“I am the left brain. I am a scientist. A mathematician. I love the familiar. I categorize. I am accurate. Linear. Analytical. Strategic. I am practical. Always in control. A master of words and language. Realistic. I calculate equations and play with numbers. I am order. I am logic. I know exactly who I am.”

“I am the right brain. I am creativity. A free spirit. I am passion. Yearning. Sensuality. I am the sound of roaring laughter. I am taste. The feeling of sand beneath bare feat. I am movement. Vivid colors. I am the urge to paint on an empty canvas. I am boundless imagination. Art. Poetry. I sense. I feel. I am everything I wanted to be.”

A couple of pictures I found whilst traipsing the interwebz. The top one is wonderful, the second, well, unnecessary for the purpose of this post but random and funny (just what I find amusing when I'm slightly delirious at 3pm on a Friday afternoon)...Both images taken from BRAIN&PIXEL; a visual communications studio of passionate designers and IT whizzes in Tel Aviv, Israel (no one ask me how on earth I came across their page! I think that first image has gone viral since it's original posting elsewhere, but I'm not sure who to credit. Any links to the source, folks?).

If only my brain were so nicely balanced.


We are...

we are the lovesick. the fearless ones. the never giving up.
the hearts undone. sick with the desire to love. to live so far
beyond the boundaries given to us. we are the fence-hopping
fools who never stopped to read the signs. the ones that left
the world behind. like dreams we've drawn in neon light. just
moments in the sea of time. we are the lost ones wandering.
the soon to be smoldering. last to be found. the first to fall and
fail to fly then shatter on the ground. we are the rebels running
wild through a darkness that can swallow us. but we've set fire
to our souls. burning brilliant blinding gold. the flames that illuminate
our lonely road. our futures holding fates untold. we are the
ever-refusing to fold. to fade away or worse to lose. the few that
bend and break apart the cages of our rules. born desperate for the
promise of the mystery unknown. we are the lovesick. and just like
the sun we will always rise. hope still shining in our eyes...
- Jason Reeves

Images: Me by RachelKara, Unknown


Camera friendly

Now let's just all sit back and feel great about our less-than perfectly shaped lips/eyes/hips and silky, golden hair........

Lana Del Rey via Pedestrian and screenshots of her new video Born To Die on YouTube.




Granny Smith

Cue, "my baking brings all the boys to the yard, and they're like, it's better than yours..." etc. etc. you know the rest. Let's just agree that Kelis wrote a hit, and the word 'milkshake' is replaceable with almost anythang you like. (Just try it, sit back and observe the faces sporting pure impression and jealousy over your mad skillzz)

Granny Smith Apples, cored (but try to leave a small layer of flesh at the bottom so all the syrupy goodness doesn't drip through onto your baking dish)
Brown Sugar
Butter (unsalted)
Almonds and pecans, crushed roughly
Sultanas or dried cranberries if you want to liven things up
Cinnamon, nutmeg, perhaps a little ground ginger if you're feeling risqué
Orange zest
Teensy pinch of salt. I'm talking minute, people!

I've said it once, I'll say it again; I am terrible at using or giving measurements. Luckily for something like a simple (and super delish) baked apple, you can very much rely on sight and texture when you're mixing up the filling. It's just a little of this and a little of that bound together nicely with a decent helping of brown sugar and butter. Stuff the apples generously and then pop a few extra crushed nuts on the top. Bake at 200 celcius for about 25 minutes or until soft, but still holding their shape. If you're in the kitchen whilst they're baking, occasionally baste the apples with any glaze in the bottom of the dish. It's well worth the extra effort if you have time! Serve with heavy cream, dusted with a little cinnamon and then sit back and smile at your guests (or your ornamental cats), knowing that you've just cooked one of the easiest, yummiest desserts ever.



Morning Glory

Oh Rosie, your majesty, you make me swoon.

Rosie Huntington-Whitley for Vogue Spain by Nico via Fashion Gone Rogue




I'm close to certain (though, with the lack of sleep in the past week, I feel like I don't know anything anymore) that this has been the wildest 7 days of my year. Again, big call, but even if summon all my brain power to think back several months, this week is still trumping in the 'events & incidents' department.

It started off as an ordinary week - late night Sunday, 6am start Monday. Finish work by lunch, head home to a) have a nanna nap and b) pack the house up in preparation for moving day (Wednesday).

Tuesday: nannying (job number 2...of 4). Baby cried all day. Home at 4, there's progress all round but ultimately the house is still in a shit. Mum has decided to head off to acting instead of continuing with the house. She's had enough and plans to come home and do an all-nighter. Bad call...Big sis and middle sis get home from work, we attempt to make headway with boxes and by 8pm we are 'ravenous' and end up going for sushi. We sit and laugh deliriously at my pronunciation of every dish whizzing past us on the train, and wait 25 minutes for tempura vegetables...obviously no one's trying to emulate The Iron Chef in Sutherland. We arrive home as Mum pulls in to the driveway and we continue packing into the wee hours of the night. By just after 1am I'm out.

That small, corpse-like figure beside the clothes line is my darling mother taking an afternoon siesta. Moving is just too much for this household.

Wednesday: Moving. Day. Oh. Dear. Lord...I leap out of bed at 6am, my hair wild and my eyes all blurry, ready to do what needs to be done (AKA throw anything and everything into 'miscellaneous' boxes). Mum is so stressed/tired that she has come unhinged and can barely talk. We still manage to laugh our way through the pain. Removalists get lost and arrive half an hour late, giving us a little more time to 'pack' - perfect. The madness continues through the afternoon and eventually the moving men call in three sets of extra hands so they can get the second truck loaded and moved in by 6pm. I'm certain we're the most disorganised house they've ever had to move. They finish (obviously exhausted) at 6:30 and we take a peace offering of Coronas to their office - they're stoked.

Thursday: Wake up in a daze. My room is pitch black and I'm quite toasty from a night of sleeping in a dressing robe, under my winter doona, on a sheet-less bed. It is Summer (well, sort of...Sydney weather is bizarre at the moment)...In the evening I head off to an intimate little gig at youeni provides in Darlinghurst. The music is great, the company is even better. So much so that I don't leave until 11, despite having a 45 minute drive home and work (back in the city) early in the morning. I lose control coming around a tight bend and crash my car pretty badly. All other senses fail me so I sit in my car and cry. Mum has to pick me up at midnight and we wait for the tow truck for an hour and a half. I'm also on hold with the insurance company for about half an hour on my mobile - painful. Car gets towed. Home at quarter to two.

Friday: Catch the train and walk to work. Takes ages to hail a cab so I'm late. I'm still shaky in the kitchen, I drop a glass and it smashes everywhere. Bloody hell. Under house arrest from Mum for the evening. Miss out on a show I was very much looking forward to...well, seeing the leading man was probably more on my mind than the music, but that's not the point.

Saturday: Repeat of train/taxi incident, though this time it ends better because a lovely man pays my fare. Note to self: offer to share cabs with distressed strangers more often...good karma. Work is crazy busy. Blah blah blah. Walk back to the city, catch a crowded train with screaming children. Headache. No one comes to pick me up from the station - 40 minute walk home. Lay down and want to die. Get up and go grocery shopping for the 20 guests coming over instead. More pain. Realise at 11pm I don't have my key to open the shop tomorrow morning. Shit, bugger, piss it, balls etc. etc. It's been misplaced in the abyss of moving debris. I get in contact with a coworker and she says I can pick it up from her at the shop before they 22 minutes. I enthusiastically say "sure!", hang up and suddenly remember no one is home, therefore I have no means of transport (bar the three bikes with flat tires in our garage). I am so tired and so desperate that I frantically rip off my Docs, pull on my sneakers and haul a bike out of the garage. It's got to be quicker than me attempting to run. I now have 12 minutes until closing time. I need to muster the stamina of an Olympian to get there in time...Miraculously, I do get there in time and have a chuckle with the girls about going into cardiac arrest. But seriously, someone get me some Ventolin and a Tambocor...Ride home with the shop key, cramps in my legs and feeling like I've been run over (twice) by a truck. Literally crawl into bed just after midnight and black out for the next five and a half hours.

Sunday: By now, you should be getting extremely irritated by my recount of what has been an extremely slapstick-esque week (you know, like one of those bad movies where everything and everything just goes wrong), but I shall continue for those of you brave enough to read this far. 6am up and off to work. I'm there alone, solely to do coffee until 10am. Of course today I'm not. People start coming in and getting all up in my grill about ordering Christmas tins and customised gelato cakes before 9am and I try and patiently listen to their woes - one male in particular explaining exactly what his fussy "Mrs" does and doesn't want. My boss isn't there and he's desperate for a dessert so I attempt some birthday piping on a display cake that thankfully was for sale. Not bad Emma, not bad at all...Feeling all good about myself until I realise I need to get out of there, get the eff home and cook dinner for 20 people - it's big sis' birthday (hence the cupcakes). Stress kicks in and I feel powerless for two hours as I wait for my shift to finish. Home. Cook. Gin, Pimms and tonic. Entertain. Cook. Stress. Wine. Sing. Rap (don't ask). Gin and tonic. Sleep.

Monday: Up at 5:30am to go surfing for a work Christmas party. Present from the boss? More like punishment...all ends well with lots of laughs and a few waves caught. I'm just so tired I can't be bothered avoiding getting dumped by massive waves, and therefore have spent the last 5 days aching.

Besides catching the train daily to the city every day this week and hiking everywhere, there's no more torture to be shared (publicly) - I promise...Unless you actually enjoyed that (in which case I'm forced to assume you've endured similar and are feeling empathetic)...


We say...

One massive hah.


Insalata Caprese

Roma tomato (slice it)
Buffalo mozzarella (tear it)
Fresh basil (leave it)
Good Olive Oil (drizzle it)
S&P (sprinkle it)


Note: That is not my kitchen. Yes, it's me, preparing to anoint the salad in La Barre EVOO, but I swear my work space is never that outrageously messy...almost never.





If I were a photographer and I could only use one model for the rest of my photography life (I wouldn't 'cos like that would be like, totally boring, but for the post's purposes I'm just sayin'), it would be Lara Stone - she's so incredibly beautiful. I love her gappy teeth, and her half-assed school girl hair in these shots is particularly lovely...Yes, she loves to get her gear off in about 70% of all her shoots, but she's a woman, and she likes to show it. No biggie. If I had a body like that I probably would too...

Images by Angelo Pennetta for T Magazine (way back in April, I believe) via one of my new favourite websites Touch Puppet.