Sven's life in Oz

I love baking. It’s a bit ironic since I’m actually not much a pudding fan – I would always pick a starter if I had to choose, and a cheese plate over an ice cream if I were really pushed. I think it might be the objectivity with baking that means I can admire my success without wanting to make it totally perfect. I always feel like I can make savoury stuff more appealing; with puddings I don’t feel the same pressure. Odd, isn’t it?

This weekend I had two great excuses to get some serious baking done: it was James’s birthday, but I also had a pile of goodies in my kitchen for various reasons and next week I’m starting my healthy living regime. I’m going to New York in June (more on that to follow) and I have to look amazing. I need to use all that sugary, fatty shit up, and a party means I won’t be eating it all myself. Everybody wins! Having seen this fabulous idea on Bakerella, I thought I would give it a go. The plan was to bake chocolate brownies, and serve them with ice cream in individual chocolate bowls. The brownies turned out wonderfully; I remembered I have a fan-assisted oven just before they all burned to a crisp. Dark chocolate brownies with white chocolate chips and mixed nuts and raisins: even I couldn’t get enough of them. They’re like confectionery heroin. I defy you to stop at just one.

The chocolate bowls were a little less successful. The first batch, in fact, were a complete disaster. The instructions say the chocolate doesn’t need to be ’superhot’; I would say that any heat at all is a bad idea. You need to get the chocolate just before it starts to solidify for the best results. Don’t do what I did, and dip your water balloons into the chocolate while it is still warm. Nothing makes a bloody mess quite like 12 chocolate-covered water balloons exploding in your kitchen. The place was completely covered. There was a man-shaped clean patch on the wall behind me – I was plastered in the stuff from head to toe. Everything else was dripping in molten cocoa products, and it took me half an hour to clean the place up. The second batch survived the chocolate immersion and, a few hours later when the I popped the balloons, I had twelve shell-like chocolate bowls to serve at dinner.

They were a hit for the novelty, but the brownies were the overall winner. Make some for yourself and enjoy!

Ingredients

• 100g chocolate (70% cocoa solids)
• 110g butter
• 50g plain flour
• 225g granulated sugar
• 2 eggs
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• white chocolate chips/nuts/marshmallows (I used 200g mixed nuts and raisins, and 200g white chocolate chips, but you can throw in whatever you like. If it starts to get too stiff, throw in some more chocolate).

Method

1. Pre-heat the oven to 180?C. (If your oven is fan-assisted, you’ll probably want to set it a bit lower.) Grease a baking tray or oven-proof dish.
2. Melt the butter and the chocolate slowly together.
3. Mix the other ingredients, except the nuts/chocolate chips/whatever, together in a large bowl.
4. Add in the molten butter and chocolate to the mixture.
5. Mix in the nuts etc, then pour the whole lot into the tray/dish.
6. Bake in the oven for 30 minutes.

Things don’t stop happening to me simply because I’m old enough to know better. I may be 30 years old, but I still know how to have a good time. Crazy shit just seems to hunt me down. If all this happened to you in one weekend, you’d be unhinged like me too.

Bitten by a dog

My friend Nick came to stay over ANZAC weekend and I took him to a housewarming party on Sunday afternoon. The original plan was to arrive around 2pm, stay for a few hours and then leave and do some traditional ANZAC stuff like stand in a pub betting on coin-tossing with strangers until closing time. What actually happened was thirteen solid hours of drinking ending on the stage at Stonewall. Somewhere in there photos were taken of me holding a mannequin’s decapitated head, Nathan and I had a glitter fight with a pair of sparkly bowler hats, and in all the excitement the poor dog didn’t know what to do with himself and nipped me quite fiercely on the back of the leg. I still have the scabs to prove it. I’m not sure why people keep asking me if my tetanus is up to date – unless things have switched and you now catch rabies from a rusty nail – but I’m not foaming at the mouth or dead yet, so I think I’m in the clear.

Throwing up in the gutter

In my defence, I had barely had anything to drink on the public holiday Monday, so I don’t believe I deserved this, but having started drinking my own body weight in alcohol the Friday prior, I probably had it coming. Monday evening Nick and I decided that a quiet night was in order, and headed to Blockbuster for a DVD and some crisps. Nick got himself a Thai on the way; I couldn’t face a thing after going to lunch earlier in the day and forcing down some of the richest cuisine in Sydney, despite looking and feeling like a diarrhoetic turd.

The funny thing about being sick is that you know you are going to do it well in advance. There’s obviously some signal that tells your brain things are about to kick off, even though you can’t really feel it in your stomach just yet. I decided to turn around once I got that sign, but as we were at a crossing I had to wait for the traffic to stop before I could run home to vomit. An icy feeling set in as the blood drained out of my face, while hot shivers started across the rest of my body. I made it halfway home before I ran out of time and projectiles of half-digested barramundi, beef souffle, capsicum and courgette flowers came screaming out of my mouth and down the window of Lonsdale. If you work in the Crown Street store, I’m sorry. Poor Nick, on his birthday no less, had to leap three feet backwards to keep his flip-flops clear of the mess, and it was all in vain. What a champion friend I am: come to stay with me for your birthday and I’ll throw up all over your feet. Classy.

Getting locked out

This final treat wasn’t even my fault, though I had been expecting it for some time. Only having one set of door keys is just asking for trouble. My flat is tiny and there was no way anyone could stay here without catching whatever cold I had at the time. Nick, covered in my stomach juices, stood less chance than most. Tuesday I went off to work and he occupied himself with whatever he did that day, culminating in a flu-busting sleep all afternoon. When I got home I rang the bell and waited to be buzzed in. Nothing happened, and I was about to ring again when he appeared at the gate.
“This would have gone really well…if I had both keys.” he said.
It doesn’t take a maths whizz to work out that two locks + only one key = you’re fucked. The real estate agent had closed five minutes earlier so all we could do was call a locksmith and wait. What do Sydneysiders do at 6pm on a weeknight with an hour to kill? They drink, or they eat. Drinking was still off the cards after my ride on the chunderbus, so dinner it was. And that is how I ended up in a Vietnamese restaurant on a Tuesday night with a man in his pyjamas. Now, I don’t know about you, but if being a thirtysomething means more tales like this, then I’m looking forward to the next decade.

Let’s go have fun.

I have decided that my mantra for 2010 is as follows: you get out what you put in. Clearly the fates were not impressed with my not-quite-nakedness in January, since I clearly didn’t put in enough (or get out enough, as may be the case). This month they thrust upon me a second opportunity for public nudity in the form of the annual Sydney Convicts fundraiser, Rugger Bugger. The format is simple enough: a drag-hosted variety show in which all the players showcase their theatrical skills in a series of skits; the highlight is always the full monty routine at the end. I volunteered for the final routine, of course, because I’m no warm-up act. (I’m kidding. Whenever someone asks for volunteers you can be sure of two things: it’s something no one wants to do, and you’re going to be struggling to get the numbers you need. In light of my newly adopted motto, I figured that volunteering early on would be the best way to make the most of it. If everyone thought that way the world would a better place, but if nine of us can think that way then at least we can get a decent strip show organised. Which is exactly what we did.)

Allow me to say that the Rugger Bugger strip routine was, without question, the gayest thing I have ever done in my life. Have a read back through the blog archives: you’ll be hard pressed to find something more outrageously camp (and I’ve got form, let me tell you). You could almost slice the incredulity when the song was announced. No one has ever looked macho dancing to Wham!. The routine swiftly developed along the only lines it could: unashamed booty-shaking with George Michael/urinal gags and grinding pelvises. And a giant cardboard saxophone for the instrumental. Before long we were shoop-shooping with the best of them. I’m not a huge fan of Wham! at the best of times, and if I hear “I’m Your Man” again it will be too soon, but the fun was more than enough to make up for “taking it from the top” more times than a man should have to bear. I’m sure the residents of the tower block overlooking our open air rehearsal would agree, since they all pissed themselves laughing watching eight burly rugby players and one pasty, lanky, barely-82kg Brit break into dance just as the chorus started.

The actual night was a riot, involving three changes of outfit and a free bottle of tequila. Sensibly I steered clear of too much of the hard stuff before the show; I had barely eaten all day to stay looking thin, so drinking too much would have been disastrous (and eventually was). I started the night in rugby kit and team t-shirt to help raise funds for the World Cup trip in June (I sold those raffle tickets like my life depended on it, baby), and before I knew it, 11pm had arrived: showtime.

I will be eternally grateful for my complete lack of stagefright. I know people who spend hours or days before as nervous wrecks. Ever since I can remember, the worst I have ever suffered is a jangly feeling moments before curtain up. And it’s just as well – throwing off your clothes in public isn’t exactly run-of-the-mill. People ask me how I did it and my philosophy is this: it’s nothing that isn’t in the room with you every time we meet: it’s just better hidden. No one can steal it from me, no one is going to run off with my dick so what is there to lose? The costume was simple enough, including the rather scanty briefs we had been supplied with. I tried them on before the show and was embarrassed to be wearing them in the privacy of my own home; ‘revealing’ barely does them justice. Still, the aim was to get them off, so what did I care? We assumed our positions in the wings and waited for the first bars to begin.

The whole thing was over in a flash. All that rehearsing, all that agonising over who would stand where, when we would drop our jeans, how long we would shake our asses seemed an age away. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of 200 people with my hands over my head and my undies around my ankles. We scurried off-stage and I changed into my party outfit: I was ready to drink. And my word, I did. The rest of the night has been reported to me from others who attended, but there was tequila, a JD-and-coke in each hand and kisses with Dr Lego, who sensibly left before I got too out of control. I rolled home at about 3:30am after an awesome evening.

I think there’s another one planned for October this year. Put it in your diary.

[Ann-Marie Calilhanna's photos shameless borrowed from the fabulous Sydney Star Observer]

When I first came back to the UK I was remarkably blasé about living abroad.  It’s not that far away, it will be nice to see my friends, and I’ll be going back in a few weeks.  Now, with only a couple of days before I leave I’m finding it harder to go back than it was to quit the country in the first place.  The past ten days have been so full of laughter and love that I actually found myself crying on the train the other day when I thought about leaving it all behind again.  (In my defence, I was exhausted.  Normally I only cry when I’m so tired I can barely function; this was certainly one of those times.)

In just over a week I squeezed in more fun with friends than I thought possible: trips to Southampton and London, a night at the theatre that turned into a night at the bar, a dinner party, a wedding, two raucous nights out and an afternoon entertaining a two-year old and lounging about on the sofa.  I will go home with a mountain of photos from this period, and every second was a sheer delight, but the absolute highlight must of course be the wedding.  There’s something about a wedding that fills the heart with such glee that you could almost touch it.  They are magical, and this one was the perfect example.

I have known Mike for nearly 15 years.  He and Kerry are quite clearly made for each other and seeing them get married was an utter joy.  I was privileged to be a part of it and give the reading.  (I was doing fine till I looked at them both; as soon as I saw their faces my hands started shaking so hard I could barely read the poem.)  Watching them take their vows was humbling.  I’ve thought a lot about how I could describe what I saw.  All I can say is that I would not have been surprised to see their love literally balloon up like a beach ball and get thrown around the room.  They had such fun that it was practically tangible.  Theirs is a conspiracy against the world full of laughter – Maria, sitting next to me, was crying within seconds and I was not far behind.

After the ceremony we all had a chance to walk around and see the animals (their venue was Bristol Zoo), and catch up with friends I haven’t seen in almost a year.  It was as though I had never left.  We laughed so hard our sides hurt, took stupid photos and told each other our stories.  The wedding breakfast, the dancing, the drunken walk into town and the after-party party at a crazy club in Clifton; each was perfect and more than once I wondered how I could ever have left these people to live in Australia.

Of course, a wedding is not real life: if every day were like this it would become unbearable very quickly.  But a wedding does highlight the best parts of family and friendships.  For me, it was the perfect seal on a week of renewing those friendships and it made me remember how lucky I am to know these people, to listen in and share their lives, and go away knowing that next time I see them there will be new stories to tell and new experiences to share, but that nothing will have changed; it will all be as though we had never been apart.  These are my friends, and I am in love with them all.

In all the excitement I forgot to report on the birthday shenanigans.  You don’t want to hear about the ins and outs of the night (it’s always dull to listen to other people’s party stories), but a few of the highlights:

• I lost our team two tickets to Melbourne each, by choosing Dubai instead of the Democratic Republic of the Congo as a country.
• Our team was going great guns but eventually we came 5th (?) out of 26 or so, which isn’t so bad (sorry about the woolly facts – I was quite merry by prize time)
• Drinks taste better when someone else is buying them for you and, mysteriously, they don’t give you a hangover either. Amazing stuff.

You can check out all the photos in the usual place, if you are so inclined.  Otherwise, take it from me: 30 doesn’t feel any different from 29, which didn’t feel any different from 28, which didn’t feel any different from 27…