Friday, December 28, 2007

A slightly White Christmas

Christmas has come and gone. It was slightly white which was tres exciting. A few flakes of snow fell on Christmas day, but it was mostly a heavy frost providing the whiteness.



We decided to go native for Christmas this year, and celebrate on the night of the 24th with a roast dinner and present opening. Champagne, of course, was a staple.

Christmas day started at 4am with a phone call from my family (Hi Dad). I'm pretty sure they knew that it was 4am here, but didn't really care. They had to get that phone call in before they sat down to lunch! We did manage to get back to sleep just in time for Richard's family to call at 6:45am. I have a feeling that we need to institute a "we'll call you" policy for major events such as Christmas and Birthdays.

It snowed on Boxing Day, which was great. The cats found it very interesting. The humans felt the need to get out in the snow and have a look around the neighbourhood.



Monday, December 03, 2007

Haus Frau Disaster #3

Puff Pastry. Two words that should strike fear into the heart of any sane person. Definitely not to be attempted by the faint of heart. Avoided by the wise.

I am neither faint of heart, nor wise.

It all began with a hankering for an old fashioned meat pie, but without the traditional ingredients of a meat pie (gristle, snouts and bottoms, hooves, the occasional rat and soforth). Our masterful plan came undone on Sunday when we realised that we forgot to buy puff pastry at the Supermarket on Saturday, and there was bugger all chance of finding anything open, so I decided I'd have a crack at the holy grail of pastry from scratch. Never. Again.

Even without the stomach churning, artery clogging thought of ALL THAT BUTTER, puff pastry is not a fun way to spend a Sunday.

The folding. The rolling. The throwing of the rolling pin through the window because the butter continually oozes out the sides or the top or the bottom of the pastry, just as it is NOT supposed to. The chilling. The waiting.

The folding. The rolling. The threats to stab ones husband with a fork for offering helpful suggestions. The chilling. The waiting.

The folding. The rolling. The tears of frustration. The continued threats to stab ones husband with a fork for the gentle hugs and encouraging words. The chilling. The waiting.

Then finally, the torment is over. The pie is in the oven. The delicious meat and gravy sits betwixt its oh-so-simple shortcrust pie base, and oh-so-teeth-clenchingly-annoying puff pastry top. Adorned with pastry leaves and expertly applied egg wash, it cooks. It even puffs a little. It appears that all may, in fact, be right in the land of Pie-donia.

But no. I'm pretty sure that puff pastry should not have the texture of an old boot with mud encrusted laces.