I have been thinking about Coogee. This used to be the view from my bedroom window. Now my view is a petrol station and a gay brothel. But that's ok, at least I can't hear the garbage trucks. Anyway.
Some time ago now, a friend and I went out to get ice cream, or maybe we had been shopping, I can't remember and it's irrelevant. The point is we had been out, and we were on our way back in, it was extremely hot and all we wanted to do was go back in the house and nap. Actually, it's coming back to me: we'd been at the beach because it was so hot, but the water was so cold and I was so lacking in willpower that we didn't make it into the water.
Up the stairs we came, and I looked into my pot plant to see if it needed water. I noticed that there was some kind of rock or something in the parsley and bent down to take a closer look because I didn't really remember there being a rock in my parsley... It was a dead rat. A Dead RAT.
Taken by surprise, I started shrieking, at which point my friend realised that it was a dead rat, and joined in on the shrieking. I was convinced all of a sudden that our creepy neighbour must have put the dead rat in the pot plant, because how else could it have gotten there? I thought he had it in for us; maybe the dead rat was the precursor to much worse things! What would be next?? We would wake to horse heads!? My hysteria took over momentarily.
Do you know that saying about how it's worse to find half a worm in your apple than it is to find a whole one? Well here's question for you to ponder...what's worse than a dead rat?
My face was right up close to that damn pot plant when the rat stirred it's little head and looked me in the eye. He was pretty pissed that we had woken him up from his rat-nap in my nice cushiony bed of parsley. I squealed. It was involuntary.
I never ate any of that parsley ever again. Ever.
Some time ago now, a friend and I went out to get ice cream, or maybe we had been shopping, I can't remember and it's irrelevant. The point is we had been out, and we were on our way back in, it was extremely hot and all we wanted to do was go back in the house and nap. Actually, it's coming back to me: we'd been at the beach because it was so hot, but the water was so cold and I was so lacking in willpower that we didn't make it into the water.
Up the stairs we came, and I looked into my pot plant to see if it needed water. I noticed that there was some kind of rock or something in the parsley and bent down to take a closer look because I didn't really remember there being a rock in my parsley... It was a dead rat. A Dead RAT.
Taken by surprise, I started shrieking, at which point my friend realised that it was a dead rat, and joined in on the shrieking. I was convinced all of a sudden that our creepy neighbour must have put the dead rat in the pot plant, because how else could it have gotten there? I thought he had it in for us; maybe the dead rat was the precursor to much worse things! What would be next?? We would wake to horse heads!? My hysteria took over momentarily.
Do you know that saying about how it's worse to find half a worm in your apple than it is to find a whole one? Well here's question for you to ponder...what's worse than a dead rat?
My face was right up close to that damn pot plant when the rat stirred it's little head and looked me in the eye. He was pretty pissed that we had woken him up from his rat-nap in my nice cushiony bed of parsley. I squealed. It was involuntary.
I never ate any of that parsley ever again. Ever.
The weather has gone all awry. I keep sneezing and suddenly it's cold again. When I was walking in the gale-force winds today my nose started running, but I couldn't get to a tissue in time, and I got snot. on. my. face. Sorry, was that an over-share? I'm sure it was for the lady who was walking past me at the time.
I decided the wisest thing to do on a day so foul was to stay indoors and cook delicious things. Fowl, to be precise. Oh man, I'm on a roll with the puns today!
So I made oven-roasted chicken with zucchini and walnuts in sage browned-butter with rigatoni.
And it was delicious.
And I am going to tell you how.
First you take a chicken breast and make some nice deep diagonal cuts in it.
Then drizzle on some olive oil and lots of cracked pepper and salt, and stuff sage leaves into the slices.
Put the chicken in the over at 190 and take some artsy Martha Stewart pictures of the sage. It will come in handy later (the sage..not necessarily the artsy Martha Stewart photo). Around this time you should also start boiling some water: once it's come to the boil, throw in half a pack of rigatoni..more if you're feeling especiallygluttonous hungry.
Then take some zucchini...
...and slice it into little sticks...you have some choices here as to how to cook it. I'll admit I sort of forgot I was going to put zucchini into this, I wanted something green to balance out all the butter, so in a pinch I put it under the chicken breast to let it soak up some juices, and then I let it brown up a little and soften properly in the still-hot pot after I drained my pasta. Mainly, I was lazy and I didn't want more washing up, so let's just say for now, cook the damn zucchini however you want.
While all this is going on, we get to the important part. Heat a heavy saucepan over medium heat and then throw in some butter. I used about 50 grams.. perhaps a little more. Ahem.
Since my pan was hot I threw the butter in and it foamed up and melted straight away, scaring the shit out of me because I wasn't expecting it and I thought it was going to burn. You can salvage such a situation by taking off the heat straight away and keeping the butter moving in the pan. No photos sorry, was too busy swirling my pan. I tried actually, but it was a little too action shot, a little less focus... Very quickly the butter will turn a lovely nutty brown colour, this is when you throw in some sage leaves and some walnuts. Return it to a very low heat to let the flavours come out, or cover it and put it aside. I don't think it really matters either way as long as you don't let the butter burn. Burnt butter cannot be salvaged and tastes like ass, so you want to avoid that.
By now the pasta is probably done (and you can use the pot to finish off the zucchini if you are lazy like me) and if you look in the oven..ooooh the chicken is almost done too. Pull it out and slice it roughly.
And then just sort of...mix it all together.
The end.
I decided the wisest thing to do on a day so foul was to stay indoors and cook delicious things. Fowl, to be precise. Oh man, I'm on a roll with the puns today!
So I made oven-roasted chicken with zucchini and walnuts in sage browned-butter with rigatoni.
And it was delicious.
And I am going to tell you how.
First you take a chicken breast and make some nice deep diagonal cuts in it.
Then drizzle on some olive oil and lots of cracked pepper and salt, and stuff sage leaves into the slices.
Put the chicken in the over at 190 and take some artsy Martha Stewart pictures of the sage. It will come in handy later (the sage..not necessarily the artsy Martha Stewart photo). Around this time you should also start boiling some water: once it's come to the boil, throw in half a pack of rigatoni..more if you're feeling especially
Then take some zucchini...
...and slice it into little sticks...you have some choices here as to how to cook it. I'll admit I sort of forgot I was going to put zucchini into this, I wanted something green to balance out all the butter, so in a pinch I put it under the chicken breast to let it soak up some juices, and then I let it brown up a little and soften properly in the still-hot pot after I drained my pasta. Mainly, I was lazy and I didn't want more washing up, so let's just say for now, cook the damn zucchini however you want.
While all this is going on, we get to the important part. Heat a heavy saucepan over medium heat and then throw in some butter. I used about 50 grams.. perhaps a little more. Ahem.
Since my pan was hot I threw the butter in and it foamed up and melted straight away, scaring the shit out of me because I wasn't expecting it and I thought it was going to burn. You can salvage such a situation by taking off the heat straight away and keeping the butter moving in the pan. No photos sorry, was too busy swirling my pan. I tried actually, but it was a little too action shot, a little less focus... Very quickly the butter will turn a lovely nutty brown colour, this is when you throw in some sage leaves and some walnuts. Return it to a very low heat to let the flavours come out, or cover it and put it aside. I don't think it really matters either way as long as you don't let the butter burn. Burnt butter cannot be salvaged and tastes like ass, so you want to avoid that.
By now the pasta is probably done (and you can use the pot to finish off the zucchini if you are lazy like me) and if you look in the oven..ooooh the chicken is almost done too. Pull it out and slice it roughly.
And then just sort of...mix it all together.
Your arteries will hold this against you for some time, but your stomach will thank you. Just trust me on this one.
Today I was at waiting at the domestic terminal for a bus heading in my general homeward direction. There was a middle-aged couple with two large suitcases, and the wife was trying to figure out the bus timetable and generally acting flustered while her husband trod behind her, wordless, pulling along the bags. One bus came for the longterm car park. She hurried over to it and asked the driver some questions. A bus heading the wrong way came and she asked the driver the same questions.
I could tell, once the bus had gone, that she still didn't understand the instructions the driver had given her and she still didn't realise that the Sunday timetable was behind the weekday one, so I told her that they were at the right stop and then somehow the conversation started.
They were from Melbourne; the public transport is much cheaper there and the roads are better. And can you believe that a taxi from the airport to Darling Harbour is 30 dollars?! (I could.) She almost didn't come, because of the dust-storm. She heard it was radioactive, that's what they're saying. I'm pretty sure it's not radioactive, I said, and then told her it was dusty yesterday too. Yes, she replied, they kept that a secret from me. I told her where to get off the bus at Bondi Junction, the very last stop, I said. It's the interchange, you can't miss it.
But she wasn't convinced, she asked me at least two more times. I told her how they would need to change buses or take a train from the interchange. She asked if there were any views to see at Bondi Junction. The train interchange, I said, and the Westfield. She wanted to go shopping, they'd told her it was warm in Sydney but it was cold and windy and expensive. They even charge you to line up for the taxi: 3 dollars just to get in line. But I work in a B&B and everyone from Sydney said don't even think about taking the train because it's private.
Her husband said nothing. The conversation continued. I found out how much they charge their tennants for a 2-bedroom unit. That's the best thing about these interest rates, we can put the rent up...I told her how much my rent is, weekly. For a house, she asked, wide-eyed? I explained. See, she said to her husband, I told you they'll pay it if they have to!
We discussed the price of the zoo, and the cable car. I told them not to go on a windy day.
The bus came. As I got on, she asked me again which stop they would get off at. The last one, I said, can't miss it. She asked the driver the same questions and double-checked the price of the tickets. I went up the back of the bus and put on my headphones. And then for some bizarre reason they got off at Mascot shops.
She waved as they walk past my window. Her husband nodded his head at me, and continued with the bags.
Why is it that I always end up having these kinds of exchanges whilst waiting for the bus?
One day I will tell you about the conversation I had with Chris, a transit officer, when I was waiting for the bus at the airport. He gave me the number for Sydney Transit recruitment because he thought I was serious when I said I wanted to be a bus driver.
Or I will tell you about the Indian lady who told me about all the bingo halls in the Eastern Suburbs and the price of bananas in Kingsford while we were waiting for a 370. It was late. She missed the start of bingo in Maroubra but there was another one in Matraville, so it didn't matter too much.
What is it about me?
I could tell, once the bus had gone, that she still didn't understand the instructions the driver had given her and she still didn't realise that the Sunday timetable was behind the weekday one, so I told her that they were at the right stop and then somehow the conversation started.
They were from Melbourne; the public transport is much cheaper there and the roads are better. And can you believe that a taxi from the airport to Darling Harbour is 30 dollars?! (I could.) She almost didn't come, because of the dust-storm. She heard it was radioactive, that's what they're saying. I'm pretty sure it's not radioactive, I said, and then told her it was dusty yesterday too. Yes, she replied, they kept that a secret from me. I told her where to get off the bus at Bondi Junction, the very last stop, I said. It's the interchange, you can't miss it.
Bondi Junction Interchange.
But she wasn't convinced, she asked me at least two more times. I told her how they would need to change buses or take a train from the interchange. She asked if there were any views to see at Bondi Junction. The train interchange, I said, and the Westfield. She wanted to go shopping, they'd told her it was warm in Sydney but it was cold and windy and expensive. They even charge you to line up for the taxi: 3 dollars just to get in line. But I work in a B&B and everyone from Sydney said don't even think about taking the train because it's private.
Her husband said nothing. The conversation continued. I found out how much they charge their tennants for a 2-bedroom unit. That's the best thing about these interest rates, we can put the rent up...I told her how much my rent is, weekly. For a house, she asked, wide-eyed? I explained. See, she said to her husband, I told you they'll pay it if they have to!
We discussed the price of the zoo, and the cable car. I told them not to go on a windy day.
The bus came. As I got on, she asked me again which stop they would get off at. The last one, I said, can't miss it. She asked the driver the same questions and double-checked the price of the tickets. I went up the back of the bus and put on my headphones. And then for some bizarre reason they got off at Mascot shops.
She waved as they walk past my window. Her husband nodded his head at me, and continued with the bags.
Why is it that I always end up having these kinds of exchanges whilst waiting for the bus?
One day I will tell you about the conversation I had with Chris, a transit officer, when I was waiting for the bus at the airport. He gave me the number for Sydney Transit recruitment because he thought I was serious when I said I wanted to be a bus driver.
Or I will tell you about the Indian lady who told me about all the bingo halls in the Eastern Suburbs and the price of bananas in Kingsford while we were waiting for a 370. It was late. She missed the start of bingo in Maroubra but there was another one in Matraville, so it didn't matter too much.
What is it about me?
This about sums it up.
Oh my. It's starting to get serious. I can feel it welling. I'm on the downhill run. I'm literally awash with cliches.
On Monday I'm going to start writing my thesis.* And in about 30 days time, 70 pages later, this will all be over. OVER I say!
I can feel it in my bones, you know why? Because on Thursday I cleaned my room.
I mean really, truly cleaned my room. Things came out of the wardrobe. Clothes were thrown out to go in the Vinnie's bag. Towels were relocated. Shoes were rediscovered. I'll admit that the aftermath of the duststorm did play a role, but this is all part of my process.
Some time ago I discovered that the cure for procrastination was to get all the possible avenues out of the way before I began doing something. To sort of, concentrate the procrastination into one large chunk.
And also to resist the urge to nap (because we all know that a nap always ends up 2 hours longer than expected, and leads to the need to snack, because you need time to recover from the nap and cannot be expected to study on an empty stomach...or...perhaps that's just me?).
My room-clean is a sign from deep inside my soul that I'm ready to start this massive study-related undertaking. Next I will do my laundry**, clean the bathroom, and organise all my papers.
On Monday I will begin. I expect we'll be seeing a lot of each other around these parts in weeks coming.
*Don't look at me like that. I've started already. Sort of.
**And probably repeat the load that was soaked in the thunderstorm on Tuesday night, and so was still wet when the dust storm rolled in, and is now strangely coloured and sort of stiff.
On Monday I'm going to start writing my thesis.* And in about 30 days time, 70 pages later, this will all be over. OVER I say!
I can feel it in my bones, you know why? Because on Thursday I cleaned my room.
I mean really, truly cleaned my room. Things came out of the wardrobe. Clothes were thrown out to go in the Vinnie's bag. Towels were relocated. Shoes were rediscovered. I'll admit that the aftermath of the duststorm did play a role, but this is all part of my process.
Some time ago I discovered that the cure for procrastination was to get all the possible avenues out of the way before I began doing something. To sort of, concentrate the procrastination into one large chunk.
And also to resist the urge to nap (because we all know that a nap always ends up 2 hours longer than expected, and leads to the need to snack, because you need time to recover from the nap and cannot be expected to study on an empty stomach...or...perhaps that's just me?).
My room-clean is a sign from deep inside my soul that I'm ready to start this massive study-related undertaking. Next I will do my laundry**, clean the bathroom, and organise all my papers.
On Monday I will begin. I expect we'll be seeing a lot of each other around these parts in weeks coming.
*Don't look at me like that. I've started already. Sort of.
**And probably repeat the load that was soaked in the thunderstorm on Tuesday night, and so was still wet when the dust storm rolled in, and is now strangely coloured and sort of stiff.
This is how we explain things in our lab.
This is the reason that lately I hate my life a lot lately. As well as the flatmate who smokes in the house and splits the phone bill so I pay an equal share of his phone calls. It is beyond the capabilities of my brain to make more room and force myself to understand this. I cannot do subtraction in my head without pausing to think about it, so this, well, I just don't see how it's going to happen.
I have sunk to a new low in the realisation of just how crap I am.
After last week I didn't think that was possible. I'm going to go and have a cry in the bathroom now. Laters.
This is the reason that lately I hate my life a lot lately. As well as the flatmate who smokes in the house and splits the phone bill so I pay an equal share of his phone calls. It is beyond the capabilities of my brain to make more room and force myself to understand this. I cannot do subtraction in my head without pausing to think about it, so this, well, I just don't see how it's going to happen.
I have sunk to a new low in the realisation of just how crap I am.
After last week I didn't think that was possible. I'm going to go and have a cry in the bathroom now. Laters.
Din Tai Fung is a Taiwanese dumpling franchise gone global. It's famous for its soup-filled pork dumplings, xiao long bao. I cannot stress this enough: dumplings with soup inside them are amazing, life-changing things.
Usually when I eat dumplings I am with my friend Kieran and we are at a hole-in-the wall in Haymarket called Chinese Noodle Restaurant. That's actually its name, and their noodles are extremely delicious, as are their pork dumplings. In search of something a little bit different, we ended up at Din Tai Fung some time earlier this year, and ever since I have wanted to go back. The place is awesome.
When you get there, invariably, there is a queue. You go up to the door lady and tell her how many people and in return you get a menu and an estimate of how long your wait will be. It's usually not more than 20 minutes, but if you are so inclined, to pass the time you can look through floor-to-ceiling windows at the dumpling industrial production kitchen, where 10 or so chefs in what appears to be surgical get-up stuff, fold, and steam hundreds of dumplings.
You order before you get your table by ticking boxes on a piece of paper. Then by the time you sit down it's usually only 5 minutes until your food comes.
Inside at large communal tables, the dumplings come fast, stacked high in bamboo steamers, delivered by waiters with walkie-talkies and those little electronic things to double-check your order.
And then you eat.
Don't attack the dumplings, lift them fairly gently or else you will poke a hole and lose the soup. They're fairly resilient but they are no match for a jabby chopstick.
Next, in the little dish with fresh ginger in it, you make a mix of chili oil, vinegar and soy. It is most deliciouso and you can custom tweak the taste.
Take you dumpling from his little steamy perch and dip him in sauce, then put him in your soup spoon. This is very involved eating.
Now you can jab a hole in him, and suck out the soup before eating the wrapper and delicious pork insides.
If you feel up to it, match your dumplings with wok-fried greens. They're also tasty with the vinegar/soy mix.
My advice though is to not waste your stomach space on noodles, that's what Chinese Noodle Restaurant is for. Din Tai Fung noodles never seem to be quite right.
They're famous for dumplings for a reason.
Usually when I eat dumplings I am with my friend Kieran and we are at a hole-in-the wall in Haymarket called Chinese Noodle Restaurant. That's actually its name, and their noodles are extremely delicious, as are their pork dumplings. In search of something a little bit different, we ended up at Din Tai Fung some time earlier this year, and ever since I have wanted to go back. The place is awesome.
When you get there, invariably, there is a queue. You go up to the door lady and tell her how many people and in return you get a menu and an estimate of how long your wait will be. It's usually not more than 20 minutes, but if you are so inclined, to pass the time you can look through floor-to-ceiling windows at the dumpling industrial production kitchen, where 10 or so chefs in what appears to be surgical get-up stuff, fold, and steam hundreds of dumplings.
You order before you get your table by ticking boxes on a piece of paper. Then by the time you sit down it's usually only 5 minutes until your food comes.
Inside at large communal tables, the dumplings come fast, stacked high in bamboo steamers, delivered by waiters with walkie-talkies and those little electronic things to double-check your order.
And then you eat.
Don't attack the dumplings, lift them fairly gently or else you will poke a hole and lose the soup. They're fairly resilient but they are no match for a jabby chopstick.
Next, in the little dish with fresh ginger in it, you make a mix of chili oil, vinegar and soy. It is most deliciouso and you can custom tweak the taste.
Take you dumpling from his little steamy perch and dip him in sauce, then put him in your soup spoon. This is very involved eating.
Now you can jab a hole in him, and suck out the soup before eating the wrapper and delicious pork insides.
If you feel up to it, match your dumplings with wok-fried greens. They're also tasty with the vinegar/soy mix.
My advice though is to not waste your stomach space on noodles, that's what Chinese Noodle Restaurant is for. Din Tai Fung noodles never seem to be quite right.
They're famous for dumplings for a reason.
I needed to write a post that isn't about food. It was starting to get embarrassing. So now, something completely different.
I have lived in a lot of places the last 5 years. It has been a source of angst for some time and I'm ready to be done with share-houses. I'll warn you now, this is mostly a rant, but it will be worth your while if you make it to the end! I promise!
I've lived with some shit awful people.
Like Ebrahim, who used to wait until I got home and then open the door before I got my key in, peering out at me to ask, "Ellie..have you been drinking?" and one day cornered me in the hallway, late at night, and stroked his toothbrush with his thumb for our entire conversation. Who, as it turned out, never cleaned the bathroom when it was his turn because he didn't actually know how to use a broom.
Like Mr H, who was so completely bat-shit crazy that he stood peering through the peep-hole in the front door for 45 minutes while Johan was in the kitchen being freaked out... only to be more weirded out when he told me about it later and I was like, "but Johan...there is no peephole in the front door..." Mr H also once sat watching TV for 6 hours without moving..but the TV was not switched on. And once he stood at his bedroom door with the key in the lock for half an hour. Just sort of..standing there, not moving.
Like the guy from Barcelona who would take his shirt off as soon as he got home and then spend the rest of the night wandering around with a tea towel over his shoulder, floppy chicken-fillet man boobies jiggling with abandon. Whose idea of dinner was a tin of white beans with the bean juice, half a raw onion, and some olive oil. Who is the only person I have ever screamed at. I had to be removed from the room by another flatmate, and once in my bedroom continued screaming at him through the wall. I really hated him with a passion.
Jason, a transplant from Canberra, was actually quite sweet. It was the first time he'd lived out of home and he couldn't cook anything unless it fit inside the tiny little pizza oven his parents had bought him. He spent his first year out of home discovering that he quite liked recreational drugs and raves and the following year moved into college only to discover that he was completely disallusioned with binge drinking. I look for him periodically on Facebook, but I haven't run into him for a few years and he has a generic asian name so I don't think I'll find him again any time soon.
Share houses are hot-beds of passive aggression and poor hygiene. At least in my experience. But on the weekend in Canberra, mum called someone she lived with 30 years ago to see if he was free for a coffee. 3o years later.
I wondered if I have just had a particularly bad run, or were things different then? She doesn't recall living with anyone particularly horrible, except for the chronic gambler who used to come home every night just as she sat down to dinner, thus making her feel as though she should offer him food. I have no such compulsions.
At the moment I spend most of my time in my bedroom, but that's mostly because we have no furniture. The furniture we do have is owned by me and is being destroyed. The bathtub is constantly filled with little hairs, even if I clean it everyday (I have given up on that). And I have a chronic runny nose because my flatmate smokes in the house, claiming that because he does it in his room the smell is unable to permeate the rest of the house. Everyday the first thing I do when I get home is open the windows, and every morning the first thing he does is close them. When I paid my share of the last phone bill I realised that he is charging me for his calls. And it doesn't matter how many times I wipe down the stove top, every day when I go in the kitchen it is covered in random crap.
But here is my thought on share-house living: it's not been completely terrible.
I hope I'll be calling Viki for coffee in 30 years.
I have lived in a lot of places the last 5 years. It has been a source of angst for some time and I'm ready to be done with share-houses. I'll warn you now, this is mostly a rant, but it will be worth your while if you make it to the end! I promise!
I've lived with some shit awful people.
Like Ebrahim, who used to wait until I got home and then open the door before I got my key in, peering out at me to ask, "Ellie..have you been drinking?" and one day cornered me in the hallway, late at night, and stroked his toothbrush with his thumb for our entire conversation. Who, as it turned out, never cleaned the bathroom when it was his turn because he didn't actually know how to use a broom.
Like Mr H, who was so completely bat-shit crazy that he stood peering through the peep-hole in the front door for 45 minutes while Johan was in the kitchen being freaked out... only to be more weirded out when he told me about it later and I was like, "but Johan...there is no peephole in the front door..." Mr H also once sat watching TV for 6 hours without moving..but the TV was not switched on. And once he stood at his bedroom door with the key in the lock for half an hour. Just sort of..standing there, not moving.
Like the guy from Barcelona who would take his shirt off as soon as he got home and then spend the rest of the night wandering around with a tea towel over his shoulder, floppy chicken-fillet man boobies jiggling with abandon. Whose idea of dinner was a tin of white beans with the bean juice, half a raw onion, and some olive oil. Who is the only person I have ever screamed at. I had to be removed from the room by another flatmate, and once in my bedroom continued screaming at him through the wall. I really hated him with a passion.
Jason, a transplant from Canberra, was actually quite sweet. It was the first time he'd lived out of home and he couldn't cook anything unless it fit inside the tiny little pizza oven his parents had bought him. He spent his first year out of home discovering that he quite liked recreational drugs and raves and the following year moved into college only to discover that he was completely disallusioned with binge drinking. I look for him periodically on Facebook, but I haven't run into him for a few years and he has a generic asian name so I don't think I'll find him again any time soon.
Share houses are hot-beds of passive aggression and poor hygiene. At least in my experience. But on the weekend in Canberra, mum called someone she lived with 30 years ago to see if he was free for a coffee. 3o years later.
I wondered if I have just had a particularly bad run, or were things different then? She doesn't recall living with anyone particularly horrible, except for the chronic gambler who used to come home every night just as she sat down to dinner, thus making her feel as though she should offer him food. I have no such compulsions.
At the moment I spend most of my time in my bedroom, but that's mostly because we have no furniture. The furniture we do have is owned by me and is being destroyed. The bathtub is constantly filled with little hairs, even if I clean it everyday (I have given up on that). And I have a chronic runny nose because my flatmate smokes in the house, claiming that because he does it in his room the smell is unable to permeate the rest of the house. Everyday the first thing I do when I get home is open the windows, and every morning the first thing he does is close them. When I paid my share of the last phone bill I realised that he is charging me for his calls. And it doesn't matter how many times I wipe down the stove top, every day when I go in the kitchen it is covered in random crap.
But here is my thought on share-house living: it's not been completely terrible.
I hope I'll be calling Viki for coffee in 30 years.
...for us to turn out normal...
So, last time I was at the Hyatt in Canberra I was pissed as a newt. I had to be walked to the shower and helped to undress. Allegedly. I don't remember this happening so I'm fairly sure it's a fabrication. I do remember that I really like king-sized beds and temperature control, and also fluffy bathrobes. That bed was so soft and feathery, it was like being wrapped up inside a goose. Well, from what I sort of remember anyway.
After morning tea yesterday, I was drunk on food.
I'm starting to think my previous conviction about small tasty morsels being better for you may need some kind of reformulation. Partly because the tasty morsels at the Hyatt aren't actually that small...
I could have gone for more savouries; I hear there are cucumber sandwiches at afternoon tea, but we had time constraints so apart from the above most dericious spinach feta parcel-like thing, we had to be content with sweets. Le sigh.
These were filled with custard and complicated to eat daintily. But that crispy pastry: oh my.
I am always worried that when I eat scones and cream, the scones will be bad and I will be disappointed. Luckily these scones were nice and fluffy. I wish I ate more than one, but I guess I'll be thanking myself in the long run.
I think the five cups of tea created a buffer and prevented me from eating too many scones...
At least I wasn't alone in gluttony though. That laden plate you see below was one of about 4...
There's just no restraint when it comes to our family and small-to-medium/large-sixed tasty morsels. In fact, I have a story to tell you about dumplings, but I'm too ashamed just now, so it will have to wait until tomorrow.
After morning tea yesterday, I was drunk on food.
I'm starting to think my previous conviction about small tasty morsels being better for you may need some kind of reformulation. Partly because the tasty morsels at the Hyatt aren't actually that small...
I could have gone for more savouries; I hear there are cucumber sandwiches at afternoon tea, but we had time constraints so apart from the above most dericious spinach feta parcel-like thing, we had to be content with sweets. Le sigh.These were filled with custard and complicated to eat daintily. But that crispy pastry: oh my.
I am always worried that when I eat scones and cream, the scones will be bad and I will be disappointed. Luckily these scones were nice and fluffy. I wish I ate more than one, but I guess I'll be thanking myself in the long run.
I think the five cups of tea created a buffer and prevented me from eating too many scones...
At least I wasn't alone in gluttony though. That laden plate you see below was one of about 4...
There's just no restraint when it comes to our family and small-to-medium/large-sixed tasty morsels. In fact, I have a story to tell you about dumplings, but I'm too ashamed just now, so it will have to wait until tomorrow.
You like what I did with the title up there? You know..because people in Canberra are really passionate about Floriade.
They get angry and defensive and try to hurt you if you make jokes about it. I know because I only just made it out of there alive. Although that may have been related to the 300kg I gained over the weekend from all the eating I did...hmmn. At least I'm very cuddly.
I suppose if you live in Canberra you have to be passionate about Floriade because otherwise you're just another public servant dressed in hip Friday smart casuals and talking in acronyms. Oh wait.. sorry, I just got side-tracked describing my brother.
Anyway, I think perhaps it will be more spectacular in couple of weeks. There weren't quite seas of flowers. Well, except in this photo, but I did that deliberately to trick you.
but I like tulips as much as the next person ...
..and there was a giant guitar made from oranges so I'm not going to complain.
And even though I didn't get my face painted (for which my mother is wholly to blame since she is a chickeny wuss face who backed out at the last minute) I did play with a bunny in the petting paddock, so I am happy.
That poor bunny, he's probably dead by now from the terror of being chased around by thousands of over-excited squealing children all day.
The geese weren't looking too crash-hot either. Their honking seemed to be getting increasingly frantic and I think at one point they were planning a mass-flock jail break.
And look: baby sheep are as cute as they are tasty!
And just for the record, in the petting paddock I did no chasing. Only squealing...god, how immature do you think I am...?
PS. Pseudo-technical update that no-one except me cares about.
Remember a while back I posted that I was having trouble with the color rendering of photos between Aperture, Blogger and Photoshop Elements? Probably not, but Firefox has just crashed 4 times for no apparent reason so I can't be bothered digging around to find a link to prove that I did write that post. Anyway, I'm quite convinced now that something's up with Blogger's image compression, since Flickr doesn't seem to have the same issue. So for now I am uploading to Flickr and linking from there. It's very time consuming and I'm annoyed, so hopefully I will find a better solution. Even resizing and exporting my Aperture versions as small high-quality JPGs has no effect, but right now I'm full of Taiwanese dumplings (another post coming..gah..I'm so ashamed) and it's time for bed. Peace out and ah..stuff.
They get angry and defensive and try to hurt you if you make jokes about it. I know because I only just made it out of there alive. Although that may have been related to the 300kg I gained over the weekend from all the eating I did...hmmn. At least I'm very cuddly.
I suppose if you live in Canberra you have to be passionate about Floriade because otherwise you're just another public servant dressed in hip Friday smart casuals and talking in acronyms. Oh wait.. sorry, I just got side-tracked describing my brother.
Anyway, I think perhaps it will be more spectacular in couple of weeks. There weren't quite seas of flowers. Well, except in this photo, but I did that deliberately to trick you.
but I like tulips as much as the next person ...
..and there was a giant guitar made from oranges so I'm not going to complain.
And even though I didn't get my face painted (for which my mother is wholly to blame since she is a chickeny wuss face who backed out at the last minute) I did play with a bunny in the petting paddock, so I am happy.
That poor bunny, he's probably dead by now from the terror of being chased around by thousands of over-excited squealing children all day.
The geese weren't looking too crash-hot either. Their honking seemed to be getting increasingly frantic and I think at one point they were planning a mass-flock jail break.
And look: baby sheep are as cute as they are tasty!
And just for the record, in the petting paddock I did no chasing. Only squealing...god, how immature do you think I am...?
PS. Pseudo-technical update that no-one except me cares about.
Remember a while back I posted that I was having trouble with the color rendering of photos between Aperture, Blogger and Photoshop Elements? Probably not, but Firefox has just crashed 4 times for no apparent reason so I can't be bothered digging around to find a link to prove that I did write that post. Anyway, I'm quite convinced now that something's up with Blogger's image compression, since Flickr doesn't seem to have the same issue. So for now I am uploading to Flickr and linking from there. It's very time consuming and I'm annoyed, so hopefully I will find a better solution. Even resizing and exporting my Aperture versions as small high-quality JPGs has no effect, but right now I'm full of Taiwanese dumplings (another post coming..gah..I'm so ashamed) and it's time for bed. Peace out and ah..stuff.
...I did a terribly stupid thing on Thursday night. A number of them in fact, including my homecooked dinner, followed by a cheeseburger, medium fries, and then the drive-through at Mascot 24hr Krispy Kreme. Oh the humanity.
The worst choice of that evening though were the two alleged 'macarons' I bought at Laurent Patisserie. One 'pistachio' that tasted indiscriminately of nothing except a huge wodge of solid flavourless buttercream-like substance, and one 'chocolate' that was so crunchy that it could have been an oreo.
You like what I did up there with my 'scare quotes'? I just wanted to express to you that whatever those 'things' actually were, macarons they were not.
Obviously I should have known better. Probably should have known better than eating that second doughnut too, but you can't win all the time, and at least I talked my friend out of getting the mixed dozen. Believe me, that's a mistake you don't make twice.
The worst choice of that evening though were the two alleged 'macarons' I bought at Laurent Patisserie. One 'pistachio' that tasted indiscriminately of nothing except a huge wodge of solid flavourless buttercream-like substance, and one 'chocolate' that was so crunchy that it could have been an oreo.
You like what I did up there with my 'scare quotes'? I just wanted to express to you that whatever those 'things' actually were, macarons they were not.
Obviously I should have known better. Probably should have known better than eating that second doughnut too, but you can't win all the time, and at least I talked my friend out of getting the mixed dozen. Believe me, that's a mistake you don't make twice.
In twelve minutes my timer will go off and I will go and get some DNA out of the -80 freezer.
In twelve minutes you can overcook a boiled egg. I actually like very hard boiled eggs though, so it's not a bad thing.
In twelve minutes I can do my hair or my face (ahem..almost), but not both. I am very shallow. But remember, you must have surfaces to have depths. That's what I tell myself anyway.
In twelve minutes I can walk from my boyfriend's house to the train station. The train only comes every 15 though so I usually end up waiting longer on the platform than I do walking to it.
In twelve minutes I can walk from my office to Randwick Coles and buy a pair of stockings because I wore a skirt and misjudged the day's temperature. I have to tack on a few extra minutes in the public toilet there though because I always seem to get in a conversation with a old white lady about how it's because there are so many Asians in Randwick that the hand-dryer doesn't work. I'm not sure I follow that logic but usually I smile and nod because I'm scared of those old white ladies.
In twelve minutes I can eat a chicken salad roll from the Vietnamese place near our lab. It smells a bit strange in there and I'm sure that special sauce is extremely bad for you, but you can't go past a $3.80 chicken roll and MSG does make special sauces taste extrememly delicious.
In twelve minutes I can blog about 6 pointless things. That means it takes me, on average, two minutes to waste my time on any individual item. And when my timer goes off in one minute and 52 seconds, I will get my tubes out of the freezer and put them in the centrifuge for 30 minutes. That means potentially, that I could write about 15 pointless things while they are spinning.
But you made it this far so I won't subject you to 15 more things. At this stage in my week I can't afford to start alienating my regulars.
In twelve minutes you can overcook a boiled egg. I actually like very hard boiled eggs though, so it's not a bad thing.
In twelve minutes I can do my hair or my face (ahem..almost), but not both. I am very shallow. But remember, you must have surfaces to have depths. That's what I tell myself anyway.
In twelve minutes I can walk from my boyfriend's house to the train station. The train only comes every 15 though so I usually end up waiting longer on the platform than I do walking to it.
In twelve minutes I can walk from my office to Randwick Coles and buy a pair of stockings because I wore a skirt and misjudged the day's temperature. I have to tack on a few extra minutes in the public toilet there though because I always seem to get in a conversation with a old white lady about how it's because there are so many Asians in Randwick that the hand-dryer doesn't work. I'm not sure I follow that logic but usually I smile and nod because I'm scared of those old white ladies.
In twelve minutes I can eat a chicken salad roll from the Vietnamese place near our lab. It smells a bit strange in there and I'm sure that special sauce is extremely bad for you, but you can't go past a $3.80 chicken roll and MSG does make special sauces taste extrememly delicious.
In twelve minutes I can blog about 6 pointless things. That means it takes me, on average, two minutes to waste my time on any individual item. And when my timer goes off in one minute and 52 seconds, I will get my tubes out of the freezer and put them in the centrifuge for 30 minutes. That means potentially, that I could write about 15 pointless things while they are spinning.
But you made it this far so I won't subject you to 15 more things. At this stage in my week I can't afford to start alienating my regulars.
Well after about 12 hours of hysteria on Tuesday afternoon/night I have rethunk my strategy. Actually I lie because when I woke up on Wednesday morning I was still in tears. It was extremely pathetic.
I cried in an academic's office. I went to sushi train and ate dumplings. Then I ate a cheeseburger and drank half a bottle of wine whilst looking at pictures of bunnies.
I am getting a haircut (later today..no fringe this time). I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow where I will most likely eat ricotta pancakes with berry compote or something similar. Tomorrow afternoon I'll fly to Canberra for Floriade where the most pressing decision I will have to make will be trying to decide whether I should get my face painted as a penguin or a tiger.
I will take lots of pretty pictures and on Sunday I will go to high tea at the Hyatt and I will stuff my face with little tiny sandwiches. Of course, I will stuff face daintily and I promise not to tap my spoon against the side of my teacup. Don't you know that little tiny sandwiches are actually healthier because of their size, and so you can eat lots of them. Same goes for little tiny cakes... and the cuter and smaller they are the more you are allowed to eat.
Like these from Cake Journal..I'm pretty sure you can eat like..a hundred of them.
You see..the new strategy is basically food-based. And also bunny-based. But not bunny as food..
I cried in an academic's office. I went to sushi train and ate dumplings. Then I ate a cheeseburger and drank half a bottle of wine whilst looking at pictures of bunnies.
I am getting a haircut (later today..no fringe this time). I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow where I will most likely eat ricotta pancakes with berry compote or something similar. Tomorrow afternoon I'll fly to Canberra for Floriade where the most pressing decision I will have to make will be trying to decide whether I should get my face painted as a penguin or a tiger.
I will take lots of pretty pictures and on Sunday I will go to high tea at the Hyatt and I will stuff my face with little tiny sandwiches. Of course, I will stuff face daintily and I promise not to tap my spoon against the side of my teacup. Don't you know that little tiny sandwiches are actually healthier because of their size, and so you can eat lots of them. Same goes for little tiny cakes... and the cuter and smaller they are the more you are allowed to eat.
Like these from Cake Journal..I'm pretty sure you can eat like..a hundred of them.
You see..the new strategy is basically food-based. And also bunny-based. But not bunny as food..
If someone says to me in the future that they are considering doing an honours year, I will tell them the following story.
Since May I have tried to stay positive. Even though my instincts told me from the beginning that you cannot homogenise tissue samples for RNA extraction without a polytron or you know...something other than scissors. I did what I was told. I should have known better. I should have stuck to my instincts. I should have done so many things differently, but most of all, when I was deciding whether or not I would stick it out for another year and graduate with some more letters behind my name, I should have decided that I did not need those letters. I should have left then with my two degrees and not looked back.
First it began with failed PCR. At first those were my fault, but I figured that out pretty fast. Then the PCR started to look good. Real good. So good that I was getting huge pretty bands, specific for both of my primer sets, in my negative controls.
Two months that took to fix. It took two months because the person I work with decided we should approach the problem in a piecemeal fashion and change one reagent at a time. As in, "it can't be the polymerase, we won't change it...hmmn, it's still there, it must be the polymerase, but I guess the other things should still be ok.
When that was fixed, it reappeared and the piecemeal process was repeated. I started setting up my experiments in a sterile hood. I aliquoted my reagents. I put a sign on them that said, "Ellie's reagents. Do not use." They got used. My special boxes of tips got taken out of the hood.
My supervisor came back from Europe and the conversation went like this:
Me: "The contamination is back."
Him: "WHAT?! I thought that was sorted out two weeks ago."
Me: "Me too."
Him: "It's time to start spending our way out of this. Order new primers. Buy new polymerase. Make fresh dNTPs."
Me: *bangs head on table and thinks WHY FOR FUCK'S SAKE DID WE NOT DO THIS FROM THE BEGINING*
The PCR was fixed. My negatives were clear. I continued. My transformations stopped working. I thought there might be something wrong with the cells because the freezer door was left open. Everyone assured me that the cells were fine and I must be doing something wrong. Something wrong with the ligation. Too rough with the competent cells. Salt contamination. I cleaned up my samples. I tested the ligation. I tested the antibiotic concentration in my plates. I doubted myself. I trusted my instinct and I made new cells. And my transformations started working again.
So I did the plasmid extractions. 192 of them. I set them up for sequencing. 192 of them. And when I was looking at them today and I realised that something was not quite right, the wheels finally fell off. The remaining thread, remnants of motivation I had to haul myself up the hill to our awful lab every day, snapped. It snapped back and it triggered an overflow of the rising tide of panic that I have been managing to keep at bay since May. My supervisor realised this I think, as I started sobbing in the office.
There is only so long one can maintain the veneer of positivity. I don't care anymore. It doesn't matter what I do, it won't work. My sequences are contaminated with samples from Papua New Guinea. I'll have to start at the beginning again. There I was thinking that finally my string of constant bad luck was done. I thought I only had 2 weeks of lab work left. I have no idea how I am going to convince myself to go back. I want to go to bed for a while and see how long it takes for them to notice I've not been to the office in a while.
If someone asks me should they do honours? I have only one word.
No.
Since May I have tried to stay positive. Even though my instincts told me from the beginning that you cannot homogenise tissue samples for RNA extraction without a polytron or you know...something other than scissors. I did what I was told. I should have known better. I should have stuck to my instincts. I should have done so many things differently, but most of all, when I was deciding whether or not I would stick it out for another year and graduate with some more letters behind my name, I should have decided that I did not need those letters. I should have left then with my two degrees and not looked back.
First it began with failed PCR. At first those were my fault, but I figured that out pretty fast. Then the PCR started to look good. Real good. So good that I was getting huge pretty bands, specific for both of my primer sets, in my negative controls.
Two months that took to fix. It took two months because the person I work with decided we should approach the problem in a piecemeal fashion and change one reagent at a time. As in, "it can't be the polymerase, we won't change it...hmmn, it's still there, it must be the polymerase, but I guess the other things should still be ok.
When that was fixed, it reappeared and the piecemeal process was repeated. I started setting up my experiments in a sterile hood. I aliquoted my reagents. I put a sign on them that said, "Ellie's reagents. Do not use." They got used. My special boxes of tips got taken out of the hood.
My supervisor came back from Europe and the conversation went like this:
Me: "The contamination is back."
Him: "WHAT?! I thought that was sorted out two weeks ago."
Me: "Me too."
Him: "It's time to start spending our way out of this. Order new primers. Buy new polymerase. Make fresh dNTPs."
Me: *bangs head on table and thinks WHY FOR FUCK'S SAKE DID WE NOT DO THIS FROM THE BEGINING*
The PCR was fixed. My negatives were clear. I continued. My transformations stopped working. I thought there might be something wrong with the cells because the freezer door was left open. Everyone assured me that the cells were fine and I must be doing something wrong. Something wrong with the ligation. Too rough with the competent cells. Salt contamination. I cleaned up my samples. I tested the ligation. I tested the antibiotic concentration in my plates. I doubted myself. I trusted my instinct and I made new cells. And my transformations started working again.
So I did the plasmid extractions. 192 of them. I set them up for sequencing. 192 of them. And when I was looking at them today and I realised that something was not quite right, the wheels finally fell off. The remaining thread, remnants of motivation I had to haul myself up the hill to our awful lab every day, snapped. It snapped back and it triggered an overflow of the rising tide of panic that I have been managing to keep at bay since May. My supervisor realised this I think, as I started sobbing in the office.
There is only so long one can maintain the veneer of positivity. I don't care anymore. It doesn't matter what I do, it won't work. My sequences are contaminated with samples from Papua New Guinea. I'll have to start at the beginning again. There I was thinking that finally my string of constant bad luck was done. I thought I only had 2 weeks of lab work left. I have no idea how I am going to convince myself to go back. I want to go to bed for a while and see how long it takes for them to notice I've not been to the office in a while.
If someone asks me should they do honours? I have only one word.
No.
On Thursday I had a meeting with someone about some work stuff. I learned how to do allergy skin prick testing, and spirometry, and rhinometry. Or rhinomanometry. I'm still not sure what the difference between the two is. One day I'll be a grown up though, and it will all become clear.
The most interesting thing that came out of the meeting (not that the other things weren't interesting..they were just in a different category of interestability) was that the person I was talking to is...a BUNNY person.
Our twenty minute conversation about bunnies stirred up my latent bunny ownership desires. I had successfully pushed those desires out of my mind, telling myself that it wasn't to be because of land lords and litter trays and share house politics. And now I want one more than ever.
A netherland dwarf. A seal point netherland dwarf. Or a blue. Or a sooty.
He will be a little bit grumpy and high strung. Hyperactive and house-trained. He will be just like me. And his name shall be Mr Pompadour.
Not that I've been thinking about it all weekend or anything.
The most interesting thing that came out of the meeting (not that the other things weren't interesting..they were just in a different category of interestability) was that the person I was talking to is...a BUNNY person.
Our twenty minute conversation about bunnies stirred up my latent bunny ownership desires. I had successfully pushed those desires out of my mind, telling myself that it wasn't to be because of land lords and litter trays and share house politics. And now I want one more than ever.
A netherland dwarf. A seal point netherland dwarf. Or a blue. Or a sooty.
He will be a little bit grumpy and high strung. Hyperactive and house-trained. He will be just like me. And his name shall be Mr Pompadour.
Not that I've been thinking about it all weekend or anything.
There. I said it. Mmmmn uniforms.
For the record, I like boys in suits as well. Just in case you were wondering.
That's one of the great things about London actually: no shortage of boys in either uniforms or suits. Ooh la.
Gotta say though, the view of the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace is not ideal for those who are small of stature.
Well..maybe not so much a fan of these kinds of older people in uniforms... although to his credit he kept a straight face when I squealed, "oooh he looks just like the bobbies on the Bill." And I was so pleased with myself for saying bobbies.
Perhaps not a huge fan of this kind either, though he was very amusing and had a funny accent...
The Tower of London is very picturesque, if you can imagine it without all the torture and beheadings. I chose to imagine dashing men in armour instead. 
I suppose really, those hats are just too comical to even notice what's going on below...
Who am I kidding. Sometimes you just have to stick with the classics, nej?
I have to get out more.
For the record, I like boys in suits as well. Just in case you were wondering.
That's one of the great things about London actually: no shortage of boys in either uniforms or suits. Ooh la.
Gotta say though, the view of the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace is not ideal for those who are small of stature.
Well..maybe not so much a fan of these kinds of older people in uniforms... although to his credit he kept a straight face when I squealed, "oooh he looks just like the bobbies on the Bill." And I was so pleased with myself for saying bobbies.
Perhaps not a huge fan of this kind either, though he was very amusing and had a funny accent...
The Tower of London is very picturesque, if you can imagine it without all the torture and beheadings. I chose to imagine dashing men in armour instead. 
I suppose really, those hats are just too comical to even notice what's going on below...
Who am I kidding. Sometimes you just have to stick with the classics, nej?
I have to get out more.
