Nice to meat you

I will never be a vegetarian. I love meat too much. Luckily, I have never had to deal with guilty feelings about eating animals. I don't know why but I've never been plagued by remorse when I've realised that tasty little lamb rack I've just eaten has actually come from, well, a cute little lamb. Maybe I'm just a cruel and bloodthirsty person.

I'm not a carnivore that must have some kind of meat every day, I can happily eat vegetarian meals packed full of tofu and beans for days in a row. But there comes a time when I must have a tasty lamb cutlet, a succulent pork chop or a juicy steak.

This realisation of my passion for meat came to me over the weekend as I was pouring over the guide for the Sydney Food Festival. I saw the listing for a dinner with Fergus Henderson from St John in London. Set close to London's famous meat markets, this restaurant focuses on meat, but not just the prime cuts, Fergus makes every part of the animal a gastronomical treat. This idea is obviously not a new one and thinking about the having the opportunity to eat a whole pig from snout to trotter brought out a medieval drool in me. It's a little exy so I'm not sure I'll get to go (plus it's probably already sold out), but it did get me thinking about meat and my consumption of it.

I'm a believer of the idea that you either eat meat or you don't. Which means if you eat meat, you eat all meats, none of this 'I eat beef, but I don't eat veal' or 'I eat chicken, but I don't eat rabbit' business. It also means you should be willing to eat all parts of the animal (this part of the philosophy I'm still getting used to). On the other side of the argument if you're vegetarian please, please, please don't eat faux meat. We used to live near a vegetarian restaurant that had "duck", "beef", "chicken" on it's menu - tofu molded into meat shape and made to taste like meat is just plain ridiculous. If you're vegetarian, don't eat fish or chicken - they're animals too. I admit that I'm willing to try any type of meat (yes, any type except human) if it's served to me in an appetizing manner, Skip does think I'm a little weird for this.

Skip and I have always talked about how we want our kids to know where their food comes from, so they know that steak they're eating comes from a cow not a plastic-wrapped package from Coles. Lil-lil beat us to the punch when she was 18 months old and we were looking at goldfish in a pet store and she excitedly said: "Fish! Yum!".

We also tried having chickens to help the kids with this education, but the buggers never laid eggs and we spent all our time chasing them out of the house. Lil-lil did love chasing them round the yard though. And Skip's latest method is to point to the ducks swimming on the pond at the Botanical Garden and say "Girls, look at those delicious ducks! They'd make great confit or Peking-style." Hmmm..... I think that might be taking it a little too far.

We like to buy our meat from free-range, organic producers as much as possible too. I have to admit this is mainly because the taste is infinitely better, but also if any animal activists question my carnivorous activities I can tell them the animals I eat lived a good life.

So my challenge for the rest of the year is to eat all sorts of new meat, served up in all manner of ways - but most importantly that it's the best quality and has been farmed in a humane (and tasty) way! Bon apetit!

How many Corinnes does it take to change a light globe?

If it's my fate to end up in hell after I pass away, I know exactly where I'll be.... wandering the aisles of Bunnings. Oh, how I hate that place! 

Floor to ceiling of things I don't want, don't need or don't care for. When I go there on a mission to get something in particular I can never find anyone who is willing to help me. It's like they can sense you need help and all vanish in a puff of sawdust.

I never feel a bigger idiot than when I'm wandering through a Bunnings store, but my outing there today has to take the cake. I needed to get some new globes for our kitchen downlights. It was the first time we had ever needed to change them, so on inspection we found there were a couple we didn't know how to get out of the socket. So there I was trying to find someone at Bunnings who could tell me how to change a light globe - yes, stamp moron on my forehead right now. And when I found the lighting 'expert', it really wasn't what you'd call a light bulb moment.

I managed to walk out with a couple of globes and a couple of ideas about how to change them, but my feelings toward Bunnings unchanged. It just reinforces my idea that everyone needs a little home handyman fairy to do all these jobs! 

Monday, monday, can't trust that day

Well Monday rolls around yet again. I know I don't work so I shouldn't get Mondayitis like most people, but I do. Maybe it's because Skip is back at work and that other adult to bounce the kids off is gone. The house is usually a shambles, which means a good few hours of cleaning before I can see my way - that is never a fun thing. Monday is also the day where you have to wash away the sins of the weekend – those delicious cakes, the glasses of wine, the chips, the extra rich food.

This means that Monday is fish day in our house. I like to cook something that's not only super healthy but super delicious. I think having a really tasty dinner helps ease the pain of a Monday.

So fish definitely fills the bills - healthy, easy to cook and, oh so, delicious.

So it's a short blog today as - being a Monday - I'm completely uninspired, but don't worry there are plenty more blogs in the ocean.

Cafe au shame

I love coffee. I love everything about it. I love the secret language of flat white, short black, piccolo, latte, cappuccino. I love the feel of a takeaway cup in my hand. I love that first sip and the anticipation of 'will it be a good one?'.

I have to admit I'm becoming a real coffee snob too. I can't just have any old takeaway coffee - it's got to be good, real good. Or else I just don't bother, I'll settle for a cup of tea at home.

That doesn't mean I'm completely loyal to one cafe. My brother is so loyal to his local barista that they've shared many a milestone together and know the ins and outs of each other's lives. See I'm more of your coffee Nazi. Like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld I have a list of unwritten rules and if any coffee dude breaks them then I usually put them on a suspension for an undisclosed amount of time. This means I have to have a pool of good, reliable coffee shops in case there is an unexpected breech of the rules.

I don't want to be friends with my barista, I just want a damn good coffee served (quickly) with a smile and be on my way. Cafes that are currently on suspension include Latticini in Rozelle (why are you sooooooo bloody slow?) and Piccolo Padre for constant abuse of the terms 'honey, sweetie, love'. Sadly they both make fabulous coffee, so I do bend the rules and let Skip go and buy me a coffee from them on occasion. He doesn't get the terms of endearment, though he does get the frustration of waiting 20 minutes for a coffee when you're the only person in the shop.

When I was on holiday earlier this year, the fabulous coffee shop in Port Douglas had a list of rules for their customers. I loved their rules, so I'll post them for you:

* Never ask why your coffee is taking so long

* If you want skim milk, you are not allowed cakes or biscuits
*If you do not take your allocated number we will not deliver your coffee.
* Never request country, progressive jazz or gospel
* You are only allowed decaf if you have a relevant medical certificate
* Never Order from the Barista
* Extra hot coffee = extra crap coffee
* Yes some of the girls are single.......only hot attractive foreigners will be considered

I've decided to write a list of my own, that I may or may not get printed on a T-shirt for my weekend coffee runs. My rules include: 

• Don't tell me about your personal life. I don't care if your girlfriend wants you to propose, but you're just not sure if you're ready.
  
• Don't make 18 coffees before you start doing the milk. Usually I'm at the head of the cue and I end up waiting 20 minutes before I get my coffee.
• Don't serve your friends before me and push my coffee back in the line.
• Don't call me darl, sweetie, honey, love. Especially all in the one transaction.
• Don't charge me for a babycino, unless you're going to do something spectacular with a marshmallow - it's just leftover froth. And don't put hot milk in a babycino, they're for babies remember.
• Drop the attitude - you make coffee for a living, this does not make you better than the rest of society.

I know this is a bit of an angry blog, but it's something I really feel needs addressing. To lighten things up it's time to announce my inaugural cafe excellence award. While this winner will be a bit controversial in my household, I have to say they have never had a suspension from me, they consistently serve great coffee without fuss and attitude. And the winner is..... (drum roll)

Bertoni, Darling St, Balmain. 

Have a good weekend and I hope your caffeine hit is a good one.

Voulons-je aller?

It's been a long time since my last blog and that's because there's been a lot going on inside and outside of my mind. It all started when sleep became my friend once again (oh how I've missed you, my love).

Now that I'm rested my mind doesn't know which way to turn. It's like a door has opened and there are all these different paths and I'm stuck in the door frame saying "Which way do I go?"

I have energy but I'm just not sure where to channel it. Well, there are the girls, of course, but I now have all this extra energy and time I could do even more with my day. I'm like a kid in lolly shop - should I read more books, should I do a course, maybe I'll get a part-time job, maybe I'll go freelance. So many choices... Not good for one so indecisive as I.

Though today my mind has been filled with thoughts of all things French. Why? Well I'm planning a trip to Melbourne. I know, that makes no sense whatsoever, so let me explain...

I'm pouring over the website for Vue du Monde - the wonderfully rich, elegant and wickedly expensive French restaurant in Melbourne's CBD. I also have a free day while I'm there and I have images of my wandering city lane ways, perhaps sipping on a glass of Pinot Noir while reading a book (of course it will be something profound and poetic) in some tiny wine bar and afterwards taking a stroll along the riverbank to a gallery. While it may not be Paris, a whole day to myself in a different city will definitely fill the gap between now and my next European getaway - probably in 2034!

So sleep well my dears, and let your dreams fill both your days and your nights.

Snoozing to the groove

I've been thinking about joining a yoga class. I've tried yoga before and have to admit I was pretty crap at it. Really crap, actually.

I love the idea of it, though. All those poses creating a flexible, toned body. Feeling completely zen and blissed out at the end of class. I even like the idea of carrying around a yoga mat under my arm, so that while I'm ordering my chai latte everyone around will know - I DO YOGA!

The reality is, once in class I can never quite get the poses right. My body grinds, shudders and shakes as my bones click and crack away. I may just get a pose and then quickly collapse while the teacher has her back turned. The worst part comes at the end of the class with the final 5 minute meditation, as I inevitably fall asleep. This may not sound too bad, but I always end up snoring and then have to look around as I'm leaving the class mouthing 'Who was that snoring?' to put everyone off the scent. And this was before I had kids, I'm sure I'll be asleep with the first 5 minutes of class these days.

So why am I considering going back? Well, my back and arm is in complete agony these days after many nights sleeping on the couch while holding Goosey. I need to do some sort of exercise now I've cancelled my gym membership. I need some stress release after looking after two young kids day-in, day -out.

If you see someone snoring away at your next yoga class, please let them sleep - it might the only kip they get!

Deserting dessert

With the number of multi-million dollar jackpots going off at the moment, I'm convinced that the universe is trying to make me rich. Why else would they keep having $106 million or $80 million draws? 

The Skip and I sit around and dream about what we're going to purchase with our new found wealth; should we keep flying commercial to the exotic locales we'll visit or would it be easier to hire a private jet; do we buy our family members houses or just give them some cash to find their own - you know all those difficult decisions you'd have if you woke one morning to discover you had tens of millions of dollars.

Of course, the people who always win are always very deserving - they've just lost their job or had to sell all they owned to fund Aunt Edna's bone marrow transplant - and I do realise that I'm probably not the most deserving person to win the lottery. Though after traipsing up to the local news agency to buy a ticket, I really do feel like I've earned at least a few million dollars. The kids are usually crying and climbing out of the pram and telling them I'll buy them a whole playground when I win doesn't help to calm them down as we're waiting in line for a ticket.

So, last Thursday afternoon as I was pushing the kids in the trolley through the car park after a particularly horrendous shopping expedition I suddenly remembered two things - I promised King Sting that I would buy a Powerball ticket for the $80 million jackpot draw and that I would pick up something for dessert. As I shook the loose change from my pocket I realised I only had enough one of these. The thought of going to get more money out with girls tearing each other a part was just too much. With little hesitation I headed back into the shops and set off in the direction of the news agent - after all, think of how many cakes I could buy with $80 million? Hell, I could buy my own French pastry chef and move him into the shed! I kept these thoughts up as I cued with the rest of Sydney to buy a ticket and wrestled the kids while everyone around sighed and rolled their eyes at me and my heavily-ladened trolley.

Later that evening when King Sting heard about the outcome of my decision his automatic reply was: "Well, at least with dessert you know you've already won." As I looked at my losing ticket that night, I had to agree with him.

This made me think about what really would give you more happiness - lots and lots of dough or a rich Mr Whippy? And maybe this is what Marie Antoinette really meant when she uttered those words: "Let them eat cake!" Perhaps she knew that there was more fun to be had with a wicked dessert than healthy bank balance.

Either way, I know that next time the baker will be getting my $7 over Mr Oz Lotto.