Ten foods that changed my life

These foods are things I ate at some point in the last thirty three years and nine months and they’ve been forever lodged in my mind. I can’t forget them for some reason whether it be the texture, the taste or a combination of the two. Sadly, most of them are foods that I either need to travel to the other side of Australia for, or in some cases, to another country.

1. Canele (Canele de Bordeaux)

I met my first-ever Canele in Japan during the Canele Boom of 1996. Every time I turned on the tv or opened a magazine there would be a story about these little parcels of joy and how there was a two-hour wait for them or a three-week waiting list because, everybody and I mean everybody, was buying them.

To describe them simply, they are a custard cake with a caramelized exterior. The outside is crunchy due to being cooked in copper moulds lined with butter and beeswax and the inside, texture-wise, is a bit like a custard crumpet.

They are divine. That’s all I can say.

2. Melon bread

Melon bread is called ‘melon bread’ because it looks like  a rockmelon (cantaloupe) not because it tastes like melon. Taste-wise, you can buy many varieties from green tea flavoured to chocolate and maple, but the basis of melon bread is a slightly sweet bread surrounded by a crunchy, cookie-like crust made of butter and sugar.

There is a story that the shape became popular when people couldn’t afford to buy rockmelons and satisfied themselves with melon-shaped bread instead and another story that the name meringue bread changed to melon bread over time. Whatever its beginnings, it has been made in Japan since the end of the 1800′s.

And it’s damn good.

3. Ootoro sushi

I had my first-ever piece of ootoro blue fin tuna by mistake. I’d ordered normal, run-of-the-mill budget tuna, but instead I received a glistening piece of tuna that just melted in my mouth.

Akami on the left, chuutoro in the middle and ootoro on the right

Ootoro is the fattiest part of the tuna and looks almost like the best marbled Kobe beef. Chuutoro is the slightly fatty part of the tuna and akami is the normal part of the tuna.

It was a $20 piece of sushi, but I was more than happy to pay it.

4. Godiva truffles

I received a small box of godiva truffles for Valentine’s day one year. It was love at first bite.

Godiva are one of the most expensive chocolates brands you can buy in Japan and they fly them in from Belgium several times a week. I’ve recently discovered the chocolate assortment at the David Jones department store in Perth at an eye-boggling price of $45 for the smallest box of 15 chocolates.

5. M’s tomato chilli pasta sauce and home-made pasta

The ingredients are simple: onion, garlic, olive oil, chilli and tomatoes. He cooks it down for a good hour or so and sometimes blends it with the handmixer to make a rich, divine sauce.

Served with a good sprinkling of bitey parmesan, it’s foodgasm material.

Used in a lasagna with layers of freshly made pasta sheets, ricotta and mozzarella cheese? OMG….

Btw, if you’ve never made your own pasta…you’re seriously missing something good. G.O.O.D.

6. Bulgarian-style yoghurt

Made by the Japanese manufacturer, Meiji with milk and the LB81 strain of bacteria imported from Bulgaria, it’s yoghurt as it should be – thick, creamy and completely unadulterated with anything – no artificial setters, no flavours, no preservatives.

Why Bulgaria? Well, I guess Bulgaria is the ‘home’ of yoghurt. You can make yoghurt in Bulgaria, by getting some ants from your garden and dumping them into warmed milk. The bacteria is in the soil, it a part of life and that’s why they eat yoghurt with every meal.

The Meiji yoghurt, called “Bulgaria” has a hint of sour with a natural sweetness and the closest I’ve come to finding something similar to it is the Harvey Fresh Lactose Free Natural Yoghurt that is only available in Western Australia.

7. My homemade custard

I made custard from scratch with eggs and cream for our Christmas in August lunch and oh my…

I LOVE custard but I’m ashamed to say I’ve always settled for stuff made from custard powder or out of a tub from the dairy section of the supermarket. But that’s what it is – stuff. It’s not custard.at all.

The only thing that could have possibly made it better would have been infusing the milk with a vanilla bean. Mmmmm.

8. Maple Macadamia Royal Copenhagen ice cream

Every year during the Christmas school holidays when I was in primary school my father used to take my sister and I for two weeks to Surfer’s Paradise in Queensland. We’d have McDonalds every day for lunch (at that stage we didn’t have  McDonald’s in my home town and the nearest one was over 100kms away so it was a HUGE novelty for us), go to the Grundy’s game centre, play putt putt golf (mini-golf) and have waffle cones from the royal copenhagen ice creamery.

Actually, it’s impossible to walk past the ice creamery without buying an ice cream because you can smell their hand-made waffle cones baking from a mile away Watching the person sitting in the window with those big waffle irons, turning them, checking them and pulling out the baked waffles before rolling them deftly into cones was also part of the fun.

I’d always get two scoops one each of Old English Toffee and Maple Macadamia, topped with whipped cream, fudge and nuts in a waffle cone. I think the last time I had one I was 13…it’s been a loooooong 21 years!

9. Sourdough bread

I’m always on the search for chewy, rustic, sourdough bread. I’ve had some not bad ones from Lawley’s bakery in Mt. Lawley and the New Norsica Bakery in Subiaco, but my favourite was the wood-fired artesian roll I had at the newly opened hippy bakery in my hometown.

I still dream of this roll.

10. German baked cheesecake

This was another gem of a find in my hometown. I went back for seconds and thirds of this cheesecake. I secretly wanted to buy the whole cake on display in the showcase, but at $7 a piece and probably $80 for the entire cake, I wasn’t that insane. I was insane enough, however,  to take a piece with me on the plane as I left.

I can’t wait for my trip home in December!

What foods have lodged themselves in your mind forever?

You know you’re going for a job interview when…

…you paint your toenails.

WTF?

Let me explain….

Remember how my job often makes me want to slit my wrists? Remember how my new boss drives me crazy in 101 ways? Remember how I spend three hours a day commuting to work? Well, I decided to do something about that less than ideal working environment and apply for a new job.

And apply I did – for two jobs in fact – and today I had an interview for a PA role with the recruiting company.

Cue: office slut wear. Because everyone knows you don’t get a role as a PA unless you look fuckable.

Cue: red nail polish and short skirt. Because everyone knows that you if you wear red nail polish, you’re free and easy.

Yesterday I had to do some funky online tests for word, excel and my typing speed and today was the 40 minute chat with the recruitment chick. Apparently she’s recommending that I go for the next round of interviews with the head office dudes, so I may be in with a good chance.

I’m not sure whether the red nail polish helped, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t hurt

M drove me into the city for my interview and then we went for a drive up to King’s Park to look at the wildflowers and continued driving up the coast. It was a lovely day and perfect for a drive. We stopped off for lunch and had yet another over-priced and mediocre meal (which we both just kind of expect now…) at a sea-side pub. Call me a tight-arse, but $92 for lunch and two soft drinks is a bit on the expensive side…

The other job I applied for is completely different and in a university. I don’t think red nail polish will be required and I might even wear my glasses for that one - just for that brainy-geek look.

Hear ye! Hear ye!

I’ve come to another conclusion:

I’ve gotta stop thinking so much!

I’ve just got to lay like broccoli and stop thinking that there is some deep, hidden meaning behind every single one of my interactions with M.

Situation 1 – He makes his own coffee.

I think: He thinks I’m a crap slave and wants to get rid of me

Actual situation: He’s standing in the kitchen and just can’t be bothered to ask me to do it.

Situation 2 – He doesn’t put my collar straight back on after I return from a run.

I think: I’m a crap slave and he’s already looking to replace me.

Actual situation: Fiddling around with the allen key is annoying enough without having to do it every second day so we might as well leave it off.

Situation 3 – He goes to bed without a back scratching and ravishing.

I think: He’s not interested in me anymore.

Actual situation: I’m dog tired so he’s taking pity on me and letting me go straight to bed.

It may just be me but there seems to be a depressing thread of insecurity and lack of self-worth in my thinking. You’d think after all this time that I’d be a bit more confident in myself and abilities, but I always seem to jump to the worst possible conclusion and immediately think that there is something wrong with me and that I’m somehow not ‘up to scratch’.

Which is almost comical because I get almost daily affirmations from M about my general fabulousness and he is the most supporting person I’ve ever had in my life.

I guess the problem is that I don’t have enough belief in myself to take what he says at face value. There’s always a niggling doubt that he’s just going through the motions and completing his part of the ritual.

I’m always a sucker for a good ritual, but this is one that gives me no pleasure in its completion.

The moment I felt there was someone funnier than me out there

More if historical events had facebook statuses

What’s the attraction?

So what’s the fascination with a small waist, people?

I remember a thread on fetlife a while back about symmetry and how a woman’s waist/hip ratio of 0.7 was considered perfect. That ratio apparently gives you the shape that men find most attractive a.k.a the ‘breeder’ shape.

Just for the record, mine is 0.72…I may not be perfect, but I’m pretty damn close! At least as far as waist/hip ratios are concerned…lol.

Also for the record, the original Barbie doll in 1959 had a waist-to-hip ratio of 0.5….Since 2000, Barbie has had a larger waist…

The problem with a ratio though is that it means you could theoretically have a 200cm hip and a 140cm waist and still be considered ‘perfect’. I’m pretty sure whatever man dreamed up that ratio wasn’t looking at women whose asses were as large as a truck…

I’ve never had a corset fetish, but I’m assuming that the attraction of the teeny-tiny waist is a part of it?

P.S The last. Absolutely the last. Final. Full stop. Never again. Cross my heart and hope to be spanked until my bottom goes purple (and bonus points if you can name where that comes from) part of Japan, Part 15 is up. It’s a totally boring, picture-free, geeky collection of resources for visiting Japan. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Just when you thought I couldn’t possibly write anymore…

…about Japan, I bring you Part 14 of the Japan trip series.

(It’s a bit of a special post for M and when you see it, you’ll understand why.)

I’ll also be doing sporadic posts under my new section, ‘The Running Twat’ (there’s a linky in the menu thingie). All that boring stuff to do with running, exercise and diet will now be hidden under there – just so I don’t detract from the amusing pics of my boobies not fitting into outfits bought on the internet and stories about losing one’s lube.

I still haven’t found my lube, by the way. Is there such a thing as a lube thief?

P.S I have a retard today and can’t spell.

Where is my lube?

The last time I saw my lube was a couple of months ago when we had people over for lunch. I remember seeing it sitting on the side table in the lounge room and thinking I’d have to put it out of the way before anyone arrived (that was after we’d collapsed & moved my cage into M’s bedroom and hidden the St. Andrew’s cross in the garage…)

And now for the life of me I can’t remember where I put it…which really sucks when you enjoy putting things up your ass.

I had a release up my sleeve that I decided to use while M was away and I searched high and low for that damn tube of lube, but not finding it after 20 minutes, I started getting desperate.

Desperate enough to use the only thing I could think of:

Our ten-year-old tub of vaseline

It’s not the best substitute, but any port in a storm, hey?

It was during the clean-up that I discovered why water-soluble lube is much, much better to use. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say I thought I was going to need some steel wool there for a moment.

This post has been brought to you by TMI WEEK – what’s a few secrets between you and the innernets?

The last part of the Japan trip is also complete and here for your reading pleasure.

He’s back!

M is back from Melbourne, smelling like his parents’ laundry detergent and very, very stressed. Apparently his father stressed him out so much that he needs HOURS & HOURS of cock-sucking before he’ll even start to feel ‘normal’ again.

I’m just super glad he’s back, so I don’t even mind the thought of HOURS & HOURS of cock-sucking hanging over my head. It was a long, lonely week.

I earned myself some brownie points today by going for a 10k walk to buy his favourite snacks, I made his favourite banana and walnut cake, I gave him a slave greeting by wearing my new teddy (boobies out through diamonds and looking slightly crazy) and thigh-high boots & I de-haired my snatch especially for him.

And you all think I’m a crap slave…well pffffft! in your face.

Three hours later and I’m STILL wearing the boots, people!

By the way, I found another awesome scarily bad tattoo site.

This one is my current favourite.

The grammar geek in me likes this one.

This one is just well…yeah.

Apparently the man is now ready for his cock-sucking. I shall return!….in several hours…

I keep feeling the need to apologize

I don’t know what it is at the moment, but every blog I write, I just want to start with:

“Sorry, here’s another non-kink blog with no smut, no nudity and nothing whatsoever to do with bdsm.”

I know this my blog and all, but I have a feeling I’ve got a lot of readers under false pretences – people who come here for the stuff that I used to write about, the life I used to lead, the bondage, the pics or the stuff about being owned and instead end up with nothing but food porn and talk of sneakers.

Yeah. I’m sorry. I really am.

Okay. I feel better now that I’ve apologised.

You know what I watched on Monday night?

Secretary.

I just had a sort of *need* to see it again and I guess there was also a curious part of me that wanted to see my reaction to it as the now me. The ‘now’ me, a.k.a post-collar and in limbo land, wanted to see how I felt about it.

The first time I saw Secretary I was sitting on my sister’s lounge with her and her husband at the time. It was 9pm, the kids were in bed and I wanted them to watch the movie so they would ‘get’ me and the choices I had made in my life. Halfway in there was that scene with her on his desk, the saddle on her back and the carrot in her mouth and I cringed. All I could think was, “Why, why did they have to make the movie so damn funky??” It wasn’t going to help her understand me, it was just going to confirm their thoughts that I was a lost cause.

There were parts that I really liked of the movie and parts that I thought summed up my feelings as a submissive well, but they were too easily lost under all the extraneous crap and sensationalism. I didn’t want a documentary, but I just wanted a movie where the people were at least half normal.

I still think that, but I felt a need to watch it again, so I did and I enjoyed it.

But I also felt a very palpable sense of loss for something I don’t think I’m ever going to get back.

The innocence. The wonder. The joy.

All are things I used to associate with slavery and submission and all are feelings I’ve lost somewhere along the way, only to be replaced by:

The impatience. The whining. The jadedness.

I thought for a while that perhaps I was getting old and ‘out-growing’ the needy, dependent persona that is me as a submissive. But I see plenty of people older than me doing this stuff for years and years and who still love every minute of it.

What’s the difference?

I’d like to be in that happy place again. The place where I knew what I was and where the voices in my head weren’t always necessarily quiet, but the place where, no matter how vocal they became, there was always just acceptance of my role and place at the end of the day. I might huff and puff but I knew I was a slave and it was good.

So what happened?

I don’t really know. But I have a couple of niggling thoughts:

Firstly, that the denial of my needs for play reached a point where I threw the baby out with the bathwater in my head. The only way I could live without those needs being met was to reject everything and anything associated with it. I just shut down that entire bdsm part of my brain.

Secondly, that I have never and will never be slave material. Quite possibly I can reach a certain level of submission, but not those depths that slavery requires.

On that first niggly thought, I guess that’s where the problem of not having matching interests comes to a head. As a submissive (but not a slave) you can possibly think to yourself that you can ‘change’ for your significant other and be happy with what you are given, but I guess at the end of the day you’re not. He likes boots, I like bondage. Yep, we’re pretty different souls as far as what floats our respective boats. Boots do nothing for me and bondage does nothing for him. I need bondage, he needs boots. And neither of us can change.

On that second niggly thought, I have obvious issues with definitions of slavery and therefore without a certain level of play and the associated trappings of slavery, the title of ‘slave’ in name only doesn’t do it for me. If I don’t believe, it ain’t happening and I’m having a really awful time trying to believe at the moment (see point about jadedness above).

The problem is that the first niggly thought is cancelling out any possibility of fixing the second niggly thought. At the moment, I can’t take play seriously, I can’t get into a ‘submissive’ state of mind and any attempt at play results in me either laughing it off, running away or fighting back/slapping his hands away/trying to kick him in the nuts.

Part of me wants him desperately to slam me back into that headspace and part of me believes that he couldn’t get me there even if he tried.

Part of me thinks I desperately need to be back in that happy place and part of me feels I’m just damn fine where I am now thank you very much.

Part of me doesn’t want the control and the choices over my life and part of me desperately wants both.

Part of me is addicted to composing dichotomies about my life and part of me thinks I need to get a life.

(I’ll stop now…but see how I’m still hilariously funny even when I’m all fucked up inside???)

Anyway, this has been one of the long, angsty, thoughtful blogs I said I’ve been brewing for a while now. It took me a while to get it out, but now it’s out. So sorry about all that.

And in lighter, less apologetic topics, Part 12 of Japan is here

Indulging in norti things

So the man has flown 3000km just to get away from me…or perhaps it’s to visit his parents in Melbourne…but whatever the reason, I’ll be at home alone for the next 7 days. Totally alone – which is a first for me. Before I always had the poodle pup to keep me company, so the house is very quiet and very empty.

It’s only taken me five hours to do something that I would never, ever be allowed to do when he his home. In fact, if I even brought up this particular topic, I’d be licked into oblivion or something equally as horrible.

Yes, people. I watched Michael Jackson’s This is It.

MJ is not one of my favourite artists and I don’t even own any of his albums, but I had a morbid sense of curiousity that was calling me to watch it. I had to wait until the man was safely 3000km away before I could indulge in it though.

So I’ve watched it and I have to say MJ moved damn well for a fifty-one-year-old man – even if his nose is held on with blu tac. Funnily enough, M and Micheal Jackson were born in the same year. How freaky and completely pointless is that bit of trivia??

Earlier today, M took me into town for a shopping trip. I decided that if I was going to get serious about this running thing, I needed some serious gear, namely, some new shoes and some skins (compression wear). I’m also lusting after a running computer, but I don’t know if I can justify spending several hundred dollars on something this early on in the piece, so yeah…

Anyway, I was so indecisive about which pair of shoes I wanted to buy. I spent a good 90 mins switching between several pairs of shoes and driving a shop assistant barmy. What came out of the whole exercise though was that I’ve been running in completely the opposite type of shoes that I should be running in and that probably explains why my knees have been killing me.

Yay.

I also discovered that skins are not designed for people with ‘womanly’ figures in mind because I took a top into the change room and attempted to put it on.

“How’s it feel?” came the questioning voice of the sales assistant on the other side of the changing room door.

“Ummm….I feel kind of Victorian,” I answered.

I opened the door and she took one look at me and burst out laughing.

I’m only slightly exaggerating when I say I looked like this:

(except of course that I hadn’t morphed into a man with bad make-up – just the ridiculous waist bit)

“Yeah, they don’t really make running clothes for people with hips,” she explained.

“I’ll just take the tights then…” I replied, thoroughly mortified.

So $230 later I have a pair of shoes and two pairs of funky 3/4 tights that are supposed to give me better results and help with recovery. She shall see people, we shall see. To test them out, I’ve decided to enter the 10km Rottnest Island run next month. It’s going to require me to take a ferry very early in the morning to get there, but it will be a very scenic lap around the island I’m sure.

Seeing that I was out shopping for shoes, I couldn’t really justify coming home without a new pair of boots to add to the collection. Being that winter is over and the summer stock is starting to come in, it’s a great time to buy cheap boots for the boot fetishist in your life.

Today I bought these ones:

I think that brings the boot tally to…umm…let’s see…27 -3 + 4 + 1 = 29 ??? ( I threw away three pairs that I’d worn beyond repairing) and means I’ve added five pairs to the collection this year. One more pair and I’ll hit the big 30.