Wordless Wednesday

 

 
A picture is worth a thousand words, after all. (Or at least six really choice ones.)

Translation available upon request.

(NaBloPoMo, Day 12.)

Dessert re-branding

It never ceases to intrigue me what aspects of American culture – food and otherwise - surface in other countries. Reruns of Cheers on Australian TV? Yes. Reruns of WKRP? No sign. Visibility of the Hunger Games franchise: check. Visibility of Percy Jackson: not so much. Barefoot Contessa cookbooks? Easily findable. Pioneer Woman? Might require a little more digging.

The trend continues when it comes to food. Mention the word “brownie” – a quintessential American dessert – to an Australian, and chances are you’ll see someone’s eyes light up. Mention “blondies,” on the other hand, and your response is likely to be blank incomprehension.

Rather than trying to change this, I have decided to go with the Australian flow and have renamed the following recipe, for purposes of local comprehension and consumption, “fudgey choc chip slice.” Blank incomprehension is not the response I’m looking for when baking.

Fudgey choc chip slice (aka blondies)

adapted from a recipe found on the delightful but dormant Figs, lavender and cheese blog

I had never made blondies as such when I found this recipe, although you could make a case for putting Congo bars into that category. These are similarly addictive; I think I made four batches of these in the space of the week when I first tried out the recipe.

1 cup/120 g all-purpose/plain flour

.5 cup/60 g whole wheat flour

1 tsp/5 g baking powder

.5 tsp/2 g kosher salt

12 Tbsp/1.5 sticks/180 g unsalted butter, browned and cooled

1.5 cups/300 g packed brown sugar

2 Tbsp/30 ml maple syrup

2 large eggs

4 tsp/20 ml vanilla extract

1 cup/180 g semisweet chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350F/180C. Line an 8-inch (20 cm) square baking pan with foil, pushing it into corners and up sides of pan (I use two pieces crisscrossed). Spray foil-lined pan with nonstick cooking spray.

Whisk flours, baking powder, and salt together in medium bowl; set aside.

Whisk butter, brown sugar, and maple syrup together in medium bowl. Add eggs and vanilla and mix well. Using rubber spatula, fold dry ingredients into wet until just combined; do not overmix. Fold in chocolate and spread batter in prepared pan, smoothing top with rubber spatula.

Bake until top is shiny, cracked, and light golden brown, 20-25 minutes. Cool completely on wire rack to room temperature. Remove bars from pan by lifting foil overhang and transfer to cutting board. Cut into 25 2-inch squares.

TUK slices

In the US, we call them “bar cookies”; in the UK, they are “tray bakes”. Here in Australia, anything you can mix up, spread in your standard square or rectangular pan, and stick in the oven for 30-40 minutes is known as “slice”. (As in, “That looks yummy, I’ll have a slice!”) And at the moment, it’s my default baking option, because pretty much the only baking implement I have in the TUK is a 9” x 13” (23 cm x 33 cm?) metal pan that I bought myself, rationalizing it as follows:

1. You can never have too many baking/roasting pans.
   
2. If I go more than two weeks without baking, bad things will happen.

It has turned out to be very useful, both in expanding my TUK possibilities and in preserving my mental serenity during transition. It gets used on a near-daily basis for savory as well as sweet cooking, and it has prompted me to expand my definition of what in my standard baking repertoire can be re-cast as a ‘slice’. I’ve already used it for congo bars, yogurt cake, and flapjack, along with the fridge cake I posted the other day. Now I’m trawling my own archives to see what else I can repurpose. I’m thinking these would all be good options:

 

- bacon blue cheese bread

- blackberry-applesauce cake

- chocolate-chocolate cake

- lemon poppyseed cake

- oat-fruit bars (ok, technically these are already a slice, I just haven’t made them in a long time)

What else? Recommendations? The only stipulation is that it must be able to be sliced neatly and eaten out of hand - suitable for coffee mornings, knitting groups, and playdates.

Preschool slang

Okay, not slang actually used in preschool or by preschoolers, but rather a selection of slang terms I’ve picked up over the last several months of hanging around with Australian preschool parents.

Dob in – tell on or get someone in trouble; international synonyms include grass (UK), squeal or tattle (both US).
Example: “The teacher didn’t see Bruce pull Sheila’s hair, but then Narelle dobbed him in.”

Hoon – one who engages in disruptive or anti-social activity. Used as either a verb or a noun; frequently used in connection with small boys whooping it up on the playground, or teenagers driving too fast.
Example: “There he is, hooning along to the sandpit.”

Spruik(er) – someone who vocally and aggressively solicits business from passersby, akin to a tout (UK) or huckster (US). Can also be used as a verb.
Example: “Why don’t you walk down to the café and spruik our cake stall a bit?”

Tanbark – wood chips used to cover playground surfaces, to provide a softer landing

And my personal favorite:

Feral – same definition as usual, but used as a noun in reference to young children displaying temporary amnesia with regard to personal grooming or table manners.
Example: “When was the last time you combed your hair? You’re turning into a feral since holidays started.”


Illustration: some typically direct Australian signage: found hanging over the saltwater crocodile tank at Sydney Aquarium

Small victories

*

As I mentioned a while back, one of the challenges of living in a new country is that you often have to find out what things are called, and where they are sold, before you can acquire them. This sometimes complicates even the simplest tasks. For example: our front door has been creaking the last few months. A lot. Really loudly. To the point where my sister was making Vincent Price jokes. Every day of her visit.

“You really need to get some WD-40 for that,” she advised just before she left.

“I will, I will,” I said, “as soon as I find out what they call it down here.”

Then the other day, I opened the door so that a visiting Australian friend could depart, and it creaked so loudly that she jumped involuntarily.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I’ve got to do something about that, as soon as I figure out what the Australian equivalent of WD-40 is, and get myself out to Bunnings (a big box store, equivalent to Home Depot/B&Q, not accessible without a car) to get some.”

She looked at me with bemusement. “It’s WD-40 down here too,” she replied. “And I bet you they sell it at Big W.”

(Equivalent to Target. A five-minute walk from my house. Would not require a special rental-car trip!)

Today, after an extended hunt through every possible department (Hardware? House cleaning? Manchester?), I found WD-40 in the “Motoring” department.

And my front door doesn’t squeak anymore.

Life is good.


* NB I didn’t think a shot of a can of WD-40 would be too enthralling, so here, have a picture of a vintage Holden (another thing you could use WD-40 on!) instead.

Native speakers

As I continue my semi-immersion in Australian culture, I regularly come across new (to me) Australian slang terms. Most of these examples, encountered over the last month or so, were self-explanatory in context, so I’ve described the circumstances to the best of my recall, in case other non-Australians want to have a shot at figuring out what each one means. (I’ve also provided links to definitions.) I did have to ask for some clarification on the first one, so I could determine just how insulting it was. (Also, my abject apologies in advance for any regional stereotypes perpetuated here.)

Bogan
On a drive into the countryside
RL: Why don’t some parts of Australia observe Daylight Saving Time?
Local #1: Because they’re a bunch of bogans who think cows can tell time.

Daggy
At the weekly parents’ coffee morning
Local #2: So my husband saw me come out of the house in my new boots the other morning, and I saw his eyes light up. I made sure I got home before he did, and put on my daggiest tracksuit, just in case.
RL:

Doona
At the bedding shop
RL: This is my first winter in Canberra. I’m beginning to think we’ll be needing some more bedding.
Local #3: You’re going to need a doona to make it through winter around here!

Stickybeak
At Kingston Miniature Railway, when all four children in our party simultaneously realized that the portaloos were directly behind where we were sitting to have elevenses (oops, UK slang sneaking in here)
RL: What are they all looking at....?
Local #4: Oy, stickybeaks! Turn around and give those people some privacy.

Mastering a new language is exhausting sometimes. I think I need to make like my friend here and go take a nap.

Country roads

A few weeks ago we took a road trip to visit friends who live about seven hours north of Canberra, on the western edge of the Blue Mountains in central New South Wales. It was our second trip up there since we arrived last September; the first one was in early spring, and this one was in mid-autumn.

On this trip, I was amazed all over again at how much the landscape in this part of the world differs from my expectations. The overriding stereotypical image of Australia (away from the coast) is of a baking hot, dry, flat, dusty, red, endless, treeless vista. And of course some parts are like that—but they are not much closer to where we are than, say, the American Southwest is to Boston. None of those adjectives is appropriate for the part of New South Wales we travelled through. For one thing, it rained most of the way up—just like it did last time. For another, even after a characteristically hot, dry summer, we were still presented with views of rolling green hills as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there at the higher elevations with splashes of autumn color. At times I felt as though we could have been driving through the English countryside, or the hills of western New England.

One thing that was undeniably Australian, though, was the place names, whether of communities, geographical features, or the many stations (that’s Australian for a ranch or farm) whose front gates appeared at intervals along the highway (a two-lane blacktop road). Whether adopted from native Australian tongues, imported from the old country, or just displaying creativity with Australian English, here are a few that I thought were worth jotting down for posterity.

Merrimba
Silverspray
Bunduluk
Ourark
Karincal
Castlesteads
Breakfast Creek
Dreamland
Tingoora
Liafail
Fairy Hole Creek
Tangwangaroo Road
23 Mile Lane
Tara Loop
Flaggy Creek
Emu Swamp
Yambacoona
Barambogie

(And a few photos of scenery, if you're really interested.)

Language lessons

All definitions courtesy of Wikipedia

Homonym: one of a group of words that share the same spelling and the same pronunciation but have different meanings, usually as a result of the two words having different origins.

Flapjack (North America*): alternate name of a thin pancake that is not only crispy, but slightly chewy as well. A largely defining attribute of a flapjack is its large diameter, commonly measuring 30cm/12in or more.

Flapjack (UK): a tray bake (or bar cookie) made from rolled oats, fat (typically butter), brown sugar and usually golden syrup or honey.

*also, apparently, Australia

J’s Flapjack
How to confuse a bunch of Australians (or Americans, or Canadians): present them with a plate full of this, and then tell them it’s flapjack. Discuss how it’s not what they think of when they hear "flapjack" for as long as they can hold out without trying it (ie, not very long). After they’ve had some, they probably won’t care what it’s called.

200g/8oz butter
4 tbsp golden syrup**
200g/8oz porridge/rolled oats
100g/4oz shredded coconut
150g/6oz brown sugar
25g/1oz dried cranberries or other fruit of your choice (optional)

Melt the butter and golden syrup, then stir in the dry ingredients and mix thoroughly. Spread in a shallow, 20cm/8in square baking pan. Cook at 180C/350F for about 40 minutes, rotating pan halfway through. It's not that easy to tell when it's done, but when you see that it's starting to brown around the edges, that's probably a good indicator. Cut while hot; leave to cool in the pan.

Makes 16-20 medium squares

** If you can’t get golden syrup, substitute sticky processed sugar product of your choice. Most recently, I made this with a combination of honey and maple syrup.


PS According to Wikipedia, "flapjack" can also refer to a type of seaweed, a hydraulic machine, a card game, and a professional wrestling throw. How versatile can you get?

Hot enough?

When you live in a place where temperatures of 40C (104F) are a regular occurrence, and temperatures of 45C (113F) and higher are not unheard of, you need to find ways of keeping yourself cool -- and your perishable food items as well, when you're out and about. As we come to the end of February, and hopefully the end of the sweltering season, I offer some Australian slang useful for keeping your goodies cool when the sun gets hot.

Esky: an insulated container used to hold ice or icepacks and keep food and beverages cold on picnics, at barbecues, the beach, etc. Known in the UK as a coolbox/coolbag and in the US as a cooler.

Usage: "If you hadn't put so much beer in the esky, we might have been able to pack a few more sandwiches."

Allium conundrum

Q: What would you call those green things in the bowl?

a. Scallions

b. Spring onions

c. Shallots

A: It's a trick question: they're all correct. It just depends on where you are. In the US they're scallions, in the UK they're spring onions, and in Australia they're shallots. How's that for confusing?

I even tried growing some in my container garden so I wouldn't have to remember what they're called when I go to the supermarket, but they fried in the sun as soon as they popped out of the dirt.

This is the first food item I've found that has a different name in each of the three countries, but I'm keeping my eye out for more.

Oh, and whatever you call them, my photography/cooking assistant, seen here straying into shot, has given them the Miss B Thumbs Down: "too spicy!"

Translating slang

One of the challenges of moving to a new country is learning to speak the language. I say this as someone who has lived only in countries where the primary language spoken is English.

For example. We shipped all our stuff direct from the UK to Australia 13 months ago, expecting to see it again in 6-8 weeks. As things turned out, we didn’t actually get here until nine months had passed. This meant that 1) Miss B had outgrown much of what we shipped for her and 2) I found myself unpacking other things and thinking, “Why the @#$& did I ship this halfway around the world?!” In other words, I had a lot to get rid of very shortly after my arrival.

In these circumstances, I generally pack up bags of stuff and take them to the nearest secondhand store for donation. Simple, right? Except for one thing: what do you call a secondhand store in Australia?

The American version is “thrift store;” the UK version is “charity shop.” It took a little detective work, but I am here to tell you that the Australian version is “op shop,” short for “opportunity shop.” As in, “Last week, I had the opportunity to dump a bunch of junk I don’t want anymore, and look what I found while I was there!” Then, with a little help from Zoe at Progressive Dinner Party (another Canberra blog), I found an op shop less than 10 minutes from my house.

Score! I’ve already dropped off a few bags of stuff.

And, of course, picked up some nice secondhand kitchenware. (Because it always comes back to food in the end.)

Not just the home of great bands anymore

I didn’t give much thought to Australian slang before I got here, and when I did, I was, I’ll admit, a little smug. After all, I’ve been here before; I lived in the UK for a long time, which has plenty of slang overlap with Australia; I know several Australians; and blah blah blah blah. I figured I had it sussed (see, UK slang!).

Well, I hadn’t been in Canberra more than three hours before I came across “Manchester”. Known to me previously only as a northern English industrial city (home to some of the best bands of all time), I was completely confused by seeing it on signs in several of the stores I walked into; as in the supermarket: “Dish soap; paper towels; mops and brooms; Manchester.” And it kept happening: ads on TV: “50% off kitchenware, hardware, Manchester!” Billboards: “Canberra’s biggest selection of Manchester!” But I could never find a sign for it in close proximity to any actual object; it was always dangling from a ceiling or hanging in a window. I kept pointing it out to DP: “There it is again! What the $#!% is Manchester?”

I couldn’t bring myself to walk up to a random salesperson and ask them, and none of the Australians I know live in Canberra. And even if they did, and I could manage to call them up out of the blue and say, “Hey, I’m in Australia! How are you? By the way, what the $#!% is Manchester?”, it took four days for my phone to get hooked up. The internet took even longer, so I couldn’t even look it up and conceal my ignorance from the world. The few minutes I could snatch at internet cafes had, shockingly, to be devoted to more important things, like answering work emails.

But at last I have had a free moment to find an online Australian slang dictionary and I am here to tell you that “Manchester” is Australian slang for linens—you know, sheets, towels, that sort of thing. When I told DP the answer he looked at me blankly and then the light of illumination spread across his face. “Because that’s where all the cotton mills were!” he exclaimed.

Of course.