Pastel colours
The Sartorialist
Friday drinks
Hot, freshly baked bread
The Lazy Song
Experimental cooking
Vibration training
Laughing til it hurts and you can't stop snorting
Pretending to be from another country
Lindt chocolate eggs (why, hello Easter...)
Fabulous perfume
Desert boots
Cuddles....
xx
Tuesday 12 April 2011
Monday 11 April 2011
Anyone for some Broooooshetta?
Just a quick lesson in pronunciation (by the way, it's proNUNciation, not proNOUNciation):
Bruschetta.
Everyone knows what it is, most people like it, but almost no one in the English-speaking world knows how to pronounce it.
For those who are ignorant of its true pronunciation, but who would like to be informed, hold on to the seat of your pants. For those who are ignorant of it, but refuse to change their ways, that's fine. Just please don't try to correct those of us who DO pronounce it properly. There is nothing more infuriating.
So anyway, Bruschetta is an italian word and surprisingly, an italian dish. Very delicious it is too, by the way. Grilled bread, olive oil, rubbed with garlic, and nowadays topped with a tomato salad of sorts.
In Italian, the letters 'che' together produce a hard 'k' sound, so the word is in fact pronounced, 'broo-SKET-a' - not 'broo-SHET-a', as English speakers will so butcher it.
Incidentally, 'ci' in Italian is softer. Words such as 'ciabatta' (as in bruschetta ciabatta) are pronounced 'cha-BA-ta' and for my case in point, most people know that 'cappuccino' is 'cap-poo-CHEE-no'.
While we're on the topic, I would like to clarify another common mispronunciation.
Moët & Chandon.
For the love of God, please, it is NOT NOT NOT 'Mo-aye'.
It should almost be humourous that people smugly think they are pronouncing this frenchie properly by not articulating the 't'. But let me assure you, it is not! It is actually beyond mildly irritating.
The word is most definitely pronounced - and I will stake my mother on it - 'mo-wett'. Or if you want to be really proper about it, say 'm'wett'. (Sounds a bit dodgy, but if that's how you like it...)
Ordinarily and most of the time, if a french word ends in 'et', you do not pronounce the 't' - but in this instance that rule does not apply.
And again, for those ignoramus' out there, please do not try to correct those few of us who actually do know how to say it.
I will admit that on matters such as these, yes, I am a snob. A massive grammar-and-spelling-police snob.
Bah humbug.
Bruschetta.
Everyone knows what it is, most people like it, but almost no one in the English-speaking world knows how to pronounce it.
For those who are ignorant of its true pronunciation, but who would like to be informed, hold on to the seat of your pants. For those who are ignorant of it, but refuse to change their ways, that's fine. Just please don't try to correct those of us who DO pronounce it properly. There is nothing more infuriating.
So anyway, Bruschetta is an italian word and surprisingly, an italian dish. Very delicious it is too, by the way. Grilled bread, olive oil, rubbed with garlic, and nowadays topped with a tomato salad of sorts.
In Italian, the letters 'che' together produce a hard 'k' sound, so the word is in fact pronounced, 'broo-SKET-a' - not 'broo-SHET-a', as English speakers will so butcher it.
Incidentally, 'ci' in Italian is softer. Words such as 'ciabatta' (as in bruschetta ciabatta) are pronounced 'cha-BA-ta' and for my case in point, most people know that 'cappuccino' is 'cap-poo-CHEE-no'.
While we're on the topic, I would like to clarify another common mispronunciation.
Moët & Chandon.
For the love of God, please, it is NOT NOT NOT 'Mo-aye'.
It should almost be humourous that people smugly think they are pronouncing this frenchie properly by not articulating the 't'. But let me assure you, it is not! It is actually beyond mildly irritating.
The word is most definitely pronounced - and I will stake my mother on it - 'mo-wett'. Or if you want to be really proper about it, say 'm'wett'. (Sounds a bit dodgy, but if that's how you like it...)
Ordinarily and most of the time, if a french word ends in 'et', you do not pronounce the 't' - but in this instance that rule does not apply.
And again, for those ignoramus' out there, please do not try to correct those few of us who actually do know how to say it.
I will admit that on matters such as these, yes, I am a snob. A massive grammar-and-spelling-police snob.
Bah humbug.
Wednesday 30 March 2011
Settling In Very Nicely, Thank You
One week and 3 days. Inner city life rocks! Totally becoming a Jafa (NB: Jafa is no longer derogatory).
Why does everyone give Auckland such a hard time? It's vibrant and exciting, and everyone I've met so far is super friendly. The only thing that I could do without is the traffic, but I can hardly complain seeing as I live in the centre of town and can walk everywhere I need to in a matter of minutes.
It must be tall poppy syndrome at its best. Or worst. Maybe Auckland is the reason tall poppy syndrome ever came into existence. It's a typical kiwi trait; hate on those who are successful, or those who simply have more success than you. A pretty ugly trait to have really, and such a shame too. New Zealand thrives on so many good things - camaraderie, down-to-earthness, great humour, pride of place etc etc - but it lets itself down with this unfortunate jealous streak. And Auckland seems to take a big hit in the poppy stakes.
I was raised in Wellington, studied in Dunedin and now live in Auckland, so I have no bias in passing judgment on this city. I didn't grow up here. I love Wellington and Dunedin in their own ways. But Auckland is our biggest city and it acts like it - funnily enough - possessing all the great attributes of a big city.
I love it.
Why does everyone give Auckland such a hard time? It's vibrant and exciting, and everyone I've met so far is super friendly. The only thing that I could do without is the traffic, but I can hardly complain seeing as I live in the centre of town and can walk everywhere I need to in a matter of minutes.
It must be tall poppy syndrome at its best. Or worst. Maybe Auckland is the reason tall poppy syndrome ever came into existence. It's a typical kiwi trait; hate on those who are successful, or those who simply have more success than you. A pretty ugly trait to have really, and such a shame too. New Zealand thrives on so many good things - camaraderie, down-to-earthness, great humour, pride of place etc etc - but it lets itself down with this unfortunate jealous streak. And Auckland seems to take a big hit in the poppy stakes.
I was raised in Wellington, studied in Dunedin and now live in Auckland, so I have no bias in passing judgment on this city. I didn't grow up here. I love Wellington and Dunedin in their own ways. But Auckland is our biggest city and it acts like it - funnily enough - possessing all the great attributes of a big city.
I love it.
Sunday 20 March 2011
Clocking out of Stage 2
Ok. So, I guess the start of this blog coincides with new beginnings in my life. In one week I will no longer reside in the insular (and sometimes somewhat incestuous) haven that is Dunedin - and I will be a bona fide JAFA* - or at least well on my way to becoming one.
Leaving my university town, a place I have called home for the past 6 years, is kind of a big deal. Being totally surrounded by second-hand cardboard boxes and scrunched-up newspaper, as I pack away all the useless and mostly sentimental crap I've accumulated during those lazy, crazy years, I have an epiphany. I realise that life really does come in very distinct chapters. News flash, I know.
It's blatantly not a concept nouveau, but it's as though that metaphorical penny has finally dropped: I totally get it. The profundity of understanding is, um, profound. Does that mean I am actually now... an adult?
As far as I'm concerned, I'm entering what I call STAGE 3 of life and according to my emotional and psychological (confusion?) reaction to this Stage 3, it's the biggest adjustment I've had to make in my life to date. But let's do this chronologically.
Stage 1: Those magical childhood years, carefree and seemingly never-ending. Christmas is aaaaaages away and finding where Mum's hidden "Father Christmas's" pressies is a high priority.
Topping the list of kiddy concerns is: Who is my best friend this week? Lisa, Ashleigh or Kate? Well, Ashleigh and I both have the new 'Skip-it' - in pink - so I think we will be BFFs.
School is boring, but pretty sweet seeing as we get morning tea AND lunch breaks. At lunch time we play bull rush on the "far field", even though it's been banned because Robin the kid with the glass eye lost it when Jessica tackled him too hard. And then I'd go to Ashleigh's house after school. Which finishes at 3pm.
Mum makes a yum dinner almost every night - except when it's fish pie - and my favourite is spaghetti bolognese. I can see my mother rolling her eyes now, the poor woman. For someone of such culinary expertise she must have died a little bit every time we requested spag bol.
Responsibility as we know it is, in so many words, a joke.
Stage 2: Now this is where the line gets a bit blurred. Some may say that Stage 2 begins when you head to Uni, but I say that for me there was a definite step up from Form 2 to being a puny 3rd Former.
Concepts that had never crossed my juvenile mind came at me thick and fast: shaving legs, dying hair, wearing make up, unobtainable 'labels' and looking cool. Then came the notion that boys can be more than friends.
Even moving to a new city to go to university, for me, felt like a continuation of secondary school - just with way more freedom. Like no one getting your back up for not going to class. And student discounts. And the acceptability of boozing any night of the week.
Stage 3: But now Uni is done and dusted. I have graduated - finally (after spending 6 years studying instead of the planned three) - and the dream is over. I have to find an effing job. This is something I feel vehemently opposed to, and I can't really say why. Perhaps it's the general impending doom that is RESPONSIBILITY, or the terrifying prospect that you can no longer get away with inappropriate student antics only to blame it on being a quasi-adult-child. Or maybe it's just the fear of the great unknown.
For whatever reason, Stage 3 feels as though this is the beginning of my life. What the friggidy-dig do I do now?
*Just Another F**king Aucklander
Leaving my university town, a place I have called home for the past 6 years, is kind of a big deal. Being totally surrounded by second-hand cardboard boxes and scrunched-up newspaper, as I pack away all the useless and mostly sentimental crap I've accumulated during those lazy, crazy years, I have an epiphany. I realise that life really does come in very distinct chapters. News flash, I know.
It's blatantly not a concept nouveau, but it's as though that metaphorical penny has finally dropped: I totally get it. The profundity of understanding is, um, profound. Does that mean I am actually now... an adult?
As far as I'm concerned, I'm entering what I call STAGE 3 of life and according to my emotional and psychological (confusion?) reaction to this Stage 3, it's the biggest adjustment I've had to make in my life to date. But let's do this chronologically.
Stage 1: Those magical childhood years, carefree and seemingly never-ending. Christmas is aaaaaages away and finding where Mum's hidden "Father Christmas's" pressies is a high priority.
Topping the list of kiddy concerns is: Who is my best friend this week? Lisa, Ashleigh or Kate? Well, Ashleigh and I both have the new 'Skip-it' - in pink - so I think we will be BFFs.
School is boring, but pretty sweet seeing as we get morning tea AND lunch breaks. At lunch time we play bull rush on the "far field", even though it's been banned because Robin the kid with the glass eye lost it when Jessica tackled him too hard. And then I'd go to Ashleigh's house after school. Which finishes at 3pm.
Mum makes a yum dinner almost every night - except when it's fish pie - and my favourite is spaghetti bolognese. I can see my mother rolling her eyes now, the poor woman. For someone of such culinary expertise she must have died a little bit every time we requested spag bol.
Responsibility as we know it is, in so many words, a joke.
Stage 2: Now this is where the line gets a bit blurred. Some may say that Stage 2 begins when you head to Uni, but I say that for me there was a definite step up from Form 2 to being a puny 3rd Former.
Concepts that had never crossed my juvenile mind came at me thick and fast: shaving legs, dying hair, wearing make up, unobtainable 'labels' and looking cool. Then came the notion that boys can be more than friends.
Even moving to a new city to go to university, for me, felt like a continuation of secondary school - just with way more freedom. Like no one getting your back up for not going to class. And student discounts. And the acceptability of boozing any night of the week.
Stage 3: But now Uni is done and dusted. I have graduated - finally (after spending 6 years studying instead of the planned three) - and the dream is over. I have to find an effing job. This is something I feel vehemently opposed to, and I can't really say why. Perhaps it's the general impending doom that is RESPONSIBILITY, or the terrifying prospect that you can no longer get away with inappropriate student antics only to blame it on being a quasi-adult-child. Or maybe it's just the fear of the great unknown.
For whatever reason, Stage 3 feels as though this is the beginning of my life. What the friggidy-dig do I do now?
*Just Another F**king Aucklander
Thursday 10 March 2011
Numero Uno
First post. Ummmm...
Thinking of something profound to spiel about is even harder to do when you're trying really hard to do it.
Thinking of something profound to spiel about is even harder to do when you're trying really hard to do it.
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