He creates himself with canvases,
each piece a separate face, slipped on
easy as a hat.
easy as a hat.
Hands free baby, swaddled
on his front, his paint brush fingers behind.
Jaws drop in his wake.
Scribbles + Musings
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Dancing in the Bar
At Kaufbar (my work), Friedrichshain, I watch four-wheeled, two-wheeled, two-footed and four-footed life meander by. If someone looked in through the dust-stained hand smudged windows they would see a stripey beenie with an oversized red pompom, bobbing behind flower pots, serviets, sugar buckets and a bell. (The upbeat british band the shins are my friends on this quiet quiet day.) This is me, and today life is a performance.
Sadly, the contact with the other players is lacking and when I look out the people going by only seem to be looking forward. They are horseblinded. Even at red lights in their cars they look ahead. Curiosity doesn't seem to penetrate their bubble. Then again, those on bikes seem to slide past the window, fast and free.
Yet here I am, running into chairs and tables as usual (empty chairs and tables *que Les Miserables music*), opening doors with a flick of my leg and burning myself on the coffee machine handle as I let my bare arms rub the branding metal. I will persevere through the bruises and burns because today's aim is to practice the espresso - which doesn't explain why I am taking comfort in a foamy cap right this moment and sitting down when I should be dancing.
If an 80s boy band side slide makes the grasping of a coffee cup more aerodynamic (or not) I'll do it. If a Chicago hand click adds some drama to the taking of a coffee order then I'll do it. When I'm alone - usually when I am opening up at 9.30am - I'll break out into hip hop pumps and pops or even worm it on the wooden floor, spring up, extract the cigarette butt off my bust and then spin on the spot like Michael.
Kaufbar is my enclave of dance.
Sadly, the contact with the other players is lacking and when I look out the people going by only seem to be looking forward. They are horseblinded. Even at red lights in their cars they look ahead. Curiosity doesn't seem to penetrate their bubble. Then again, those on bikes seem to slide past the window, fast and free.
Yet here I am, running into chairs and tables as usual (empty chairs and tables *que Les Miserables music*), opening doors with a flick of my leg and burning myself on the coffee machine handle as I let my bare arms rub the branding metal. I will persevere through the bruises and burns because today's aim is to practice the espresso - which doesn't explain why I am taking comfort in a foamy cap right this moment and sitting down when I should be dancing.
If an 80s boy band side slide makes the grasping of a coffee cup more aerodynamic (or not) I'll do it. If a Chicago hand click adds some drama to the taking of a coffee order then I'll do it. When I'm alone - usually when I am opening up at 9.30am - I'll break out into hip hop pumps and pops or even worm it on the wooden floor, spring up, extract the cigarette butt off my bust and then spin on the spot like Michael.
Kaufbar is my enclave of dance.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Silk and Snow
Its snowing outside
and my sarong
from silky south-east
presses against my dry
winter skin
looking like the yellowed walls
of our raucher-WG.
The kettle snores
like a drunkard and
the steam whilts the
silk, melting it
to my thighs and hips.
The sole caress of the season.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Friday, November 26, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
O Saft
Thanks to my teenage love
Guzzling orange juice
Straight from the bottle
Makes me feel like a boy.
Extracting two Euros
From my tight jeans pocket
For the Kaiser counter-cutie
Takes longer than flicking off the lid.
Before I’m even out the door
The bottle is angled at my tonsils
And sloshes down my chin.
Was never good at multitasking.
But I take it like a man
Wipe it off
With the back of my arm
And rub it on my shirt.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Kafisatz
Coffee addiction quenched for now, I am able to give due attention to short-crust K that balances on the spoon next to my hand. Pondering the remnants of foam that are encrusted on the metal, my mind retastes memories that I have recently chowed down in the past few months.
I have been travelling – capturing pictures of foreign lands and people, deleting whole roles of pictures from foreign lands and peoples, following people across countries, across seas, ravenously searching for an ‘authentic’ paella or confit’d Canard. Eating so much white bread in Spain that it was coming out of my ears and, being spectacularly and unexpectedly taken out to dinner by two Finnish business-partners in Zurich.
I have munched on perfectly juicy, slightly bloody Wild Deer and had tar-tare of Blue-Fin Tuna topped with Wasabi Mousse roll around my mouth. I have been baptised (or could have been) in a bucket of hostel-made Sangria in Barcelona and swamped my taste-buds with Tinto-Verano (a brick of red 0.60 euro Spanish wine with Coke) in Bilbao.
When comfort has been needed I have spread an essential but luscious amount of butter on Zopf and swathed that in turn with Nutella (Meret you are right, the combination just seems to work). While travelling and sleeping in a car in the south of Spain we barricaded ourselves against the wind with Bunsen-burner-cooked porridge and honey-sweetened Chai.
Oh that places I have been! They have been etched into my body via my stomach and tastebuds. The people to have been connected to my soul via the food we have shared and talked about. I can’t help it. If I can sit down with a stranger and talk food for a good half an hour, all the while making them and myself salivate, they will inevitably become a friend. In Paris, Sylvie offered up basins of Cous-cous and tagine that without a doubt made anything I ate (yes the touristy places) in Marocco look and taste like a toilet-turd. With Claudia I dreamt about Almond croissants and duck done in all ways . In Nice I bonded with someone dear to my heart by handpicking Tortellini. In Edinburgh my Haggis-cherry was plucked and delighted, and in Barcelona I drooled over pistachio ice-creams and olives with new-found friends.
I have been travelling – capturing pictures of foreign lands and people, deleting whole roles of pictures from foreign lands and peoples, following people across countries, across seas, ravenously searching for an ‘authentic’ paella or confit’d Canard. Eating so much white bread in Spain that it was coming out of my ears and, being spectacularly and unexpectedly taken out to dinner by two Finnish business-partners in Zurich.
I have munched on perfectly juicy, slightly bloody Wild Deer and had tar-tare of Blue-Fin Tuna topped with Wasabi Mousse roll around my mouth. I have been baptised (or could have been) in a bucket of hostel-made Sangria in Barcelona and swamped my taste-buds with Tinto-Verano (a brick of red 0.60 euro Spanish wine with Coke) in Bilbao.
When comfort has been needed I have spread an essential but luscious amount of butter on Zopf and swathed that in turn with Nutella (Meret you are right, the combination just seems to work). While travelling and sleeping in a car in the south of Spain we barricaded ourselves against the wind with Bunsen-burner-cooked porridge and honey-sweetened Chai.
Oh that places I have been! They have been etched into my body via my stomach and tastebuds. The people to have been connected to my soul via the food we have shared and talked about. I can’t help it. If I can sit down with a stranger and talk food for a good half an hour, all the while making them and myself salivate, they will inevitably become a friend. In Paris, Sylvie offered up basins of Cous-cous and tagine that without a doubt made anything I ate (yes the touristy places) in Marocco look and taste like a toilet-turd. With Claudia I dreamt about Almond croissants and duck done in all ways . In Nice I bonded with someone dear to my heart by handpicking Tortellini. In Edinburgh my Haggis-cherry was plucked and delighted, and in Barcelona I drooled over pistachio ice-creams and olives with new-found friends.
Eating Eclecticism
I am inspired to write (so I am), draw and take photographs of this random wooden jungle but the waiter informs me “Kein Photos, bitte” [No photos, please]. At first, I think he is joking but he says it again seriously. Now I feel more foreign to this space. I’m not a piece of furniture and definitely not one of the 1950s uber-posed pin-up girls that adorn the walls. It is way to cold for one, to be wearing a swimsuit on the first of November in Berlin (pinch and a punch by the way). I am not regular enough to be jovially welcomed into the warm clutter as others are who hobble in off the street or skip in, holding hands, like the caricature goods painted on the wall with names such as ‘Mehl’, ‘Senf’, and ‘Tofu’, wander off the street. I am alien to this country. I stutter the words, am embarrassed by my limited German that seems to my ears to only consist of ‘danke’.
Yet, I want to make this place my home. The coffees are just too close to my apartment and way to good to shrug off and move on from. They are creamy, sweet without the addition of sugar and have the perfect size cap of foam on top. I do not even miss chocolate shavings that I usually crave and even request more of at other places. I could make this a romantic ritual for one, complete with candlelight… but for now, I will console myself with another dive into coffee-goodness.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Madame Fromage
One of the first people I met in Switzerland, who I was thoroughly entertained by, was a shop owner who I would like to call Madame Fromage. Tall with a Parisienne swan-long neck, she tossed around her arms as she chatted away faster than a TGV train racing between Paris and Zurich. Eine Schauspielerin (an actress) by nature, her shop named Pain et Fromage (Bread and Cheese) was not a place where you could duck-in and out of to purchase last minute ingredients.
Luckily, I was not in a rush. Having just landed in Zurich, I had all the time in the world, or at least four hours, to wonder the streets near my temporary home. I walked into her shop wanting to sniff out her wares, and was granted much more than olfactory experience. Her sales face was like a theatrical mask; she wore bright red lipstick, 100-strokes of mascara and had breasts perked up to her chin. With these she flirted and charmed -or at least tried to- both her male and female customers. However, there is only so much Rose Syrup that you can smell and sample before you realise once again that the queue has not moved; you look up and there she is, languorously draped across the counter poetically espousing the creaminess of Sheep-milk cheese. She is a French version of the domestic goddess Nigella Lawson, minus the curves. And like the majority of French women, it looks like she has never eaten anything other than celerey.
After promising to give the customer a special tour of the shop in her afterhours, suddenly the eyes, lips, boobs and cheese-stroking fingers of Madame Fromage are focused on me. She is physically striking with an accent as thick as bricks and her cheese selection is delectable partly because it is native solely to France. Proud and patriotic,the innocent question of whether the cheese is a product from the Swiss Jura is met with an indignant galluf! Of course it is not!
France, however, is not completely perfect in her mind either and she describes the Côte d'Azur as touristy and kitsch, whilst wearing sequin-pocked skyscraper heels at ten am in the morning.
Luckily, I was not in a rush. Having just landed in Zurich, I had all the time in the world, or at least four hours, to wonder the streets near my temporary home. I walked into her shop wanting to sniff out her wares, and was granted much more than olfactory experience. Her sales face was like a theatrical mask; she wore bright red lipstick, 100-strokes of mascara and had breasts perked up to her chin. With these she flirted and charmed -or at least tried to- both her male and female customers. However, there is only so much Rose Syrup that you can smell and sample before you realise once again that the queue has not moved; you look up and there she is, languorously draped across the counter poetically espousing the creaminess of Sheep-milk cheese. She is a French version of the domestic goddess Nigella Lawson, minus the curves. And like the majority of French women, it looks like she has never eaten anything other than celerey.
After promising to give the customer a special tour of the shop in her afterhours, suddenly the eyes, lips, boobs and cheese-stroking fingers of Madame Fromage are focused on me. She is physically striking with an accent as thick as bricks and her cheese selection is delectable partly because it is native solely to France. Proud and patriotic,the innocent question of whether the cheese is a product from the Swiss Jura is met with an indignant galluf! Of course it is not!
France, however, is not completely perfect in her mind either and she describes the Côte d'Azur as touristy and kitsch, whilst wearing sequin-pocked skyscraper heels at ten am in the morning.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Shanghai Surprises
After a twelve-hour flight from Sydney to Shanghai (on route to Zurich), I ignorantly shuffled into a line of other foreigners. My place in this queue turned out to be lucky because standing right next to me was a tap dancer, a French tap dancer. Now I do have a weakness for musicals and for men with accents and rhythm so, naturally we started talking, and before I knew it, we had our baggage in lockers and were off on a local bus (No. 5) to the outskirts of the city centre.
In search of ‘authentic’ Chinese food, we strolled the streets, waddling through the bath-dense air. Of course neither of us had come prepared for our little adventure – so instead of a phrase book we flayed our limbs about and mimed slurping soup – which produced even more intense stares from two men bedecked in bling, straddling bikes. No answer or even understanding from them, we took matters into our own hands and chose a direction. Accio food! A lane magically appeared, packed with packed with DVD shops, a corner shop, a fresh fruit stall with giant watermelon and a noodle bar.
With tastebuds craving more than the in-flight rubbery fish and fluoro Singapore-style noodles, I would like write that we dived into the shop with gung-ho courage, yet instead we timidly approached it. Looking at the shop with wrappers scattered on the floor, scarcely filled with spindly plastic chairs and tables, my mind lurched with Delhi Belly horrors. The last thing I wanted was to start my trip on a bad-belly note, yet adventure was my credo. This trip is meant to take me out of my comfort zone.
Slurping our hot pot that was an oily, salty broth punctuated by bobbing chicken bits– it was real in that it still resembled a chicken with fleshy goosebumps – we became the entertainment for our fellow diners. The fact that I can hardly hold a pen properly guarantees that my chop-stick holding etiquette is a source of amusement; at times a bent old woman with a perm snuck over and stood next to us at our table blatantly watching, commentating back to her table of children. In charade-style we mimed that we were going – I skipped out the door waving goodbye- paid and then actually left. What an unexpected treat.
What happened next, I predict, will be one of the highlights of my trip. Mr Tap Dancer and I walked a few blocks and paused in a concrete square dwarfed by skyscraper towers and bordered by fluoro-lime-green trees. This became the set for our Salsa performance with random rickety bikeriders and swerving taxis as our only audience. The thick sticky air seemed to hold me to its chest as I tipped from foot to foot, as if I was swirling in the hot pot I had not long before finished slurping.
In search of ‘authentic’ Chinese food, we strolled the streets, waddling through the bath-dense air. Of course neither of us had come prepared for our little adventure – so instead of a phrase book we flayed our limbs about and mimed slurping soup – which produced even more intense stares from two men bedecked in bling, straddling bikes. No answer or even understanding from them, we took matters into our own hands and chose a direction. Accio food! A lane magically appeared, packed with packed with DVD shops, a corner shop, a fresh fruit stall with giant watermelon and a noodle bar.
With tastebuds craving more than the in-flight rubbery fish and fluoro Singapore-style noodles, I would like write that we dived into the shop with gung-ho courage, yet instead we timidly approached it. Looking at the shop with wrappers scattered on the floor, scarcely filled with spindly plastic chairs and tables, my mind lurched with Delhi Belly horrors. The last thing I wanted was to start my trip on a bad-belly note, yet adventure was my credo. This trip is meant to take me out of my comfort zone.
Slurping our hot pot that was an oily, salty broth punctuated by bobbing chicken bits– it was real in that it still resembled a chicken with fleshy goosebumps – we became the entertainment for our fellow diners. The fact that I can hardly hold a pen properly guarantees that my chop-stick holding etiquette is a source of amusement; at times a bent old woman with a perm snuck over and stood next to us at our table blatantly watching, commentating back to her table of children. In charade-style we mimed that we were going – I skipped out the door waving goodbye- paid and then actually left. What an unexpected treat.
What happened next, I predict, will be one of the highlights of my trip. Mr Tap Dancer and I walked a few blocks and paused in a concrete square dwarfed by skyscraper towers and bordered by fluoro-lime-green trees. This became the set for our Salsa performance with random rickety bikeriders and swerving taxis as our only audience. The thick sticky air seemed to hold me to its chest as I tipped from foot to foot, as if I was swirling in the hot pot I had not long before finished slurping.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Ode to Butter
Not margarine or anything in between
Ranging from dappled-light pale or
Luscious dark ale
Caressing buds, silkily
Taste enhancing, seamlessly
Toast swathed (its not depraved!)
Mushrooms browned, snails drowned in
Butter.
Ranging from dappled-light pale or
Luscious dark ale
Caressing buds, silkily
Taste enhancing, seamlessly
Toast swathed (its not depraved!)
Mushrooms browned, snails drowned in
Butter.
My History with Food
Like most introductions to food literature, my history with food is much the same. I was brought up by a European mum in Australia. From a young age I was privy to the gourmet delights of the globe, eating: olives, tofu, Spaghetti (not from the can), herrings and Pumpernickel instead of Vegemite sandwiches, meat and three veg. My sister and I would always eat what our parents were eating, no questions asked, be it Laksa or Fondue. As such my food repertoire expanded (and it will do so as long as I shall live!)
Contrary to what I just wrote, I was an extremely fussy eater as a baby. I am told there was a time when I would only eat my granny's food, and it was she who helped me locate my sweet tooth. Under her guidance I gobbled up trifle, meringues, creamy sago pudding and Tiny Teddy's hand-dipped in chocolate (before Arnott's had the same idea).
My interest in food has grown exponentially. Every birthday since I was old enough to understand menus and blogs, I have tried to outdo myself in finding a lusciously decadent meal whether it be a home-cooked Kingfish with a mushroom wagu or a ten course degustation at Galileo. Yet I realise that my meagre student-budget and waitressing tips hinder my ability to dine weekly at the food establishments that are recommended in Good Living, Epicure, Good Food Guide and some of the saliva-inspiring fellow food blogs.
EpicSoc (The Sydney University Epicurean Society), which I helped start with friends at the end of last year, is one way in which I have been able to help the students indulge their palates and fulfil the need to philosophise about the definition of a sandwich. Mark Best's foi gras-filled beetroot macaroons at Marque or the Bentley's popcorn-like crisp potato coated Chorizo sausage with Harissa sauce are just a few examples of what we have managed to munch.
Since moving out of home, I have had no choice but to put spatula to frying pan and feed my taste buds. When my stomach is craving a hug, I cook it porridge with cinnamon-infused apple chunks (I cannot cut cubes for the life of me) and a sprinkle of roasted hazelnuts. Recently, I have been nutty about nuts: dry toasted they add flavour to anything be it a warm salad of roast pumpkin with a Cumin and Cayenne pepper dressing or the topping to decadent dessert for one (usually paired with a good book) such as Hazelnut Gelato, caramelised banana and a drizzle of double cream (yes, I know, my poor heart).
I could write a novel on my history of food (maybe one day I will, then again this has been done one too many times) because it is a central part of my life. Like a lover, I have had my fair share of wars but in the end, it only makes my relationship with food stronger.
Ardently Apples.
Contrary to what I just wrote, I was an extremely fussy eater as a baby. I am told there was a time when I would only eat my granny's food, and it was she who helped me locate my sweet tooth. Under her guidance I gobbled up trifle, meringues, creamy sago pudding and Tiny Teddy's hand-dipped in chocolate (before Arnott's had the same idea).
My interest in food has grown exponentially. Every birthday since I was old enough to understand menus and blogs, I have tried to outdo myself in finding a lusciously decadent meal whether it be a home-cooked Kingfish with a mushroom wagu or a ten course degustation at Galileo. Yet I realise that my meagre student-budget and waitressing tips hinder my ability to dine weekly at the food establishments that are recommended in Good Living, Epicure, Good Food Guide and some of the saliva-inspiring fellow food blogs.
EpicSoc (The Sydney University Epicurean Society), which I helped start with friends at the end of last year, is one way in which I have been able to help the students indulge their palates and fulfil the need to philosophise about the definition of a sandwich. Mark Best's foi gras-filled beetroot macaroons at Marque or the Bentley's popcorn-like crisp potato coated Chorizo sausage with Harissa sauce are just a few examples of what we have managed to munch.
Since moving out of home, I have had no choice but to put spatula to frying pan and feed my taste buds. When my stomach is craving a hug, I cook it porridge with cinnamon-infused apple chunks (I cannot cut cubes for the life of me) and a sprinkle of roasted hazelnuts. Recently, I have been nutty about nuts: dry toasted they add flavour to anything be it a warm salad of roast pumpkin with a Cumin and Cayenne pepper dressing or the topping to decadent dessert for one (usually paired with a good book) such as Hazelnut Gelato, caramelised banana and a drizzle of double cream (yes, I know, my poor heart).
I could write a novel on my history of food (maybe one day I will, then again this has been done one too many times) because it is a central part of my life. Like a lover, I have had my fair share of wars but in the end, it only makes my relationship with food stronger.
Ardently Apples.
Paprika Promises
This is a promise I make to myself:
I will conquer my perfectionist tendencies and put finger to key.
I will end the endless ricochet of edible-musings and ingest and digest them through this blog.
I will go in search for both savoury and sweetened wares that make my petite-palate flavourgasm (hopefully multiple times).
I will conquer my perfectionist tendencies and put finger to key.
I will end the endless ricochet of edible-musings and ingest and digest them through this blog.
I will go in search for both savoury and sweetened wares that make my petite-palate flavourgasm (hopefully multiple times).
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