Things I like about America - Home shopping.

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There are 3 major home shopping networks here in the US, all three of them are wonderful. There is just something magical about shopping via the telly or the Internet. One can plonk one's arse on the couch and it's just like being out doing actual shopping all day, minus the stinky sweaty hordes, rude sales people and having to carry those heavy bags. Not to mention the sheer amount of choice that one just does not find going from store to store.

Thanks to the joys of home shopping I feel like a small child in a candy store, only it's so much better than that, more like a kid let loose in Willy Wonker's Chocolate Factory, minus those scary ooompa loompa's. Actually going to the mall one can see plenty of those, less fashionably dressed though. Home shopping means I don't have to go out and see the rabble in their t-shirt, shorts and thong finery. Another reason I like it so much.

I have to do all my coveting and shopping surreptitiously. The Colonel will chastise me if I shop too much. Still, like a juggernaut, I can't be stopped, I find myself watching the programs more and more or getting online and perusing the catalogue, to 'window shop'.
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On the weekend, one of the networks had a 5 value pay day. Anything purchased on that day came with the option of paying for it in 5 smaller payments over 5 months, interest free. Unbelievable. I bought a cheesecake, my first ever food purchase online. I am having a guest over for dinner this week, that's my excuse, really I just was salivating at the sight of the sumptuous desert. Made by Junior's bakery in Brooklyn, it has chocolate mousse on top, cheesecake on the bottom and is coated in a chocolate ganache, it looks so deliciously decadent.

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I love Jewelery, always have, always will. Like a magpie I am drawn to bright, sparkly objects and I love to line my nest with glittering baubles. Brummagem or real it's no difference to me as long as it shines.

On Sunday a new collection debuted on HSN. While the Colonel was outside working on his truck I was indulging in a fabulous jewelery show. Rarities by Carol Bodie, it was one sumptuous piece after another. A very popular show, the pieces were disappearing before a full presentation could be done on them. Some stunning gemstone earrings were shown briefly as an item that would be featured later on, but that never happened as they sold out immediately. It was like a shark attack, a veritable feeding frenzy. The pace blew me away. My head was spinning as each glorious piece was aired, only to see them disappear in rapid succession.

Ms Brodie spent many years working at Harry Winston. She told some colourful stories of working with all kinds of creative people, such as a jeweler to the Maharaja's of India. How very exotic. I was less interested in the stories about all the celebrities and their red carpet jewels and her work for films. True, the baubles are stunning, but I am so over the whole celebrity circus. What moron goes out and has to have a certain stone or look just because some whiney, mostly untalented celeb, has it? Sorry if I offended anyone but quite frankly, I am sure no one like that reads my blog.

Brodie told the story of how Jennifer Lopez's pink diamond engagement ring was made, how she scoured the world for the perfect stone. Pink diamond's are interesting but I really don't get excited that it was for some mediocre celebrity. What really piqued my interest was the story about the most delicious rings in the program. Brodie relayed the tale of a visit to a high end Jeweler in Capri she visited while on honeymoon. A gorgeous citrine ring was purchased there and she has copied the original for her collection. That's what I find enticing, the gorgeousness of Capri, knowing the ring was originally inspired by the idyllic Italian coast, not by some celebrity slags and their 'bling-bling'. Cringe. The ring I craved is the massive citrine and onyx featured in the picture. There is something about yellow stones and gold that I find enthralling. It sold out so fast, I was still in a mesmerised trance at it's loveliness when I saw the 'sold out' sign appear. Disappointment indeed. I was quite distraught at missing out, but worse than that alone, I could picture all the frumpy house fraus of America who had beaten me to it, wearing that darling 5th Ave ring around, complete with the tawdry or just plain matronly ensembles most people seem to attire themselves in over here.

I did take some consolation in doing a bit of an Internet search for Carol Brodie and seeing that posts had been made about her highly anticipated collection on blogs, thus ensuring a viewing audience of connoisseurs, not just connoi-bleuhs Apparently she is quite a celebrity herself and her Rarities collection has been awaited with some degree of excitement.

America may not have Vegemite or Red Rooster, but it does have some really great Home Shopping, and that makes Chichi a happy little Vegemite.

Hell called, they want to know why Tampa is hotter than Hades.

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What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance.

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Jane Austen

I have been neglecting my sad little blog for too long. The past week I had the painters working inside the house everyday, some days I had no access to the computer as they were painting the study and all the furniture was piled up in the middle. Then we spent the weekend getting things around the house ready for viewings. A new week has begun, there is still so much to do and the painter was back today to fix up some things. I'm over it and the house has not even been listed yet. The agent arrives this afternoon to take photos so I had better get the washing down. No one wants to see a picture of my nanna grundies when they peruse house pictures online. It's not so much like an episode of 'Cribs' around here, as it is a version of 'Lifestyles of the dull and unknown'.

I have spent so much time, 'de-cluttering' the house over the past couple of weeks. Boxes and boxes have been filled and taken down to the storage unit we hired for the this purpose, there is still so much more to do. The Colonel is what I would call a clutterbug. It seems that most of the military types are. We have a whole room dedicated to storing army stuff. He also is a born horder, collecting a vast array of bibelots from his travels around the world and even from his childhood. I found an old rock which I was about to throw away until he said it was actually a part of the Berlin Wall that he had acquired while serving in Germany.

The temperature here in Florida is unimaginably hot. Just walking outside and sitting on the deck makes one start to sweat. Having to do anywork outside the house is unbearable and can be fatal. People drop dead all over the place in this humidity when they go outside and start potting around. I saw on television yesterday a chart showing that heat is more likely to kill people than other weather conditions. They showed a graph which demonstrated a ten year average of death rates from weather related conditions. These included hurricanes, tornados, floods and heat. Now in America hundreds of people die each year from hurricanes and tornados. Thousands died after Katrina. Despite this staggering and very sad fact, more people died in the past 10 years from HOT weather. I have long whined and complained about the heat, much to the annoyance of the Florida locals, but here I have proved my point, this heat is downright dangerous as well as oppressive.

www.wrh.noaa.gov/psr/general/safety/heat/

We have a plague of little tiny frogs at the moment. Often green tree frogs are around so I thought the little baby froglings were tree frogs. Yesterday I tipped a bucket of ice onto the garden and these little frogs were hopping on the ice cubes and getting stuck. I was distrought, and was carefully picking up the cubes and picking off the little frogs that were stuck and feeling very happy about saving them.

My neighbour came over and told me that these darling little froglings were in fact, baby cane toads. Crikey! They are everywhere, hopping all over the place. No problem now, but these things will grow up to be vile, ugly cane toads. I stood outside, without a hat or sunblock, (horror), saving baby cane toads. Oh Flori-duh, the heat has well and truly addled my brains. I guess that accounts for such a drab blog post as well as the cane toad mercy mission. :(

Carry on talking

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"The accent of one's birthplace remains in the mind and in the heart as in one's speech.

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Francois de la Rochefoucauld.

After a year and a half as an expat, I am happy to say that I have not succumbed to the voices around me and acquired a US accent. I have steadfastly fought against gaining one of those Aussie/American concoctions sported by likes of Nicole Kidman and her celebrity expat friends. It just sounds so peculiar. Australian accents don't lend well to hybridisation.

Most people I encounter in the USA think I am British when they hear my dulcet tones, or should that be cacophanous prattle? It seems that the Crocodile Hunter is their reference for how Australians should sound. If anything, puzzling as this is, my accent has become more ENGLISH sounding since being here. It seems a silly affectation indeed, but truly it's not.

Perhaps it is due to the fact that I really don't like American television, as referenced in a previous and rather cantankerous post. I have always much prefered British film and television and continue to watch it over here instead of the indigenous productions.

English Literature is also a favourite. I did a semester of American Literature at University and found it a complete bore, and have since tended to avoid American authors.

I had to read Henry James, 'Portrait of a Lady' and 'Washington Square' at University and considered going the way of Sylvia Plath with my head in the oven, just to escape the drawn out suffering of actually finishing the books. On the other hand, when I read 'Catcher in the Rye', I was hoping Holden Caulfied would make good on his suicidal longings and top himself quick smart because he was such a frightful deadhead, particularly of note considering he was constantly ranting about everyone and everything else being a bore.

Another factor could be that in fighting the battle against sounding American and short of being surrounded by Australian accents, I am accentuating one that I hear more frequently, on the telly anyway, and one that is familiar. The remedy it seems could be to watch more Australian productions. I wonder if viewing 'Chopper' will cause more of that Aussie accent to surface, or just scare the neighbourhood kids, especially when I accost them in the street with a kooky wave and by saying...'hello, hello kiddies, say hello to your Auntie Chop chop'. I might start spouting memorable Chopper quotes like, ' I'm just a bloody normal bloke. A normal bloke who likes a bit of torture', which will not keep me in good standing with neighbours. Perhaps I should stick to the 'Carry on' films, 'Carry on Matron' is my favourite, Hattie Jacques was brilliant as Matron.

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Carry on Matron!

Eric Bana as Chopper, A most unsavoury character indeed.

My mother was very much a Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet), 'If you have to perspire, I wish you'd go into the back garden, so as not to disturb the people who respect us socially', type of person and told us children to watch the ABC when growing up so we could listen to BBC English being modelled with the hope we would sound like that instead of the grubby little bogans we really were.

Hyacinth.

I have one Australian friend here who speaks with an Aussie twang and we sound nothing alike, but when I am around her I find that the inner Aussie accent within starts to rear it's true blue head. Once, after eating Tim Tams, the Colonel said I sounded more Australian. What is it about Tim Tams, aside from their delicious chocolatey goodness, that can conjure up one's Aussieness?

Despite my best efforts, some words are dissolving into the turbid whirlpool of multi-accented confusion. I sometimes forget how a word is pronounced back home. I'm not always sure if my way of saying the word is correct in Australia, or if I have just got it wrong. In my ADHD addled mind I tend to get a lot of things wrong.

Over here the word Mauve is pronounced 'Maw ve.' I had to spell the word to my Aussie friend and ask her how she said it. Fortunately she said 'Mow ve' so I then knew that my way was indeed correct, as I had become confused and wondered if my pronunciation was just a product of my imaginings.

I have been saying the word OMEGA, 'Ohm ay ga' instead of 'Om ee ga' and caught myself out on that one. The Home Depot store is pronounced 'dee poh' instead of 'dep oh'. I had been saying it the American way and quickly corrected it, but sometimes it's just easier to say it their way, so they can understand me.

Oh weird and peculiar accent of mine, how long before you change into something even more nauseating.

Gold, Gold, Gold, bright yellow hard and cold.

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Just like Goldmember, I love Gold. As a child I hated yellow gold jewelery. It was seen as being too Italian, or just plain woggy. The whole identity issue was running rampant back then. Being half Australian and half Italian lead a certain Chichi to identify with one culture at a time, rather than manage to meld the two into a synergistic whole.

Now I have learnt to appreciate yellow gold, in fact I am crazy about Gold Jewelery, the woggier the better.

Cheech and the Colonel invest money in gold too, recently having sold some of it off to aid towards a deposit for a new house. Before selling it I had to take a couple of pictures though because it is just plain gorgeous. Oh Gold, with your buttery 24 carat goodness, I love you.

O Gold! How I prefer thee to paper
Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour

Lord Byron, Don Juan

Sadly my camera is having difficulties, I hope it can be fixed as it takes the best shots. In the meantime, I found some webshots of some of my recent purchases under the motto, Woggier is better. I bought all of them at heavily discounted prices which sweetened the deal.

When good Americans die, they go to Paris

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One of my favourite cities in the world is Paris.

I spent a short time there which included Christmas Day in 2006. One could only marvel at the history, the architecture, the beauty of the city. A thrilling experience was seeing Mass at Notre Dame and having some surprising adventures in Montemarte.

Exterior details, Notre Dame

Notre Dame

Prior to leaving Australia I had booked some day tours. I would arrive in the morning at the designated office, catch a bus with the other happy campers, and spend the day on a tour. This was really helpful when going to Versailles as it's some way out of Paris and we were given a guided tour of the Palace.

Oooh La la, I did love all the chandeliers, gold and finery. Those French royals really knew how to live in luxury. Too bad those smelly peasant's couldn't appreciate that! No Ms Antoinette, it is you who can eat cake!

Hall of Mirrors, Palace of Versaille

I booked a show at the Moulin Rouge. In my stupidity, I thought that it would mean some kind of hotel pick up or meeting point, as it was a nightime event and I was in Paris alone. Sadly, this was not the case. We were left to our own devices and had to pick up the ticket at the venue.

Off I went into the bitter cold winter night excited about visiting Montemarte, inspiration to the Impressionists, one of my favourite schools of art. I asked my concierge for directions to Sacre Coeur, told her I was heading to Moulin Rouge and was informed that it was in fact the red light district. ewww errrr..

I loved the Paris subway!

A little dismayed by this news, I shrugged my shoulders and ventured forth. Surely it would be ok, was one of the few thoughts going through my deluded mind. I have been to St Kilda, sure the hookers stand around looking like bored, drunk, drugged up manniquins, but really St Kilda is only scary when one tries to walk on the beach and remembers how the druggies leave their used syringes in the sand.

I got lost in Montemarte while it was still daylight and had to take out a map. An elderly man approached me talking in French trying to help. I said, 'Sacre Coeur'. He pointed and replied, 'Up good, down bad'. Bless him and his smattering of English. I followed his advice and sure enough, the impressive Romanesque structure loomed before me as I followed a windy road. It was spectacular. Christmas night and people were everywhere. From the front of the church one could see all over Paris, including the brightly illuminated Eiffel tower. The streets behind were a labyrinth of cobbled stone streets, lively cafes and eateries and the delicious sounds of the French language.

Rear view, Sacre Coeur

Sacre Coeur

I made my way down the massive hill to the Moulin Rouge but here things took a dreadful turn. I should add that on my train ride to Montemart I was accosted by a Japanese man. Having been to Japan I was shocked by his forwardness. Normally the Japanese are ever so polite, but here was this guy, feeling me up on a train.

He started rubbing my leg, and I rather roughly removed his hand. So unlike the polite manners one normally finds among the Japanese, I was flummoxed by this odd turn of events. I told him to keep his hands off me and he proceeded to do it again, this time he held up a bag and said, ' I have French pastries'. Well, that was something to think about. My first thought was...'what kind of French pastries'.

Was I being offered pastries so that he could cop a feel? Should I be insulted or reach for the paper bag cointaining the delicious delights? What's most bothersome is that I look like such a cheap date, throw me an eclair and off we go!

Fruit flan and Coffee Eclair

I had to be quite stern with this guy and eventually got off the train a stop earlier to get away. Out of the frying pan and into the fire as they say. Montemarte truly is the Red light district. The place was crowded with sex shops and even a three story, Porn Palace. I was numbed with shock at the blatant display of pictures and all kinds of things in windows I passed. Things that a delicate mind like mine should never be exposed to. The horror.

.My hair was white blonde, I was obviously a foreigner, and I was perambulating the crepuscular streets in a seedy red light district on my own. Did I look like a hooker?

A man started following me down the street whispering something constantly. He was saying, J'etame, (sorry for the misspelling but I can't spell in English let alone French). I didn't know what that meant. Was he telling me he was going to kill me? Eventually I found out that it means 'I love you'. Just as disturbing really. Then a group of men walked past. Two broke away and were persistent in taking Chichi off for a coffee. One of them kept looking at me all starry eyed while his friend was doing the translating. I did get a kiss on the hand, from a French man in Paris, but really, it was a bit scary. Not that the gentleman in question was not handsome, I was just overwhelmed by the whole Montemarte thing and being chased around the streets.

Street behind Sacre Coeur

I eventually got away from these two, only to find another one hot on my heels. The show was still an hour away and I had had enough. I jumped into the only cab I could find and said..'Drive'!

The driver laughed when I told him of my travails and said, "hey it's Montemarte, what did you expect?'. I expected to see the Moulin Rouge unmolested thank you very much. I spent $260 on that ticket and never picked it up. Safely back in my hotel room I did not mind missing the show at all.

Moulin Rouge from the outside, I never did make it in.

Aside from that little adventure, I thought Paris was a beautiful city, the people were lovely and kind. I even walked past Woody Allen and his daughter/slash wife on a quiet street. Woody looked at me, I looked at him and in my head I wanted to say, 'These pretzels are making me thirsty'. What a buffoon. I have seen that Seinfeld episode way too many times.

Paris, the city of love, or in my case, the city of cheap thrills. The pastry shops are unbeatable, the scenery was resplendent in the winter sunshine and all in all it was an amazing time.

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you. Paris is a moveable feast."

Ernest Hemingway.

Title quotation by Oscar Wilde.
All photographs are my own.

Limoncello

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Last week I had Limoncello coloured hair, sad but true. This week my locks might be a more pleasing shade of blonde but the previous bleaching seems to have seeped through my scalp, permeated my brain and left the idea of luscious limoncello in the gray matter. I have long thought that the peroxide was wrecking some kind of havoc on my already stressed brain cells. Surely I can't have too many healthy cell's left to play with. ADHD and it's assorted medications, some of them for ADHD's dreadful twin, Insomnia, must have wrought some heavy carnage in the Chichi cranium. Mostly I blame peroxide for my amazing stupidity, but could my citrus infused cravings be a rare but altogether pleasant side affect?

Tonight I am cooking Limoncello chicken, and today I made Limoncello and Blueberry cake.

Limoncello and blueberry cake

Cook Time: 35 minutes
Ingredients:

3 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups fresh blueberries
1-1/2 cups butter, room temperature
2 cups sugar
3 eggs, room temperature
1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon limoncello, divided
2 tablespoons lemon zest, divided
2 cups powdered sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease 9x13 cake pan. In a large bowl, combine flour, baking soda and salt with a wire whisk. Set aside. Place blueberries in a small bowl. Add 2 tablespoons of dry ingredients. Toss gently and set aside. (This is done so blueberries don't sink to bottom of cake.)

In an another bowl, beat butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in eggs, one at a time. Add 1 tablespoon limoncello. Add the dry mixture and combine completely. Fold in 1 tablespoon zest and blueberries. Carefully add batter to prepared pan. Bake for 30-35 minutes. Cool pan on rack for 15 minutes before adding glaze. Cool completely before serving.

Glaze: With a wire whisk, stir together powdered sugar, 1/4 cup limoncello and 1 tablespoon lemon zest. Drizzle over cake, then spread for even consistancy.

What is it about that sweet Italian Liquor that makes one keep coming back for more? Limoncello hair, bad, Limoncello cake, good. Fact.
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