Kahmen's Kitchen

Off your soapbox, please

2012-01-18T09:52:00.004+11:00

Recently I read this article on vegetarianism, written by a woman who seems to feel quite strongly about the issue. I rather enjoyed her characterisation of carnivores as stupid, her pronouncements that meat eaters should be held accountable for their actions, that they were a burden on the NHS, and her description of meat as ‘dead stuff travelling through my intestines, like a corpse on a raft ride’. I rather enjoyed it because I enjoy misdirected anger and righteous indignation; I like the manipulation of statistics to serve one’s own purpose, and I find it amusing when people think that if they state their opinion forcefully enough, it ought to be an able substitute for fact.

I probably eat vegetarian meals more often than I eat meat. Lentils? Love. Tofu? Can’t get enough of it. But as I read her article, I felt an insane desire to scoff down a plate of bacon with a side of sausages.

Oh, I’m so tired of extremism when it comes to diets. I can’t tell you the fads I followed as a teenager; buying weird-sounding things like quinoa and carob and brown rice spaghetti, sending my parents mad and my grocer to the Bahamas. In fact I suspect the health shop renovation that happened in 2008 was partly funded by my knee-jerk reaction to the latest fashion magazine article advising that I cut out one food group or another.

Sure, back then weight loss was the goal and emaciation was the prize, but my point is that even if you substitute ethics for aesthetics you’re still asking someone to remove a food group from their culinary vocabulary. I’m not a nutritionist, but I think extremism in all its forms needs to be viewed with caution, and arguing that we should all cut out meat so we can relieve the pressure on the NHS and avoid vegetarian ire is just irresponsible.

You can have a healthy diet that includes meat, just like you can have a healthy diet that doesn’t. It is possible to eat beef, pork, chicken, lamb and fish and not burden the NHS, deserve government-subsidised insulin and be worthy of an organ transplant should we ever require one. This country has not yet outlawed a number of things much more harmful than a pack of sausages and moreover, I don’t believe we should withhold treatment from anyone who has chosen to live their life within the law. What is that, a ‘now-you’re-sorry’ approach to healthcare?

If Barbara Ellen is expecting thanks to be rained down upon her and all other vegetarians, she’ll be waiting a while. Geez, there’s just something about a holier-than-thou attitude that sticks in my throat worse than a chicken wishbone.

Leaving and Leaving You

2011-07-25T11:10:00.003+10:00

When I leave your postcode and your commuting station,

When I leave undone the things that we planned to do,

You may feel you have been left by association,

But there is leaving and there is leaving you.

When I leave your town and the club that you belong to,

When I leave without much warning or much regret,

Remember, there’s doing wrong and there’s doing wrong to

You, which I’ll never do and I haven’t yet,

And when I have gone, remember that in weighing

Everything up, from love to a cheaper rent,

You were all the reasons I thought of staying

And you were none of the reasons why I went

And although I leave your sight and I leave your setting

And our separation is soon to be a fact,

Though you stand beside what I’m leaving and forgetting,

I’m not leaving you, not if motive makes the act.

- Sophie Hannah

Five years on, London still beckons

2011-07-21T22:27:00.002+10:00

This time around, London seems to be different. There’s something intangible, something I can’t quite identify – the buses look the same, the tube is crowded (trust me when I tell you it’s still far better than Sydney’s transportation network), Sainsbury’s and Tesco are still lovable constants complemented by the occasional Waitrose sojourn. Cobblestone streets and tiny alleyways beckon; the irresistible lure of small boutiques in Camden and Soho compete with the frenetic electricity of Oxford street; British tourist icons like Tower Bridge and Buckingham Palace are still there, still standing, still providing comfort and recognition to those who seek visual stability.

Yes, it’s the same, and it’s with a shock I realise that I am the one who has changed, who is different. Five years is a long time to be away. And yet I remember the excitement of stepping off the plane into this vibrant city, the hum and buzz of chatter and life, the furious roar of traffic and the constant weave of people. I remember looking around and feeling as if anything was indeed possible within these city walls. And that hasn’t changed at all.

I think when we travel, what we’re looking for is a city that excites us over and over again; no matter how many times we visit it, no matter how many times we explore it, there’s always something new to see or do or simply delight in. I look at the craziness of chasing the next city, and what I’m thinking is maybe we’re not really looking for new sights. Maybe what we’re really searching for is a reinvention of ourselves, a chance to change, to take our hearts and minds and make them into something new.

Yet the cities that possess perpetual magic, that have the ability to hold us in thrall time and again, that give us the space and freedom to change, so rarely also feel like home. The wonderfully comforting stability of a home quite naturally precludes the sense of adventure we seek. I wonder if we really do require isolation to fundamentally change. And so the search for balance between home and freedom continues.

London holds that special balance for me. The summer air is warm and the days are long, and as I chase the sun into the markets, museums, cafes and bookstores that had so captivated me last time, I realise that despite the edge of cynicism that has begun to colour my eyes, the magic is still there.

Sesame Street: life lessons

2011-07-17T09:01:00.000+10:00

I worry about a lot of things.

When I was young, and Sesame Street ruled the tube, I used to relate to Ernie, that lovably feckless character who went on his merry way, wreaking unintentional havoc that Bert used to have to clean up. My parents were expertly overprotective, and curiously my reaction to this manifested itself in an unshakeable feeling of freedom.

Subtly, I grew to understand the nature of my parents’ concern: toasters were not always unplugged, strangers were not always kind, applause was not always genuine and deals were not always a bargain. The constant Today Tonight atmosphere of my household pervaded my existence, causing me to fret more frequently and about more subjects, until I claimed my rightful place in the hall of overthinkers.

These days, I’m Bert, the eternal worrywart whose wide eyes are concerned with pretty much everything they see. Ernie, don’t touch that! Ernie, are you sure it’s real? Ernie, of course you can’t go backpacking in South America by yourself, don’t be ridiculous!

Sometimes I wonder if the natural by-product of growing older is growing more suspicious. I wonder if too few of us escape the niggling sense of cynicism that comes with seeing too much; like cancer it spreads throughout our lives and stops the functioning of normally healthy thought processes. Eventually, thinking negatively becomes a habit from which it’s hard to escape. At the core of its blackened soul, cynicism is a fear of happiness, a fear to trust that things can be good, and right, and genuine. A fear to trust that you will be okay if the worst does indeed happen.

But even though being hurt or disappointed is terrible, I think living in fear is the quickest path to a life half-lived, and it’s ultimately heartbreaking. So my mission in London is to recapture the sense of lightheartedness that has too-oft been missing from my life. And if this means I have to laugh and eat and drink my way through every market, every bar, every cafe and restaurant... well, I consider that to be a bonus.

Could someone tell me where the decent coffee is, please?

2011-07-07T00:37:00.012+10:00

I’m having trouble finding decent coffee, although I’m told not to hold out hope that this will ever happen in the UK. So far I’ve tried a bunch of little places and a number of chains, and one of them was so bad I actually threw it out. Extreme measures from a caffeine addict.

So no coffee, and also no takeaway, because it’s absolutely terrible (Chinese “tofu with vegetables” = tofu + onion. I was thoroughly disgusted because given my habit of picking onion out, this left me with, well, tofu). It amazes me that Sul has been so enthusiastic about places that leave me relatively unmoved. My artistic eye is enjoying taking pictures of all the food (macro, of course), but my inner foodie is on the verge of throwing a tantrum, and given my tiny kitchen, I’m unlikely to be able to soothe it anytime soon.

But I figure it’s all fodder for my new book, “Kahmen’s Kitchen: how to make better meals when everyone around you has set the bar so low you could crawl over it”.

I have however set myself up with a phone, found the nearest Waitrose, bought a winter coat (what? It’s never too early to prepare – or shop) and admirably restrained myself from purchasing three pairs of shoes.

I’ve also visited Chinatown, been to a regatta, gone to a gay pride street party, been to a comedy club, visited the gym (and actually participated in a class – you were wondering, weren’t you!), gotten tipsy on half a glass of wine, witnessed an airbed being set on fire at a BBQ, and by the end of the week I will hopefully also have been to ballet class, gone clubbing, gotten a national insurance number, gone to a housewarming and celebrated a birthday. Not mine.

Phew. Time moves fast here in London town. And when things move fast, I need... you guessed it.

So could someone tell me where the decent coffee is, please? Otherwise I may end up a fulltime tea drinker. And nobody wants to see that happen.

Finding a lease on life

2011-07-07T00:21:00.002+10:00

So, I’ve been in London just over a week now and so far I’ve spent most of my time trying to find a place to live.

I put in an offer on the most beautiful flat which was reasonably priced, in an excellent location, and had a tiny balcony on which I would be able to sit and ponder the universe and watch the little underlings scurrying along on the street beneath me. Also, it had access to private gardens.

It really was too good to be true – as is so often the case, the one I wanted didn’t want me. Apparently as an unemployed television executive, I was not a good risk, even though I offered everything short of a pint of my blood to secure the flat (ok, I would have given the blood as well had they been remotely interested).

So I was left on the hunt again, but of course, once you’ve seen perfection, how do you settle for anything less? It’s hard to stop yourself from comparing everything back to the best, and yet, the pickings are slim on the London real estate market.

Eventually I settled and made an offer on another place far less appealing, but acceptable, because I wanted to get my life here started already.

I’m seeing shocking similarities between real estate and the dating world. I’m hoping that last bit doesn’t end up mirroring life.

I know compromise is always going to be an issue – unless you have enough money to buy what you want – but how much is too much? That’s the bit I’m wrestling with at the moment.

In the meantime, I’ve resolved to think no further about the apartment that got away, although I’m secretly hoping it will get a really horrid tenant who’ll treat it like crap. Perhaps it will be mine one day. Who knows?

Londoners don't walk

2011-07-06T03:22:00.007+10:00

They really don’t. They waddle, amble, stroll, march, push and dodge. It is utterly indicative of the city that even getting from place to place is a deliberate act of some kind. The British either make things happen, or else they allow things to happen to them in an exercise of stiff upper lip endurance. Either way, they’re the ones who determine their fate – even if it is by leaving things to Fate.

I wrote to my papa the other day, telling him about my confusion over noodles in Chinese restaurants here (asking for “noodles” in London will result in a strange crispy-fried concoction) and he wrote back immediately, “Do you mean they don’t have ho fun in London?” – what kind of crazy, barren, backwards place have you moved to??! – ahh, papa. It’s the little things I miss, like someone being willing to cook noodles without beansprouts for you.

Cafe owners generally hire waiters from the country of the cuisine, an effort that in Sydney would be completely wasted on the monolingual natives. I like it because every time I sit down in a cafe, I’m reminded again and again that I’m in Europe. French, English, Italians and Spanish come together in a glorious salad bowl conglomerate, mixing their cultures frequently, but maintaining their own identity, and creating something all the more exciting for it.

I’m loving the English stoicism, French flair, Italian passion, German directness and Spanish fire. I’m loving wandering the streets and not quite knowing what people are thinking. I’m even loving staring at the changeable sky, packing a jumper “just in case”, and feeling my bag grow heavy with an oft-used umbrella.

Most of all, I’m enjoying the refreshing sense of freedom that comes with not knowing what the day has in store for me.

It’s a little scary, and a little lonely, being in a foreign city by yourself, and harder than you’d think to spend days and days without speaking to more than one person who really knows you. I’d forgotten that you need to meet people and tread carefully, hold parts of yourself back so as not to scare them, to take the friend-making process slowly. Because in the end, I hunger for that sense that I can be whoever I want to be – but that who I am is just fine, too.

I came here not knowing what I was looking for, and the more I see, the more I realise that it may simply be this – to see something different to what I have known. Something different to what I see every day. Is that what wanderlust is, and does it wear off?

London loves

2011-06-29T08:10:00.004+10:00

The houses

The London atmosphere

The incredible exchange rate

Eating at different restaurants every day in the name of research

Taking off the accent and seeing if I can fool anyone into thinking that I am, in fact, British

The weather

Having nothing to do except wander the streets and look for somewhere to live, occasionally broken up by the necessity of having a three-course meal

Shopping

Cheese!

2011-06-27T20:24:00.006+10:00

Waitrose

Sometimes, I secretly suspect that I moved here for the cheese.

There's something so lovely about a country that embraces cheese - all types of cheese, holey or solid, blue or - well, better. It says "we don't care about the saturated fat in our diet. We are free people, we love the creamy velvet bite of cheese, and you'll never take it away from us."

Good for you, I say.

The French love affair continues

Garlic, onion and ginger

2011-06-14T19:37:00.005+10:00

With nine days to go, I’m losing my marbles ever so slightly.

In fact, I’ve lost them several times over the past few weeks. There have been birthdays, celebrations, farewells, tears, laughter, a death in the family and, as always, a certain amount of cooking and creation. Coffee dates have an air of finality to them. People have come out of the woodwork, wanting to meet up, catch up, say goodbye. They ask me “When do you fly?” and I tell them “the 23^rd of June”, and we look away, and count the days in our head.

With my emotions in turmoil, what I’ve been thinking about is the notion of connection – physical, mental and emotional. The Holy Trinity. You need all three to make a relationship work. Sure, one leg might take more of the weight sometimes, but without any one of those pillars the whole thing falls over. And the fact is, it's damn difficult to get all three, but it's like poker; you get all three, or you walk away with nothing and live to play another hand, somewhere else, at another time.

When it takes forever and a day to meet someone you click with, and then you find out that you’ve only got two of the three, or when there’s just one but it’s so strong you can't think straight, well, that’s the tricky bit. Because what happens then? Sometimes it's easier to stay. Sometimes it's easier to give up on the two (well, technically three) in the bush and settle with the bird in hand.

I know how difficult it is to keep the faith sometimes – oh boy, do I. But I haven’t given up on the trinity (gee, how Catholic did that sound?!), and I don’t think anyone else should, either. I believe it will come for me one day and when that day happens there'll be no hiding from it no matter how skilled I am at sabotaging relationships.

We all dream of champions who won't let obstacles stand in the way of love. Who will not only climb mountains just for a glimpse of your face, but MOVE THEM to be with you. Someone who is good for you, who is meant to be with you, isn't going to let you push them away or run across the oceans.

What I keep thinking about is a statement I heard recently, attributed to this person’s grandmother: 'Danny, what's for you will not pass you by.’ I’m not blind to opportunity, and as long as I keep an eye out there occasionally, I believe what’s for me will eventually find me.

And God, it's comforting to relax, to park self-determinism and leave it to Fate for a while.

Goodbye Annandale

2011-05-08T23:44:00.000+10:00

Yesterday I moved all my belongings out of Annandale. The day was so frantic I didn’t really have a chance to think about anything except boxes and packing tape, but in the evening, as I closed the door, the magnitude of loss swept through me and I wept bitter tears.

Even though I know it doesn’t belong to me anymore, it still feels like home. I wondered dazedly – like when you break up with someone – when it will feel ok to say “I used to live there”, or “that used to be mine”. When those sentences will cease to be punctuated with sorrow and loss.

Sentimental perhaps, dramatic certainly, but I knew nothing would be the same, and that the door had closed on a chapter of something precious and sweet. And though I understood I had done it to make room for a new beginning, I wanted nothing more than to run back into the apartment shrieking “I take it back! I’m staying!”

Today, when I went back to clean everything, the neighbourhood already felt more foreign, the stairs no longer a friendly path to my home, the walls unfamiliar and somehow distant. And I knew it was a step towards healing, and yet, I felt empty.

A good life

2011-05-06T21:01:00.003+10:00

Tonight is my last night in the Dale, and I came home to pack, slipping steadily into the bad mood which has threatened all day. Taped boxes. Threw clothes into a heap for charity. Moodily stared at the growing pile of “unsorted” goods, swore yet again that I would live a minimalist life and wondered, not for the first time, why I was doing this. Reached the absolute bottom of the box of handbags at the back of my wardrobe, and pulled out a handbag I haven’t seen in two and a half years and inside was a copy of The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho.

Sometimes I’m convinced God looks at the people on earth, scowling and stomping around, and laughs – laughs, and sends them a message so clear there is absolutely no mistaking it.

How long had that book been buried there, along with my dreams of a life overseas?

There’s no question that I’ve had a good life here – that these four walls have seen joy and heartbreak, heard the tears and laughter, and witnessed the mad, relentless pacing, sleepless nights and lazy afternoons. My little sanctuary from the stresses of the world. I love it dearly and am so sad to be leaving it behind.

So why disrupt a comfortable life, a good life, an easy life?

Because I want more. I want more than just comfortable, more than perfectly fine. I could live a hundred years continuing the way I have, with a steady job and friends and dance – but I want to seek and reach for what I was put on this earth to do. And to do that, I firstly need to understand what that is.

It’s hard to remember sometimes that loneliness and discomfort is the price we have to pay for stepping out into a brave new world, that bewilderment and loss is ultimately what allows us to open our eyes and really see. Clarity, understanding, growth – they all have a cost. But as terrible as the cost may seem sometimes, it’s not nearly as high as the cost of spending your days being afraid, of allowing bitterness to eat away at your soul, and of living a life in half measures.

It would be easy to stay, to exist in the world I have become so familiar with, but oh, I don’t want to exist. I want to live.

Turning the pages

2011-05-04T00:12:00.003+10:00

Dear friends, I’m feeling pensive tonight.

Perhaps it’s the rapidly descending chill that’s keeping me up, or the giant triple soy cap I had this morning which is still humming through my veins, but I’m going through old, old emails and just - thinking.

When I was a child, I read Choose Your Own Adventure books – do you remember those? The obviously schizophrenic author would tell you a story, and give you a choice. Based on that decision, you would have a page to turn to and you would read another section of the story and make another decision. Eventually you arrived at one of many endings available in the book.

I must confess: I don’t think I ever read one the way it was meant to be read. I would flip through, find an ending I liked, and work my way backwards til I could create a story the way I wanted it to exist. Even at the tender age of five, I searched for that happy ending.

And I wanted a guarantee that would take me there.

Growing up, I found it hard to accept that in life, a happy ending isn’t something you can plan at the beginning and race towards with full speed. Those of us without crystal balls muddle through, wondering what paths we’re supposed to take and whether certainty is a product of insight or blind trust.

At times, I’ve felt like I’ve been stuck on the same page for a very, very long time. Paralysed by uncertainty? Plagued by self-doubt and a lack of insight? Or simply unable to let go and move on?

I’ve never really been very good at letting go and moving on. I want to be – oh, how I’ve longed for the ability to do it cleanly and quickly the way some people can; to logically pack up and move on with maturity and grace and dignity and a thousand other things which, at the time, seem terribly difficult and untouchable and further removed from the realms of my ability than flying to the moon or swallowing fire or walking on water. I’ve tried to force, hurry, trick and distract myself into letting go (I know my workplace at least is grateful for this, as are ballet schools, Latin studios, cafes, restaurants, liquor stores, clothing outlets and a random art shop where I bought scrapbooking supplies in an effort to stay busy). I’ve pretended I’m already there, already over it, a kind of “fake it til you make it” exercise.

But eventually, honesty returns, and there’s no fooling yourself when it comes crashing down around you.

It’s funny how when you’re in the moment, there’s nothing that seems more endless or more important. Pain, love, laughter, anger – all overpowering, all eternal. Surely we will never recover. Surely we will never forget, never let go, never stop feeling this way. And yet, as I read back through emotional chapters of the last few years, I realise with a jolt that there are things – painful things, fraught with emotion and confusion, things that I was sure would kill me with their absolute anguish – that eventually healed, leaving only the tiniest of marks.

Occasionally I could feel it the moment in which it happened; a conversation, a word, a glance in which I felt something deep inside me shift and let go. But more often than not, slowly and almost imperceptibly, the agony of all-consuming grief faded to a distant ache, a shadow on the horizon. And then almost accidentally, as I forgot the details, the event that had so distressed me or the person who had thrown me into fits of tormented suffering quietly became just another memory. And finally it became just another part of the rich tapestry of a full life.

What I’ve come to realise is that certainty is a transient luxury; that forever requires commitment and determination and dedication. What you thought you were supposed to be doing is one of many potential paths your life can take. And while you certainly get to choose the kind of story you want to live, there’s no way to flip to the back of the book, choose the ending and plot backwards. As self-evident as it may seem, the only way to read the book is forwards – to make the best decision you can with the information you have, and see where it takes you.

And golly, you will make mistakes, and you will hurt others, and be hurt in turn. There will be times you’re sure you can never recover, when you weep into your pillow (or, like me, onto Steph) and swear at the world and wonder if you were cursed at birth. But time is a true healer, your forgetful memory at times your best friend, and what we shouldn’t do and can’t do and will not do is to allow our fear of the ending to keep us from making decisions. It’s the only way, I feel, to create an interesting story.

Last week in the Dale

2011-05-01T13:31:00.001+10:00

My apartment is looking fairly sad now – Steph’s mum came and picked up the couch and the TV table, so the living room pretty much consists of packing boxes, empty bookshelves and the scattered odds and ends you never know where to put when packing. For example, a miniature Christmas tree given to me by mum in 2009; photo frames with the original stock photos intact, as I’ve never put my own in there (Mum: “Who is this boy and this girl? What do you mean, you don’t know them? Why do you have their photos?”); a rubix cube that has never been unjumbled for fear of not being able to restore it to perfection and an unused lint roller overwhelmed by dust (why is that in the living room instead of in the bathroom with the rest of the ironing supplies? I don’t know, it just is.)

So I’m sitting on the floor with a cup of tea, inviting creative genius to visit me, waiting for Steph to come back, and cooking another cupboard meal.

One jar of korma curry paste (wedged behind tinned tomatoes)

Half a bag of dried chickpeas

Half a bag of yellow split peas (leftovers from my virtuous and short-lived period of eating wholegrains)

One packet of dodgy-looking chicken (note: I really am not trying to give myself food poisoning in my last week here, but I felt guilty throwing it out. Also, cooking destroys germs, so the theory goes – right?)

Half a bag of brown rice

Frozen peas, because the freezer needs to be emptied

One tin soy cooking milk, in place of the required cream

Having learnt the hard way, I shut my bedroom door (because there are clothes to consider, after all), and threw the lot in a wok. I confess this is a little inauthentic – risotto-ish, instead of the instructed serve-with-rice method, but the irresistible simplicity of a one-pot meal beckoned. I love the fiery red of korma paste, and the way it mellows to a rich orange when you add the milk. The aromas of Indian cooking – scents of cumin, coriander, chilli, garlic and onion – pervade my little home, calming my nerves and easing the sense of loss that packing brings.

Not the most photogenic of meals, unfortunately, but in this case tastebuds trump eyes. Served with pappadums (wedged behind the noodles and probably seconds from their use-by date).

Moving out, moving on

2011-04-30T18:19:00.002+10:00

Moving is the worst.

I’m 28 and have only been living on my own for two and a half years. I honestly don’t know where I’ve found the time to accumulate so much stuff, but I’m now faced with the daunting task of shifting it all back to the Shire, to St Vincent’s, to the nearest garbage bin – and it’s definitely the least fun I’ve had in, oh, two and a half years.

I had forgotten what it’s like, and how emotionally draining it can be to sift through past elements of your life, trapped in reminiscence, ignoring the twinges of pain and discarding the bits that are no longer relevant to the future.

I could never enlist someone else in helping me sort through the mess, either – laying myself bare as I pick through old books, clothes, letters and trinkets would be too raw, too terrifying. Remember when people printed photos? When mixed tapes ruled the romantic universe and legwarmers were the height of fashion? Remember a time when people would write each other letters, not emails? I’m guilty as charged here, but it suddenly occurs to me that I would never stroke an email chain as lovingly as I do the battered pages of youth’s foolish dreams. A part of me wants to keep everything, sacred and intact, as a shrine to a previous world and a former life.

Pointe shoes. Latin sandals. Food magazines and knitting needles. Sudoku puzzles, notebooks filled with scribble. Letters from old friends and loves. Staring at the vast amount of paraphernalia scattered around my apartment, I get an uncomfortable glimpse of just how fickle my affections may have been.

Every time I have to move – and luckily it’s not that often, or I might never recover – I swear anew that this time, it will be different, that I’ll restrain myself from going homewares shopping in the manner of someone looking to stock a hope chest. It never works. Little by little, piece by piece, I always end up feathering my nest wherever it is and however temporary it may be. A friend of mine once joked that he could drop me in the middle of a desert in the morning and by nightfall I would have set up a tent complete with IKEA lights, a fully-stocked pantry and a doona.

Does hating moving this much mean I truly just want a home and a place to call my own? And how does it fit in with my desire to throw it all in and travel the world?

What's mine, what's yours

2011-04-27T23:59:00.000+10:00

The executive coach at work was discussing coaching technique with me today, and we came across an interesting topic. “How,” I asked, “do you stop yourself from taking responsibility for the failure of a client?”

“Well,” she responded. “You can’t judge the success of a client by your own standards – you need to measure their development in the context of their own abilities and perceptions, as well as a great number of variables. Similarly, you can’t view a failure (if indeed it is a true failure) as a reflection of your own abilities. As a coach, you need to act with integrity, honesty and the best intentions – that is all you get to control. As long as you have done that, you can be proud of your work and what they do with the coaching is entirely up to them.”

I think this is very wise.

I spend a lot of time second-guessing decisions I’ve made, wondering what-if and kicking myself for things I have no business taking responsibility for. I can’t help but be curious about what might have happened and wonder what role I played in making the present reality come about. For all the gymnastic exercise it affords my mind, it’s a nasty habit that’s exceptionally hard to break, and occasionally sends me spiralling into the dark depths of gloomy self-reflection.

As I rapidly approach the end of my twenties, I’m seized by a desire to throw myself bodily into the realms of living a full and juicy life, into new experiences, to fearlessly confront and dare to imagine bold and reckless and ultimately enlivening things, and yet the idea frightens me. Experience is a two-edged sword – valuable, insightful, stimulating and educational, certainly, but also heartbreaking, painful, disturbing and confusing.

What if I had stayed in London?

What if I hadn’t gone to France?

What if I had waited – not for the first job, but for the perfect job?

What if I hadn’t sent that email – the one that seemingly set a long chain of dazzling and cataclysmic events in motion?

What if I hadn’t said those things – or gave up – or moved out – or decided I would end the relationship?

At some point surely you have to stop wondering and torturing yourself over decisions you have no earthly way of knowing the true consequences of.

Sometimes it’s hard not to let fear or insecurity get the better of you, but as long as you act bravely, with honesty, authenticity and a certain degree of self-awareness, I don’t believe you can ever truly regret. When I think about the decisions that haunt me, the only ones I’d still dearly like to change are those I made without these. Young and foolish I was and still am in many ways, but as I weigh the pain of heartbreak and disappointment against remaining open-hearted and honest, I realise with startling clarity that I can forgive a multitude of sins if they were committed with integrity, honesty and the best intentions.

As she said, you only get to control so much. As for the rest, you can only seek to behave in a way that will make you proud of yourself.

The fridge game

2011-04-26T22:57:00.008+10:00

Necessity may be the mother of invention, but panic is the backbone of creativity.

The goal for the last two weeks in the Dale is to clean out as much junk as possible so I have less to move back to the Shire – and this includes my kitchen cupboards, stocked as they are ready to whip up a quick dinner for fifty people, or perhaps to sustain me through a small nuclear winter.

At the same time, if I only lived on what was in my cupboards I’d be having noodle soup and pasta for two weeks, which would render me depressed and too fat to move from the Dale after all.

A little ingenuity and some fresh vegetables are in order. Tonight’s meal is brought to you by:

one box of falafel mix

one box of couscous

one can of chickpeas

one can of lentils

punnet of tomatoes (rapidly approaching intelligent life-form status)

one bulb of garlic (also reaching the point at which Bear Grylls would ask for his money back)

spices

Honestly, the only thing I bought was eggplant, which I cut up and roasted with the garlic and tomatoes. The spices went in with the chickpeas and lentils, falafel was made (Did you know you can bake falafel, instead of frying? So good) and couscous was steamed. Which, by the way, didn’t work (I have no idea why – Jamie always makes it sound so easy) so I added the boiling water as instructed on the box.

A little salt, and there’s lunch for the next three days! Plus, my cupboard is looking ever so clean. Well, maybe not clean. There’s a little work to be done - I’ve still got noodles, jalapenos, pumpkin soup, pasta sauce, anchovies and canned vegetables. Who’s up for the next round of the fridge-and-cupboard game?

Tassie truisms

2011-04-25T22:18:00.004+10:00

I leave Tassie at least two kilos heavier than when I arrived, but fifty kilos lighter in spirit.

I’m well aware that as someone who has accrued four weeks’ annual leave I’m probably the last person in the world who ought to be spruiking the benefits of taking a holiday. And with the amount of things left to do before I go, it might seem to some an ill-advised use of my time. But honestly, stepping away from the madness and chaos that has consumed my life of late has been the best thing I could possibly have done.

You’d think that (dramatically) someone about to leave everything she knows and understands behind would have a very good sense of perspective, but in fact it’s been quite the opposite. I’ve mourned the loss of my mattress, yet refused to confront the idea of losing my best friend. I’ve thrown myself into fits of depression over buying single-class tickets instead of ten-week term passes. I’ve tried to cram months of conversation into days, tried to speed up friendships, shed tears over the thought of not seeing people I’ve only known for weeks, held on even when it’s held me back. Every cafe seems sentimental, every dinner possibly the last. Everything has been crazily out of perspective, and it’s because I’m terrified by what I’m about to undertake.

Here’s what I’ve learned from my time away: beds are replaceable, no matter how much you paid for them. STD – and international – phone bills are a necessary pain to be accepted gracefully as a part of doing business. Ballet exists in London. And no matter how much you want to, you can’t accelerate the process of getting to know someone. Time is a stubborn beast, and it won’t be hurried any more than it can be held back. They will either cease to matter, or the universe will give you another chance somewhere down the line.

After four years of wanting to be overseas, I’m finally going to get there. Will it be different to how it would have been if I had left as planned back in 2007, or even headed overseas in 2009? Certainly. But it’s my belief that everything happens for a reason and that there are no missed opportunities, only a plan that hasn’t become clear yet. Sometimes it’s hard to trust in the universe, and harder still to find the balance between allowing things to happen and making them happen yourself. How do you blend equal parts of Fate and Self-determination?

I think the trick is to follow your heart and see what happens.

It’s funny, my boss and my parents have made such a fuss about me leaving, but the truth is that their lives will go on without me. They don’t stop because I’m on holiday, and they won’t stop when I’m overseas, either. Similarly, my life keeps ticking on even when I’m not entirely sure where it’s going or what I’m doing.

And curiously, instead of making me feel invisible or dispensable, it gives me the freedom and confidence to move forward.

The largeness of love

2011-04-24T21:10:00.001+10:00

“Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it’s cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk even more.”

- Erica Jong

On the wall in the hallway of our home is a quote by Khalil Gibran: “And think not you can guide the course of love... for love, if it finds you worthy, shall guide your course”.

Like all good romantics, I believe that the power of love can change your life. It’s something that years of heartbreak and disappointment haven’t managed to touch. Oh, after bad dates and worse nights on the town, after boys who seem to be incapable of stringing together rational thought, or worse, are completely devoid of any understanding of all emotional sensibilities, I grow weary, but at the end of the day, I always come back to this core belief: love is a force stronger than anything else.

Against my own better judgement, I’ve spent years waiting for it to arrive, waiting for this mystical One to show up on a white horse and sweep me off my feet, waiting for it to change my life, complete my life, complete me. And I’ve made youthful, foolish decisions based on my yearning for the search to be over at last.

Ex-boyfriends, ex-flings, ex-friends, I owe many of you an apology, because I think I often treated you in ways that showed how much I was looking not at you or us, but rather for a part of myself.

Earlier, I wrote about the importance of having someone who knows you really well around to tell you that they like you, that it’s important to feel understood and appreciated and above all, loved for who you are. Spending this weekend in Tassie with my sister, I realise that this has never been quite so true, nor so relevant.

I look at my sister who studies day and night to make a difference in the world, so busy and overworked she could probably have slept the whole weekend, who instead chose to spend it with me.

I think about my parents; their dear, worried little faces, cautioning me against all the woes of the world, real and imagined and gleaned from Today Tonight. Their solemn vow that they will worry from the second I leave these shores to the moment I return.

I think about Steph and her endless patience and understanding, the kilos of nachos and pho we’ve consumed as I’ve cried, laughed and loved my way through my twenties. I can almost see the pom poms as she cheers me onto the next phase of my life, even though every cartwheel she turns must hurt her terribly since she knows it will take me further away from her.

Kate and her no-nonsense, pragmatic take on the world, her unending belief that I am better than I believe myself to be. Sul’s kind support, encouraging me to search for who I can be.

I guess I’m coming a little late to the party, but it never really occurred to me that love has already shown up in my life and is guiding my course every day. Did I miss it because the white charger was actually a large people-mover? Did I miss it because, unlike romantic love, it didn’t take me to dizzying heights and crushing depths but rather supported me endlessly through hard times and good? It sounds like a terrible line from a cheap self-help book, but I look at the stable, eternal and unconditional love that already surrounds me, and it gives me the courage to believe that I am lovable.

Someday, when I’m good and ready, that other kind of love will show up, and there’ll be no escaping it. The largeness of love will overcome every obstacle, every petty difficulty, every perceived incompatibility with its warm-hearted embrace. I still believe that. In the meantime, love proves daily that it is and always will remain the most powerful force in the world.

And I am superbly content.

Hello Hobart

2011-04-23T18:42:00.000+10:00

Hobart has a curious blend of city vibes – cold, grey and gloomy in parts like Glasgow, Melbournian wide streets, and a lively marina utterly obsessed with seafood like San Francisco.

Settled over the city is a hint of mist, perpetually hovering in the atmosphere and ruining even the best-laid ghd work.

I love Tassie’s attitude towards food; the wholehearted embracing of fresh produce, tiny delis stacked with local cheese and organic meats, vibrant Salamanca markets packed with stalls selling just-picked apples, entire shops dedicated to salmon. I found a small nod to cultural acceptance in Wursthaus – a tiny shelf stocked with soy, pickled ginger and rice wine vinegar, and then later in North Hobart, where a well-stocked, fragrant spice shop sent me into culinary overdrive.

But I had only come to see one thing in Hobart, and she greeted me at her front door: my sister, whose shriek of delight was only drowned out by my own. It’s hard having family scattered to the four winds, and soon it will be that much harder, living by myself in a remote corner of the globe. We laughed, cried and wandered through Hobart, buying Gypsy rolls, chocolates, seafood and books.

If it weren’t for the weather and the ultimate fact that there’s nothing I would be able to do here, I’d move just for the food and her company.

I love food

2011-04-22T16:52:00.000+10:00

I’m watching Lifestyle Food, which is running a Rick Stein Odyssey marathon – South East Asia – and am avidly staring at the screen as he wanders through markets crammed with chillies, piles of iridescent spices, brilliant orange racks of squid and baskets of dried fish. I watch him crush and pound lemongrass, deftly sluice the surface of a curry with lime juice and neatly splash fish sauce across a floating sea of garlic and chilli.

I’ve just eaten, but my mouth is watering. My mental mouth, that is, which has an unfortunate history of being harder to please and keep in check than my actual mouth.

My whole life has been infused by the smells and sights and sounds of food; the reverberating clang of a wooden spoon against the edge of a wok, the hiss and sizzle of garlic, onion and ginger, the pungent and cloying aroma of roasted prawn paste, the vibrant red hues of a curry stained with splashes of coconut cream, melting into a rich fire-tinged gold. Creative and nourishing, pure and sensuous, the world of the kitchen has always seemed to me to hold a delicate balance striking in its intensity and deep satisfaction.

I love that taking delight in culinary diversity can shape your view of the world. I love that a good meal can create a warm sense of satisfied fulfilment that pervades the whole evening. I love that a truly excellent meal can make you feel like singing.

I love that food becomes an international, universal conversation, transcending boundaries and reservations, its secrets open to all those who choose to question.

I love that the sweet grittiness of Haw Flakes takes me back to my childhood, the creamy perfection of Comté transports me to Bordeaux, and that the fragrant aroma of Lady Grey tea lands me back in Andrew’s kitchen. Lasagne is still one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen on my mother’s table. I still feel a thrill when I see my father chopping ginger for ginger chicken.

I love that when I eat a curry or noodles or tofu, I feel a sense of connection to my past and my culture, a culture that at times seems as foreign and distant to me as anything I’ve ever known. For a brief, shining moment, the heritage guilt which eternally haunts me ceases to matter through the haze of steaming chicken broth and dumplings. As strange as it may seem, through embracing food – all kinds of food – I feel more at home with my bicultural, dichotomous existence.

Once, after witnessing me devour two plates of noodles, two helpings of mushrooms, two serves of prawns and a salad (what will happen when I fall pregnant and actually start eating for two, I don’t know) and then get up to turn Cake Boss on, my brother-in-law asked me whether I ever get tired of food. The answer is no, I don’t believe I ever have, and I hope I never will. Because to me, food isn’t essential to life, it’s a way of life, a way of seeing the world. Occasionally, I meet people who aren’t altogether fussed about food, and their pragmatism and fuel-based approach is as foreign to me as I’m sure my giddy enthusiasm for pasta is to them. Often we look at each other and there’s a certain degree of disconnectedness, and I wonder if my thoughts about food are within the realms of sanity, whether normal people think and feel this way about what they eat.

And then I think about the connection it has afforded me with my ancestry, the insight it has given me into other worlds, and the pure excitement it generates within me on a day to day basis. And I think, I’ll take that. I love food.

I like you

2011-04-17T23:14:00.002+10:00

There’s nothing more pure than the feeling of someone who knows you really well saying “I like you”.

A few months ago, I started working on my CV in preparation for the London job hunt. I listed all my achievements, all the training, the experience, the awards and qualifications, the personal attributes. My résumé reflects ten years in the workforce, and it isn’t bad.

But for all that, at 3am on a restless, turbulent night, sometimes I find myself wondering who I have become and if I really wanted to be this person at all. I lie awake and question whether my choices have culminated in a character I can be proud of, and if my experiences have shaped me into someone I actually like. In the morning, reality descends and the world marches on as normal, but often the worry faintly lingers, quietly lurking in the corners of my mind.

I think no matter how confident or how virtuous, we’re all struck by these periods of self-doubt and uncertainty when we question whether time and natural development have made us into good people.

Recently I reconnected with an old friend who’s moved away. In the manner that old friends have we skipped past awkward reserve and really talked, catching up about our lives and things that had happened, things we planned to do in the future and everything we thought of in between. We chatted and laughed, and in his eyes I saw a deep understanding and genuine affection. The kind that doesn’t depend on time spent or passed, that doesn’t waver with differing interests or fashion choices or convenience of geographic location. The kind that comes with truly knowing someone, warts and all, and liking them still.

The covering may change – the edges soften or sharpen – but the essence of a person generally remains the same. And it’s what we measure each other and ourselves on.

At the end of the day, the best feeling in the world is spending time with someone and knowing you never have to hide any part of yourself from them. You don’t need to pretend and you never have to perform. Because they like you, just as you are.

What could be more precious than that?

Chilly feet

2011-04-16T17:39:00.001+10:00

As the air turns cool and the days grow short, my countdown to London begins.

It’s funny that I’ve been looking forward to this for so many years, and now that it’s finally here, I find myself looking backwards – looking at all the things I’m leaving, all the things I love about Sydney, all the things I’ll miss when I’m gone.

I had resolved to play tourist this weekend, but overnight the rains came, bringing with it a kind of sluggish apathy that invaded the city. Negotiating Pitt St Mall became a death-defying task of umbrella spokes, slippery sidewalks and singlet-clad teenage girls. I sought refuge in cafes, sipping coffee and watching the world hurry by through a blurry, rain-soaked pane.

Now that it has a timeframe attached to it, the Sydney list seems oppressively long. Steph manages the Sydney component while I fret about London prep: get wisdom tooth extracted, cancel phone, suspend health cover, buy travel insurance, get visa, set up bank account, try to maintain semblance of sanity whilst moving back home. It’s hard to remember that I’ve done this all before, because it feels so completely foreign.

I’m somewhat perplexed, because I didn’t expect to feel this way – nostalgic and slightly panicked. I’m doing this. I’m really going. And at the moment, it seems like London is a million miles away.