The Himalaya! We lived one street over for a good few months. What a find, after all the South Indian carry-on in Singapore.
Although having said that, Samy's Curry House on the Dempsey hill was (still is) my favourite. "Fine South Indian Cuisine" -- served right at your communal plastic table from buckets carried by evil lurking waiters who get their mates to distract you with poppadums on your right while they bang six vindaloo prawns on your plate from the left... all made better by the raw pleasure of tipping the melted icewater out of your beer mug all over your feet, given the temperature inside the un-airconditioned room was often in the 40s. Magic...
Oh god... this thread is going to eat me alive!
Wow... I can see this blog is going to open a pandora's box packed full of cans of worms of an incredibly delicious nature.
Without going into curry stories from eight years of living in Singapore, by way of a theory about how much a cuisine is like a language (hard to learn, needs constant practice, feels good when you break out of rote phrases), let's just go with how my 8 year old and I harvested our way-overgrown coriander last week; first time I've bothered to, and, yep, the seeds are incredible, as described - resinous, piney, lemony; they are to store-bought coriander seeds like fresh ginger is to Gregg's Ground Ginger. Different use-case, completely different sensation. Best bit? Seeing Ruby figure out we had scored FIVE DOLLARS worth of FRESH CORIANDER SEEDS without spending a *single cent*.
And yep, like Richard says, Rick Stein's India is well worth a watch. Beats the crap out of Reza the Spice Prince.
This one post might be the most important document for an entire generation. Share this one, and share it hard. The kids currently can't, and they don't deserve what sewage is coming down the pipe, fed through to us from a failing system elsewhere and seemingly -- irony isn't even close, here -- unfiltered by critical thinking. Share it for the kids. And, god help us, the rest of us.
Gaaargh! L'il Louis!
They say smell is the most powerful sense, and the one most likely to hurl you back to a specific moment in time, but I reckon they're wrong.
I reckon it's House.
I have been known to dance to the sound of a coffee-grinder.
My Sunbeam Café Series coffeebeast makes a hideous rhythmic grinding pumping sound whenever it's pushing water or steam through anywhere. But once you figure out it's the dirtiest dubstep grunt this side of Mt Eden, just set the espresso and the steam going at the same time and not only will you get a great coffee... let's just say kids be dancing.
All three of them, and daddy, in our jammies.
Their mummy usually takes this as a signal to go out for a run.
Stunning collection this week. Thanks Russell!
The parliamentary term would end, sure, but the government could just prevent any election from taking place and a new parliament being summoned.
That is fucking scary talk. That is also the reason I broke out in a cold sweat on reading Smith’s Dream last year. And now the question: what can we do? What can one person, or all of us together, do, right now? How do we break this down into indigestible chunks for our mothers- and fathers-in-law? How do we get the Herald to scream about this across its front page?
the King’s Arms, with its awkward layout and deafening rock PA. It just doesn’t seem as much fun as it used to.
Them's fighting words -- although secretly I kind of agree. Maybe I need to start a fight with myself?
Thanks Russell for again remaining calm in a way I just can’t.
First off, I’m having big trouble on a Monday morning parsing this case: Guy asks to be let off after pretty much trying to kill someone wearing hi-viz on a bike .
Seems wearing hi-viz simply makes you responsible for getting the fuck out of the way once someone has seen you.
This comes on top of the coroner’s report, thanks to which I’ve had a fight with my darling about whether I will be allowed to ride the 2.9km to work from Westmere to Freemans Bay without dressing like a Christmas tree.
It’s times like these I really, really get close to defaulting to driving. We’re fighting hard at Cycle Action , and we’re getting some wins, but still there’s something odd about the undercurrent in our country.
In a sick way it reminds me of living in Singapore, where the only people on bikes on the roads were pretty much 75-year-old coolies or 20-year-old Bangladeshi construction workers who lived – I shit you not – in shipping containers in the bushes. Both were seen as entirely dispensable, and the main reason not to hit them was the inconvenience of repairing paintwork in the tropics.
And with a big, fat, le sigh, I’m off to pick up my sweetheart not-yet-five-year-old from kindy, on my bike. Hope I make it.