LASAGNETTE

WTF is lasagnette?

Have you ever heard of it?  I haven’t. 

However, I’m not a Masterchef, am I? 

Hang on… neither are Gary, George or Matt, and they didn’t know it either!

So how was the big, cuddly Canadian Kevin supposed to know?  ‘Any lasagne I’ve ever bought looks like that.’

You know what?  In his defence, I have bought lasagne sheets that look similar to that.  They are like normal, flat sheets with frills along the edge.  So, he wasn’t far off the mark for mine.

However, Big Kev, who was my favourite from the start, made an absolutely monumental blunder in last night’s elimination.

The first round was a simple ‘name that pasta’ game that we’ve all seen before.  I think in seasons past, it was like fungi, fish, and various ingredients of a cake that people have to guess.  All stupid competitions to me, because the contestants should be judged on their ability to cook, not whether they know what risoni, fusilli and fucken lasagnette is.

Anyway, the first one in the line-up was to pick a pasta, name it, and move to the end of the line.  Whoever guessed incorrectly had to step to the side.  The first six that guessed wrong (and stepped to the side) went into the next round of elimination.

Now, let me ask you this; if your future in the Masterchef Kitchen was at risk, if you getting your guess wrong pushed you through to the next elimination round, wouldn’t you pick a pasta you definitely knew?

Why the fuck did he pick lasagnette? 

There was spaghetti, fettuchini, vermicelli, risoni, fusilli, gnocchi and lasagne on the table that nearly every dumbarse out there would have recognised. Why would you pick one that’s not so obvious? 

Maybe he didn’t recognise any of them, accept the lasagnette?  Which he got wrong.  Wtf?

So not only did he fall on his own sword, he took the five people behind him with him into the next elimination round.  Then because he couldn’t make fettucini from scratch in time, he was through to the final round with Jules. 

At least he knew what fucken fettucini looked like.  What didn’t he pick that from the fucken table in the first round?  Dumbarse.

So, even though his final dish of a ricotta and egg yolk ravioli in burnt butter sauce was the prettiest, it didn’t taste as good as the ‘flying saucer’ that Jules produced, and he was in the back seat of the big black car.

I’m shattered.  I loved his cooking.  The first one to win an apron was the first one to go home. 

We’re not even a full week in yet, and I’m already starting to see some interesting character traits come out in people.

A few of them are quietly working away in the background; doing what they need to do to get through.  But there are a couple of stand outs that are worthy of note.

Firstly, there is Kath: she freaks me out.  I don’t know what to make of her, but her intensity and forced smile and big eyes scare the living crap out of me.  She’s possibly a really nice lady, but she still freaks me out.

Then, there’s the resident crier.  Emma.  She’s my ‘Dani’ for this season, because she is just giving me the fucken shits already.  Even Iris said last night that ‘her constant crying is driving me to distraction!  She cries at everything! She’s a pain in the butt!’  Enough said.

PS: get rid of the stupid fucken beanie. 

Then there’s Alice, whose ridiculously overside glasses make me want to smash things.  Seriously; does that much glass help you?  I can achieve the same things with an inch of glass strapped across my face.  You look fucken ridiculous, and you will not win this competition, simply based on the fact that you look like a fool, and no one takes you seriously.

Then there’s Amina.  I like Amina.  She’s a lovely personality and I think she’d have an amazing palette for food and balance of flavour, simply because of her amazing heritage.  OMG… I’m salivating thinking of the audition dish she cooked.  Mmm….

Interesting that I seem to have got most of my stereotypes back this year.  The token cute Asian (TK), the older contestant (Debra), the mumsy type (Lydia), the young dumbarse (Matt), the Indian (Dalvinder), the spunky young ones (Mindy, Ben, Alice, Andy, Beau, Kylie), the easy going hippy type (Tregan), the funky glasses wearer (Alice) and the token gay (Kevin).  No surfie dude this year, for what I can see.

Though, Beau is my hot construction worker, which is awesome.  In fact, I could nearly form the Village People out of this lot, I reckon. 

Anyway; master class tonight, which is my favourite part of the week.  Even I learn shit watching it.

Wonder what next week will bring, and who will be going home.  I hope it’s the crier, the freak or the ‘stupid glasses’ girl.

What do you think?

Peace out.

FERALS ON HOGS

What I have learnt from watching Bikie Wars: Brothers In Arms:

1.                   A ‘one percenter’ is a member of an outlaw motorcycle club.

2.                  The term ‘outlaw’ does not refer to criminal behaviour, but means that the club is not associated with the AMA (American Motorcycle Association).

3.                  You must have a mullet, a beard, tattoos and like wearing denim and leather.

4.                  You must like titties or showing your titties (in the case of bikie moles).

Did anyone watch this show the other night?

It’s Channel 10’s version of Underbelly, which from the opening credits, appears to ‘look’ and ‘feel’ the same.  Makes sense considering half the Underbelly cast is in it, and the writers/creators of Underbelly are behind it.

‘I wonder if I’ll see any tits?’ Charlie asked as the opening credits were rolling.

‘I don’t think it’s a matter of if, Charlie,’ I replied.  ‘It’s a matter of when and how many.’

A couple of minutes and lots.  *rolls eyes*

Why don’t they show more doodle and arse for the women watching these shows, I ask you?  pffft… When I see these young girls titties, all I end up feeling is depressed because theirs are sitting where they should be, not around their waist, like mine are.

Another one of Charlie’s opening comments was ‘So we’ll settle into another series that has more ads than substance.’

Right again.

I swear, I’ve never seen an ad on tv for a motorbike before.  Cars, yes.  Caravans, yes.  Boats, yes.  Motorbikes? I can’t remember any….

However, in saying that, I now want a Spyder Roadster.  Charlie said that if you were a serious motorcyclist (or a member of a gang), and you saw a Spyder coming toward you, you’d just laugh.  He said it’s a girls bike.

Daa… that’s why I want one.

So, Bikie Wars. 

Tits, violence and alcohol combined with denim, beards, bikes and mullets.  Throw in a cool rock soundtrack, and that pretty much sums it up.

Awesome television. 

However, in reality; not so awesome.  If anything; it’s shameful.

Sure, they try to convince us they’re not violent; they try to convince us that they’re not running a criminal empire that generates nearly as much profit one of the big-four banks (there are currently nearly one hundred bikies in the NSW penal system); and they try to convince us they’re not bludgers or rorting welfare.

Yeah.  Right.

Bikie Wars is a six-part mini-series, based around the 1984 Father’s Day massacre in Milperra, where rival gangs the Banditos and the Comancheros engaged in what law enforcement at the time simply labelled ‘war’.

According to Wikipedia (yeah I know – not totally reliable) the founder of the Comancheros (Jock Ross) and one of the members (Snoddy Spencer) had a falling out, which resulted in Spencer branching out and forming a second chapter of the Comancheros.  After visiting the US, Spencer met members of the Texas motorcycle club, the Banditos, and became allies.  Eventually, the Banditos patched-over (took over) the second Comancheros chapter, becoming the first Australian chapter of the Banditos.

As a result, the two Australian gangs became violent enemies, and it all came to a head in 1984.  The violence that ensued that day saw 6 bikies and an innocent 14 year old girl killed, and about 28 other people injured.

I think, for the public, this event cemented the negative stigma that follows bikie gangs around like a bad smell.  It confirmed what everyone believed these gangs to be; violent thugs.

You’ve gotta admit that when you see a bikie; you wonder.  That little thrill of fear ripples through you, because the names on the back of their vests are so familiar.  Hells Angels, Comancheros, Banditos, Rebels… the list goes on.

I believe that every year, the Hells Angels do a road trip with stuffed toys and the like for one of the Children’s Hospital, as a special charity event.  Yeah.  That’ll soften your image, fellas.

So, after watching the first episode of Bikie Wars: Brothers In Arms, I find it addictive.  I’m totally fascinated about the bohemian lifestyles that these people lead.  How brazen they are; how secretive.

Remember, what happens in a bikie gang, stays in a bikie gang.  They handle their own internal issues themselves, thank you very much.

A law unto themselves.

The law of the one percenters.

So, we have to keep watching now, not only because we’re already hooked, but because Charlie and I have a little competition going to see how many ‘titty exposures’ we can count per episode.  I lost count after about twenty in the first episode…

Just as its predecessor (the Underbelly series) has done, Bikie Wars: Brothers In Arms exposes the seedy aspect of our society; warts and all.  That’s what make is so addictive; the fact that it’s so far removed from our ‘normal’ lives, it’s shocking. 

After all of the Underbelly dramas, I wonder if we’re becoming desensitized now.  It’s all much of the same, isn’t it?  This is just another drama full of violence, sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, and in the end, they all lose.  Insert Harley Davisons, and you’re on it.

Now, when you walk down Lygon Street, you wonder how many of the Carlton Crew or Sunshine Boys are floating around out there. 

After watching Bikie Wars, I can guarantee you’ll be looking at those mullet wearing, leather clad, patched denim-vested hog riders through very different eyes.

Get on it peeps; it’s worth the ride.

Peace out.

THE UNWANTED MOTHER

I hate Mother’s Day.

Actually, to be more accurate: I love and hate Mother’s Day.

You see, I love it from the aspect that I can show Iris how much I truly appreciate her and everything she’s done for me. 

I don’t go over the top or ridiculous in my efforts: this year involved us going to the Grace Kelly: Style Icon exhibition and having lunch in Benders.  Twas lovely.

So, even though I feel that Mother’s Day (like other ‘celebratory’ events throughout the year) has become a little commercialised, I still love to acknowledge everything Iris has done for me.

I’m lucky to have Iris as a Mum.

However, there’s the flip side to Mother’s Day.  The side that sees my depression try to take hold as I’m constantly being reminded of the fact that I’m the ‘unwanted mother’.

This is the joy of being a step-parent.

Well, for me it is, anyway.

Anyone who is not from a blended family, who has never been a party to a step-family, can never understand.  I’m sorry, but that’s a simple fact.  Unless you have stood in my shoes, you can’t even begin to comprehend what life is like.

So, I have a beautiful young girl living with me, that although demonstrates erratic displays of fucktardedness, that wants nothing more than the love of a mother that left her eleven years ago.

I can understand that life in her shoes would be difficult; she’s always coveting what she hasn’t got, and jealous of the lives that ‘normal’ families lead.  I fear that she’ll never be happy because she’s always missing that something she didn’t gain from a decent, loving and nurturing relationship with her biological mother.

However, there has always been someone here willing to fill the shoes left vacant by another’s selfishness.

Another person that has done all of the ‘mothering’.  Someone that has taken her to school, made her lunches, washed and ironed her clothes, cooked her dinner, taken her to the doctors, mended her cuts and nursed her bruises (whether physical or emotional), and stood up for her.

One that did not believe the doctors or her father, and was insistent she had appendicitis, and went against everyone’s recommendations and wishes, and took her straight to the hospital.  Lucky.

Someone who has held her whilst she cried when her real mother has hurt her; yet again.  Someone that will not let her down as other’s so flippantly have.

Someone who buys two presents, one for Iris and one for Nana Marl (Charlie’s Mum), and a couple of cards, and insists that she wrap them, write in them and give them to her grandmothers when we see them on Mother’s Day, as a personal ‘thank you’.

Someone that is disrespected, abused, lied to, stolen from, mislead and whose generosity is taken advantage of.

Someone who has offered her heart and love on a plate, only to have it thrown back in her face, because she’s not the coveted one.

Someone who has always been there as a mother, but is never seen as one.  Never wanted. 

Someone who feels the loneliness and pain of being an unwanted mother.

So as Mother’s Day rolls around, my place in the world is made very clear, and the simple blocks of chocolate (which are cheap and easy) are presented (unwrapped) along with a forced smile and a ‘I would have made you a card, because I know you love handmade cards, but I left my textas at school…’

A token effort that doesn’t even include a thank you, but does include a forced ‘Happy Mother’s Day’.

A token effort that her father has forced her to make, which to keep the peace, she has done.

When I bought tickets to the Grace Kelly exhibition, I asked Jade if she wanted to come, but her father pointed out that she had netball on that day.   No problems; just Iris and I will go.

However, if they had read the draw ahead, they would have seen there was a bye on that day: no netball. 

So when I discovered this, I asked Jade several times, would she like to come out for mother’s day and see the exhibition (because she loves fashion) and have lunch with us for Mother’s Day, she politely declined.  Several times.

She would rather stay home than spend time with me on this day, which I understand, because it’s not important to her.

However, she did do my vacuuming and baked some biscuits and a slice for the lunches for the next week to help me out, which I thought was lovely, and thanked her repeatedly for.

However, I would have forsaken that for her company.

Being the evil Wiccan that I am (rolls eyes), I believe that you cannot force anyone’s will.  You cannot make someone feel something they don’t want to.  You can’t make someone love you if they don’t want to.

You must trust in the universe, because if it’s meant to be; it will happen.

I’m trusting, and I’m waiting.  But… I don’t know what I’m waiting for…

Until then… I guess I’ll just continue to be the unwanted mother.

Peace out.

I WANNA LOOK LIKE GRACE KELLY...

So, Iris and I headed up to Bendigo for Mother’s Day, to see an exhibition at the Bendigo Art Gallery called Grace Kelly: Style Icon.

I suggested it to Mum a while ago, thinking it would be something she’d enjoy.  She was enthusiastic about it, but didn’t say too much as the event came closer. 

So, here am I thinking ‘fuck… I hope she likes this, and I’m not dragging her along to something she’ll suffer though in silence.’

I couldn’t have been more wrong.  I near had to drag her out of the place.

On the drive up there, Mum said that she remembered Grace Kelly during her Hollywood years (Mum would have been in her very late teens/early twenties, at the time).  She said that she thought she was just so beautiful; a real, natural beauty.  Just like Elizabeth Taylor; stunning beauties.

She rattled off some of the movies she had seen, especially Rear Window, To Catch A Thief and High Society.  She remembered her pictures in magazines all the time.  She remembered that so many women, including herself, loved her beauty and fashion. 

Mum said that her name reflected her nature: she was just… graceful.

She also remembered that just about every woman out there wanted to marry a Prince and live happily every after; just like Grace Kelly.

The exhibition featured a lot of outfits and dresses that she wore during both her Hollywood career (including the one she wore to the Oscars in 1955, when she won an Academy Award for Best Actress for The Country Girl), and her time as Princess of Monaco.

It even has her magnificent wedding dress and shoes on display, as well as a few select pieces of Cartier and Harry Winston jewellery, included a crown that belonged to the Crown Princess of Monaco, Prince Rainer’s (Grace’s husband’s) mother, which Grace had worn herself.

I was astonished at the history in these items.  A gorgeous outfit from High Society, the last film she ever made (apart from the film of her marriage), Rear Window (I actually remember the scene in which she wore that very dress), and many others.

However, the most amazing gowns are from her royal period.  Gowns designed by Dior, Balenciaga, Givenchy, Chanel and Yves St Laurent, in styles and designs that are typically reflective of their periods (1950’s, 60’s & 70’s).

It’s surreal to stand there and look at a photograph of Princess Grace standing in the dress, and then see it behind glass directly in front of you.  The dresses are stunning, but seem lifeless without the soul of Grace in them. 

Again, the history is amazing.  Some of these dresses are now nearly sixty years old, and are in pristine condition.  They look like they’ve never been worn, yet she wore some of those dresses several times.  She had her favourites, and wore them again and again.

The fashion then was so different to now.  Now, it’s all about fake tans, fake boobs, flesh and crass behaviour. 

Back then, during the golden years of Hollywood, it was about beauty and elegance; grace and style. 

Apparently, Princess Grace use to do her own hair, makeup and nails, and was more concerned about wearing clothes that suited her personality and style, and didn’t necessarily conform to the demands of current fashion. 

 

Understandable attitude when you’re the person setting the trends.

With flawless skin, gossamer hair, a beautiful figure and perfect features, it was no wonder Princess Grace was one of the most photographed women of the 20^th century.

She’s had such an amazing impact on fashion, and she’s certainly made an impact on history itself.  Thirty years after her tragic passing, we still remember her so well.

As I stood back and watched Iris waddle her way through the crowds of people with her walking frame so she could get closer to the glass displays, I couldn’t help but smile.  I could see a young woman standing there looking up at these dresses, lost in a mixture of admiration and memories.

These were the times and fashions that young Iris grew up with.  Periods where people wore dresses below the knees, matching hats, bags and shoes, and of course: white gloves.  A lady never stepped out without her gloves.

Here was a woman that spent years making clothes and working with fabrics, standing there admiring the cut of these dresses and the beautiful, lavish fabrics.  At one point, she turned to me and said ‘You would think they wouldn’t have her wear a dress with a puckered seam down the front, would you?’

I laughed.  Only someone with dressmaking knowledge, and knowledge of fabrics would pick that.  Forget that Princess Grace of Monaco wore that very dress to her 25^th Wedding Anniversary celebrations, and it had been designed by an internationally famous couturier. 

It had a pucker down the front seam.   Bless.

For Iris, I think that trip down memory lane was over too quickly.  She reminisced over some movie posters before we finally left the life of Grace Kelly behind us, and entered the cold reality of a chilly Bendigo autumn day.

Whether you’re a lover of Hollywood history, a student or admirer of couture fashion, or just love the idea of ‘the Grace Kelly story’; if you have the opportunity, take a trip to the beautiful city of Bendigo, and check the exhibition out.  It’s exclusive to the Bendigo Art Gallery, and will be leaving the country after its run has finished in June.

Peace out.

http://www.bendigoartgallery.com.au/Exhibitions/Current_Exhibitions