Baking up a gloomy week

In the wake of weeks scorching, we have a week of cooler climates and can only hope that there is some relief where it is most needed. In times like this it tends to drive home the message that life is short and that you have to make the most of it at every and any opportunity. I tend to forget that and mis-prioritise life sometimes. And of course there are less selfish thoughts to be had too. It's devastatingly sad but we persevere and hope for the best.

Gloomy days are perfect for a bit of kitchen baking - not only does the oven keep things toasty and warm but there's always the promise of comforting and reassuring smells emanating from trays within. Overripe bananas in the fruit bowl mean only one thing: banana cake. And since I'm feeling a little less than energised today I vow to take as many shortcuts as edibly possible, numbered in brackets following.

As an aside, I've found that when attempting to be lazy and taking shortcuts it often backfires and I end up using more time and effort than if I were to do the job properly. I guess the lesson is to treat shortcuts with a sensible and respectable amount of suspicion.

For the most part my shortcuts are of the minimising washing variety as I proceed to microwave the only remaining, small chunk of butter in the mixing bowl I intend to use (1). I'm actually a bit short on butter and these days our toast spread options are a cholesterol-reducing one and an olive oil based one. I deem them both inappropriate and the corner store too far so sunflower oil it is then (2).

I measure in the sugar, brown because there isn't enough white opened (3) and I like the tanning effect of the darker sugar anyway. I pull out the trusty wooden spoon (4) because it's such a hassle to get the hand beater out, and then cleaning the beaters. For anyone's information, the mentioned mixture doesn't so much cream as a normal softened butter and white sugar mixture would. It rather clumps, but that's okay as I crack in an egg.

The bananas are spotty black all over and instead of getting a separate bowl to mash them, I peel them straight into the mixing bowl (5) intending to mash them with the wooden spoon (6). Turns out they're not as ripe as their skins would indicate (don't judge a banana by its skin?) so I end up needing a fork (-) to aid the process. Not so difficult though the mashed banana is somewhat chunkier than I would normally have - not worried.

There's subsequent throwing-in of spices, bicarb soda, flour and milk - all together now - and a good deft mixing with the wooden spoon, trying to emulate the results of the electric mixer but giving my arm a pretty good workout at the same time (+).

I'm making mini cakes rather than a bar or loaf to cut down cooking time (7) and attempt to fill the muffin tin with just the wooden spoon. Alas, the wooden utensil has served me well but it is truly the job of a spatula to clean out the bowl. That or fingers. I love the taste of raw cake dough, in particular, I think, that raw flour taste and texture, which is one of the main parts that I'm told is not so good for consumption.

Banana cake batter in tin

The minimalist washing up effort - not bad, hey?

Ten minutes into the baking process and those promised smells were wafting - ever so sweetly delectable with their cinnamon tinge. If ever there's a reason to love baking it's got to be for the smells alone. The actual outcome is a close second. Another 15 minutes and my mini cakes are peaking - cakes always seem to do that in my oven, maybe except brownies.

Out of the oven

Peak a boo

A quick poke and it seems they're ready to greet the world. Out of respect for the health-conscious, the lactose-intolerant (he doesn't know there's milk in it) and the icing-dislikers of my family, I opt to forgo the stickily tedious job of icing these cakelings. A citrusy, cream cheese icing would be divine.

Coming a nearby third in the 'why I love baking' reasons is the opportunity to taste creations piping hot from the oven. Although I have greased the non-stick tray, my experiences past with removing baked goods from 'non-stick' surfaced trays has been questionable at best.

These banana-ry babies need no coercion more than a quick side loosening and a delicate twist out of their individual holes. Piping hot indeed, I drop them to cool on a rack and slowly eye off the first victim. The cakes turn out surprisingly more light and fluffy than ever - I'm not sure if it's my super wooden spoon-beating or the smaller sizing (though I've made banana cupcakes that weren't this fluffy).

There's even some rustic, textured chunks of banana visible in some of the cakes. So much for sloth being a sin, today I've found it rather serendipitous and efficient.

Banana chunk

Comebacks and fast food

What is it with late nights and fast food? In my world (and a few others out there, I dare say) there seems to be an inexplicable connection between the two that is detrimental to both my wallet and waistline. Yes, fast food outlets are positioned conveniently close to late night venues and are entrepreneurially open similar hours. But why is it that I must custom one after the other to then head home and plop to bed?

Scraping the barrel here for anything remotely food related but I must digress ever so slightly to subduedly rave about a last night's gig at the Oxford Art Factory (OAF) by "Phase II" Australian rock band, 'White Feather'. The thinking is that this is a non-too-subtle test for the new reincarnation of said rock band with our favourite, afro-ed, legend of a frontman, Andrew Stockdale, at the helm.

'White Feather' frontman, Andrew Stockdale
at the Oxford Art Factory, Sydney

I really enjoy the OAF venue for its intimacy, complete lack of pretensions and huge variety of beers available. Last time I went they were serving longnecks in brown paper bags - hilarious - though I didn't see that this time. It's a fun night out guaranteed and made all the better with Wolfmother hits and newbies alike, a great warmer of New Zealand band Die! Die! Die! and their on- and mostly off-stage antics, and a great big bunch of happy, sweaty music lovers.

Post-gig, you just gotta go, or so it's said. We headed across the road for a fast food fix at Oporto's that was admittedly oh-so-satisfying. I probably could have done without my second serve of chips (for the road!) but we were definitely happy, rocking campers after this.

Regular Bondi Burger from Oporto's

Not so appetising in hindsight but it felt so much better than a salad at the time. It downright looks like roadkill at the moment. Lettuce, mayonnaise, two grilled chicken breast fillets and fiery chilli sauce in a hamburger bun worthy of a two-handed clutch.

Chips

Personally, I think Oporto's have the best chips out of all the fast food joints. Not too thin, nor overindulged with chicken salt, they're rarely soggy and have an appropriate crispy to fluffy ratio. But then let's not overanalyse chips. They're yummy and it feels like they soak up alcohol.

The late night fast food jaunt is definitely one of merit, of a non-nutritious type. One can't go straight home after a night out, what with the buzz and/or gossip of the night still ringing vividly in the mind. It's a pause; a moment to recollect, ponder, re-evaluate if necessary, and plan the next night out and associated eating options.

All hot and bothered

The papers are talking about it, it's usually the first thing talked about when people see each other, and it's generally on everyone's mind during the day. It's hot. The newspaper headlines scream heatwave. "How are you?" you ask; "I'm hot," is a common reply. Public transport is an un-fun experience at the best of times, let alone times when everyone around is perspiring, to put politely, like hell. This is summer for certain.

On the food front it can be a bit of a shame as wiping sweat and constantly fanning oneself serves as quite a distraction from eating. In fact, I find my appetite rather supressed by the heat and I'll just be happy to have an ice cold drink. Which is probably why I wasn't too fussed with lunch yesterday. Which is probably why I felt a little woozy after being relieved of 470mL of blood. It all makes sense now.

Just quickly on that, they test your haemoglobin levels before you're permitted to donate blood. A finger prick test produces a drop of blood which goes into a sometimes accurate machine reader and determines whether your haemoglobin levels are high enough (120g per litre is the cut off). My nurse tells me that consumption of red meats and other iron-rich foods in the weeks leading up to testing can affect haemoglobin levels, so my cramming of beef tataki, beef sausages and a vaguely beef steak pie in the days leading up to Friday were probably of minimal benefit.

And that's the thing, although I'm a happy and proud carnivore sometimes I'll end up having a vegetarian day without knowing it. Toast and cereal for breakfast, a salad for lunch, pasta for dinner and before you know it, I'm a real life, living Lisa Simpson.

Anyway, the test on my left middle finger reveals a level of 117. That's a fail. The test on the right middle finger says 123. I'm confused, but I pass. Considering that I am right-handed and the right hand is more active than the left, might that explain the varying red blood cell count?

To more palatable topics that don't turn legs to jelly, a companion and I tried in vain to escape the heat and retreated to the open balcony of Well Connected Cafe yet again. I need nourishment and I need something cold.

Raspberry and mango frappe from Well Connected Cafe, Glebe

Suitably red and gooey (sorry, must stop thinking about blood), my frappe is just the treat although it has already started its melting process before even meeting me. I quite like that they add in a couple of ice cubes to keep the substantially-sized drink cold. It's not too sweet and full of blended raspberry flavour and seeds. I do, however, think it a more appropriate hot weather drink than a milkshake - just something about heat and dairy doesn't go down well with me, but it's not my drink so I shan't complain.

Double chocolate milkshake

It doesn't look super airy nor thick and is enjoyed all the way down to the slurped bottom where it seems some chocolate powder resides. We've been a bit cheeky and brought in what my friend insists is the best Turkish pide around from a store just across on Glebe Point Road. I have to admit it's pretty darn good and not at all like the very bready versions available at a lot of kebab shops. I promise a crispy, filling-dominant pide-specific visit another time. I like to have a few vegies on the side with meals so I order the chickpea salad - which simply sounds more interesting than the canivorous salad options.

Chickpea salad

Baby spinach leaves and cucumber slices take the frontline with chickpeas, diced and chunks of tomato and Spanish onion playing about in the background. The dressing is somewhat nondescript: a pale orange colour, creamy, a little sweet, a tiny bit tart, perhaps a touch overwhelming for the spinach but ideal with the chickpeas.

As the afternoon sun continues to threaten shade on the balcony, we retreat to indoors post-meal where it isn't much cooler but if it were I may have fallen asleep on that sofa and missed dinner. Now to look forward to and seek refuge for the heatwave weekend.