Wednesday 14 October 2009

Would you like some slightly furtive pornography with that?

I am far from prudish. There are not that many people in the South East suburbs of Melbourne who haven't seen the tattoo encircling my left breast. Maybe my boss and an aged Auntie or two. But last night, while watching The Simpson's with my son, The Lima Bean, I found myself doing a double take at the above video.

For the record I loathe KFC, and not just because I am a grumpy, middle aged hippy with localvore tendencies.

It's because it's crap.

So, back to the ad. It is just me, or is there something slightly pornographic about it? Admittedly, I have seen almost no porn. I once watched about 30 seconds of a John Holmes film entitled "Nasty Nurses" until I became distressed at the sight of Mr Holmes wrestling with what was obviously a large African Conga eel that was attempting a proctological exam on a Nurse. The Nurse was obviously on her way to a showing of "Rocky Horror" after her shift, as she was wearing fishnets and suspenders, making it all the more difficult for her to fend of said Conga eel.

God Bless you, Mr Holmes, for your valiant efforts.

But I digress.

So, there was myself and The Lima Bean watching some nubile young things writhe and lick and suck and moan and generally gettin' their swerve on with something called a KFC Crush. Seriously. Pause the vid at 5 seconds. Between shots of the guy welcoming a face/mouthful of creamy liquid. What the HELL is that tongue doing??!!??

I remember back to when I was about 14 and ads for "feminine products" made their way onto Prime Time telly. My beloved, much adored, late father who was positively Puritan in outlook would get all twitchy when Modess ads came on. There we'd be, watching Hawaii 5-0 on a Sat night, with our Drops On The Rocks and lemonade, and waiting for the ubiquitous "Book 'em Danno" line, when an ad featuring sphagnum moss and some blue liquid in a beaker came on.

There would be an immediate drop in pressure in the room, while we either waited the ad out, or one of us thought of something witty and non-menstrual to say.

So there we were, my 17 y/o son and I, pretty much glued to the telly, wondering how the fuck we'd ended up on a cable porn chanel, when we don't even HAVE cable in the house.

So I resorted to out family's stand-by in uncomfortable circumstances and said:

"So, how IS the study for your Lit exam coming along?"

And you know what? I have NO idea what the damn thing was advertising. Can anyone enlighten me?

Monday 12 October 2009


This weekend past the girls and I headed off to Noojee, where one of their brothers has a B&B. Noojee is a tiny wee little place about 1/2 way between Warrigal and Yarra Junction, on the Latrobe river. Is is set in some of the most spectacularly beautiful country in Vic, and is close to the Gippsland Gourmet trail and only 1.15 hours from Melbourne.

The Noojee General Store is about the place in town that sells the papers, bait, groceries, car batteries etc. It is truly a general store of ole.

The also do a freakishly good Florentine and an AWESOME ginger snap, all home made there on the premises.

I can highly recommend the ginger biscuits as a "I sang Tainted Love too loudly into an empty shampoo bottle under the influence of far too much champagne" cure.

Girls weekends baffle most men. And indeed they should. They're about re-affirming the bonds of sisterhood and kinship. They're all about sleeping in and getting pissed. And gossiping 'till the wee smalls, and talking about husbands and clots and career choices and lice treatments.

Men, I think, think that we sit around and talk about technique. Or comparative "size". But you know what guys? YOU'RE NOT AS IMPORTANT AS YOU THINK YOU ARE. We're more likely comparing boob sag that wedding tackle. We're more likely to pick up a trashy novel, than the local white trash, and I can guarantee.. just like your version of male bonding, the footy trip.. WHAT HAPPENS ON A GIRLS WEEKEND STAYS ON A GIRLS WEEKEND.

So I'll say no more.

Thursday 8 October 2009

Not "Drowning", ... swaying.

Image shamelessly lifted from UK's Channel 4 web site.

I've never done this before. Shamelessly lifted an image off another site. I pride myself on the oft-dodgy but clearly genuine imagery of food that graces this blog. You can tell, I hope, that the photos were taken in my kitchen, as the dogs licked their nethers just out of frame, and Furry huffs loudly while I turn the plate too and 'fro, looking for the "WOB" shot.

But here's the thing.

Has anyone ever tried to photograph ice cream, with boiling liquid poured over it? Can you imagine what you end up with?

I once heard that professional photographers use mashed potato in shots requiring ice cream. Which allays my conscience somewhat, in that the above image of "ice cream" is probably actually Deb.

Anyway, I digress.

Last night, Mme Mouse and her friends came for dinner and I decided to serve affogato for dessert. Affogato is Italian or drowning. The actual name for this dessert/drink is affogato alla cafe, or "drowning in coffee".

Furry recently sent me a care parcel of Goroka organic coffee, my latest obsession. Which was my latest obsession for about 5 minutes before I decided to turn said coffee into an affogato, which is NOW my new obsession.

I made a double strength pot of coffee, chilled some Marie Antoinette style champagne glasses, whacked 3 hefty scoops of Street's Blue Ribbon Vanilla Ice cream.

(Note to readers, Street's also makes the Pine Lime Splice, possibly the most amazing commercial ice cream in the known Universe. It is made of pure awesomeness and when I am Empress of the World, it will be my official emblem)

Anyway, back to the affogato. I poured the coffee into a gravy jug and added a goodly splash of Frangelico AND a spoon of Green and Black's organic hot chocolate powder.

Now take the hot coffee/chocolate/liqueur mix and pour it over the ice cream. Scarf down immediately and savour the intense hot/cold/creamy/bitter sensation that is an affogato.

OR, you can do what I did, which was to pour the hot liquid onto the ice cream and try to take a photo. And end up with a kinda nasty grey schmaltz. So you drink it. And make another. And try to photograph it. But it doesn't work. So you drink it. And make another. And wonder why your photos are now of BLURRY grey schmaltz. So you make another and come up with the great idea of an action pouring shot. Which doesn't work. So you drink it.

And then realised you've consumed 8 shots of espresso, 4 shots of Frangelico, you're pissed and you heart is doing the Tarantela. You sway off to bed and spend the next four hours wide awake, waiting for the booze to override the caffiene, realising that you are meant to be doing Ocsober and cursing your own stupidity.