There are three things in life that I can’t say no to.
- ice cream
- burgers
- my boyfriend sleeping in
Offer any of those to me, in any order, or better yet – all together – and I am in a slice of catty heaven.
I didn’t just want to be a chocolate brownie. I didn’t want to be plain. I didn’t want to be ordinary.
I wanted to be Optimus Prime. The biggest, baddest goodest, most awesomeness Transformer ever. You can’t be plain and be Optimus Prime.
So I wasn’t just chocolate. I was nutty. And I was chocolate frosted. Chocolate nutty brownie overload. That was me.
There’s something to be said about Scandi food. And no, I’m not going to wax lyrical about the actual food because Lord knows I’m not the brightest foodie in the house, but seriously, those Scandinavians, are they tall and hot or what?
I mean, look at them. And then look at me. Oh you don’t see me? Sorry lower your gaze about two feet and oh there! There I am, three feet from the ground.
What is it that they feed these guys so they are super tall, super hot and super… well I don’t know if they’re all super smart but for arguments’ sake, let’s say they’re also super smart. Whatever it is they eat, I want some because I’m sure, I’m really sure, that at 30, I’m still growing, right?
Because I can’t be this short my whole life right? Right….?!
[…echo…]
Whatever. I figure that if I let myself loose on a Scandinavian smorgasbord buffet, I would have some semblance of a chance to grow an inch or two right there on the spot.
And if I don’t? Well, it still tastes pretty darn good… and with that excuse safely tucked under my arm, I headed off to Madsen last Saturday evening, ready for a Scandi assault.
One of my bestest buddies in Sydney is this Argentinian guy, Mariano, whose mama reputedly makes they most kick-ass home made gnocchi in the world. Sadly, I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing her gnocchi because his mama, she herself does not live in Sydney, so the wondrousness of her gnocchi will always remain an urban legend in my world.
But lucky for me, I recently learned that Mariano’s mama is not the only mama who makes delicious home made gnocchi. I successfully recruited another friend, David, whose mama also makes these little parcels of joy and yes, if you’re wondering, I do shortlist my friends based on their mamas gnocchi making capabilities.
I have a confession to make.
I eat condensed milk. Like, I mean I eat it straight out of the tin. By the tablespoon full and it is the most undulatingly sinful indulgence I have ever experienced.
But a few years ago, it dawned on me that eating condensed milk tablespoons at a time… in fact whole tins at a time… would probably leave me a fat and toothless hag at the ripe old age of 30, so in an earnest effort to keep at least my molars and incisors intact (becaused dang if I can’t eat steak with my own set of teeth), I stopped buying condensed milk.
Until this week.
Because well it’s not my fault if this ice cream recipe calls for 100mL of condensed milk, right? I mean, 100mL for the ice cream and 400mL for me?
You know how sometimes, after you’ve been with someone for a while, you kind of stop expecting any surprises. And I don’t mean like oh hey here’s a no-reason gift kind of surprise ~ those are definitely still welcome, although maybe you do stop expecting those eventually too.
What I mean is, you think you know everything about them, what they’re like when they’re happy, sad, stressed, tired and hungry… and especially how they react when they find you’ve put a red sock in with the whites. But most of all you think you know all of their skills and what they are capable – or incapable – of.
So imagine my surprise when the boys’ turn to cook finally rolled around and Panu turned into something of a budding pastry chef and knocked out not just one, but two serves of sweet thangs.
Check it out: delightful little cinnamon scrolls and the very appropriately timed Christmas star.
Wow.