Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts

Sunday, 21 September 2014

India - Week One

I'm sitting in a hotel room in Agra, killing a few hours before we head back to Delhi. There's too much time to not be bored, and too little to go do something else, so I thought I'd just catch up on some journal writing and blogging. 

The last week has been a lot of fun. We landed in a pretty group of people in our Intrepid tour. As usual there has been someone who fits in less well with the group, and some who are quieter, but on the whole the dynamic has been quite positive. Our tour leader Veerendra is quite knowledgable, and it took him a few days but his less serious side finally showed up, and with it, his cheeky grin. Five of us are going on to do another tour tomorrow so hopefully the guide is just as good. 

We began, and will end, in Delhi. And I have to say, ugh. Delhi is doubtlessly my least favourite place so far. It feels like just another soulless, sprawling city, where everyone wants something from you; and whilst certain elements have been interesting, the prospect of rattling around Delhi tomorrow and again on the day I leave India does not fill me with joy. But I will have good company so I'm sure I'll make the most of it. 

Also, to be fair to Delhi, my impression of the hotel didn't help. Although I didn't expect great things, having travelled fairly extensively in developing countries, I was still a little disappointed. And that was probably because 1. The room was stuffy and claustrophobic because it had no windows at all, just a wall decorated with alternating panels of padded vinyl and a semi-reflective surface; 2. The entire bathroom was covered in dust (but not the rest of the room...); 3. There was a pigeon living in the exhaust fan of the bathroom, which probably contributed to the dust and also meant that, every so often, a feather would float out; and 4. There were maggots in our beds. (Do you like how I saved that one until last? 😊)

We got up to a few things in our first couple of days in Delhi. My BFF Ness and I explored the area around the hotel and ate street food for breakfast for the princely sum of about 40c, so imagine our horror at ending up in hotels on tour where you have to spend seven whole dollars on breakfast. The horror! (That's a joke, by the way. Compared to the $20 or so you'd spend back home, it's obviously very affordable, despite often eating at establishments geared to cater for tourists with sensitive stomachs.)

We went on a tuk-tuk adventure (to be clear, I'm aware they're supposed to be called motor rickshaws (or a variation thereof), but they have taken to calling them tuk-tuks when they tout their services, presumably to cater to tourists) with a driver who in hindsight stalked us back from breakfast. After a dispute about where he was taking us (he wanted to take us to an emporium and to a tourism office where he obviously got a commission), he finally took us around the war memorial, and then to the parliament and prime minister's residences, where we had our first taste of domestic Indian tourists including us in family photos. And then we had a brush with the law. Our increasingly dodgy tuk-tuk driver didn't tell us it costs RS$500 (AUD$10) to get into there, and he evaded the fee on the way out which resulted in a very minor police chase and some red lights run. When he finally lost himself in traffic and felt safe and explained, we scolded him and he seemed suitably chastened. He took us to a fairly nice garden...and on the way home he insisted on taking us back to the emporium. We finally yielded when he explained that he got a lunch voucher if we looked around, so ten minutes in air conditioning wasn't the end of the world when you're hot and jet lagged. Anyway, that was our big adventure that lasted about 90 minutes, cost $2.10 and taught us what to watch out for so it was an afternoon well spent!

Once we'd met the group, we went for an adventure on the Metro, where we discovered there is a Women's Only carriage. And it was actually quite comforting. There was also a magical force field between our carriage and the next, despite there being no physical barrier. The metro was clean, new, ran well and was safe - bags were X-rayed and passengers walked through metal detectors - so I do quite highly rate their metro system. Just be prepared for the gentle push 😉

We wandered around a market, had a masala chai, visited the largest mosque in India (spoiler alert: it was pretty huge), rode in a bicycle rickshaw, and visited a Sikh temple and saw their community kitchen where they cater for 3,000 hungry people each day. And we sweated. A lot. Luckily I was able to bond with one group member in particular over how ridiculously sweaty we were. One week in and it has become par for the course, but early on it was amusing. 

From Delhi we moved onto Jaipur by train, which included a little breakfast brought to you on a tray. It was somewhat reminiscent of the long-distance buses in South America.

Jaipur itself was very pretty after the grime of Delhi, and our hotel was very 1950's British, with a nice lawn, cane lounges and simple but clean rooms in a hotel that both has windows (yay!) and was also built for the heat (yay again!). 

Highlights from Jaipur were a visit to the quite incredible Amber Fort, an obligatory (but interesting) visit to a textile factory where they showed us how they do block printing using natural dyes, taking in a surprisingly compelling movie about a female Indian boxing champion (no subtitles!), visiting the city palace museum and the observatory, which contained the world's largest sundial, and an incredible (but for totally different reasons that I won't elaborate on here!) oil massage that cost all of about $15. 

From Jaipur we caught a private bus to Karauli, where we stayed in a hotel that was the former residence of one of the Kings of one of the 22 Rajasthani princely states. He's still king, by the way, but it's a ceremonial role. He also still stays at the palace, but rents most of it out as a hotel to pay for the upkeep. It was a pretty amazing experience to stay in a palace, which, if I were to hazard a guess, was decorated more or less as it had always been. But yep, pretty sure I could handle living like a princess!

We also did a village walk in Karauli, and visited a Hari Krishna temple, where the women were very welcoming and invited the girls in to join them in their singing and dancing. It was quite an experience. Walking back through the village we encountered so many friendly children who just wanted to say hello. You could tell they hadn't made the connection between tourism and making a profit, which in hindsight is why our guide discouraged us from leaving the palace grounds. It was very refreshing and is just as it should be. 

Back on the bus, and next stop was Agra, via Fatehpur Sikri, a former Mughul palace and adjacent, second-largest in India, mosque. Like Amber Fort, the palace was the kind of place you could spend a few hours alone with a camera...but no such luck. The guide told us an interesting story of the justice system of the time, and how murderes and rapists would be sentenced to Death by Elephant. They had this generally quite pleasant elephant they kept tethered to a rock, and when execution time rolled around they would feed it a plant that caused it to go crazy and trample whatever was in front of it - in this case, a murderer or rapist. Quite novel, definitely gory, and not at all fair on the elephant (nor surprising, given this was the emperor who came to the throne at 13 and would use women to play naked Blind Man's Bluff and other, naked, human-sized takes on traditional board games. He was obviously at a loose end as to what to do with his power for a time there...). On the bright side they obviously appreciated the poor creature, because they constructed quite a spectacular tomb for it!

Finally to Agra, where the streets seem to be better-made, and with less traffic than other cities. We entered the Taj Mahal at sunrise, but unfortunately the fog prevented us from getting the spectacular sunrise photos we'd hoped for. Still, the early start meant fewer people, so more photo opportunities and plenty if time to just chill out and take it all in. 

The feeling I got from the Taj Mahal was incredibly powerful. Obviously things are a bit different for kings with bottomless pockets, but the love the emperor had for his wife was almost palpable. An awe-inspiring structure, and a surprisingly peaceful place to visit despite the crowds. 

Later, we saw the room at the Agra fort where the emperor was imprisoned by his son for spending too much money on grand structures (hah!), and from it you could see the Taj Mahal. Legend has it that he would live out his days there, weeping for his dead wife as he looked out over the Taj Mahal that he would never again visit. 

The fort itself was pretty cool, too. I mean, this place had two moats, one wet one filled with crocodiles, and one dry one filled with tigers. It doesn't get much better than that!

So now we wait for the train. I'm trying to take it easy this afternoon because I have the triple-whammy of having sweated in the sun for half the day, being up at 4:45am and having an upset stomach. Our train also won't get in until after midnight tonight, so rest is probably a good idea. 

I hope that wasn't too tedious for you to read, but like I said, I have time to kill! And hopefully the pictures helped break things up a bit. I haven't taken many on my phone yet, as evidenced by the gaping pictorial holes in this story, but I'll try harder next week. 

Stay tuned for more adventures. 

Saturday, 3 August 2013

Breakfast at Tom's Farm. Alternate Title: Lost In Translation. Second Alternate Title: Why It's A Miracle I Didn't Lose Weight In America.

So I've been hanging out in the US of A for the past week with my friend Carole from Toot Sweet 4 Two. We met at Bloggy Boot Camp Vegas last year and totally hit it off, although, to be fair, **not** hitting it off with Carole poses a far greater challenge!

Carole had kindly agreed to drive me from her home near Escondido (kind of outer San Diego) up to my aunt's house in Pasadena at the end of my stay, and we stopped by the side of the highway at Tom's Farm for breakfast. It started out as a produce stand on the side of the I15 near Lake Elsinore and has now morphed into almost a destination unto itself. It has a diner, a Mexican restaurant, a wine/cheese place, a produce store, a traditional candy store, a furniture shop and a model train and pony rides for the kids. And on weekends it hosts a craft market as well as the occasional blues show.

Anyway, I tried my darndest to order breakfast there, and all I can say is "lost in translation". My own thoughts were encapsulated by a set of pointy brackets, but it did something funky to the formatting and they all disappeared :(

ME: "I'll have the hotcakes combo with bacon and fried eggs over easy"
SERVER LADY: *blank look* "I'm sorry, how do you want your eggs?"
ME: "Uh, you know, like, sunny side down...?"
SERVER LADY: "Uhh..." *looks as Carole for help and then back to me* *crickets chirp*
ME: "Um, you know, fry the eggs, flip 'em but try not to bust the yolks...?" *awkward laughter*
CAROLE: "So I think she wants the eggs over, a little cooked on top"
SERVER LADY: "Oh, okay, so how do you want them?"
ME: "Medium please. Like, not too hard but not too runny."
SERVER LADY: "Right, gotcha. And what do you want to drink?"
ME: "Can I have a cup of tea, please?"
SERVER LADY: "Sure, uh, so you want, like, hot tea?"
ME: "Yes, please."
SERVER LADY: "And would you like blueberries or chocolate chips in your hotcakes?"
ME: *stunned look* "Blueberries, please."

(And for the record, blueberry pancakes go really well with fried eggs! Crazy, I know.)

(Also, Carole assures me that I used the correct terminology straight up. I can only assume she was concentrating on my accent and not my words, because that's what I do when Irishmen speak and... *vagues out to a happy place full of cute Irishmen with charming accents*)

Sunday, 24 February 2013

Review - The Tea Room at QVB, Sydney

I obviously didn't post last week, and that's because I was a bit busy - I found myself in Sydney for the weekend, and, determined to pack as much into my weekend as possible, my schedule looked a little like this:
  
9am - Breakfast with the entire St Kilda Football Club (hmm, I should think harder about how I word that one, given their track record... what I meant was that they happened to be in the Virgin lounge where I happened to be eating my breakfast!)
 
11:45am - get off plane in Sydney and high-tail it to my hotel to drop off luggage, then walk down George Street towards the Queen Victoria Building, foolishly wearing unpadded sandals
 
1:10pm - arrive at the QVB and spend some time wandering about. Decide that I like it well enough because it resembles Melbourne and its arcardes (sorry, Sydney, I like you on weekends but I can't imagine living there!), what with the mosaic floors
 
and domes
 
and old-style architecture
 
and general all-round arcade-y-ness.
 
1:30pm - finally find my way to the Tea Rooms on the third floor. It honestly took me quite a while to figure out how to get there, because I knew it was on the third floor but most of the building only goes to the second floor. Here's the tip: if you walk to the north end of the building, you will be faced with the Fat Budha restaurant, and most likely be confused. But if you look a little more closely you'll see a small sign and a staircase to the right, and you climb that to reach the tea rooms.
 
More on my jam-packed weekend later, because given the title of this post I should probably actually write about the tea room!
 
I chose the QVB tea rooms after contacting the lovely Lorraine at Not Quite Nigella and asking for her high tea recommendation. She said she hadn't been to QVB in a while and had heard that it had slipped a little, but that it was quite a traditional service. I think the Royal Albert flatware alone probably sold me!
 
I was meeting Cesar and Pete, two guys I met on my recent trip to Africa (I'll write about that one day, too, I promise!). I figured seeing as I'm rarely in Sydney I should try and see some Sydney-siders, and also should probably take the opportunity to cross off one of my New Year's resolutions, in addition to climbing the Harbour Bridge (that one's on my 101 Things list, and I did it the following day). Done, done and done.
 
We met at the table, which I had booked the day before. I was under the impression when I booked that we had nabbed literally the last table in the house, so you should definitely book ahead by more than 24 hours. And because they start to close at 3pm on a Saturday they wanted me to make a 1:30pm booking, not a 2pm one like I had originally planned (I've been stuffed around by flight delays so many times that I nowadays try to build in a half-hour contingency to everything). Anyway, it all worked out okay and Virgin ran on time despite a late take-off in Melbourne. You never used to be able to trust them but these days they're definitely improving.
 
They took our order quickly - probably a little too quickly, given Pete had literally just sat down and had not even picked up his menu when the waitress came scurrying over - but because we were having the traditional afternoon tea ($43 on weekends, including tea or coffee) it wasn't a big deal. We were given glasses of water almost straight away, and little silver teapots came with matching tea strainers about 5 or so minutes later - one individual one for Pete, and a two-person one for Cesar and I. From there it was probably another 10 minutes or so before the food came out, and I was starting to wonder where it was but I suppose they were heating the things that needed heating.
 
As it turns out, three tiers plus one plate of food all spaced out might not look like much, but it's actually quite a challenge to get through!
 
I started with the spinach and feta pastry, which was moist on the inside, flaky on the outside and very tasty.
 
Next, assuming them to be warm and that they should be eaten that way, I attacked a mammoth scone with clotted cream and jam. The scone wasn't as warm as I had expected, wasn't really warm at all, in fact, and I have to say the scone itself didn't impress me greatly... but that's because - yes, I'm going to say it - I make the world's best scones. I'm sorry, but I do. Or, I did, this one time. They were utterly perfect, and every scone that has passed my lips since has paled in comparison. But this was a good, robust scone; not too dry; and didn't fall apart when I spread my jam and cream on it, which is important. Not a scone to be ashamed of, and certainly generous in size.
 
Next I moved onto the fingers of sandwiches. There were two for each diner, and there were two each of three different types of sandwich, so you had to hope that the other diners wouldn't want the same sandwiches that you did! Our plate included two tuna, two curried egg, and what we thought was two chicken salad but turned out to be one chicken and one ham. I had an egg sandwich and a chicken one, and both had lovely, fresh bread and the fillings were just right. The chicken salad had a little celery and a little walnut in it, which was a nice touch.
 
On the same tier as the sandwiches there were these tiny, odd little pastry cases filled with what seemed to be a warm cheese sauce or maybe even aioli?? I think we had all assumed that it was a mini quiche and one of us actually tried biting into it and ended up with it on their chin. If it was a quiche it certainly had not set properly. I, unusually for me, put it all in my mouth in one hit and didn't make any mess at all! The filling was too runny for it to stay long on my tongue so I didn't have much of an opportunity for the flavour to register, so I can't say a lot about it. Perhaps we were supposed to put it on the sandwiches or on the spinach pastry - I really have no idea. Maybe someone more cultured than me can tell me what it was supposed to be?!?!
 
Coming in for a slightly closer view now, the next thing I attacked was a passionfruit yo-yo (melting moment). It's the round one between the two macarons at the front of the bottom tier. The two biscuits were quite thin and melt-in-your-mouth shortbready, and the passionfruit buttercream was tasty and full of flavour, but I knew the very second I picked it up that it had been sitting out a little too long and that the filling was soft and warm. So I sort of slid the two halves of the biscuit off so that both had some filling on them, and ate them separately. I once again, surprisingly, made the right choice, because when Pete bit into his the cream squirted out the sides. But the filling hadn't separated out or gone greasy; it was just a bit tricky to eat.
 
Next came those little oblongs of cake on the top tier. From what I can tell, one layer was a hazelnut (or possibly almond)-based cake, one was plain sponge and the top was a chocolate gel. The cake reminded me a little of tiramisu, although not as strong, with its moistness and chocolate and hazelnut flavours. Definitely a winner, and certainly only for consumption in inch-long pieces!
 
Back down to the bottom tier for those little lemon meringue boats. Barely a mouthful, airy and light, and the lemon filling was beautiful. I could probably rack up half a dozen of these and eat them with a cup of tea and good book in hand, no problem at all.
 
I then ventured into macaron territory. Now, I have to say I'm a little embarrassed to admit, but my macaron experience is quite limited. My first-ever macaron was at Doncaster shoppingtown at Laurant Patisserie and I expected big things, given that we were in the midst of the Great Macaron Craze of 2011. I found it to be a bit meh, but then, when I thought about it, I realised that a biscuit made of almond meal and egg white is likely to be quite plain and that the star performer should be the filling. I don't think Laurant should take what I say personally as I have only tried one in their range so far so can't really judge.
 
My next macaron (okay, it wasn't one - I ate three) was at La Maison du Chocolat in New York City in October last year (why yes, I do have a knack for sniffing out patisseries, chocolatiers et al in foreign cities, why do you ask?), and I also tripped over Magnolia bakery, just around the corner, which is why I didn't get around to eating the macarons until late the following day. I wasn't terribly concerned as I was aware that they are at their best on Day Two or Day Three. So they were stuck in my hostel locker with a stinky backpack that has done a lot of work over the years in my travels with no wash (you'll be pleased to know that the first thing I did when I got home was throw it in the washing machine!), but they still fared reasonably well. It confirmed for me that the ganache in the centre was the star performer of a macaron.
 
So when I encountered a pistachio macaron I wasn't really sure what to expect. I mean, it was certainly the exact shade of pistachio, but I like in-your-face flavours like lemon and raspberry and dark chocolate, and pistachio is obviously a much more subtle flavour. I am pleased to announce that the flavour of the macaron did not disappoint me - it did taste like pistachio, and the light but creamy filling carrying that flavour did not overwhelm it. But the structure of the biscuit went much the same way as the passionfruit yo-yo - the filling oozed out the sides, and this time I hadn't thought to separate the two halves. Sigh. Now I feel like I have to go on a macaron-tasting adventure to determine what makes the perfect filling, both in flavour and in texture. If there's somewhere you know (preferably in Melbourne but not necessarily) that will offer me a spectacular macaron experience, pease let me know!
 
At around this time, the tea rooms were starting to be packed up around us, table cloths and all, and bills being brought to tables, which was a little bit offputting. I suppose that was the intention! The room, surprisingly, became even echoey-er than before with fewer people and furnishings in it. It had previously been quite difficult to hear Cesar and Pete speak, I suppose because of the shape of the room, but then, I am a bit hard of hearing with background noise. It's probably not the best choice of location if you want a quiet, intimate chat, though.
 
My last-but-one petit four was one of those fruit tarts on top. I saved it until amost-last because I love fruit tarts in all their forms, and they're pretty hard to get wrong. I also wasn't certain I'd be able to fit it in if I ate that orange miniature cupcake on the bottom of the stand first, and the waistband of my skirt was already a little snug, so I didn't want to risk not eating it. The pastry was sweet and crumbled perfectly; the creme patisserie was light but rich; and the fruit was, well, fruit. As I said, pretty hard to get wrong (unless the creme patisserie tastes like uncooked cornflour, in which case you know you have a problem!).
 
And finally, as the bill was paid, I made a final lunge at the orange mini cup cake. It was rich and buttery, with a strong orange flavour which balanced the butteriness. I'm glad I squeezed it in :)
 
All in all, I would recommend the Tea Room at QVB, if only for the setting - it is a mixture of tables and of old-fashioned, studded leather and brocade lounge chairs - and the experience of having high tea on nice china. There was a good selection of food, and most of it was well-prepared, but I was a little disappointed by how soft the filling in the biscuits was. I would suggest perhaps going in the morning instead of the afternoon to counter that. Luckily I don't judge a tea room by its macarons ;)
 
As for the rest of my weekend, well it involved two dinners with friends down at Darling Harbour, two lots of fireworks, a drink down at the King Street wharf with Pete and Ceasar, a Harbour Bridge climb, a couple of cocktails at Bar 100 in the Rocks, and hot chocolate and cake at the Lindt cafe. Not a bad weekend at all, thank you Sydney!

Thursday, 6 December 2012

Why Do I Do This To Myself? Alternative Title: Amber’s Wedding Cake. Second Alternative Title: I Am Apparently Incapable of Getting to the Point in an Expedient Fashion.

Hey! *waves* I’m back! I had an utterly fabulous time on my round-the-world adventure, which I will tell you about in dribs and drabs, but for now I’ll get back to what (I imagine most of) you come here for – pictures of cake, and food.
The food will have to wait, although I do have a super-quick and easy recipe for a guacamole-esque concoction derived from some ingredients found in the back of my fridge that I’ll post later in the week. Or next week. You know, when I get around to it.
So as it turns out, I just realised that I’m telling you a little bit about my holiday. I’m setting the scene for the sweat and tears that went into this cake (no blood, luckily. And whilst I can’t guarantee that no sweat literally made its way into the cake – it was really hot when I made it – I think it was fairly safe!), because I feel like it needs to be told. Call it catharsis, if you will. If you want to get straight to the point, though, just scroll down to the bottom. I'm totally okay with that J
Sunday morning – Stone Town, Zanzibar. My alarm beeps at me at 0540EAT, the last possible moment I could have set it for to allow for maximum sleep (was up until midnight packing). I wearily pull the mosquito net back, dive into the shower (not much point – it’s hot already) and run up the stairs for a quick breakfast before I hit the road winding alleyways. Swinging my stuffed-full pack and second bag I purchased yesterday just for souvenirs onto my back, I zig-zag my way through the quiet streets to the bustling ferry terminal. There, I fill out more paperwork to leave an island that insists it is its own nation but isn’t, not quite.
I nap a little on the two-hour ferry ride back to Dar Es Salaam, but barely, and I arrive groggy and bleary-eyed and headachey. At the other side a man in a fez and a hi-vis vest accosts me and ask if I need a taxi to the airport. I warily eye the security pass around his neck before deciding he looks genuine. “How much?” “45,000 shillings.” “I was told 30.” Pauses --“Yeah, okay.” He takes hold of my bag and leads me through the crowd… where he palms me off to another, much larger, fez-adorned fellow. “This man will take you,” and he hands him my bag unceremoniously. Hmm. Not sure about this, but he has my bag now. At least it only has my souvenirs in it.
I delicately loop my pinkie around the strap, ostensibly so as to not lose him in the crowd, and he leads the way. After fending off other drivers it seems that he’s the real deal, so I relax a little and let go of the strap. He leads me into the parking lot full of taxis… and opens the door to a not-taxi. I sigh inside, but realise my options are limited as I haven’t seen any drivers for the other taxis, one of which is parked across the front of the not-taxi, blocking it in. I wonder if we will have to wait for its driver to move it, but my driver seems confident that all is well. He swings my luggage carelessly into the back seat, pulls his keys out of his pocket, and uses them to start the taxi blocking our way. Perhaps it belongs to the original driver and it is some sort of security measure… who knows.
Driving through the backstreets of Dar early on a Sunday morning is an eerie experience when you’re still not fully convinced you’re in a taxi. I try to make small-talk but it’s limited by the fact I don’t really speak Swahili, and he doesn’t speak much English. I constantly check my watch. He said it would take about half an hour, which seems right for your average early-morning trip to the airport, any major city, any country, but you want to make sure you’re on track. After fifteen minutes winding through the dusty backstreets – things are slowly waking up now – we reach an intersection and he switches off the engine while we wait for the lights to turn green. I wonder if we’re going to run out of fuel. The lights go green, and we turn onto a well-made highway, replete with beautifully manicured grass, flower beds and flags – just like the road to the airport in any major city, any country. Yep, we’re definitely on our way to the airport. I’m not going to get murdered today!
Three and a half hours early for check-in, I sit on my bag against a wall and daydream. Next to me is the document check point for one of the airlines, and in a very short space of time I see some interesting things. An Indian guy tries to convince the airline that his passport is genuine - his photo and name are on separate pieces of paper, heat-sealed onto the first available page of his passport with what appears to be an aging piece of Glad-wrap. It is peeling at the edges, and claims that passport control did it to him on the way in, but I’m not sure who would buy that. The airline man eventually shrugs and says it’s up to passport control. I wish I knew what happened after that.
An American girl tries to leave the country without a Yellow Fever certificate. She starts whining loudly – that ear-splitting noise that I had long-ago assumed all Americans make, all that time… until I actually visited the States and realised that those obnoxious tourists I saw all over Europe are not at all representative of the general population, and that I have only formed that assumption because the only Americans I noticed were the loud, conspicuous ones. I guess you could say the same for the "drunk Australian" label, which (rarely) applies to me! No, most Americans are actually really friendly and warm, and don’t complain constantly or hurt your ears or jangle your nerves when they speak. Who knew!!! Apparently the girl has not only had her vaccinations, but she is also a doctor, and so she completely understands that she needs a certificate… except that she doesn’t have it on her and needs them to let her through anyway. She simply has to get on her flight. She HAS to! (Of course she does.) The airline staff are patient and refrain from rolling their eyes as they summon the airport doctor to sort it out. They go off together and the girl comes back smiling half an hour later. Ones presumes they either located her certificate or gave her another jab, but how someone who is a) a doctor and b) has actually had the yellow fever vaccine would not realise that you have to carry the certificate when you travel is totally beyond me.
Once I check in and pass security I find myself something to eat with the last shillings in my pocket. At the terminal café I eye up the pie warmer full of pastries, and choose the thing that sounds least likely to breed bacteria – a cheese pie. The cheese pie arrives and I discover that it has something resembling a hot-dog, or maybe Devon lunchmeat, running down one side. I consider how much bacteria something that’s probably not actually meat could possibly contain, take two bites of that side then think better of it and eat only the pastry around it.
I get on the plane, have an uneventful flight, pass transit security in Johannesburg, get my passport stamped and head for the SA Airways lounge where I have a shower and rehydrate. I briefly consider eating something, but I’m beginning to feel quite nauseated. I take a muffin and pop it in my bag for later. The food selection was pretty appalling, anyway, but the shower was amazing.
When I get to the gate, the airport staff have decided to do a manual bag search, as if they haven’t already X-rayed our bags twice. I reach the front of the line and the lady asks for my liquids and gels. I have a bottle of water (purchased inside the terminal), deodorant, moisturiser and eczema cream. She regards me with small, glinting, shady-looking eyes as I go through my bag and only shows interest in the deodorant, which confuses me, but I hand her my moisturiser anyway. She asks where my snaplock bag is. Well, I don’t have one. I just came from Tanzania where you don’t need one and as such they don’t hand them out. “Can’t I just carry them through?” (They let you do that at such major airports as LA, and New York, and at Heathrow, you see) “No.” “What?? What’s the difference between having a snap-lock bag and not having a bag??” “You can’t take them on board.” “But…” Defeated, I move to one side to drink my bottle of water.
 As I finish it off I find a snap-lock bag in my carry-on and ask the man at the gate if I can get my stuff back. He tells me it’s up to the lady who searched my bag. I ask her where my stuff is and she looks at me with her glinting eyes and says “I don’t remember you”. Bullsh!t. I’m a 6”2” woman who just argued with you. You remember me, lady!!! Another passenger takes me by the arm and leads me to the side and points to the bin where they place the confiscated items. “They do this all the time,” she says. “Just ask security if you can duck back there and you’ll get your stuff back.” They let me through and I rummage through the bin. I come up with my $40 moisturiser immediately, but the $2 deodorant – the really important item for an international flight – is nowhere to be seen. When the evil lady notices I’m back there she causes a fuss and makes me leave. B!tch has totally stolen my deodorant. I know she has. I start to rage-cry and the man handing out duty free shopping gives me a friendly grin, says it’s alright and that things will seem better when I get on the plane and have a sleep. I think just his smile made me feel better. I stop sobbing and write an angry Facebook status update. At least they have free WiFi, like, EVERYWHERE in the world (you really need to lift your game, Australia!).
I had failed to convince the airline to give me an exit row seat – it would seem that the somewhat diminutive members of the South African Lawn Bowls Team need them more than I do, including one guy who apparently needs an empty seat next to him as well – but once on the plane I am delighted to discover the seat next to me is empty, too. Which is just as well, because I am now beginning to sweat and feel seriously ill, and nobody wants to be seated next to the pale, nauseated person. I clutch my cramping stomach with one hand and the sick bag with the other, and the stewardess eyes me warily during her safety presentation. I fall asleep quite suddenly during our ascent, and wake up an hour or so later, feeling magically awake and cramp-free. During the flight to Perth I doze in all sorts of creative positions across my two seats and eat quite delicately so as to not upset my stomach again. I arrive, feeling surprisingly refreshed. My ankles aren't puffy, either, which I suppose I can attribute to the extra seat space. Yay!
Waiting for my luggage in Perth it seems like mine is the last bag to come out. I spend the time considering whether they did actually through-check my luggage from Dar like they said. The sticker on the back of my ticket says so, but I am skeptical. I rehearse what I will say to the baggage staff when my bag doesn’t show up. It involves mentally moving the wedding I am attending forward by two days and needing them to pay for a new cocktail dress (which is actually in a box with the cake decorating stuff down in Harvey – as if I’d have carried a dress for nine weeks - but shh!). Then my bag shows up, and I pass Customs quickly. This confuses me because I ticked “yes” to the “have you been on a farm” question – they normally scrub my shoes down when I come home. I have been on safari; walked on farmland in the UK; ridden horses in Guatemala; and trekked through jungles in Mexico and Guatemala. I really think they should have cleaned my shoes…
I pick up my hire car and make the two hour drive down to Harvey in the stinking heat. I check into the motel (and only then realise how much I’m spending on accommodation) and lie down for a much-needed rest (if you aren’t a long-term reader you might not know I sufferfrom a heart condition that seems to worsen when I don’t get enough rest, so this isn’t purely jet-lag I’m worried about). I’m too tired even for a shower.
Approximately 35 minutes into my planned 90-minute nap, my phone rings. It’s the bride. The baker’s apprentice who was supposed to have baked the cake hasn’t, and isn’t going to. She’s scared she’ll stuff it up, even though it’s industrial packet mix with clear instructions on the front. I grind my teeth, say “no worries” and pull myself out of bed. It takes far longer than it should to grab a shower and drive 500m down the road – nearly an hour, in fact – but I get there. Knowing I’d be baking for 3-4 hours in a hot bakery, I dress in sensible shoes, a light, knee-length skirt and a loose T-shirt. Not your traditional baking clothing, but damn it was hot.
I meet the bride at the bakery and shows me around. The apprentice is nice but chats to me incessantly, and I’m trying so hard to gather my concentration to make sure I don’t stuff up the mix. Somehow I manage to politely carry on a disjointed conversation while I grease the tins and make the cake, then I wait and wait and wait for them to cook, which is actually kind of a pain the bum when you’re making three differently-sized cakes and only have a rough idea of how long they will take to cook. While I wait I talk on the phone to my mum who is over the moon to hear my voice, and have a few frustrated conversations with other people. I’m so tired, and I just want to sleep, or cry, or both. I pull myself together and go back inside to chat to the apprentice and to eat a cupcake (you’ve gotta do something with that leftover mix!).
At 10:20pm my cakes are on the cooling racks with a tea-towel and a written warning protecting them, and my gear is packed up to keep it out the way of the morning baking. I head to the bride’s house for some reheated dinner and a glass or two of bubbles. At about 12:30, some 24 sleepless and sweaty hours after I got up to catch the ferry, I am finally headed for bed.
My body wakes me up at 7am and I don’t know why. I am exhausted. I lie there, trying to sleep for a while but not succeeding. I rise at 10:30am and for some reason it takes me two hours to eat some breakfast, have a shower and get to the bakery to decorate the cakes. I spend eight hours levelling, filling, dowelling, chilling, crumb-coating and covering cakes with fondant. My fondant skills are a little on the basic side, which is why I offered this cake as my wedding gift – to give myself a chance to practice. The first two cakes went okay, and then I put my thumb through the fondant on the larger one and had to start over. Next, I glued black fondant to white and white to black. The three layers looked a bit average as they sat there, unfinished and unstacked. I left the bakery, hoping like hell that assembling and finishing the cake would improve the situation and hide those defects that often only the decorator notices.
I decide to assemble the cake before the wedding, and not between the wedding and the reception as originally planned. Good thing I made that choice, otherwise they would not have had a completede cake! And here it is:
Nobody noticed the defects. Everybody loved the cake. It wasn’t too dry, as I had feared. One tier was probably a little moist, but non-bakers probably wouldn’t have realised. And I will never, ever, ever make a three-tiered, fondant-covered wedding cake for free again. Especially not interstate (accommodation and equipment freight really add up). And ESPECIALLY not on my way home from a round-the-world holiday!!!
So here are some tips for you (okay, we) novices:


1) Don’t underestimate your value. Even if you’re a beginner, you should never, ever work for free, with the possible exception of the cake being your gift. My latest decorating instructor looked horrified when I told her what I was doing (and this was before the cake had evolved – see Item 2), and asked whether I’d work as an apprentice anything for free, because it amounts to much the same thing (the answer should be no, people!).
2) Establish exactly what you’re agreeing to make before commiting to it. The original brief was a “two-tier, white buttercream cake for a relaxed wedding for about 30-40 people. The theme is black and white with accents of red and purple, and I’d like it to be decorated with Cornelli lace.” See my Pintrest board for some brainstorming on that theme (username vanessalillian). To me, covering a cake in buttercream is a cinch, and Cornelli work isn’t that difficult. And I can pipe borders just fine, too. No problems. But then, shortly before I went away, it evolved into a “four-tier, square, black and white fondant-covered, topsy-turvy cake for 70-80 people. I want stripes, spots, diamonds… and can you make it bleed when we cut it?” After that evolution, I panicked and consulted the lovely Heather Baird over at SprinkleBakes.com who has decorated a cake or two in her time, and she graciously (via Twitter) helped me through how I would explain to the bride that I wasn’t going to make what she wanted me to, and that I hadn’t budgeted for what she was now asking for (especially as the cake was free and what she now wanted was worth about $6-800 retail). In the end I just told the bride that I hadn’t covered many cakes and that I was certain that a topsy-turvy cake wouldn’t end well, especially a square one (pointy cakes being notoriously difficult to cover with fondant). The round, non-topsy-turvy cake was much easier but still cost a motza... but meh, practice is practice and I spent more on freight and accommodation than the actual cake!

3) Establish your price early on. It **could** be free (if it’s a gift), but people need to realise how much it costs and what goes into it. You may wish to just ask for them to cover the cost of the ingredients, or give it to them at a discounted rate, or, depending on how close they are(n't), just charge them for the cake! Think about hour hourly rate at work! Your time alone is worth something!

4) Leave yourself plenty of time. I knew I could bake and decorate the cake in the time I had allowed, but knowing that didn’t make it any less stressful. You don’t want to be rushing it. If possible, bake the cakes ahead of time and freeze them (thaw them a couple of days ahead to make sure they’re okay!), or, if you are seriously time-poor, organise for a bakery to make the cakes for you.

5) If you’re decorating the cake somewhere other than home, mentally go through the steps of making the cake and write down what you need. Then, “make” the cake again in your head and “pick up” (in your head) your tools/ingredients from your list as you go. You’ll soon realise if you’ve missed something. When you pack the gear, tick things off the list as you pack them and then enclose the list in the box. It will give you a sense of calm and security later on! If you’re doing it interstate, you can either freight the box or treat it as your luggage if you’re flying. If you already have luggage, buy a second piece of excess baggage ahead of time online – it’s usually a lot cheaper than doing it per kilo at the airport, and is generally a one-off cost for a set weight limit. Just make sure the box is within the specified dimensions and is taped up super-well, and densely packed so things don’t rattle around and bend or break.

6) Figure out where you will be baking. I was lucky enough to be given space in a commercial bakery which was good when you're short on time - e.g. having a commercial oven and coolroom at your disposal, plus a large work surface, really makes things run more smoothly. What I'm saying is, know what facilities you have. Will there be enough work surfaces? How big is the oven and will you be able to bake all your cakes at once or will you stagger them? Will there be enough fridge space free for you? Etc.

7) Take good photos of your cake. I only have iPhone photos of this one, and, whilst they’re decent shots, I’m still really annoyed at myself. Try to remember that every cake is part of your portfolio, and cruddy photos make the cake look cruddy.

8) Most importantly, have fun! This was originally a hobby; an artform; something you loved; remember??!

HUGE, ENORMOUS DISCLAIMER: The bride was not a bridezilla, nor is she a horrible person or was she especially demanding. This post is intended as an educational and entertainment piece for those aspiring cake decorators out there, who may find themselves in a similar situation. Most bakers and decorators will learn very quickly that the general pubic has absolutely notion of what work and cost actually goes into a cake, and they are not to blame for that; it is what it is, and it is something that we will regularly come up against. With time I will learn to deal better with it. In this situation, as mentioned above, I was willing to cop it on the chin and chalk the entire thing up as a learning experience, because I needed just that - more experience. But I am now in a place where I am infinitely more confident with my decorating abilities and will certainly approach the next cake much differently!

Monday, 10 September 2012

Gone Travellin'

Well, I've been a Very Bad Blogger lately. I hate to be that blogger who always whines about how bad they are at staying on top of things, but well, yeah, that's been me lately. I'm especially sorry to those who read my blog for tasty recipes and have found nada here lately. I've been getting ready for this big overseas adventure of mine.
 
Which brings me to the point of this post - this time in a week I'll be in Mexico City! I was going to line up a whole bunch of guest bloggers for while I was away but didn't even have time to do the whole proofing-scheduling business, so this post is going to sit up here for a while. I'll be back to it at the start of December, hopefully with some exciting stories to tell and recipes to share.
 
In the meantime, this is what I'll be up to.
 
First:
Gecko's Adventures
 
And then:
Source
 
Where I will attend:
Bloggy Boot Camp
 
And then:
Source
 
And then:
Source
 
(Actually, what I really want to see is this, and bonus geek points if you recognise it!)
Source
 
And then:
Intrepid Travel
 
And then I idotically volunteered to make a wedding cake on my way back home, so I'm stopping in Perth on my way through to Melbourne to do that. Oh, and I recently wrote a guest post for Kelley that explained why the humble choko is the knobbly green symbol of my over-commitment. This is a very choko moment. And, frankly, reading back over that post, I'm more than a little horrified at how rambly I can be. Sheesh!
 
So anyway, basically what I'm saying is I'm doing this:
 
Enjoy the next few months, people, and please don't wander far! (Also wish me luck in this holiday not ending like my last big one)

Thursday, 9 August 2012

Wine Tasting in the Barossa

On a fine (but freezing cold) Queen's Birthday weekend (which inconveniently coincided with the weekend I decided to be hit with bronchitis), I took a trip back to South Australia to visit my friends Jody and Mary. It also served the purpose of crossing another thing off my 101 Things list, and of course, a girl needs to treat herself to a weekend away once in a while.

Jody turned out to be locked in to commitments with the in-laws so there was no trip to McLaren Vale for us, though we did fit in a lovely lunch down at Glenelg. I had salt and pepper squid, the sun was shining and we did a wee bit of shopping afterwards. I ended up with this top and this top from Brown Sugar, and we also visited an awesome handbag and accessories shop where I demonstrated my incredible skill for falling in love with the most expensive bag in the place. But at $480 that just wasn't going to happen. Sigh.

After shopping Jody dropped me at my friend Mary's place where I was to stay the next two nights, and I finally met her man Ian. For dinner we made gnocchi from scratch (pretty much using this recipe). The gnocchi was a little gluggy, probably because we skipped the refrigeration step, but was delish nonetheless with its dressing of hot roasted pumpkin, fresh basil wilted in melted butter and blue cheese stirred through. (This combination later inspired a polenta dish which I promise to share with you one day!)

For dessert Mary whipped up some poached pears basically made by pouring a bottle of sticky white wine over peeled pears and baking them for an hour or so (= toffee!) in an enamelled cast iron pot, served with double cream. It probably wouldn't surprise anyone to learn that Mary and I bonded over our mutual love for food and wine! We tried some 30 year old port that Ian had picked up at auction. It wasn't bad considering the cork shattered, but we declared 1982 to be a mighty fine year (no prizes for guessing why). This was actually Ian's birthday so a day visiting wineries was a nice way to celebrate. I also bought Mary a bottle of port from Kellermeister that should cellar fairly well, which we intend to open on her 40th birthday.

We were up in a timely fashion the next day, which began with toasted crumpets at home then a quick stop at Cibo in Prospect for a coffee for the road (hot choc for me!), then we were off to our first stop in Tanunda via the awesome road that I built (cos, yaknow, I built it all myself. And in the unlikely event that you're interested in what a beam lift looks like, there is a time lapse video of it here).

First stop was Grant Burge and we discovered it was their last day of operating at that location (next door to Jacob's Creek) before moving to Krondorf. It's sad because it's such a beautiful place.

I bought three bottles here - a 20 year old Tawny Port, an Age Unknown Liquer Muscat and a bottle of Moscato (this was to become a theme. I guess my tastes are somewhat predictable, and, shall we say, sweet and girly). The taster-man was knowledgable and interesting (and cute!) and we were a little surprised to discover that we were the first through the door that day. Then again, it was the same day as McLaren Vale's Sea and Vines festival, so we probably avoided a lot of the wine tasting crowd - huzzah!

I wish I'd taken a photo from the inside - you'd kill to have it as a kitchen/lounge/dining but that's not gonna happen cos Penfolds bought it during the GFC and will likely use the asset as a more boutique (=expensive) function venue than they already have. But I DO have a few random pics from outside - and note that they are my own work, so if you want to use them then please ask! Note that they are basically straight out of the camera, the only alterations being cropping and compressing.

Grant Burge - from the car park
Grant Burge - out the back
Grant Burge - coming around the back
Grant Burge - getting tricky with focal points!
Grant Burge - the back courtyard

Grant Burge - amazing autumn colours
Grant Burge - a new view of the fountain
Grant Burge - for some reason these pot plants make me think of some sort of desert oasis
Grant Burge (duh, really?) - guess that sign's probably not there anymore
Grant Burge - the offices and cellar door

Such a gorgeous day - and there are still five more wineries plus lunch to go!

Next stop was St Hallett. I continued the trend of the sweeter wines here and bought a bottle of something sweet and a little fizzy (my memory is awesome isn't it) which comes with a pop-top cap, much like an old-fashioned bottle of soft drink. I didn't feel like taking photos so I didn't, but, like the ensuing visits to Rockford and Turkey Flat, that is a point of regret - lots of massive, beautiful red gums, and, in the case of Turkey Flat and Rockford, interesting buildings, fences etc.

At Turkey Flat I bought a Pedro Ximenez, a fortified wine (surprise!), and at Rockford I bought... hmm, I can't remember. Oh well. The good ol' 2008 Alicante Bouchet is long since sold out, though, and the 2011 (or was it 2010 they had on sale?) just doesn't cut the mustard. Boo. But speaking of mustard, I bought an olive/herb tapenade type thing from the adjacent shop whilst I was waiting for the crowds to disperse in the tasting room (which always makes me think of the stable Jesus was born in, but with a counter and lots of wine).

From Turkey Flat we pressed on to Maggie Beer's for lunch, where we ate thick, hot pheasant and chestnut soup as we froze our bottoms off on the deck overlooking the manky duck pond; and a combination of cheeses, mushroom pates and other bits and pieces such as quince paste that came in these gnatty little baskets for around $15 a pop. When you first look at them you feel a little ripped off, but once that feeling passes and you think about how full you are, it's not so bad. We had the soup and shared two baskets between the three of us and we were pretty well satisfied. I'm not sure I entirely buy into the whole Maggie Beer fuss, but it was pleasant enough a meal, and the presentation was quite cute and rustic.
Pheasant and chestnut soup
Goat's cheese, mushroom & verjuice pate, and some sort of barely-based salad yumminess
Camembert, quince paste, caramelised onions, marinated raisins, apple

After Maggie Beer's we took the compulsory trip to Seppeltsfied for Mary to stock up on their raspberry cordial and me to top up on my Grand Tokay. I didn't taste it first - probably should have, even though I've sampled many a previous vintage - but I didn't want to stuff around with the whole paying-for-tastings caper, even if you get reimbursed for it when you purchase something. If it's a bit ordinary I will probably do the poached pear thing with it. Also compulsory was stopping by the side of the road to admire the palm tree avenue. Again, these photos are mine so don't be stealing them!
Seppeltsfield Road - view towards Tanunda
Vines near Seppeltsfield Road
Pretty autumn leaves and palm trees, near Seppeltsfield Road
Palm trees, along Seppeltsfield Road
Palms and vines, along Seppeltsfield Road

Marananga Lutheran church (and that denomination is a total guess but quite likely to be correct in this area... HAH! I'm right! I just Googled it!) on Seppeltsfield Road

Next we continued on to Hentley Farm, which I felt was a bit on the overpriced side, but then, I'm not a big fan of bold red wines. I'm sure if my palate for reds was more sophistcated I would have happily bought something. As it was, I bought a bottle of something less full-on, partly because I realised that they normally charge for tasting but didn't mention it to us.

The second stop but one was Saltram. I was a bit over wine by then, plus my tongue felt like I'd been eating lollies all day (given my penchant for sweet whites, fortifieds and ports, I'm hardly surprised!). And there was just nothing there that jumped out at me, or at anyone else, it would seem. So we hit the road and headed for the last stop of the day - Kellermeister, which apparently means "cellar master" in German, plus is a nod to the founder's mother's maiden name (Keller), but the family isn't German as one might expect. Apparently they are famed for their chocolate port, but to me it tasted like that cheap chocolate syrup cafes sometimes make hot chocolates out of. But I did enjoy theirnon-chocolate drinkies, and accordingly bought a bottle of it.

We made ourselves a little sober-up picnic atop one of these barrels featuring a local salami/bratwurst type thing, some leftovers from lunch and some of my tapenade.

The sun was setting, and it was time to head home. The Barossa is quite beautiful at all times of year, I think, but the oranges and browns were just gorgeous. I can't wait to head back to SA for a visit to McLaren Vale and the Clare Valley. Who wants to join me? :)