Meet The Hoff

Every household has an appliance that’s so temperamental it’s like dealing with an emo teenager, while withholding their eye liner. Ours is the oven.

It’s got the label ‘New World’ on it. I take this to mean Columbus discovered it while on a pleasure cruise to the Americas. I don’t know how it ended up in Australia, but if its indigenous owners want it back I completely understand. If I had a metal piece of crap that might as well be a cupboard with a glass door and handy grease stains, then I would be pretty attached to.

We call it The Hoff because it is perpetually drunk, moody and completely unpredictable (and loves running down beaches in slow motion, accompanied everywhere by a talking car). Like last night when it burnt my slow-roasted tomatoes in the time it took me to down a cup of tea, and then leisurely heated my little racks of lamb for almost 2 hours. I may have had more luck placing the tray in the sun on a particularly hot day. It doesn’t help when you’re trying to channel Martha Stewart for a dinner party of 6, but can’t provide any actual dinner until 9pm.

That’ll teach me for trying to be a grown up. Thank god for a cheese platter and three bottles of red wine.

The Hoff is my kitchen nemesis. It lulled me into a false sense of security 4 months ago when it turned out a succulent leg of lamb for a pre-Christmas feast. Though that was the last time I used it, it’s hardly the point. The point is if Machiavelli had a love child with stove top the result would be this oven-y spawn – it plots, it plans, it pretends to cook, but all it’s doing is biding its time.

People wonder why I eat so much pasta. It’s because boiled water has never let me down (and because pasta is awesome, obviously).


Painefull Out

My Favourite Prada Clutch

Last night was a memorable evening. It was the first time I’ve ever been to a restaurant that provides you with a range of novelty headwear upon arrival, merged three Hen’s Nights and a 21st birthday, and featured a drag queen performance and a wandering magician. I suppose that’s just another night in King’s Cross, but to get all of the above in one room (and dinner, the most important part) is no mean feat.

It’s always a sign of things to come when you approach the venue, only to be cut off from entering by a drunken bride zigging and zagging her way towards the door, supported by two friends who insist on holding their hands over her eyes the entire way. When you get to your seat and have to choose between a bald cap and a purple Marie Antoinette wig (among many options) it becomes evident that it won’t be a typical dining experience.

I was at a table of 3, while every other party numbered at least 15 people.

The 7.30pm seating of dinner was hosted by the delightful Prada Clutch. Yes, the title of this blog was misleading, I’m not talking about a fashion accessory but a drag queen. Anyone who knows me, has met me, or has simply seen me walking down the street would know I’m no clothes horse. I am currently wearing ugg boots, a pair of knee length shorts with an elastic waist band and in colour so bland it defies labeling, topped with a T-shirt I pretended to be buying for a brother in order not to feel judged when I made the purchase (because those retail people really care and were begging for an acceptable back story). The day I blog about an actual Prada clutch you might be too busy to read it… because the end of the world will be nigh.

Prada did an admirable job of introducing all the tables and their reasons for celebration. She only ran out of words when trying to explain why our trio was there. I don’t think the staff at the restaurant knew what to make of us. The other tables all got a flaming cake and a suitable theme/birthday song to which all the staff danced. Not wanting us to feel left out, we were belatedly treated to our own cake… along with what felt like an extended version of Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ while one valiant waitress gyrated about. We felt so guilty at her plight, we joined in.

We then high-fived each other and talked loudly about celebrating our ‘divorces’ with a night on the town. I really do need to stop providing a created back story to people who really don’t care in the first place.

The night was a fascinating petri dish of drunken celebrations, topped off by Prada Clutch performing ‘Proud Mary’, a future mother-in-law revealing her disapproval (to our table), a bridesmaid falling off a table she was dancing on and a farewell gift of penis maracas.

The maracas now feature prominently in my lounge room. Vogue Living’s coming around to do a spread on my design choices later this week.


Painefull Out