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Don't wine about it
Now, I am no wine afficionado and I'll be the first to admit that when it comes to plonk, I don't speak the language of grape. I'm unable to extol prolifically about the warm undertones of chocolate, cinnamon or hazlenut. I couldn't detect the zingy currents of kiwi fruit or lime if there were chunks of the stuff floating on the surface. Nor can I determine the region of origin, unless we're talking specifically about which bottle shop it was purchased from.
But what I can tell is bad from good. And, even further, I can tell very bad from bad. It doesn't take a palate of silk to sniff out a corker of a hangover from a mile away. And so it happened at a Christmas party the other evening. A glass of something fizzy and pink was placed in my hand. To begin with, pink and fizzy is a terrible start. Fizzy should most definitely only come in shades of pale yellow to slightly darker yellow. It should never inolve the colour pink and the label on the bottle should never refer to 'strawberry', 'raspberry' or any other berry and should never, ever contain the words 'with a hint of'. This indicates that, most probably, what you are about to imbibe may well have met with a bottle of bubble bath in the not too distant past.
The telltale signs of a disasterously bad, hangover inducing drink are the following:
1. Nasal hairs curl in protest, die and promptly fall out of nostrils into drink. This is not only detrimental to controlling future dust intake into lungs, but somewhat embarrassing to have nasal hairs floating in your drink.
2. Vivid hallucinations of pink drink being forced back up the same way it went down prick your conscience.
3. The first sip causes your tongue to wither and die right then and there on the spot. Efforts to revive your tongue are unsuccessful, even with the aid of the tongue defibrilator.
4. Taste buds visibly jump ship, separating your lips and bungee jumping without a rope from your cavernous mouth.
5. A little French voice in the back of your mind curses you forever and condemns you to an eternal hell of stodgy english puddings and warm beer. You don't even speak French.
Take note and be aware of the warning signs this Christmas. This is not an anti drinking column. By all means, drink. Just drink responsibly. Make sure it's expensive and French. Well, at least expensive.
September 17th 2008 06:36
I have trained myself to like herbal tea. It didn’t come easily and it still feels a bit strange to drink a mug of weakly flavoured hot water and still manage a lip-smacking sigh of satisfaction at the end. But I did it.
It’s all to do with attitude. I was a latte drinker for many years, and there is nothing as vastly removed from the smooth, caffeine infused creaminess of Italy’s finest product as a mug of hot water. Vaguely scented.
And speaking of scent. It’s the one thing which drives me potty dotty about the herbal experience. If the tea tasted as fantastic as it smelled, the experience would be sublime. But it doesn’t. While my nose hairs are sent into twists of ecstacy at the mere whiff of a raspberry and vanilla herbal refreshment, my tongue lies like a cold lizard before the early morning sunbake cranks the blood flow up a notch.
But I persist. It’s good for me. I trained my palate to ignore the protests coming from my lizard tongue.
Until last night. Herbal tea is a little like major surgery. It’s fine as long as you don’t have to see it yourself.
At a restaurant last night in the Nation’s Capital, I was presented with the unfortunately macerated remains of what must have once been a living, photosynthesising camomile plant with big, wet buds of yellow wattle-esque pollen.
I like my camomile in a tea bag where I don’t have to see it and it doesn’t actually taste of camomile. The real deal was a cloying assault on my throat and felt like I had taken out my epiglottis and ordered it to kiss every flower in the neighbouring florist.
So the long and the short is, the tea bag is the herbal refreshment of the future. Sometimes the real deal is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Signed
Grumpy Herbalist
Dearest Influenza
unfortunately I am writing to you today to formally put an end to the enduring relationship we have established over the last few days. I understand this may come as a surprise to you, given that until now I have revealed little of the inner turmoil which has been brewing inside regarding certain aspects of your behaviour.
The first few days of your stay were great fun. I took a few days off work so that we could spend some quality time together and this proved invaluable in cementing our bond. We discovered a common love of eighties movies, often watching the same one three times in a row. I certainly could not have found this depth of understanding in anyone else. We played computer games, read books and surfed the net in the calm harmony which is found only in the most compatible of relationships.
But then, over the last couple of days, it took a nasty twist. You messed with my appetite, and nothing destroys a relationship faster than an enforced diet. No longer was I able to indulge in the last few days of winter, celebrating with a few thick, hearty stews and braised lamb shanks. No more fruit compote with greek yoghourt and I kissed goodbye to the ricotta, whisky and chocolate cake sitting in the fridge.
At first, I tried to take it in my stride. But there is only so much a reasonable person can endure. I am moving on and there is no room for negotiation. I have met someone new, Antiobiotic, and he is moving in tonight.
I wish you well. Don't keep in touch.
Pippa
Gunning for Gundaroo
No. Gundaroo is not a bleak, grey, cold town in the north of Scotland, just managing to squeeze a quick twenty minutes of sunshine in between haggis at lunch and scones for afternoon tea. In fact, it’s the exact opposite
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Beetroot. Beet. Root.
Until recently, beetroot was, for this uneducated contributor, the evil, bloody product of the wicked witch of the vegetarian north. Then I discovered it doesn’t actually grow in tins
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A little known fact about Australia is that it has highlands. Scotsmen are far and few between, tartan is only found in picnic rug shops and heather is the name of proprietor of the jam shop, but they are highlands nonetheless.
Located a stone’s throw from the outskirts of Sydney’s modern, bustling CBD, the Southern Highlands have long been the last bastion of twee English gardens, cream tea for two and ye olde worlde shops proffering otherwise useless gimmicks such as lavender scented boot warmers and bee’s wax hand crème. Severe drought in the last ten years hasn’t stopped the rose enthusiasts who continued pruning and grafting throughout even the strictest of water restrictions
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If Robinson Crusoe had applied a couple of entrepreneurial green thumbs to his unplanned tropical stint and opened a boutique property service specialising in flogging as yet undiscovered jewels of tropical paradise to sweaty colonial thugs, there is no doubt Fiji would have been smack bang in the middle of the display catalogue.
One of the many jewels in the crown of the South Pacific, Fiji is most commonly associated with ribbons of white sand beaches, small coral cays, thick jungle highlands, traditional ceremonies and kava. But it’s the curry which has me returning time and time again to the old colonial outpost of Suva, the country’s capital city situated on the main island of Viti Levu
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Got a hankering for the freshest, tastiest and safest curry in India? Look no further than the Ganges. And not just next to the sacred river- on it. On a recent trip to the land of currification, the other half and I took a floating expedition down Ganges, winding our way from Mirzapur in the dust bowl of Uttar Pradesh to Varanasi, the ancient bastion of inner harmony and wandering bovine gods known outside India as beef.
Camping on the banks of the Ganges at night and sailing by day meant the food was prepared by a dextrous crew of four local land owners who ran the business as a side project. Fortunately there was little of the Club Med sun-sea-catamaran flashiness in this entrepreneurial jaunt. The boats were little more than rough wooden hulls, the toilet was the nearest bush on the riverbank, and the ‘kitchen’ consisted of the fourth boat equipped with a small gas burner and a few metallic bowls. Dishes were washed in the Ganges itself so it came as a surprise that during a three week trip, this was the only leg where the ‘Rampant Delhi Belly Runs’ were nowhere to be seen. This phenomenon stands as a true testimony to the fine preparation skills of the crew, the freshest of fresh ingredients and the tastebud-walloping sacks of spices thrown into the mix
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You say tomato, I say tomatoe.
You say potato, I say potatoe.
You say aubergine. I get confused and blurt ‘Oh, you’re French
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The Djamaa El Fna in Marrakech defies all description. Take a new years eve fireworks extravaganza, the key acts of a Cirque de Soleil and the exuberance of San Sebastian’s Carnivale, combine them with a hundred over-stimulated Jamie Oliver’s cooking and barking in the open air and you have the historic, bustling food and entertainment centre of Marrakech, Morocco. Every night of the week.
Recently recognised by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site representing communication of Arabic traditions and myths through the ages, the square which is relatively tame during the day takes on an animalistic insanity come 7pm. While snake charmers, acrobats and soothsayers hock their talents at the edges of the square, the centre transforms into an extended outdoor restaurant flanked by forceful, and often aggressive, spruikers flogging their gastronomic wares
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