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DAY TWENTY-FOUR Making pictures in coffee

24 Sep

Little do we know this jug's about to start bucking like a broncho.

I’VE always wondered how baristas make those magic flowers in your cup of coffee. Finally tiring of my endless musing, I went along to Gridlock Coffee in Melbourne and pestered World Latte Art Champion Con to show me a few moves. He can free pour like nobody’s business.

Whaddaya know though (Joe), it’s not as easy as it looks. Con stands behind me and helps me wobble out a five-leaf tulip like he’s teaching me to play pool. Then it’s my turn to go it alone. Faster than you can say “Ow, that’s hot,” I’ve run out of cup.

I’m leaving this one to the professionals.

Easy does it.


DAY ELEVEN: Eating seafood

11 Sep

MY OLD landlord was teetering on senility, so when he invited me for dinner and I told him the only thing I didn’t eat was seafood, naturally he served me mussels. I kept sending him into the kitchen for more chianti, taking the opportunity to stuff molluscs and stray strands of spaghetti into the pockets of my jeans.

I’m a grown woman, though, and I suspect my seafood horror is merely a foolish childhood fear of creepy crawlies, goo and tentacles. I got over mushrooms, so surely I can get over this.

Down at the Espy, I opt for the Exposure Therapy approach and decide to order the most rubbery/crunchy plate of exoskeletons I can find. Squeal! “Eat the bit coming out of the end,” my comrade Clare advises of a bug’s bum, which is good advice, as I was about to tackle the shell. It’s surprisingly tasty.

Keeper? Sure! Only the calamari rings and pink squishy bits end up spat in the napkin.