summer berry & elderflower jelly; supergreens salad

LondonEater threw out a last minute invite for lunch at Sketch today, and I was so tempted to throw on a crazy sexy cool outfit (with my crazier sexier cooler shoes)  to chow down at this craziest sexiest coolest pad (or so LondonEater describes) but as I started to mentally undress and dress myself in various outfits, something nagged at the back of my mind.  Was I doing something before this? I’m sure I was doing something, and dare I even say something importantOH, right, I was w.o.r.k.i.n.g.  Work – the activity that seems to monopolise two-thirds of my waking hours – has just managed to once again monopolise my Friday lunch hour. So I bid my Sketch lunch adieu and instead popped downstairs to EAT, to grab my lunch, takeout please. I is a working girl, afterall. Not that kind of working girl. 

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potted duck rillettes; piggy treats; duck confit & garbure bearnaise

I have a penchant for all most things French. French food, French wine (although I’m a particularly cheap date on vino), the French language and I’m pretty sure even the humble macaroon hails from the romantic shores of France.  The jury is still out on French men, because as perfectly coiffed as their little moustaches may be, I’m still yet to meet one who is as shamelessly romantic as they are made out to be, or if that order is a little tall, then maybe just one who speaks English in an accent that I can actually understand.

Or maybe I could learn to speak French!

Don’t worry I’m all over that one. My boyfriend and I have come up with a Grand Master Plan (why is it that every time I say that, I feel like (a) adding the word Stan onto the end and (b) I am the fourth Beastie Boy).  So the plan (and plans are extra fabulous because I’m only committed to the plan, not the execution thereof) is that I’m going to learn French. Oui! And he’s going to learn Spanish. Absolutamente! And with my toddler-level Mandarin (which comes with it an understanding of Cantonese, Teow Chew and Hokkien) and his fluent Finnish (which is useful in um… Finland), we are going to take over the world! Pinky and the Brain style, of course. 

Je ne peux que rêver…

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japanese bento box; grilled scallops & tempura shitake udon; tuna tartar

When we were moving from Australia to the UK, people practically pried themselves free of the woodwork just to do their bit for society and warn us about the lack of good food, and especially good sushi in London. To those people, I say, where the f&*% have you been eating? Because the last 17 months on this side of the globe has taught me that not only does London have good food, there is plenty of it. Even sushi.

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chilli dip with tuna and pickled vegies; grilled calamari; chocolate fondant; breakfast buffet

Hi! I’m now back from Tunisia (yes, Northern Africa) and am suffering from post-holiday blues so play nice, ok? Three and a half days of lazing by the pool, soaking up the nothing-but-blue-sky thirty-something degree heat plus a 60 minute massage has un-knotted my knots, un-stressed my stresses and really has me believing that I should just pack up and move out there. Seriously.

In the mean time though, reality is still biting, so here I am and yes this post is totally about BBQ pork!

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angelled eggs

So it is now only one more sleep until I hit the sunny shores of Tunisia for a well deserved three-day lie-on-the-beach/pool/bed/recliner holiday. Being as ridiculously geographically challenged as I am (I don’t think I’ve ever taken a geography lesson. I vaguely remember having to take Social Studies in Year 9, which in all effects and purposes should cover geography and history, but all I remember from that class was an unhealthy obsession with all things Egyptian, and an even unhealthier obsession with Stargate and pondering the gender identity of Jaye Davidson – the jury’s still out on that one), up until about a month ago, I thought Tunisia was in Europe. Anyway, Google Maps told me otherwise. Tunisia is actually in Northern Africa, right up there next to Algeria and Morocco, and a stone’s throw from Italy’s south coast. At least it’s close to Europe. There was a time when I thought the Caribbean was in Africa. Shame.

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It’s my brother’s birthday tomorrow, and although I’m 110% certain he has no idea this website exists, here’s a birthday shout-out to you, dà zhū. That’s mandarin (pinyin, for the anally retentive amongst us) for big pig, because ever since I was a bub, and probably because I was such an obscenely fat baby (yep, your regular run of the mill two-foot tall michelin man), he’s called me xiǎo zhū. For those of you playing at home, yes the answer is A. little pig. And being the genius of the family, we really should have listened to the prophecies of this little boy, because really, now at five-feet tall and eating my way around the globe, I think I can still be batched, labelled and categorised pretty accurately as xiǎo zhū.

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