old banger behind it. He meekly merged in about the same position as he started.
What a knobtool.
I digress. Two nice things about this particular road are that it has a cycle lane and when you get to the lights at the intersection of Lyons Rd (famous for all the Italians that live along it with concrete lyons and pink flamingoes out the front), you get a lane all to yourself. That's because it's two lanes at the lights, and they quickly merge into one lane just past the lights. The two lane thing is a pain in the arse, as all it does is encourage wankers to zoom up the left lane, tear off at the lights and then try and merge into the other lane like spastic sheepherders.
I had one of them tonight. I was almost at the lights when dickhead decides to race up along side me and cut in without warning or indicating. It was one of those dramatic moves that causes on old car with soggy springs and fading shock absorbers to wallow like a waltzing hippo, which is what the old shitbucket Datsun did.
I though about sliding up beside him and saying something like, "It's not a race, you tool", but then he leant his arm out the window sill and it looked to be covered in bad, faded prison tats.
I simply sat behind him and thought zen thoughts. I counted the number of Ibis pulling rubbish out of the litter bins (countless - like the plagues of Egypt). I tried to estimate the level of decibels of wog boy a few lanes away with his shaved up the side haircut and his 1970's retro-panelvan type mural on the bonnet (somewhat louder than a low flying jumbo). I summed up the number of awful purple or yellow mags within view (ran out of fingers and toes).
Then the lights changed. Wanker didn't have enough grunt to beat the Tarago beside him off the line. Or the old banger behind it. He meekly merged in about the same position as he started.
What a knobtool.
Sunday, 4 February 2007
To hell with icecream
Last week, I made my own icecream for the first time. OK, it was actually semifredo, which is more of an iced treat, but it beats the hell out of most of the store bought varieties that I normally get. I have made icecream with other people, and generally with an icecream maker, but this was the first time I did it all on my own and without one of those expensive bloody things that never seems to make icecream properly.
After making it, I browsed through a few cookbooks and found about 10 different recipes on how to make semifredo. I am going to stick with the simple Donna Hay recipe that I started with, since it seems to work.
It's pretty bloody easy - 3 eggs plus 2 egg yolks, a cup of sugar and some vanilla. Whisk that lot over a double boiler for 5 minutes until you have a thin custard. Add a pack of frozen fruit (like blackberries) once it has cooled down a bit. Whip up 1.75 cups of cream, fold it in and then bung the whole lot in the freezer.
Oh bugger, I forgot to add some booze. I was going to add some amareto or frangelico - guess I can pour it on afterwards.
I tried doing it again tonight, and am yet to try the results. I heated the berries up a bit this time, and squished them somewhat in order to break them up and release some juice before mixing them into the custard. Last time, I found myself chomping into whole, well frozen berries, and they were pretty solid little suckers.
Yep, I'm all for making it at home from now on.
After making it, I browsed through a few cookbooks and found about 10 different recipes on how to make semifredo. I am going to stick with the simple Donna Hay recipe that I started with, since it seems to work.
It's pretty bloody easy - 3 eggs plus 2 egg yolks, a cup of sugar and some vanilla. Whisk that lot over a double boiler for 5 minutes until you have a thin custard. Add a pack of frozen fruit (like blackberries) once it has cooled down a bit. Whip up 1.75 cups of cream, fold it in and then bung the whole lot in the freezer.
Oh bugger, I forgot to add some booze. I was going to add some amareto or frangelico - guess I can pour it on afterwards.
I tried doing it again tonight, and am yet to try the results. I heated the berries up a bit this time, and squished them somewhat in order to break them up and release some juice before mixing them into the custard. Last time, I found myself chomping into whole, well frozen berries, and they were pretty solid little suckers.
Yep, I'm all for making it at home from now on.
Your chook is cooked
After being hungover as hell yesterday, I felt like roast chook tonight. Silly bloody time to be wanting a hot, roasted chicken - it was about 30 degrees here today (it is still 26 in the office at 9pm) and humid as all buggery. But it was a chook that I wanted, so it was a chook we had. Sunday night really is the best time for a roast chook - even if I bail out of the office before 4pm and bolt home, there really isn't enough time to make a stuffing, chop the vegies and stick a chook into the over for 90 minutes. I times myself tonight - it took me just over half an hour from pulling the chook out of the fridge to when I popped it into the oven. With practice, I might get that time down, but roasting is not the speediest game in town.
It was a bloody marvelous chook by the way. I did it in my dirty great bit Le Creuset pot, starting it with the lid on to moisten it up a bit. I chopped lots of herbs from the garden and put them under it - a few big sprigs of rosemary, a bit head of sage, a big twig of oregano and some thyme. I also chopped two onions and tossed them on top of the herbs, then made a herb butter of garlic, lemon rind and thyme and put that under the skin. The skin was then rubbed with oil and salt, and the vegies tossed in around it.
After half an hour, the lid came off and the chook was left to brown. Unfortunately, I pulled it out a bit early, so it was not as brown and crispy as I like it, and it was still a touch pink in a few spots, but I was carving by the time I found that out. I also did it with pumpkin and parsnips, and the parsnips were not cooked. They were like eating very uncooked parsnips, which are tough as hardwood.
Bugger.
I blame the chicken - it was huge, a number 17 or 18. I am used to smaller chooks - ones that just feed a family of three and leave no leftovers, which is great because the carcase can go straight into a pot for making stock with no stuffing around.
I am still working on my stuffing though. I tried one tonight of onions, garlic, croutons, dates, pine nuts and herbs (mainly thyme) and I thought it was pretty good. I even bunged in half a lemon with the stuffing. No one else will eat it though. Which is good in a way, as I get it all, but it does make me worry about my skills as a cook.
The biggest problem with cooking a chook this way is that it is next to impossible to turn it over. My enourmous Stephanie Alexander cookbook says to turn and baste your chook every 20 minutes. I could hardly get the bloody thing out at the end of the cooking time, let alone spin it every 20 minutes. Maybe if I trussed it up with baling wire to make it look like a football, I might be able to turn it then.
It was a bloody marvelous chook by the way. I did it in my dirty great bit Le Creuset pot, starting it with the lid on to moisten it up a bit. I chopped lots of herbs from the garden and put them under it - a few big sprigs of rosemary, a bit head of sage, a big twig of oregano and some thyme. I also chopped two onions and tossed them on top of the herbs, then made a herb butter of garlic, lemon rind and thyme and put that under the skin. The skin was then rubbed with oil and salt, and the vegies tossed in around it.
After half an hour, the lid came off and the chook was left to brown. Unfortunately, I pulled it out a bit early, so it was not as brown and crispy as I like it, and it was still a touch pink in a few spots, but I was carving by the time I found that out. I also did it with pumpkin and parsnips, and the parsnips were not cooked. They were like eating very uncooked parsnips, which are tough as hardwood.
Bugger.
I blame the chicken - it was huge, a number 17 or 18. I am used to smaller chooks - ones that just feed a family of three and leave no leftovers, which is great because the carcase can go straight into a pot for making stock with no stuffing around.
I am still working on my stuffing though. I tried one tonight of onions, garlic, croutons, dates, pine nuts and herbs (mainly thyme) and I thought it was pretty good. I even bunged in half a lemon with the stuffing. No one else will eat it though. Which is good in a way, as I get it all, but it does make me worry about my skills as a cook.
The biggest problem with cooking a chook this way is that it is next to impossible to turn it over. My enourmous Stephanie Alexander cookbook says to turn and baste your chook every 20 minutes. I could hardly get the bloody thing out at the end of the cooking time, let alone spin it every 20 minutes. Maybe if I trussed it up with baling wire to make it look like a football, I might be able to turn it then.
It's riding time
Finally, a week in which I crack the 100km mark! Three days of riding, each of 37-38km adds up to just under 110km. Whew - thought I'd never cycle that far again in a week. I was hoping to go for one more ride and take it out to 150 for the week, but we got on the turps on Friday night and neither of us was much good on Saturday. I then had to spend today doing all the stuff that I was going to do yesterday, so there went the ride.
I have started noticing holes in my riding kit lately. The first one was in my knicks, and I found it because part of my sack was poking out and rubbing on the saddle. Had to find a needle and fix that one quick smart. Then, as I was hanging my top on the line today, I found a few moth sized holes in the back. Not that I think that moths eat lycra - it is just the first place where it is wearing out. I am used to the idea of tyres and brake pads wearing out, but not my clothes!
I am about to crack through the 7000km mark on this bike, which probably means it is near it's half life. I reckon it will be lucky to last 15,000km, and really lucky to last 20,000 (unless I turn it into a grocery bike). When I bought it, the sales guy at Renegade explained expensive bikes and cheap bikes in terms of how long the components will last. My frame will probably last for years, but before long, I'll be replacing the cranks and the rear cluster and bits of the gears and possibly the brake levers.... essentially every part that moves. Cheapish parts might last 10,000km. Mid-priced might last 15,000. Really good ones might go 20,000, but maniacs that buy expensive bikes probably buy a new one each year, so their bike never gets riden enough to reach it's design limit.
I figure I will go through one major refit of the drivetrain and brakes, and when they wear out, either the bike will be handed down to the kiddies, or it becomes a shopping bike, or it goes to the Salvo's. I have already replaced the front wheel (collision damage) and the rear wheel (got too bent from hitting pot holes), plus both tyres a few times (the latest set are supposed to alst 6000km). Tubes - I've had a few. Brake pads seem to be good for 1000 - 1500km and that is it. I guess if I was a skinny bastard who did all his riding on the flat and rarely had to squeeze the brakes, I'd get a lot more life out of them. But I'm a chunky bloke who rides down a lot of hills, and has to stop quite a few times and inconvenient things like traffic lights on the way to work.
Yes, my brakes do work. I had to pull up sharpish on Friday arvo to avoid taking out a taxi customer - he decided to exit the taxi just as I was about to pass it, and I found out just how quickly I could pull up when I need to. About half a car length. I ended up just touching my handlebar into the open door as I pulled up, which almost caused the passenger to wet himself. The stupid sod was in a hell of a hurry - he said sorry, and then bolted down the road. I presume he paid his fare, as he was in the backseat for quite a while whilst the taxi was stationery. Maybe he was arguing about the fare, or the lack of his money thereof to pay it. Whatever - he exited in enough of a hurry to almost ensure that he was flattened for this trouble.
I have started noticing holes in my riding kit lately. The first one was in my knicks, and I found it because part of my sack was poking out and rubbing on the saddle. Had to find a needle and fix that one quick smart. Then, as I was hanging my top on the line today, I found a few moth sized holes in the back. Not that I think that moths eat lycra - it is just the first place where it is wearing out. I am used to the idea of tyres and brake pads wearing out, but not my clothes!
I am about to crack through the 7000km mark on this bike, which probably means it is near it's half life. I reckon it will be lucky to last 15,000km, and really lucky to last 20,000 (unless I turn it into a grocery bike). When I bought it, the sales guy at Renegade explained expensive bikes and cheap bikes in terms of how long the components will last. My frame will probably last for years, but before long, I'll be replacing the cranks and the rear cluster and bits of the gears and possibly the brake levers.... essentially every part that moves. Cheapish parts might last 10,000km. Mid-priced might last 15,000. Really good ones might go 20,000, but maniacs that buy expensive bikes probably buy a new one each year, so their bike never gets riden enough to reach it's design limit.
I figure I will go through one major refit of the drivetrain and brakes, and when they wear out, either the bike will be handed down to the kiddies, or it becomes a shopping bike, or it goes to the Salvo's. I have already replaced the front wheel (collision damage) and the rear wheel (got too bent from hitting pot holes), plus both tyres a few times (the latest set are supposed to alst 6000km). Tubes - I've had a few. Brake pads seem to be good for 1000 - 1500km and that is it. I guess if I was a skinny bastard who did all his riding on the flat and rarely had to squeeze the brakes, I'd get a lot more life out of them. But I'm a chunky bloke who rides down a lot of hills, and has to stop quite a few times and inconvenient things like traffic lights on the way to work.
Yes, my brakes do work. I had to pull up sharpish on Friday arvo to avoid taking out a taxi customer - he decided to exit the taxi just as I was about to pass it, and I found out just how quickly I could pull up when I need to. About half a car length. I ended up just touching my handlebar into the open door as I pulled up, which almost caused the passenger to wet himself. The stupid sod was in a hell of a hurry - he said sorry, and then bolted down the road. I presume he paid his fare, as he was in the backseat for quite a while whilst the taxi was stationery. Maybe he was arguing about the fare, or the lack of his money thereof to pay it. Whatever - he exited in enough of a hurry to almost ensure that he was flattened for this trouble.
Friday, 19 January 2007
So much for the safe route
When I cycle, I am always on the lookout for a safer route. Even roads that are supposedly cycle friendly can be death traps. This photo, taken on the way into town, shows part of Lilyfield Road. There is a bike lane down the side of the road, but halfway down the hill, there is a bus stop, and there are usually 2-3 bloody big buses parked in it and of course the bus area is not wide enough for a bus.
Duh.
So the big fat arsed buses stick out into the bike lane and no one in their right mind would stay in the bike lane and try and squeeze between the buses and a car. You'd end up being very squished.
The good thing about this bit of road is that it is fairly steep, so you can easily hit 50km/h going down it without trying too hard. Well, I can at least. Lot's of wimps just coast and then have problems when they try and merge into the traffic beside them that is going 50 km/h.
Anyway, I have recently taken to cycling around the Casino on the way home because it saves me crossing at a very nasty intersection near Darling Harbour. It is one of those wierd intersections that is quite safe when you are heading into town and a total death trap on the way home.
Going around the Casino was working out quite well until one night this week when I was sitting at some traffic lights at the entrance to the Casino car park, they went green, I took off and this bloody Chinese woman P-plater turned left in front of me - from the right lane - and had the temerity to beep as she went around me. I was too gobsmacked to give chase and give her a piece of my mind - I just couldn't believe it. Some people are so stupid, it makes my eyes water.
Making the perfect pizza dough
I have been trying for some time now - years in fact - to make the perfect pizza base at home. I have tried using different flours, such as several types of white flour, wholemeal flour, gluten and some wierd flours that we got from a health food shop. I have found that a 1/3 wholemeal to 2/3 plain flour is a good start, especially if some semolina is thrown in to add to the crunchiness (we all hate pizza with a soggy base). However, the bloody things never rise. They sit there like sheets of cardboard when cooked.
I was reading an article in the paper last week by a chef on the subject of bread making and he mentioned making a starter of just 100gms of flour, yeast and water and leaving that for some hours (or even overnight) before adding the remaining ingredients. I tried that, mixing it up in my mixing bowl and leaving it covered on the bench overnight.
The next day (which was a weekend), I made pizza for lunch.
The photos that I have attached show the results. The base was light and puffy with some huge air pockets in it. You could fit a ping pong ball in some of them. Clearly, using the starter was the best thing since... sliced bread. Plus, it gave the dough and incredible yeasty smell, which is something that I love.
The pizza itself was very basic - just bocconcini, basil and a bit of parmesan. I was out of the gooey cheese, so we just had a two cheese pizza. It was rather excellent. Only problem is that I am always short of basil these days. I had to buy a packet of seeds today in the hope that I can germinate 10 plants or so - that's how many we need to keep up with basil consumption.
Sunday, 7 January 2007
Ice Baird
I think I spotted Bruce Baird at Bondi this morning. It looked like he was preparing for the rough water swim. I wonder if he survived?
I used to see Peter Debnam running on the beach when I went down for an early morning swim before work. He's a fit looking sod.
Bruce is not.
I used to see Peter Debnam running on the beach when I went down for an early morning swim before work. He's a fit looking sod.
Bruce is not.
Bondi breakfast
I have pretty much given up on the Bondi Kiosk, so I have started going next door to Aqua Bar. It used to be two cafes next door to each other, but the other must have gone belly up as both are now combined into the one cafe, although they are still two premises.
I don't like it as much. The tables are small, so you can really only have 4 people for a meal. I don't mind as I am on my own most of the time, but it will be a problem when the whole family attends.
Still, I asked for poached eggs and crispy bacon, and they managed to do that without totally screwing it up. The coffee was not too bad. The service was a bit touch and go as my waitress spoke so softly, I couldn't hear and bloody word she said. Either that, or my ears were full of salt. Good thing I can partly lip read.
The worst thing about the place is that it is full of Paris Hilton wanna-be chicks. The Kiosk was great because the regular crowd were people like me - men and women of all shapes and ages who had been down for a good swim, and now wanted a good feed. It was the sort of place that you could sit there happily in your wet speedoes and no one would give a damn. Aqua Bar, as the name suggests, is a lot more pretentious. Women wear lipstick at Aqua, whereas at the Kiosk they just have wet hair.
I am now conflicted.
My choice was made simple this morning as Aqua did not have a free table, whilst the Kiosk was half empty. That is a bit of a turnaround. Aqua used to be half empty and the Kiosk would have a queue at the door. I queue for no one, so I ate at the Kiosk again today. I asked for crispy bacon, and didn't get it. Never trust a blonde waitress who can't remember what type of coffee you ordered.
The worst thing about this morning was the drive home. Due to the water temp, my balls were seriously frozen. When I sat in the car, they started thawing and were quite uncomfortable as they expanded back to their normal size and position. If I was swerving all over the road, you can blame thawing balls.
I don't like it as much. The tables are small, so you can really only have 4 people for a meal. I don't mind as I am on my own most of the time, but it will be a problem when the whole family attends.
Still, I asked for poached eggs and crispy bacon, and they managed to do that without totally screwing it up. The coffee was not too bad. The service was a bit touch and go as my waitress spoke so softly, I couldn't hear and bloody word she said. Either that, or my ears were full of salt. Good thing I can partly lip read.
The worst thing about the place is that it is full of Paris Hilton wanna-be chicks. The Kiosk was great because the regular crowd were people like me - men and women of all shapes and ages who had been down for a good swim, and now wanted a good feed. It was the sort of place that you could sit there happily in your wet speedoes and no one would give a damn. Aqua Bar, as the name suggests, is a lot more pretentious. Women wear lipstick at Aqua, whereas at the Kiosk they just have wet hair.
I am now conflicted.
My choice was made simple this morning as Aqua did not have a free table, whilst the Kiosk was half empty. That is a bit of a turnaround. Aqua used to be half empty and the Kiosk would have a queue at the door. I queue for no one, so I ate at the Kiosk again today. I asked for crispy bacon, and didn't get it. Never trust a blonde waitress who can't remember what type of coffee you ordered.
The worst thing about this morning was the drive home. Due to the water temp, my balls were seriously frozen. When I sat in the car, they started thawing and were quite uncomfortable as they expanded back to their normal size and position. If I was swerving all over the road, you can blame thawing balls.
It's summer right?
I missed having a swim at Bondi yesterday, but made it today. When I got there, I found that half the beach was closed off for a rough water swim. Normally, when they have some kind of carnival like this, it is impossible to park within cooee of the beach and the boardwalk in front of the North Bondi surf club is crowded with people. You can't get into a cafe for love or money.
I didn't notice any overcrowding in the cafes when I walked by from my usual parking spot in a back street close to the beach. The boardwalk was quite clear of bodies. There were not many people standing around on the sand (almost none in fact) and no one in the water having a warm up swim.
I soon found out why. As I strolled down to the water, a life saver asked me if I was going to be long as they were going to close off that park of the beach in 20 minutes to prepare for the race. Since I can't swim out of sight in a week at the moment, and the waves were breaking too close in for comfort, I doubted I would be 20 minutes.
When I hit the water, I found out why there were so few people around. Normally, the water temp is around 20 degrees. When I swam on the 1st or 2nd of July, it was still 19 or 20 degrees. Cold and miserable out of the water, but not bad in the water.
Today it was 16.
Almost froze my nads off. My forearms hurt when I put them in the water. I had trouble with my breathing when I stuck my head under. Through my goggles, it looked like my fingertips were going blue (they weren't). I gave up on the idea of a swim and caught a few tragic waves - essentially they dumped me in about 1 foot of water.
I struggled out of the water less than 5 minutes after I went in. I passed the life saver and she laughed a bit. She was how I found out what the water temp was.
As I was walking up to a cafe for breakfast, I heard an announcer on the tannoy giving instructions to the entrants. He said something about the cold and mentioned that if anyone got into trouble, they should just stick their hand up and wait for a rubber ducky or board to pick them up.
I think they would have been busy.
I didn't notice any overcrowding in the cafes when I walked by from my usual parking spot in a back street close to the beach. The boardwalk was quite clear of bodies. There were not many people standing around on the sand (almost none in fact) and no one in the water having a warm up swim.
I soon found out why. As I strolled down to the water, a life saver asked me if I was going to be long as they were going to close off that park of the beach in 20 minutes to prepare for the race. Since I can't swim out of sight in a week at the moment, and the waves were breaking too close in for comfort, I doubted I would be 20 minutes.
When I hit the water, I found out why there were so few people around. Normally, the water temp is around 20 degrees. When I swam on the 1st or 2nd of July, it was still 19 or 20 degrees. Cold and miserable out of the water, but not bad in the water.
Today it was 16.
Almost froze my nads off. My forearms hurt when I put them in the water. I had trouble with my breathing when I stuck my head under. Through my goggles, it looked like my fingertips were going blue (they weren't). I gave up on the idea of a swim and caught a few tragic waves - essentially they dumped me in about 1 foot of water.
I struggled out of the water less than 5 minutes after I went in. I passed the life saver and she laughed a bit. She was how I found out what the water temp was.
As I was walking up to a cafe for breakfast, I heard an announcer on the tannoy giving instructions to the entrants. He said something about the cold and mentioned that if anyone got into trouble, they should just stick their hand up and wait for a rubber ducky or board to pick them up.
I think they would have been busy.
Saturday, 6 January 2007
Can't bake, can't washup...
One big problem with the markets is that it is really hard to avoid impulse buying. You are in a huge hangar surrounded by lots and lots and lots of food. Some of it looks good. Some looks downright wierd. It all looks cheap. Not a trip goes by without me impulse buying a couple of items.
Last week it was passionfruit. I ended up with a bag full, which equates to a bit over a kilo. Now I like passionfruit, but eating a kilo suddenly looked really daunting when I got home.
Solution - bake a lemon cake and cover it with passionfruit syrup. I didn't make that up of course - thank Donna Hay.
So I whip up the cake and stuff it into the oven for 40 minutes as directed. At the end of 40 minutes, I stick a skewer into it and it comes out a bit gooey. So I give it 5 more minutes. Then another 5 minutes.
Then I find that I have overcooked the bugger. It's dry. No amount of syrup poured over the top will save it.
Only one solution - eat it with lots of runny cream. That seems to do the trick.
I feel like a bloated frog as a result.
Last week it was passionfruit. I ended up with a bag full, which equates to a bit over a kilo. Now I like passionfruit, but eating a kilo suddenly looked really daunting when I got home.
Solution - bake a lemon cake and cover it with passionfruit syrup. I didn't make that up of course - thank Donna Hay.
So I whip up the cake and stuff it into the oven for 40 minutes as directed. At the end of 40 minutes, I stick a skewer into it and it comes out a bit gooey. So I give it 5 more minutes. Then another 5 minutes.
Then I find that I have overcooked the bugger. It's dry. No amount of syrup poured over the top will save it.
Only one solution - eat it with lots of runny cream. That seems to do the trick.
I feel like a bloated frog as a result.
Blood jelly
I am not having much success in certain aspects of the culinary arts at the moment.
I have just tried to make plum jelly the old fashioned way. It does not involve opening a packet of Aeroplane jelly and tipping the crystals into hot water. Instead, you cut up some plums, add sugar, vanilla and water and boil for a while, then strain out the lumpy bits and add gelatine. It seems to be a lot of effort to make a few little jellies. The only thing that makes it feasible is that I was able to pick up plums at the markets for $2 a kilo. They were not great looking plums - Coles would never sell them - but they were perfect for chopping up for jelly.
I don't think I added enough gelatine - I now have stuff in the fridge that looks like partly congealed blood. Part of the recipe instructions say, "strain through fine muslin cloth", with the aim being to create a clear jelly. I don't have any fine muslin cloth, so I do not have a clear jelly. Like I said, it looks like gooey blood.
If they don't set, I am just going to add them to vodka and drink them.
I have just tried to make plum jelly the old fashioned way. It does not involve opening a packet of Aeroplane jelly and tipping the crystals into hot water. Instead, you cut up some plums, add sugar, vanilla and water and boil for a while, then strain out the lumpy bits and add gelatine. It seems to be a lot of effort to make a few little jellies. The only thing that makes it feasible is that I was able to pick up plums at the markets for $2 a kilo. They were not great looking plums - Coles would never sell them - but they were perfect for chopping up for jelly.
I don't think I added enough gelatine - I now have stuff in the fridge that looks like partly congealed blood. Part of the recipe instructions say, "strain through fine muslin cloth", with the aim being to create a clear jelly. I don't have any fine muslin cloth, so I do not have a clear jelly. Like I said, it looks like gooey blood.
If they don't set, I am just going to add them to vodka and drink them.
New Years Crap
One of the spectator points for the fireworks was quite near us at the end of Timbrell Park - the park backs up against the water, so you have an uninterupted view over the water towards the city and the big sky sparklers.
Hundreds of people turned up to yell and scream and generally yahoo on the night. I don't know why they bothered - the fireworks looked like little poof-poofs from where we were. Five Dock is just too far away. The only way to experience fireworks is to be right underneath the buggers, so that the noise is deafening and you get sprinkled with bits of exploded, burning firework. Of course the safety nazis don't allow that kind of thing anymore, so fireworks for me are about as much fun as mowing the lawn.
Anyway, on the 2nd I decided to have my first swim in the ocean for the year, and that involved driving past where all the yahoos had been carrying on. Surprise, surprise, the bay contained the largest floating slick of empty bottles that I have ever seen. It was like an aircraft carrier of crap. You'd almost need a small barge to scoop them all up.
Happy new year. Let's welcome it in by throwing crap everywhere. Yay!
Hundreds of people turned up to yell and scream and generally yahoo on the night. I don't know why they bothered - the fireworks looked like little poof-poofs from where we were. Five Dock is just too far away. The only way to experience fireworks is to be right underneath the buggers, so that the noise is deafening and you get sprinkled with bits of exploded, burning firework. Of course the safety nazis don't allow that kind of thing anymore, so fireworks for me are about as much fun as mowing the lawn.
Anyway, on the 2nd I decided to have my first swim in the ocean for the year, and that involved driving past where all the yahoos had been carrying on. Surprise, surprise, the bay contained the largest floating slick of empty bottles that I have ever seen. It was like an aircraft carrier of crap. You'd almost need a small barge to scoop them all up.
Happy new year. Let's welcome it in by throwing crap everywhere. Yay!
Kipper spuds
I have a nice collection of recipe books. Enough to fill an entire shelf about six feet long. Some of the fancier ones wax lyrical about kipfler potatoes, but I have no idea why. They're just spuds right? Plus I have had a gutful of celebrity chefs going on and on about this silly kipper potato.
There is a spud guy at the markets that sells nine different varieties of fancy spud. Yellow skins, purple skins, really dark purple skins and yes, the kipper potato. I have always turned my nose up at this celebrity spud, but relented last weekend in order to make a spud salad for new years eve.
The kippers are an odd looking spud - more like a sweet potato tuber than a normal round spud. I steamed them and then had a taste. What do you know - they are the king of spuds! Unbelievable.
The great thing is that the spud guy sells them for $3 a kilo, which is less than what I pay for ordinary mashing spuds at my local supermarket. So we're going to be eating kippers from now on, and I will be able to look down my nose at people that serve ordinary spuds.
There is a spud guy at the markets that sells nine different varieties of fancy spud. Yellow skins, purple skins, really dark purple skins and yes, the kipper potato. I have always turned my nose up at this celebrity spud, but relented last weekend in order to make a spud salad for new years eve.
The kippers are an odd looking spud - more like a sweet potato tuber than a normal round spud. I steamed them and then had a taste. What do you know - they are the king of spuds! Unbelievable.
The great thing is that the spud guy sells them for $3 a kilo, which is less than what I pay for ordinary mashing spuds at my local supermarket. So we're going to be eating kippers from now on, and I will be able to look down my nose at people that serve ordinary spuds.
Monday, 1 January 2007
Fireworks
We viewed the fireworks from the North Shore last night - the Cremorne foreshore. Normally, I'd never have attempted to get down there through the hordes, but friends have a house nearby so we had dinner there and then trotted down to the water.Having seen about 50 million fireworks in my time, I spent half the night fiddling with my camera trying to get some good photos. I failed utterly. The camera has a fireworks setting, which essentially means it leaves the shutter open for 2 seconds and that is it. I forgot to take my tripod, and there was not room to stand, let alone put the camera on something solid and shakefree. I had to make do with holding the camera and trying not to wobble too much.
Two or three photos came out like those above - a nice blob of colour. Next time they are lighting up the sky, I will take the tripod.
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