To Drink and Drink Not

Over the interim of this changing Sydney weather, I have had the good fortune to be able to drink a wide array of alcohol. This post is not just a ‘duuuuuuuude, I got so plastered!’ kind of a post, so trust me, there is more coming. Since the weather has been shifting from cold to hot and back again, there has been the perfect mix of temperatures and humidity to properly savour different tipples in their best environments. This post is thus a guide, researched by yours truly, as to the best alcohol to drink while knitting.

I’m sure there are Craft Nazis out there who would say that you shouldn’t be on the grog whilst on the needles. To them I say; Okay! You’re probably right! But where’s the fun in that! Just take a look at the fabulous TenTenKnits. A significant portion of her posts revolve around knitting and red wine. This is why I love her. And just look at the kind of designs she has made!

So here is my guide to Drink and Knit Responsibly. These aren’t universally applicable either, but it is what worked for me. For the benefit of the particularly scientifically-minded among you, I was (and still am) knitting a behemoth of a blanket in garter stitch for the duration of this experiment. I figure that’s as close as it will get to a control type in knitting. Variables such as cables and lace will have to be tested independently. I refuse the task, but if you’re mad enough to try it, I love you. Give me your number?

Red Wine- Being the staple of TenTenKnits I thought I would give it a try. If I may wax lyrical for one minute; red wine is the femme fatale of alcohol. The colour is so achingly close to blood or Chanel’s signature lipstick. The glamour of it makes me want to wear Cuban heeled stockings and patent leather court shoes and look witheringly at Humphrey Bogart. That being said, it is shit to knit with. Red wine makes me feel hot (in a non-sexy, menopausal kind of way) almost instantaneously. Anything warm and snuggly I am carrying (knitting and overweight cats included) is quickly shucked off for relief. I wouldn’t discount drinking red wine and knitting in Siberian winters, however, or anywhere that it went below 0°C for a long period of time.

White Wine- This is the general drink of choice around this neck of the woods. It makes me feel louche and nouveau riche. I can feel myself thinking that pastels and Doric columns are stylish architectural choices for modern homes, and that the Gold Coast is an unexplored centre for Art and Culture. The coolness and sweetness means it is better for me for knitting than red wine but ultimately I get talkative, laugh like a galah and get distracted from knitting pretty quickly after the first glass. Quite possibly I would knit longer on white wine if I owned a Mercedes SUV.

Beer- I love beer. Possibly one of the most frequently said statements in this country, but it’s true. I love it in truly appallingly hot weather, with a bag of salted chips and pizza. Beer and knitting, however, do not mix. It makes me feel infinitely more masculine than I actually am, and I almost become like a coarse, rough-around-the-edges farm labourer. My head nods further and further into my chest and makes me feel as parched as a farm labourer would probably feel while labouring. It also challenges my new-discovered masculinity and makes me feel less than a man, which then makes me sad. A dry sullen farm labourer does not a good knitter make.

Vodka- I usually drink vodka with tomato juice and Tabasco sauce. It is nearly a Bloody Mary, but without all the hoo-hah of having to shake it up and add celery like a douchebag. I love the name of the drink; Bloody Mary. With echoes of violent English history in its name, and echoes of violent Polish and Russian history in the alcohol content, vodka is thus not really a drink to have when manoeuvring through a stressful piece of knitting. My knitting was straightforward, never ending garter stitch so it wasn’t too much of a problem. I see vodka as a drink for those on the end of their tethers. It may be a quiet sort of madness, or a mournful nostalgia for a happier past, or even a raging refusal to see sense, but they are all tether-ends that wouldn’t match with Herbert Niebling lace, for example. If you’re happy and you know it, knit and drink vodka.

Gin- Without doubt, gin and tonic is the best drink to knit with. I thus bow down to the soused housewives of yesteryear. They knew what they were doing. Perhaps they felt dead inside and raised a generation of anxious children and angry, unhappy husbands but they knew how to mix craft and booze. I now properly understand the phrase ‘Mother’s Little Helper’. I’m not a mother, but gin-help is always appreciated. I happily swilled this cheering brew continually while knitting and nary a mistake was made. It has now got to the stage where I wake up the next morning and don’t even remember knitting as much as I have. This is truly a blessing with a garter stitch behemoth.

Remember to drink and knit responsibly by following this phrase;

*Always gin, sometimes vodka, occasionally wine and never beer*

Happy Debauching everyone!

Tuneful Tuesday: Brooding Males

There is certainly something about brooding males. Especially if they’re tall, handsome and a little bit sinister. Of course it helps if they can write incredibly heart-rending songs and have voices like molasses.

Nick Cave apparently wrote Into My Arms after the break-up of his marriage. He had a young son at the time too, and the film clip is suitably dark and beautiful.

Oh, Tex. With a name like Tex, what more do you need? Oh yes, he also has tattoos and has a slight paunch. It is all endearing.

The animation in Gotye’s clip is incredible. His music is beautiful as well, of course. He’s our favourite Belgian-Australian. And his real name is Wally! Not even Tex can beat that.

Okay, so these guys are obviously brooding in a band. I don’t mind the odd mass-brood myself. The song is so heart-breaking, it’s more than worth it. The lead singer also has a trendy grey suit. It makes me want to splash paint on him Jackson Pollock-style.

MGF stands for Machine Gun Fellatio. Needless to say, they are deliciously naughty. They were banned from playing on campus at the University of Sydney because of the frequent nudity in their live shows. This is one of their most tame songs and video clips, but it was a staple for me when I rifled through my sister’s CD collection.

The Gosla-thon Part Two: Drive

This film makes me feel very happy. That may be worrying, considering the amount of violence in it. It’s not out of sadism though. It makes me happy because I feel safe in the knowledge that someone out there can still make mind-blowingly good noir films.

I was a bit suspicious when the pink curly Footloose-esque font came up on the screen. I rolled with it though, and I think in hindsight it works. The synth-pop soundtrack of the film (despite being a little clunky in parts) and the knowledge that Bernie used to produce cheap 80s thrillers added to the mad lettering and gave the film a unique undertone without it becoming overpoweringly stilted.

That’s the thing about noir; you risk becoming bogged down in the genre and ending up with a copy of what has come before. Drive takes a classic noir location, Los Angeles, and extends the genre by locating it in a different era and by taking on different characters.

I’d finished reading James Ellroy’s Brown’s Requiem a couple of days before watching this film, so I think my head is still in the seedy underbelly of L.A. I recognise the brutality of it from Ellroy, and the problematic morality of it as well. I have heard criticisms that Drive is too superficial, possibly because The Driver doesn’t say much. I think his actions are perfectly suited to his environment though.

I think one of the best things about noir is the fore-fronting of questions of morality. Raymond Chandler’s classic character Phillip Marlowe upheld his morals throughout the corruption he saw around him, usually getting beaten up and fucked over in the process. Ellroy’s novels also are full of corruption and people questioning their personal morality in such a destructive world. The Driver doesn’t necessarily question in that way, but he is single-minded in his protection of something he loves, something which represents goodness and happiness.

Of course, how could I forget to mention the Gosling of the Gosla-thon, the man that inspired the quest. Pure delight. Sizzling. Brutal. It is incredible how well he can move between selfless, caring and strong to utterly cold-blooded and brutal. A true noir hero. He can even make a quilted silver jacket look good.

Drive is definitely a film to watch over and over and over again; and not just for Ryan Gosling. It is a fantastic example of noir in a new era.

Oh, Bowie

My dear Bowie sewing machine, how I love you. It’s just such a pity that you only have two settings; off, or ON LIKE A MOTHER FUCKER. This is what comes from naming a piece of mechanical equipment after a drugged musician from the 70s.

If I had to pinpoint an era, I would say my sewing machine would be equivalent to Bowie’s Thin White Duke, albeit in a squat, cream form. On the surface it appears fairly held-together, but underneath the suave regal frame (it is a Bernina after all) there lurks a beast of Jabberwocky proportions.

I should really have named it after a benign and reliable type of person, like Taylor Swift perhaps. Someone clean, who plays an acoustic guitar and is photographed a lot in nature (or studio versions of nature).

I guess the only thing I could ever sew with a clear conscience on a sewing machine called ‘Taylor’ is a sturdy set of chastity underwear. Good thing I stuck with Bowie then. I can safely sew sleeveless 1950s housewife dresses whilst thinking dirty thoughts freely.

Time to grit my teeth and take on the virility of Bowie again. If only I was referring to the man and not my machine. Sigh.

The Ryan Gosla-thon

Today marks the first part of my intrepid adventure into the world of Ryan Gosling films. Well, I tell a lie. I am only pretending about the serious film analysis part of it. It is just a chance to gaze upon his pecs with drool gathering at the corner of my mouth. Hardly going where no one has ever gone before.

Nevertheless, the Gosla-thon will go on. I managed to catch one of the last shows of Crazy, Stupid Love today, at least three weeks behind the rest of the world. As far as films go, it was okay. It was enjoyable enough, it was slightly funny, and it had Ryan Gosling in it. You can’t really ask for more from a Hollywood RomCom. Analeigh Tipton, who plays the babysitter, is a particularly striking young woman and played a good role.

And then there was Ryan Gosling, playing a suave well-dressed womaniser. My favourite scene is the one wherein the camera pans from his arse to his shoulders in the warm yellow light from a bedside lamp as he bends over Emma Stone. I sound like a creep because I am, by the way. I paid $18 to watch a film for a 15 second shot of Ryan Gosling’s fine physique. The sad part is that it was entirely worth it.

Seriously, this Gosla-thon thing is entirely an accident. He just happens to be in two movies that have slightly overlapped release dates, both of which I wouldn’t mind seeing. A quick IMDB search revealed that I’ve seen more of his films than I first realised. I’ve also seen The Notebook (something which probably shouldn’t really be mentioned in public) and Lars and the Real Girl. Lars was a great movie. The family really warms the cockles of your heart.

A good chiselled jaw and a cool demeanour make everything all right with the world, really. The Gosla-thon is therefore not only a foray into new cinematic masterworks, nor merely an excuse to wilt over the physical and (I believe) psychological perfection that is Ryan Gosling. It is also a way of reminding us as a society of our common humanity. Can you tell I have an Arts degree?

The next part of humanitarian re-affirmation is Drive. Stay tuned. Heaven knows I will be.

Lime-alade!

I made lime marmalade some weeks back. My cutting hand is still a little numb. Worth it, however. Mmmm, lime-alade. So good it is. Although it depends entirely on the quality of the limes I would say.

The recipe said to pick fruit with relatively blemish-free skin that felt heavy for their size, and to soak them in warm water for a couple of hours before cooking them. I guess to soften those rinds right up so they are melt-in-the-mouth rather than chewing-your-own-boots kind of a texture.

All in all, my lime-alade was a great success! It feels nice to get things right.

I Miss Bombay Food

The weather was incredibly warm here last Saturday. The time has come to pull out the cotton singlets and sombreros from their hiding places. Not that you can really hide a sombrero. Anyway, the weather has made knitting a blanket absolutely farcical. I don’t mind farcical, of course. I enjoy it thoroughly most times. If nothing else, it amuses people.

However, I think it is now the time to leave aside the knitting for a little while and start sewing with those wonderful fabrics I bought. Cotton dresses are definitely calling. This weather is also making me second-homesick for Bombay. This is almost like their autumn. It puts me in mind of food. Which is never really much of a stretch for me. Most things do.

Here is a list of food I miss from Bombay. Sometimes it is all about the food; sometimes the place where you have food is just as important.

1. The Parsi eatery Kyani’s in Dhobi Talao for the bun maska (essentially just fresh bread with butter), the plum cake, mawa cake and the chai. The chai is monumentally shitty. I’m fairly sure they just boil the same pot on the stove endlessly, leaving it full of chunks of milk and tasting more of sugar and water than anything else. Nevertheless, I love it and wouldn’t change it for the world.

2. The apple pie at Yazdani Bakery near Flora Fountain. Again, it is another Parsi eating place with similarly delicious bun maska and questionable chai. But the apple pie is a must. The ginger biscuits are also a must. But just look at it. It is this tiny, red gabled bakery surrounded by grey, faded, characterless buildings. Yazdani is from a fairytale.

3. The location of Harbour View watering hole for their buy-three-get-one-free beer deals. A cheap place to get alcohol, with views of the water and of the Taj Hotel. A rare bird indeed.

4. Gokul bar in Colaba for their masala papad and cheap alcohol. Fantastically unpretentious pub which usually has a mix of middle aged men drinking whiskey and college kids drinking too much of everything. It is dim, smoky and dusty and absolutely perfect.

5. Again in Colaba, I miss the deliciously oily steak with onions from the Goan eatery New Martin. Lord, is there anything those Goans don’t do well? Sausages, steaks, fish, beautiful beaches, chilled bear (or child bear, if you want to spell it properly)....

6. My dear old neighbourhood bakery, A1 Bakery for those delicious pavs that came home crusty on the outside and soft and steaming on the inside. I liked nothing better on hot Mumbai days than sitting on my window seat to catch any skerrick of breeze with hot buttered pavs and milky sweet chai. They also had the best mawa cake in the city. The guys who worked there knew my order pretty swiftly; 6 pav, three mawa cakes. Never fail.

7. If I may go a little Western on your arse, I wish here to pause and remember the beef sandwich with chipotle sauce and onions from Wich Latte in Colaba. They redecorated and got rid of it! It is chicken now. Damn political correctness. That sandwich was like Mexican heaven on a plate.

8. On the topic of sandwich-like items, I can’t leave out the Plant Burger from Theobroma’s, a shop set up by a Parsi woman and her daughter to bring delicious chocolatey baked goods to Mumbai. I don’t know when they introduced the lunch food, but it is sooooo delicious. I was violently ill a couple of times during my stay there, and that still didn’t stop me pigging out on their Plant Burgers and the delicious variety of brownies that is their speciality. Went straight through me, but was worth every stomach wrenching second. (Please forgive the detail. I have a problem with filters, especially in this E-world. Anonymity is a blessing for me, but evidently will be a curse for you if you read me too much.)

9. Candies in Bandra was a great place to spend a lot of time. In terms of food, I usually got the kheema (spiced mince meat) roll or the okra chips with yoghurt dip, plus the chocolate lava for dessert (yes, it is as good and gooey as it sounds). The food was probably not the main thing, though it was fantastic to get a whole heap of stuff and pig out under the trees on a hot day. The location was priceless though. You could spend all afternoon there chatting and smoking with friends. It’s usually a real college crowd, or upper middle class families eating there, but it’s also a fun place to people watch. Withering social comments abounded. Much fun had by all!

10. The final place is a whole suburb. Matunga. It is fenced in on three sides by train lines, and has beautiful old houses and green patches of parks here and there. It is almost like a mini South India in the heart of Mumbai. There is a plethora of eating places, mostly South Indian. We usually haunted Cafe Mysore for the spring dosa and the idlis steamed in jackfruit leaves, or Cafe Madras for the filter coffee and the medu vada (black lentils which are turned into a batter and then fried, served with a spicy tamarind stew known as sambhar). There is also another Parsi place here, called Koolar. It is a tiny place, but it feels big because the walls are covered with mirrors. There are a bunch of old soft drink ads on the walls, along with some questionable 80s glamour pictures. This is the place to be for Irani chai (black tea with lemon or mint).