Betty Crocker

I've been bitten by the baking bug. Maybe it's boredom, maybe it's my sweet tooth taking control of my brain, or maybe it's my inner Betty coming to bloom. Whatever the driving force, I can't leave a supermarket without throwing chocolate chips, self-rising flour or caster sugar into my cart. I've taken to storing cookie dough in the freezer to throw on a cookie sheet when friends come over. I send Giff to the office once a week with a tupperware full of caramel slice, lemon bars, and M&M's biscuits for his co-workers. They've started emailing me with requests. Yesterday, I fled my cold apartment to the cafe-cum-bookstore, plopped myself down in the cooking section, and flipped through the pages of Julia Child's epic Mastering the Art of French Cooking, long after my chai tea had gone cold. I think I've fallen off the chopping board.

Nevertheless, the results have been delicious. Here is a recipe from yesterday's efforts, apple dumplings with homemade whipped cream and cinnamon syrup. Yum. . .

Basic Pie Crust

1 ½ cups unbleached white flour
½ teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons sugar (optional)
½ cup chilled butter
3 to 4 tablespoons ice water

By hand, combine flour, salt and sugar in a large bowl. With a knife, pastry cutter or fingers, work in butter until mixture resembles course meal. Sprinkle ice water onto crumbly dough, and, with your hands, push the dough from the sides of the bowl to the center to form a ball that holds together. Transfer to work surface. Cut the dough in half, place one half on top of other and press down. Repeat 3 or 4 times until all the water in incorporated into the dough and it clings together. Gather dough particles together into a ball and wrap with plastic wrap. Chill for at least 30 minutes before rolling.

Apple Dumplings

4 medium-sized tart cooking apples (I used Granny Smiths)
Brown Sugar to fill apple cores
4 tabs butter
Cinnamon for sprinkling

Cinnamon Syrup

½ cup sugar
¼ teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoons butter
1 scant cup water

Roll pie crust out to 1/8 inch thick. Cut into four 6-7 inch squares. Peel and core 4 apples and place one on each square. Fill the cored holes with brown sugar, dot with butter and sprinkle with cinnamon. Bring 2 opposite points of each square up over the apple and stick together by moistening edges. Do the same with other opposite corners and place in baking pan. Refrigerate until chilled.

Meanwhile prepare cinnamon syrup by boiling together for 3 minutes sugar, cinnamon, butter and water.

Pour 1 cup cinnamon syrup around dumplings in baking pan and bake at 450° for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 350° and bake for 35 minutes until golden brown.

Serve with syrup from pan and partly whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.

Enjoy!

Day Four

5/22 - After a quick trip to the drive-thru liquor store, we hit the highway for Arlie Beach, gateway to the Whitsunday Islands. Our first stop was the tiny town of Bowen to see one of Australia’s giant roadside attractions, the Big Mango. We’d also heard that Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman were here filming the epic period piece, "Australia." We parked the van in the center of the quaint little town and joined a crowd of tourists watching several frantic crew members running around trying to placate hundreds of confused cattle. Nicole was there, mounted on horseback in a long sleeve rancher’s shirt, wide-brimmed hat and riding pants, seemingly melting in the hot sun. We were also melting, and bored, so we got back in the van and headed towards the mango. The large orange blob was perched on the side of the higway, representing Bowen’s thriving fruit and vegetable center. We made some sandwiches, cut up some lime for our Coronas, and crossed the road to the beach for a picnic in the sand.

That afternoon we pulled into Arlie Beach and headed to the Island Gateway Caravan Park. We set up our camp chairs and walked into town to Peter Pan Travel where we heard Internet was free of charge. We’d decided earlier that day that we would save time and money by skipping the multi day sailing trip, but after fifteen minutes with the aggressive travel guy, we were signed on and out $350. We headed to the Southern Cross office to check in for three days and two nights on Boomerang, a maxi sailing yacht, departing the following morning. After renting snorkeling stinger suits, another $30, we shuffled back to the park feeling slightly defeated and a little anxious—we were going to be stuck on a boat with 26 strangers and the weather was calling for rain. We decided to cheer ourselves up with a BBQ and cold beer. The camp kitchen was abuzz with rowdy travelers wrestling for grill space. Alcohol was flowing and the delicious aroma of grilled meats filled the air. We feasted on snags (that’s Aussie for hot dogs), corn on the cob, grilled onion, potatoes and the doughiest grocery store buns. Despite burning four of my fingers on the grill and spending the evening with my hand dipped in ice, it was a fabulous meal.

Something Wicked This Way Comes, Day Three

5/21 - After an early morning run along the esplanade, Chelsea and I had brekkie back at Fusion Organics. We splurged on one last flat white, but kept to the budget with wheat toast and jam, then hopped in a taxi to the Wicked Camper depot. Wicked Campers caters to Australia’s backpacker community, renting fully loaded camper vans on the cheap. We booked our van for just $40 per day, including insurance. When we made the booking we were surprised that the entire fleet was manual, and even more so when the taxi pulled up to a decrepit lot that looked like a camper van graveyard. The office was tiny and there were a few groups in front of us in line, so we plopped down on the couch and did our best to avoid a dorky group of American boys from Salt Lake City. They were on an identical itinerary and eager to caravan, but we made excuses and took note of the sailboat they were boarding in the Whit Sundays so we could be sure to book a different one.

When it was our turn, we signed some paperwork, gave an imprint of our credit card, and with a few words of caution to check the oil and water levels in the engine, we were pushed out the door. We’d been eyeing a David Bowie van, but the couple ahead of us drove off in it. We were given the Rob Zombie instead, which was perfect. Two preppy girls from New York traveling in an ultra goth, black van with Rob Zombie's face painted in blood red on the side; the words “Yeah I want it, Yeah I need it, Yeah I love it” scrawled on the back. Turns out we were lucky—the Salt Lake boys got stuck with Toy Story. We filled the empty tank with $40 of petrol and hit the road.

Chelsea took the wheel for the first leg of the trip. After a stop at Coles to fill up on a week’s worth of food, we headed two hours south to Mission Beach for a picnic lunch. The beach is 20km east of the highway along a slow-going, winding road where speed is reduced to protect the flightless cassowary. The cassowary, a man-sized, three-toed bird with a blue and purple head, red wattles, a helmet-like horn, and funky black feathers that resemble ratty hair, are protected in Australia for their precious poo which is vital to the rainforest’s ecosystem. They have recently been known to attack humans if they feel threatened, and in the chance of an encounter, you are advised to keep something between you and the bird at all times, preferably a large tree. Although we were very casso-weary, we weren’t lucky enough to spot one of these formidable creatures.

In Mission Beach, we were pleasantly surprised to find an idyllic, cozy surfer’s paradise, well worth the 30 minute detour. We parked our van amongst several Wicked comrades, made a few pb&j sandwiches in our handy kitchen, grabbed two bags of crisps and headed to the beach, a dreamy stretch of palm-fringed, white sand. After lunch it was my turn to take the wheel, my first time doing any substantial driving in a manual. Fortunately Giff taught me how to drive in a parking lot in Westchester last summer, so Chelsea gave me a refresher course and after a few bumpy starts we were on our way.

We spent our first night in Rob Zombie at a dreadful campsite next to a group of rowdy high school boys on a school trip. The bathrooms were dismal and the morning light revealed large lizards, frogs, spiders, and colonies of ants inhabiting the showers. We were up early to cook our first camp breakfast – scrambled eggs, toast and tea—and hit the road for Arlie Beach, the gateway to the Whitsunday Islands.

Cairns, Day Two

5/20 - Chelsea and I woke up bright and early to walk to the marina to meet our sailing catamaran, Passions of Paradise, for a daytrip to the Great Barrier Reef. We boarded Passions at 8:30am and were soon on our way to the reef, enjoying complimentary coffee and chocolate muffins and listening to a diving debrief. After two hours of motoring, we pulled up to our first stop, Upolu Cay, a small island of sand formed on top of the coral reefs. We did our first dive here, which was every bit as amazing as I had heard. There were only 3 other certified divers on board, so we went down in a small group, and while Dutchie, my partner, was chasing after an adorable sea turtle, I turned around and spotted my first shark, a small reef shark, but a shark nonetheless. I didn’t feel scared like I thought I would, just fascinated by the creature that had inspired so much fear. I tried to signal Dutchie with the jaws sign against my forehead, but he thought I meant I needed to go to the surface and started to make his way up, and missed the shark all together. He was so upset.

After lunch, a delicious seafood buffet, we headed to our second destination, Paradise Reef, where Passions had a private mooring. This dive was the stuff of postcards and Discovery Channel specials. The coral glistened in every vibrant color and shape imaginable, as did the thousands of tropical fish that swam all around us. When we got to the bottom of the reef, a shallow 13 meters, my dive instructor, Nanako, picked up a large sea slug and floated him over to me, which started an impromptu game of sea slug catch. My favorite moment was “finding Nemo,” my first, adorably shy clown fish encounter. Nanako pointed him out to me, living in a small sea anemone with his friends. Clown fish rarely stray further than six inches from their home, and when I approached him, he cautiously poked his head out at me, disappearing back into the anemone when I brushed my fingers against the silky soft tentacles. These guys are definitely the cutest creatures in the sea.

Once the two dives were complete, we raised the sails and cruised back to Cairns in the warm afternoon sun. Back at the harbor, Chelsea and I made our way over to Pier bar to take advantage of the 2 for 1 happy hour special, treating ourselves to ice-cold Coronas to celebrate the end of a fantastic day.

Cairns, Day One

5/19 - I arrived in Cairns on the northeast coast of Australia early Saturday morning and hired a shuttle bus to Gilligan’s—the Ritz of all hostels—to check my bags and hit the town. I had a day to kill before my friend Chelsea’s arrival and my first stop was Fusion Organics, whose brew could “rouse even the weariest of bodies,” according to my beloved Lonely Planet. After my 4am wake-up call, mine was fairly weary. The coffee was delicious, and sufficiently roused, I headed to the beach to check out the famed Cairns Foreshore Promenade.


I didn’t find the sandy oasis I expected, but a boggy, crocodile-infested marsh. Fortunately, the town compensated by building an impressive, 4800-sq-m (3 mile) saltwater swimming lagoon which was lined by hundreds of scantily clad, bronzed bodies. The public BBQs were fired up, boys were tossing Frisbees and rugby balls across the lawn, and a live band filled the air with happy tunes. After an hour in the sun, I headed back to Gilligan’s to check into my room, a 6-person dorm with a private bathroom. Four of the beds were occupied, the last 2 reserved for Chelsea and myself. She wasn’t due to arrive until just before midnight, so I donned my running gear and headed back to the promenade to run along the 3km esplanade.


After a mild bout of heat stroke, I stopped by the cinema to buy a ticket to Zodiac later that evening (I was crazing popcorn for dinner). When I got back to Gilligan’s, my roommates were home, three incredibly sweet, younger German boys. They’d taken a year off before heading to University to travel around Australia and they were three months into their journey. We exchanged stories for a while, and then I showered and headed back to the cinema. After watching a film featuring a notorious, and yet at-large serial killer, I headed back along the dark streets to the hostel to chill out and wait for Chelsea’s arrival.


Part of Gilligan’s notoriety comes from the 1,000 capacity beer hall on the ground floor that turns into a raging night club on the weekend. Just past midnight, Chelsea had to fight her way through hundreds of sweaty bodies to find reception. The club vibrations filled our dorm until the early morning hours, and needless to say, we didn’t sleep much that night.

House Guests from Hell

Disclaimer: I’ve known several lovely Irish girls during my various years abroad, and while I’ve always been impressed with their tolerance for booze, I would never classify them as a country of drunks. That being said, I have never witnessed such appalling, alcoholic behavior, as the two Northern Irish girls who stayed with us last month.

Our roommate, Pat, has a friend living in Japan who asked if a girl he met there could stay with us while she spent a week in Sydney. He said she was young and sweet and that she was traveling with a friend from Belfast who he had never met, but was a former model and single mother of a three year old child. We have an amazing beach apartment, and an extra room, so we're always happy to welcome guests, but what Pat’s friend failed to mention—that both girls were raging alcoholics and the single mom/former model a raving lunatic to boot—might have changed our minds.

I was the only one home when the girls arrived, Shantala, the extremely blonde former model dressed in a full on fur coat, and Rozy in enormous Uggs. . . Let’s just say I’ve never seen fur in Sydney, let alone Bondi Beach, and it was an uncharacteristically warm winter day. They burst into the apartment like a hail storm, squealing about our beach views, and asking several unanswered questions about how much we paid in rent, then staging an impromptu photo shoot in front of the windows, model poses and all. I handed them a bottle of sunscreen and they shed their boots and fur for string bikinis and hit the beach for hours.

That night I organized a dinner with Giff and Pat and our friend Andy at our lovely neighborhood Italian joint. We sat down to order and the girls immediately requested a bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz, an appalling choice, especially when living in Australia. I apologize if any of you happen to like Yellowtail Shiraz, but this is like requesting a Fosters beer, you just don’t go there. Giff and I exchanged a knowing glance—we’d just toured the Hunter Valley wine region by tandem bike and we knew better—and ordered another bottle. After the wine arrived, the girls had to switch seats to be closer to the door so they could get up for a cigarette every 20 minutes. While we ate our delicious, homemade pasta, they shared various boozy misadventures, featuring several black-out nights they’d experienced on the Gold Coast the week before. Shantala had left her daughter with her parents, and I thought she was just cutting loose for a little while, until she explained she had a very addictive personality, and had trouble with cigarettes and alcohol, amongst other substances (including the Valium she offered from her purse under the table).

After the meal, Giff and I excused ourselves and headed home, while Pat and Andy joined the girls for a nightcap. We didn’t hear them come home, but the girls stayed out until 4am and I woke up to a mess of clothing, heels, and the contents of a purse spread over the living room floor. I was on my way to my nanny job and when I got home that night, the mess was put away. While Giff and I were watching television later on, Pat came home from work and told us he owed us an apology because the girls has opened some of our wine the night before. I looked at Giff, puzzled because we only had a fridge full of beer and I’d told the girls where to find a bottle shop if they wanted any vino. I was about to tell Pat it wasn’t ours when I realized what had happened. I ran to the fridge and pulled out the vegetable drawer. Sure enough, the bottle of dessert wine we had purchased at a lovely, hill-top vineyard that Giff had hidden behind the veggies, was gone. Shit. I promptly began rooting through the trash and recycling, looking for the evidence of their crime, but the bottle was nowhere to be found. Pat thought that they had been drinking in their room, so I threw open the door and stashed behind Tripp’s surfboards was the half-drunk bottle of our precious wine. My heart sunk. I was appalled that anyone would root through someone else’s refrigerator and open any bottle of wine without asking, let alone a small, special bottle that was so clearly tucked away. Who could be so desperate for a drink after an entire night of boozing that they would raid a vegetable drawer!!

In the morning there was an obnoxious, cutesy note pleading not to hate the drunken Irish girls and that they were going out that day to replace the wine. Good luck. If you want to head three hours west to the Hunter Valley, be my guest, because you can’t find it in any stores. What they did buy was an undrinkable bottle of cheap, orange Muscat wine, which they left on the kitchen counter next to our empty one. This was Friday night, and bright and early Saturday morning, Giff woke me up to tell me he had booked us a flight for the Gold Coast that weekend. We got the hell out of there, and I couldn’t have been happier.

When I got back to Bondi the following Monday, the girls were home, sprawled out on the couch in nothing but our beach towels and smudgy black eye makeup left over from the night before. I retreated to a late lunch with Andy, and he filled me in on what we’d missed after the Italian. Highlights include Shantala bragging that she’d smoked cigarettes and done an occasional spot of cocaine throughout her pregnancy. There was also the time that Andy looked up from his drink to find the girls making out next to him. They weren’t lesbians, they’d explained, they just liked to have a little fun.

Later on, I got the weekend update from Pat, who had witnessed more than a few of these drunken girl-on-girl sessions. Thrilling, I'm sure. He was upset over Shantala's behavior and said if he’d known how completely crazy she was, he’d never have agreed to let them stay. He was relieved that we’d gone away for the weekend, because the girls had been coming home and jumping on him in the middle of the night, wreaking of several bottles of wine and stale cigarette smoke. He warned us to keep our computer and anything of value behind closed doors.

He also told me that they'd been walking along Darling Harbor, and Shantala fell behind, stopping to peer down at the dark, oily water, arms wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth. Apparently she'd had a 45 minute conversation with herself and when she caught back up with them, she said if it wasn’t for her little daughter, she would have ended it all right there. She also lives on welfare and refuses to work, and told us she has a husband somewhere in England who she married when she was 21. A few years later she was preparing dinner and realized she didn’t feel like being married any longer, and put her spatula down and walked out the door. Seriously, she never spoke to the guy again, and he couldn’t find her to request a divorce. He’s not even the father of her child, it’s all so sad. .

Fortunately, this was their last night in Sydney, and they’d decided to spend a quiet evening in. Giff and I went to bed before they got back from dinner, and in the morning I found several empty bottles of wine, amongst bread crumbs from an entire loaf of bread, the second of which they'd consumed without replacing. There was also a wine-stained shirt soaking in the kitchen sink, and several articles of clothing strewn across the floor. I had to get out before they woke up, so I went for a coffee and stayed away as long as I could. When I came home, I found both girls stretched out on the couch reading gossip magazines, the signature goopy black makeup smeared under their eyes, with empty cartridges of cigarettes and several lighters littering the floor. I hadn’t actually spoken to them since the wine incident, and was thrilled when they told me they were leaving for the airport in an hour. I even offered to order them a taxi online, anything I could do to get them out.

I’ve never been happier to see someone off. I thought the drama was behind us, but Giff and I woke up early the next morning to go for a cliff run, and on our way out we bumped into the landlord who asked if there were any smokers in our unit. We assured him no, at which point he said in that case, why did his lawn look like a dirty ashtray. Giff mentioned that we had some guests who were smokers and apologized for their behavior. When I got back from the run a little behind Giff, he’d already collected 100 cigarette butts and there were plenty more. Giff, who’d remained irritatingly calm throughout the entire visit, even after the wine incident, finally exploded. Not only had they been smoking inside after Pat told them not to, they were chucking their butts out the kitchen window onto the landlord’s lawn below. As Giff put it so eloquently, bitches.

Well, at least they are gone now forever, and Andy just rung up to invite us all to drinks to celebrate their departure. Cheers!

Welcome to my blog

Dear Reader,

Any creative work deserves a title worthy of the endeavor, and mine came to me during an ill-fated road trip from Sydney to Melbourne. I was 300km into the Outback, cruising to Beyoncé and munching yogurt covered apricot balls, when I saw these words on a large blue sign in bold white letters: Every 2 Hours. Stop Revive Survive. The slogan is part of a New South Wales road initiative aimed at reducing fatigue-related car accidents. I read the sign, and thought about pulling over, but I had nine hours of road ahead of me and wanted to make good time. Needless to say I didn’t stop, and my tire decided to overheat and explode, leaving me stranded on the side of the highway, stuck in the desert sand. Guess I should have heeded the sign.

In a way, that’s what I’m doing down under. Life on the road of Manhattan can wear you down, and my eyes were tired. Moving to Sydney was simply heeding the sign.

Stop: Quit my soul-sucking assistant job and pack my bags for Australia. Revive: Awaken my first morning in Bondi to the lull of waves crashing on shore, the cool ocean air dancing on my brow, and the bright sunlight warming my skin. Survive: Open my eyes and look around my life.

So here I am living on a world-famous beach, tan for maybe the first time ever, shedding my life-long fear of sharks to swim across the bay and learn to surf, and exploring all of the wonders this sunburnt country has to offer.

Thanks to my friends who encouraged me to start writing again, it's a pleasure to share all of my adventures. This blog's for you!

xoKaty