33 Steps To Make Long-Distance Plane Travel Relatively Painless, with Bonus Chocolate

Posted on August 4, 2012 by Hannah

Hurrah! I’m in New York! My Great Big Gallivant has begun! As today’s title indicates, I’ve decided to tell you my flight story by way of:

33 Steps To Make Make Long-Distance Plane Travel Relatively Painless, with Bonus Chocolate

1. The night before you leave, have your parents take you out to a blissful, delicious, and happy-memory-making dinner at The Ginger Room (to be blogged).

2. After dinner, arrive back home to start packing. Laugh hysterically when your father proclaims “the car will be leaving for the airport in eight hours”.

3. Finish packing after midnight. Go to bed. Lie awake.

4. Sleep for 1.5 hours. Get up at 4:20am.

5. AIRPORT. Buy compression socks, because Deb told you to.

6. Final hugs with parents. Start walking to plane. Have gallant man offer to carry your carry-on to the plane, because you clearly look feeble.

7. Fly from Canberra to Sydney. Get shuttle to international terminal. Have another gallant man offer to carry your carry-on, because you clearly look feeble. In customs line, run into your favourite Andy, who is flying to Israel. HEART SPARKLES. Of all the gin joints in all the world.

8. Talk with Andy for two hours.

9. Board plane to LA, thinking with dread of the boredom and frustration ahead because you’ve never been good at sleeping on planes.

10. Sleep for three hours as soon as the plane takes off.

11. Eat first meal on plane. Giggle because your vegan meal gets delivered first. Giggle again because someone drew a smiley face on your label. Giggle again because the cauliflower chana masala with raisin and almond couscous is surprisingly delicious.

12. Watch Monte Carlo. Disprove of blatant heteronormativity and stereotyping throughout entire movie, as well as bizarrely unresolved eating disorder subplot. Feel sorry for The Youth Of Today.

13. Eat chocolate.

14. Mini review of Domori Apurimac Peru 70% Dark Chocolate (thank you, Carolyn!):

Aroma: butterscotch, caster sugar, meringue, plum
Aesthetics: dark blue-black, crisp snap, well-tempered
Melt: silky, smooth
Taste: zesty but also earth, definite tangy lime meringue sweetness, smoky woodsy beneath, lemon curd and brownies, lovely

15. Doze a little.

16. Watch a thousand episodes of Modern Family.

17. Eat Qantas’ snack pack of grilled eggplant sandwich and apple berry muffin, both vegan.

18. Eat chocolate.

19. Mini review of Koko Black Dominican Republic 100% Dark Chocolate:

Aroma: fear, terror, smoke, walnuts, brazil nuts, subtle, trees (what?)
Aesthetics: black, glossy, pretty
Melt: not as dry and chalky as other 100% dark chocolates that I’ve tried, firm and a little buttery
Taste: not horrific (unlike, say, Dagoba’s version), actually edible, cooling, wood, twinge of red currants and sour plums at end.

2o. Eat breakfast (at around midnight your time) of vegetable rosti with mushroom and bean ragout. Be once more surprised by how tasty the meal is.

21. Watch Any Questions for Ben?, and decide to buy soundtrack on iTunes. The Aussie music might help with future homesickness.

22. Disembark at LAX with two hours to clear customs and find second plane that will take you to New York. Wait for over an hour in the line at Customs.

23. HAVE FINGERS NOT WORKY-WORKY.

24. Get taken to scary admissibility-check area behind ropes. Don’t cry. DON’T CRY.

25. Get taken to retest fingerprints.

26. FINGERS STILL NOT WORKY-WORKY THREE TIMES. These are my fingerprints. They really are. Have the men in the security area try to make you laugh because they can tell you might cry.

27. Get taken to another area to answer security questions.

28. Be given stamp of approval. Get personal escort all through LAX. Lovely man run run run jokes breathe feet hurt what time is it? stupid faint fingerprints run run run just in time on plane collapse shaky.

29. Eat third plane meal at what-time-is-it-o-clock, and mentally high-five Qantas for the veggie curry which is spicy, aromatic, and full of chickpeas.

30. Mentally retract high-five because the melon is soaked in devil fruit juice and therefore must be abandoned. Sleep from LA to New York.

31. Heart fluttering with joy, jump on shuttle to Grand Central Station, and then dance inwardly with pride because you’re able to walk directly to the hotel you’ve never been to before without getting lost.

32. Drop off bags in mini but new and clean room, which even has an ensuite (a rarity in New York, unless you’re the type who can also afford a private jet). Skip to nearest grocery store, then return to hotel for “dinner” of siggi’s Icelandic skyr and Ciao Bella pistachio gelato before falling asleep around midnight.

33. Wake up. NEW YORK HELLO YOU ARE JOY AND WONDERMENT.

Heel click,
Hannah

Diary Of How To Eat Pavlova Like Wayfaring Chocolate

Posted on August 27, 2010 by Hannah

A few days ago, I diligently detailed for you the correct procedure for making pavlova for a German. Some of you might have noted that the recipe made three little pavlovas, and yet the German and I are only two. (Two people, that is. Not two pavlovas. I’m certainly not calling myself a pavlova, for while I wouldn’t mind being associated with sweetness, I’d hate to be called hollow inside with a chewy bottom.)

Wow. My mind just went to a really scary image-place. Enough of that. Here’s my detailed timeline for how to eat pavlova like Wayfaring Chocolate.

Caramelised pineapple with sorbet, Flint restaurant

Once upon a time, there was a caramelised pineapple with lemon sorbet dessert at Flint restaurant in Canberra. “Once upon a time” in the sense of “over a year ago” and “has nothing to do with this post”, but shhh. I won’t tell if you won’t.

8:30am: Wake up, buoyed by the fact that at the doctor’s surgery yesterday, you were told to come back in a week’s time, rather than twice weekly as has been the case for the past two months.

8:32am: Look at problem toe and feel heart fall. (I know this isn’t a gory-injuries blog so I’ll avoid going into details, but let’s just say there was a stain of something that rhymes with “glood” on the bandage.)

8:35am: Call doctor’s surgery. Make another appointment, knowing that they probably think you’re a hypochondriac.

9am – 2pm: Alternate marking essays, staring out the window, trying to resist urge to draw on own face with a pen, bursting into spontaneous fragments of angsty Alanis Morisette songs (Ooooo-oooooh, this could get mess-sssssyyyyyy, but you-ooooooo don’t seem to miiiii-iiind), eating, and bursting into spontaneous fragments of that popular recent song you love (I’d like to make myself be-lieeeeeeeeve that planet Eaaaaaaarth tuuuuuuuuurns slooooooooowly). And marking essays. Did I mention the essays? Because there are more of them coming this afternoon.

Roasted pumpkin pine nut salad, Flint Restaurant

Once upon a time etc etc pine nut, feta and roasted pumpkin salad at Flint restaurant etc etc won’t tell if you won’t etc etc.

2:30pm: Slink into doctor’s surgery, where your normal nurse is really ever so kind. She looks at toe, and starts talking about more surgery. Yes, that would be the third round of surgery in less than a year.

2:40pm: Male doctor who is not your actual doctor ambles into room (and I mean ambles. Hands-in-pockets, pelvis-out, shoulders-back, King-Of-The-Domain…) and starts talking in medical jargon, the gist of which seems to be “doesn’t need surgery”.

2:45pm: Nurse pulls out a long grey implement that looks like a giant matchstick and applies silver nitrate to your toe. (I wonder if I’ll make metal detectors go off now? Or if I’ll be lying if I yell “I’m not made of money, you know!” when people ask me to “spare a dollar for the bus cuz” at the interchange?)

3pm onwards: Drive to parents’ place. INTERNET! (I mean, visit my mum.)

Pavolva prong!

6pm: Arrive home. See lone pavlova in clear Tupperware container above the microwave. Look into pantry of healthy, wholesome dinner ingredients. Look back at lone pavlova in clear Tupperware container above the microwave.

6:01pm: Look into pantry.

6:02pm: Look at pavlova.

6:03pm: Look into pantry.

6:04pm: Reach for pavlova-containing Tupperware container. Open, slip pavlova onto plate.

6:05pm: Look at punnet of strawberries.

6:06pm: Look at packet of chocolate chips.

6:07pm: Look at punnet of strawberries.

6:08pm: Look at packet of chocolate chips.

6:09pm: Open packet of chocolate chips, but decide to make a tacit nod towards “health” by using natural yogurt instead of cream as the intermediary between sugar and sugar.

Ta-daa!

6:10pm: Construct pavlova.

6:20pm: Decide that the use of natural yogurt was inspired, as the tang plays off the super-sweetness of the meringue base brilliantly. Wish there was more. More of everything.

7pm: Realise you should feel guilty about eating pavlova for dinner, and so get off sofa with a sigh and put together a bowl of whole-wheat couscous, chickpeas, baby peas, tahini, and lemon juice.

7:15pm onwards: Watch SeaChange with housemate for the rest of the night because you’re both sick of election talk. (LAURA. How could you ever think Warwick could beat out Max? Nononononono. Don’t you remember the way Max replied with “You, I think”, when you asked him what he wanted, in episode one of season three? You silly woman.)

The end.

And that, my friends, is how you eat pavlova like Wayfaring Chocolate.

Diary Of How to Make Pavolva For A German

Posted on August 23, 2010 by Hannah

8am: Wake up. Eat breakfast (if you must know, a muffin spread with the last of the crunchy peanut butter, and a bowl of yogurt topped with granola that you should have made yourself instead of buying). Oh, wait. Get dressed, then eat breakfast. Naked muffin eating isn’t so much de rigueur when you live with a friend.

I'm still surprised by how much I enjoy these orange-containing fellows.

9am: Mum arrives to see your finally-decorated room (methinks you won’t be surprised to learn this involves a framed stylistic drawing of a peach and an old-school-French chocolate poster). Ask her whether it’s okay to leave eggs out of the fridge for six hours. She says yes. Forget to take eggs out of fridge.

9:15am: Get driven to doctor’s surgery. Realise you left your glasses at home and things are rather blurry. Awesome mother offers to drive back and get them for you.

9:45am: Finish at doctor’s, rejoin mother in car. Mother hands over glasses, and mentions that she also took two eggs out of the fridge. Big love.

10am: Enter office at uni. INTERNET! (I mean, prepare for tutorials.)

11am: Tutorial. (Happy times.)

12noon: Tutorial. (Happy times.)

1pm: Lunch and various errands.

Okay, I admit it. This wasn't my lunch.

3:30: Home.

3:40: Break egg whites into bowl, then realise you don’t have normal caster sugar. Figure raw caster sugar is pretty much the same thing. (Hint: it isn’t. Moisture = big hollow meringues.)

4ish: Finally finish beating egg whites and sugar to glorious glossy sweet mountain of meringue-y-goodness with electric hand beaters. Dollop meringue onto baking tray in three portions. Pop in oven.

4:05pm: Hover over sink “cleaning” beaters and bowl with spoon and your mouth. Less mess to clean up = clever, right?

4:10pm: Vacuum, clean, tidy.

4:50pm: Realise this still-fairly-new-to-you oven is not so reliable. Meringue is rather brown. Turn oven off, figure The German won’t know any better.

Not quite the colour I was expecting.

5pm: Shower.

5:30pm: Make shepherd’s pie with kangaroo mince. Aussie Aussie Aussie…?

6:30pm: Wait.

7pm: Read a bit.

7:30pm: Wait.

7:45pm: Hello The German!

8pm: Buy wine.

8:15pm: Wine.

8:30pm: Eat shepherd’s pie.

8:45pm: Wine.

Lots of nooks and crannies for cream, though. That's generally a good thing. (If you're into cream.)

9pm: Bring out meringues. Wine makes you admit that they aren’t quite right, instead of allowing you to continue with your earlier plan to pretend all is well. The German laughs about the enormous hollow cave in the middle of each meringue. Stare him down while telling him that they’re “rustic”.

9:05pm: All errors can be hidden with cream, strawberries, and kiwi fruit, right? Even if The German slices said fruit strangely.

9:10pm: Pavolvas are divinely tasty with the perfect blend of melt-in-the-mouth crust and almost-chewy bottom.

Pavolva with strawberries and kiwi fruit.

Christmas colours! Puuuurty.

9:20pm: Wine.

9:30pm: Try the improvised cake that The German made. Decide lychees, peaches, sour cherries and coconut cream should be added to every cake recipe from now on.

9:40pm: Wine.

9:50pm: Discover mutual peanut butter love.

9:55pm: Wine.

10pm: Do something you never thought you’d do. That is to say, open up your only jar of the-company-closed-down-therefore-no-more-can-ever-be-found-one-and-only jar Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Peanut Butter.

PB Loco Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Peanut Butter

Also known as crack.

And that, my friends, is how you make pavolva for a German.

Diary of a Pleasant Day of Friends, Follicles, Fathers, and Fgood Deeds

Posted on July 18, 2010 by Hannah

Yesterday was one of those days where everything feels pleasant-to-fantastic, and I came home in the early evening with a feeling of bubbly inside. Nothing completely spectacular happened (I didn’t get offered my dream writing gig or have someone proclaim their undying love for me) but I’m happy.

Here’s my guide to passing a pleasant July 17^th. Perhaps you could try it next year?

8am: Wake up.

9am: Finally get out of Skank Bed. Can you blame me? I was snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug in there. (NB: Snuggliness entirely unrelated to Skankness.)

9:20am: Make a breakfast that could very easily pass as dessert (post might come); read old Vogue Entertaining and Travel magazine in ongoing battle to pare back recipe pile.

This is clearly neither my breakfast nor dessert. ‘Tis a restaurant Greek Salad, from ages back, with lots of yummy feta for sharsies.

10:25am: Walk across road to local hair salon, armed with Positive Self Talk to brace said self against the hairdressers who, judging by my housemate’s experience, like to make you feel bad about yourself.

10:30am: Mmm. Hair shampoo/massage. Warm. Sleepy.

10:35-11:30am: Lovely friendly hairdresser (my proactive defence of calling my own hair awful, before she could, must have worked) trims hair and makes me look like first, a banshee, second, a member of KISS, and third, someone with straight hair. Pretty pretty straight hair straight pretty pretty! (Some of you may recognise this palindrome as my Facebook status)

S’all good. Just I can’t ever get it wet. But apart from that, s’all good.

12:30-1:30pm: Toe dressing and internet-borrowing at parents’ place.

1:30-3pm: Super Fun Times watching Battlestar Galactica with the Father. I may not be mathematically or scientifically-inclined, but at least we can have bonding moments over debating Cylons and which characters we like/think are believable.

3pm: Receive hilarious message from an American fellow who has a tendency to fail at regular communicatoriness. Having had only brief moments of contact in the past four months (you know a friendship is true when dry spells like that matter not a whit), I opened my email to see this as the opening sentence(s).

“You kind of look like an evil vampire from True Blood! Don’t be offended, she is pretty.”

Clearly, generic greetings are for the weak and unimaginative. Thanks L-man. Other girls might be taken aback by this, but you made me gleeful. True Blood is awesome. (Even if I’m not entirely sure which character you’re referring to. Is it Lorena? Because she really is quite evil.) I hope every future epistle from you comes with equally entertaining opening lines.

This is a misleading photo, too. It’s from the cafe mentioned below, but this Horchata and Blueberry Cheescake were partaken in on another visit with another friend. Said friend mightily liked the Horchata-made-from-tiger-nuts, and we both enjoyed the cheesecake.

3:30-5pm: Catch up with former uni friend, Mr. W, at my lovely local second-hand bookstore/cafe. While at first sitting with our drinks and treats in the corner of the bookstore plagued by Self Help, Cancer Survival, Relationship Advice, and Weight Loss Tomes seemed antithetical to a jovial atmosphere, we soon put paid to any negative osmosis and had, again, Super Fun Times. When I told him of my nerves regarding tutoring at uni in the coming weeks, he recommended I write my Honours mark on the whiteboard and wear my university medal around my neck. Methinks that would make the students predisposed to hate me rather than respect me. I’m leaning more towards cake-bribes.

My Long Black, and a pretty spoon!

5pm: Stop by the Official Masterchef Supermarket to buy some veggies and the item I had suddenly decided I needed-needed-needed, despite having no memory of eating it in the past: Blackstrap Molasses. And here’s my Good Deed for the day!

When I got to the checkout I, for reasons unbeknownst to myself, held up the molasses in the light and watched it swirl around. Suddenly, the older man in front of me asked what it was. Blackstrap molasses, I said. He looked intrigued, so I explained it’s an intensely-flavoured sweetener, more bitter than others of its ilk. The man asked where I’d found it, then darted out of the line when I told him. Sadly, he returned empty-handed; his search had been fruitless. Would you like mine? I offered. I can just pop back and get another for myself.

The man was so grateful that I now feel ashamed I don’t regurlarly distribute my shopping items amongst fellow shoppers. I could become, say, the Good Shopping Fairy. Or the Fairy Shopping Godmother.

If I were the Good Shopping Fairy, everyone would get flavoured peanut butter like this.

8pm: Only Debbie Downer of the day: I knocked a bowl onto the carpet from a height of no more than 45cm and it broke. The horrifying part is that the exact same thing happened to another bowl a few weeks ago (sorry, parents. That blue bowl I borrowed? Um. Yep).

Oh, and my favourite snack in the world right now is a toasted wholemeal English muffin drizzled with blackstrap molasses.

The End.

Diary of a Return to Australia: 10-12th April

Posted on April 12, 2010 by Hannah

6:00am: Wake up.

6:02am: Be sad that The Food Network is showing infomercials. I don’t want a set of cheese graters. A foot grater, on the other hand… Anyhoodle, snuggle back into blankets.

6:10-10am: Get up again, pack, poke around on the Internet, wait for rain to stop.

10am-1:30pm: Last wander around New York, involving more chocolate and peanut butter buying as well as the necessary purchasing of snacks for the plane. (SNACKS ON A PLANE!)

And snacks for my tummy before getting on the plane. Seaweed salad, heavy on the ginger and sesame oil.

2:30pm: Arrive at airport, ridiculously early as per usual, but for good reason this time.

2:31pm: Strip bandage from toe and dignity from self, then walk to Qantas counter and point at foot whilst asking if anything can be done for Le Poor Cripple.

2:35pm: Overflow with gratitude for being given a seat up the back of the plane with a spare seat next to it, so that Le Poor Cripple can keep Le Stupid Toe elevated.

3-6:55pm: Read trashy magazines in airport shops (Brad and Jen caught kissing? I don’t believe it. Kate Gosselin a nightmare parent? I don’t care. Also, captioning a photo of her wiping her son’s mouth with “Kate gets aggressive with child” is revolting). Savour last Starbucks Frappuccino, which is not revolting. Read Mansfield Park.

6:55pm + 5 hours: Plane leg from New York to LA. Watch It’s Complicated, while constantly being interrupted by American man two seats to my right asking me questions such as:

* Do you have abalone in Australia?

* Did swine flu go to Australia?

* Did you get your shots for it? [Me: Yes]. Good, good girl.

Flying at night = no light for photos. Apparently, I requested a vegetarian meal when I booked this flight a year ago. I received a serviceable tofu stirfry, though since when does "vegetarian" mean "doesn't want dessert"? Thank heavens for my stash-of-muffins-and-chocolate-that-never-runs-out.

Midnight-1:40am (New York time): Chill with my homies in the transit lounge.

1:41am: Acquiesce to a homie’s request to put her shoes and hair rollers in my bag, because she’s scared of her carry-on being too heavy.

1:42am: Hope have not just become accomplice in terrorism.

1:50am: Board plane. Return goods to homie. Sigh with relief that am not a criminal.

2am + 14 hours: Eat ratatouille with rice, which am unable to get photo of because light is non-existent. Watch The Invention of Lying, while constantly being interrupted by American man two seats to my right asking me questions such as:

* Can you watch geese and swan fly in formation from your house?

* Is Canada part of the Commonwealth?

* Have you been to Africa?

In same period of time: Sleep[ish]. Breakfast.

Smelt delicious, tasted pretty good. I do like me some mushrooms. BEANS ON A PLANE! (Okay, that doesn't work. I'm tired.)

8am (Australia time… New York time would be 6pm): Disembark in Sydney. Customs. Hold breath while lady checks out my peanut butter stash and my Sahale “Almond PB & J” trail mix. Get the all-clear. Woot!

8:30am-9:30am: Get stuck in never-before-seen (by me) queue in the domestic transfer area.

9:30am (original flight to Canberra having left at 9:20am): Accept that queue is moving at the rate of cane-toad migration from Queensland, and limp over to Qantas lady. Yep, it’s the return of Le Poor Cripple. And I’m darn proud of myself, too – something good has to come out of the toe, right?

9:32am: Move to head of line.

10:40am: Get on plane to Canberra. Have 453rd can of coke since getting on first flight. Don’t even like coke very much.

11:35am: Arrive in Canberra. Greet parents. Discover that only one of two suitcases (checked in at exact same time) made it.

11:36am: Realise that the suitcase that didn’t arrive is the one with all the chocolate. Wonder if this is how parents feel when their kids are stolen. Feel glad that didn’t steal woman’s pug in Paris.

Luckily, the bag has since arrived. You can all rest easy again. The blog shall live! (This isn't all of it, either.)

11:45am: 453rd bathroom trip of day.

12:30pm: Visit maternal grandparents, who look wonderful and happy and healthy and whom I love dearly. Risk being disowned by wonderful grandma, though, by stating that Mansfield Park shall not be a favourite and repeated read in my life.

1pm: 33 hours after leaving hotel in New York, arrive home.

3pm: Nap.

4pm: Woken up by mother. Open eyes and ask “Who else is in here?” (Hostel habits die hard.) Then exclaim moments later, before she’s answered, ”I’m in Australia!”

6pm: Dinner out with the parents. Second attempt at green papaya salad.

BBQ Duck and Green Papaya Salad at Verve, Manuka. I'm not a big fan of duck, and there was a lot of it here, but it wasn't too bad. Quite game-like. However, this was not the zingy-spicy papaya salad of my dreams. The hunt shall continue.

7:15pm: Affogato with Baileys. And decaf coffee. Oh, please let it have been decaf.

Nom Nom Nom. Though I think I maybe still like it better without the liqueur, plebeian that I am.

10:10pm: Finish writing post. Blame any dullness in it on discombobulation and tiredness.

10:15pm: Stop eating peanut butter from jar with spoon. (I can never go to bed after a meal out without also having something at home too. A solid nightcap, if you will.)

10:40pm: Publish post.

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