Cup of Tea

Cup of Tea

Icing on the cake

How are the latest LV collection and cupcakes linked? Read on to find out... 

Doing filing while the excitable world outside my window is off to do shots is somewhat deflating. All work and no play makes this club-lover just a little bit mardy. But with library books and reading lists building a barrier impossible to break without extensive guilt and awkward seminar silences, I'm going to have to embrace the sensible side of fun. Let's get back to basics, and into the kitchen cupboard. Although, much as I love getting my bake on, a cookbooks place is more 11.30am, not 11.30pm. I should be squabbling with a taxi driver over the fare to Broad Street in a little dress and big heels round about now, but if anything can solve my growing-up predicament, and take me back to the land before deadlines, it's cupcakes.

Little-girly, pastel, fairy princess tea-party cupcakes.

This is what I came up with.

Marshmallow Vanilla Cupcakes- Hummingbird Bakery cookbook

Made for the birthday party of a glamorous housemate, I hope she enjoyed nibbling them in the rented hot tub as much as I enjoyed baking them...

Just in case the oven was too hot...

The party was Hawaiian themed, so I felt it was only fair that the cupcakes got into the holiday mood with some teeny tiny beach parasols...can't have the pudding feeling left out now, can we.

My sweet-tooth tendencies didn't stop at the obvious. Oh yes, I kept on tracking the sugar trail until I was sure I had my fix, or who knows what could happen; found by a concerned friend, leaning listlessly against any speaker with a vague baseline, or unconsciously buying out every last elasticated thread of body-con on Asos- I had to be sure I had found a true alternative to the dancefloor I so craved. So you can imagine my hand-clapping delight when I found Mr Marc over at Louis Vuitton had just the thing to keep me at a safe distance from my killer heels...

Louis Vuitton Spring 2012 Collection 

Marc Jacobs has brought a happily-ever-after to fashion that looks good enough to eat...the colours, the feathery-light textures- even the odd tiara- make this crucial for dissertation motivation. Regressing back to my five-year-old self's love of the carousel pony to reign myself in from the Sambuca- why didn't I think of this before?

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What's the hold-up with the chowdown?

(This article is currently in my University paper, but for those of you that can't see it, I thought I'd pop it up here...)

One of many...Carbonara pizza in Sicily

How can a nation be famous for both indulgent food and world-class catwalks? Pizza, pasta, pastry and ice-cream- they’re the kind of tasty treats that the fashion industry doesn’t always appreciate as much as the rest of us. I know the Mediterranean lifestyle is meant to keep you spritely and bafflingly energetic well into retirement, but with that much dough involved, I simply couldn’t see the logic. So when I arrived in Padova, Italy, for my year abroad, I was suspicious of how the local ladies managed to live in streets lined with bakeries and still look slinky in their skinny jeans. But after a few weeks of careful observation, I discovered their secret.

I admit I arrived in the sunny boot of Europe with plenty of pre-conceptions of our European neighbours- I was sure there would be lots of passionate hand gesturing (true), impassioned accordion players providing the soundtrack to bustling street café’s (true), and was on my guard for slick-haired Casanova’s prowling the piazzas (pleasingly not true). What took me by surprise was one particular mentality, woven as deftly and naturally through the culture as a Vespa through cobbled side-streets: moderation.

Just one won't hurt...Cream and Raspberry Tart, Sicily

Alright, so it isn’t the most dramatic revelation, but it’s a concept that sets the bar classily high for many other countries- particularly for Britain, often depicted as a country of excess. As many statistics remind us, we love a good takeaway (recent surveys show that 45% of Brits enjoy indulging in fast food too much to give it up, followed closely by 44% of Americans), we love a drink, or three, even more and, when it comes to letting off steam, it goes without saying that Saturday night indulgence shouldn’t end until it’s well into Sunday morning- in the UK, binge drinking accounts for 40% of all drinking occasions by men, and 22% for women. When it comes to food and drink, we can’t seem to get enough of a good thing.

All the while, it seems Italians are almost supernaturally resistant to the chocolate-to-face-shovelling and wine swigging that some of us (or, at least, me and a few of my friends) are powerless to resist. For example, whilst in Italy one of my two housemates carefully cut a doughnut into four pieces, kindly offered me a segment, and when each girl had savoured her piece, the last quarter was wrapped in foil and left in the fridge. For three days. This, apparently, was normal. Alien as this concept of...wait, what's it called again..."saving chocolate for later" was to me, I have to say I respected it. I’m quite sure that even if I tried adopting such a sensible attitude towards confectionary, it’s likely that I would end up cheating outrageously by finding loopholes, such as alleged "sleep eating", or similar excuses.

Sugar-coated... Treats at the Chocolate Market, Padova

The Italian powers of self-control also apply into alcohol- it’s one of the few places where people claim they’re just going out for one drink, and actually mean it. That’s not to say Italians don’t know how to enjoy themselves- they throw a mean carnival, and their food markets never fail to excite and delight. Perhaps it’s just that “fun” doesn’t translate directly between our two nations- each with our different ways of using eating and drinking to make ourselves feel good.

Has the Italian influence affected me? Well, next time I find myself with a family-size bag of Maltesers and some spare time on my hands, I suppose I’ll find out…

Goodies- Out for hot chocolate with Tiger in Padova

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It's the little things

Keeping cosy by the fire...it won't make the headlines, but it'll make you happy

"Whipped-up spray that is rainbow-scattered
And a swallow curving in the sky
Shoes so comfy though they’re worn out and they’re battered
And the taste of apple pie.

So I mustn’t forget
No, I mustn’t forget
To say a great big thank you
I mustn’t forget.  "

~ Estelle White, Autumn Days

The last one. Shit. Knew I should have seen this coming.

I mutter and furrow my soapy brow at my only remaining hair-tie sprawled on the bathroom tiles. Its spring has sprung right out of it, along with its usefulness, purpose and raison d'etre. I'd worn it out, putting it to work with a flippant twist, morning after morning after morning after- oh. And suddenly, it just... wasn't, any more.

What if it hadn't been a spindly old hairband that had snapped into uselessness in an unexpected instant? (...can you see where I'm going with this yet?). What if it had been something else round, ancient and pretty darn essential? Tenuous link, I know, but go with it...what if Mr Harold Camping, of Family Radio, had actually been onto something with reckoning the End-of-the-World-as-we-know-it would happen around dinner-time last Saturday? What if he had seen us stop sniggering as he and his followers floated up to the Big Guy in the Sky, as the chaos began below? And what would you have thought when the streets started to rumble forbodingly beneath your feet?

What memories would have flickered behind your frozen gaze, before the lamplight cracked and was lost to the thundering shadows? 

As the "Autumn Days" assembly hymn used to teach our primary school selves, it's not just the big deals that make our world what it is. Thing's don't have to be rare to be special. So I wanted to make sure I remembered what makes my day, every day.
Yeah, this sounds cheesily twee now, but I'll bet many a dinosaur wished they'd taken time to savour their favourite watering hole/tufty gress/Stegasaurus-steak house, as they spied a meteor suddenly casting its mercilessly speeding shadow over the plains...

It's those lazy morning breakfasts...

...and watching the evenings drawing in

Kicking off the sandals for sunbathing...

...but sloshing through the slush too

Hours well spent celebrating with friends...

...or just keeping a book company.

Eating (pizza)  in...

...or eating (pizza) out.

In fact, there's a lot to love about Italia

...like the view from my room

...and my fly (definitely legally obtained) ride, for spinning about town...

There's always the canal-crossed paradise a train-ride away

But the homeland will always be where the heart is...

...with beautiful views of its own.

Knowing that family, and its furry friends, are important, every day.

I've let the pictures do the talking for me, but to summerise: there's a lot that I have to love. And a lot to look forward to. When the lights go out, I'll know what I've been lucky enough to live.

What will you remember?

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At ease

Looks like they've found a comfy spot. Making themselves at home, the clouds plumped snugly on my rooftop have nestled down to drizzle that bike ride out of my morning...
Well, as I can't beat 'em, I'm joining 'em- I've found a cosy corner of my own, and have built myself a Sunday nest. Books and bits and bobs rustle in curls of duvet, my sleepy vision is blinkered by the XL hoodie bowed over my bed-hair, and juice, cereal and last night’s pudding experiment are an easy amble away. Everything is in order.

What's next? I squint through the half-open shutters to the bleary drench-fest outside. The clouds are doing what they do best, so, as I don't have a pillowcase-size sack of pic-n-mix to inhale in the first five minutes of a film, I'll stick to cooing at shiny prettiness on the Internet instead.
It's a shame I can't do both; firing sugar, spicy new fashion and everything nice at me, all at once...all that's missing is Chemical X, and I'd be the latest edition to the Powerpuff Girls. Although, I think my designer of choice today definitely has the X-factor...I wonder if that would work too...

Christopher Kane

Austrailian Vogue, April 2011- are those Full Moon Party remnants on her arms...?

If it's wrong, he doesn't want to be right... Bringing us the best in bad taste since 2006, Mr Kane and sister Tammy keep fashionistas clawing at his collections every season. Fall and Resort 2011 are as crisply entrancing as always, as well as pushing the limits of textile use with bright, fluid ease. As a general rule, colourful, squidgy liquid-filled plastic and high fashion aren't lucratively combined. But when your graduate collection- brass rings, lace and the brightest fluoro whipped, short and glowing, skin-tight onto his models- is shipped straight to a Harrods shop window, then rules must seem like a bit of a yawn.

It's also a pretty smart business ruse; if your designs boldly skim the brink of wonderful-and-wacky and, well, cheap-and-tacky, then anyone who attempts a Kane copy, without his immaculate skills, fabrics and wit, will undoubtedly topple right over into tastelessness. (His Resort '11 sandals show off Kane's visual intelligence- as the great Tim Blanks of Style.com noted, they're, "maribou-trimmed platforms, ironic bordering on camp, and a joy to behold".)

Resort '11

Resort '11

Fall '11

Fall '11

As a proud owner of one of his Topshop Collection pieces (scooped off the sale rail for £15... I suppose even King Kane can't win them all), I can see the morning fading blissfully unnoticed into afternoon, behind the flicker of catwalk slideshows, eyebrows lifting and furrowing in delighted absorbtion, and the level of cornflakes in my box being, distractedly but surely, nibbled down to dust.

Probably a good thing there's no pic-n-mix in Padova...who would want to be out, in that weather, saving the world in time for tea, when you could be tucked up with hundreds of Kane creations strutting across your laptop?

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Prince Charming’s got ‘em on speed dial- Pumpkin Weddings

Blog, interrupted. It's been brewing in the Drafts folder since July. I was banking on it marinating in a meltingly choice, sumptuous manner, although if it's been festering into litter-tray mush, apologies. But if it's got any idea of its content (my work experience with Pumpkin Weddings,. "The Fairy Godmothers of the venue industry!"), it'll be simmering over with rich, frothing swathes of flavoursome career goodness. Let's hope for the best because the Pumpkin team are, to use a more relevant analogy, magic.

 
 Time spent with the Pumpkin Weddings crew is a bargain investment- fish out a couple of working week, or a handful of loose days you've got lying around, and cash them in- you'll bag yourself beautiful venue visits, centrepiece/water-bowl/candelabra/ivy/crystal/favour/flower arranging, lunches a la M&S&LOL, chair cover races, cakes, brides, grooms, good tunes, great gossip and more Twix's than you should have, really, but go on then, if you're offering. They'll even throw in some post-venue vino and the offer of adoption, if you're still on the fence. Which you shouldn't be, because it's time for elevenses, hop down! Don't you want a HobNob?

 
Of course, there are those days when though the love shines bright, nature's having none of it...but no need to cloud over the celebrations- a flick of the Pumpkin wand takes this handy manor house from 0 to Organza in a few hours, earning "oooh!"'s, "aaah!"'s and "It's just how I wanted it!"'s as guests peek in at the windows. And let's be honest, when you can charm the crowd with cakes that creamily blossom and bloom, sparking up smiles and appetites with their vanilla glow, then who cares if it's tipping it down outside?

 

Thank you so much to Em, Paul and the team for having me- I know working with you over Christmas will be a cracker! xxx

You like to think that you're immune to the stuff, oh yeah...

It's fair to say intention is 'honourable'. Except, more often than not, the word is meant in a sidling, Mark Antony way. Despite good intentions, it seems more at home describing the expensive dud firework, the post-Christmas diet, the "We should really do lunch sometime", than anything the dictionary would have you believe. Intention and reality: flippantly dreaming younger brother, dropping far-fetched plans quicker than he can pluck them out of the air, lazes near bluntly discerning older sister, her eyebrows smirkingly doubtful of his frivolities over her spectacles.

If today had gone according to plan, you would currently be perusing evidence of my obsession with GCBMB (Glam Crap Beyond My Budget). For this, read: caligraphy-fine seams, caramel-soft drapes, soirees of sartorial gems fresh and crisp pinned over ambitiously proportioned mannequins. Hours must have passed as I squinted for signs of GCBMB (sleek, slender bags with people to match, the tell-tale iridescent smoke of burning Platinum AmEx's, etc). Not a prima donna Labradoodle in sight.

Until... a distant pink placard caught the light. Peering over my sunnies, it hit me. Cosy reality was welcoming me home. Like a peckish prodigal daughter, I coyly scuttled over, wondering why I had ever strayed. Surely GCBMB could also stand for Gorgeous Cookery ...Baking ...Marvellously..... oh whatever, gimmee the cake.

"Tease", self-proclaimed 'Rock&Roll Bakery of Lisbon', turned out to be more bad-ass 'My Little Pony' than AC/DC, but it was undoubtedly a Nirvana... (I know. Can't be trusted with puns.). Black velveteen skull wallpaper, neon-glass tiered platters, pop-rock radio and faux-WWII "Keep Calm and Eat a Cupcake" poster : highly commended kitsch glitz.

The Aardvark picked a "Kiss Me on the Raspberry" (apparently in Portugal "Rock&Roll" loosely translates as demanding, yet confusingly vague, sluttiness?) cupcake, cooing over the miniature pick'n'mix treats lodged amongst Panda Pop blue frosting. As The Duck scowled testosterone at the 'manly' butterfly cake I suggested ("ooh look, there's a dinky little football on that one!!"), I confessed to my tastebuds- while window-shopping above my station is always relished, and my fascination with ogling snooty boutiques will be a life-long passion, I might as well face it: I'm addicted to... cake. There, I said it. (Oh don't kid yourself Robert Palmer, Valentines Day ain't got nothing on Victoria Sponge).

My slice was every crumb a rockstar, and a diva at that. Basking on lavish napkin layers, in a be-ribboned box, plus an actual fork escort- it found its every need pandered to. Eying the Prestige Pud, i began to feel that the borders defining who was the boss of whom were becoming concerningly hazy. Before things got dramatic, I asserted my authority. Nom nom nom.

And it was word perfect. Lunch didn't even get a look in. I mean, look at the size of the thing. The Aardvark's managed to face-plant the napkins enroute: a streaked blue daub told the story of its gooey demise. Sweet but short-lived, out with a bang ; a rock'n'roll hero till the end.

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Mission Improbable

While the Duck settles in front of the Spain vs. Germany match for the foreseeable future, unblinking over the rim of a Guiness, at a green screen filled with effeminate hairstyles and pain thresholds, I enjoy the sensation of not melting. 40 degrees is one of those things that's always more fun in retrospect, or in the possesion of strawberry daquaris/coastline/a wind tunnel. As I find myself with a freshly solidified brain, and nothing but waiting for the Granada-Madrid nightbus and a gormlessly sport-struck Duck in front of me, I thought I'd do some catching up.

Olhao, Costa de la Luz. Apre beach, the Aardvark and I embarked on a challenge. It's nothing new- up and down the country, all around the globe, anyone with enough time, money and venues attempts it- the contradictory contest in which the harder you try, the harder you lose. The Pub Crawl. Except we didn't have pubs, and as fond as we both are of fun-by-the-pint, it was time for a change. And so the Pastelaria Crawl was born.

Rules: three venues, three 'players', a different cake each in every venue. (Due to the 40 degreesness, the "Hell no H20" rule does not apply.)

1: Cafe Bijou

I coasted through my 'Moxgado', a coconut-rolled marmalade snowball, in minutes. The Aardvark ambitiously started as she meant to go on- a bulbous choux-bun grimly weighed down her napkin, not unlike the glistening contents of a surgeons kidney dish. Its marshmallow centre swelling a jaundice yellow, an optimistic Aardvark peeringly observed it as "like an eclair?". I pictured this particular dessert provoked just moments before purchase, a little bun with a bigger temper- "You don't want to make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry...".The Duck, gamely prepared to swap his doubles for danishes, embarked on layer after layer of ...what's in it? "...niceness.". I suppose that's what counts. A few minutes later, as the clock ticked round to Cafe 2, the Duck's pace was flagging. Marble icing glistened in defiance. "I can ... barely breathe".

2: Olhao Doco

The Duck lurked at the table while the Aardvark and I picked our poison. "I can't ... why do you DO this to yourself?!". This reminded us of the pub vs. pasteleria comparison- why is excess easier out of a glass that off a plate? The calorie binging, highs and lows and chance of a queezy aftermath drew parallel after parallel. On that note, I offered the Duck a biscuit- "it basically counts as a shot". Unamused, he stalked off to buy a paper.

The Aardvark's fruit slice turned out to be the cream pie's glamourous cousin- a slick rosy gloss daintly graced the fatty brick below. As deep as it was long, my 'Bolo do Noz' clearly favoured the "Less is more!? Don't be such a pussy" school of thought. The Aardvark enthused about the nutritional benefits of walnuts as I doubtfully nursed the syrupy glut, but, to my dismay, I left a few spongey boulders uneaten, and set off for Cafe 3 in shame. Definatly should have gone for one of those cookies iced like a prawn.

3: Cafe del Lightweight Embarrasmento
Our pot of green tea numbed the sugar-shakes, as the Duck raised "I told you so" eyebrows over The Times. The Aardvark tried to tame violent hiccup fits: "Not just normal hiccups- the hiccups of regret". Who knew sleepy village pastries packed such a punch? Only the crosstrainer can save us now. Our Fitness First, who art in the multiplex...