January 6th, 2012 | Posted by The Booyah Cook in Cooking - (0 Comments)

In Australia we have Meat Pies. In Tasmania we have National Pies. They are made by a company called Tas Bakeries. There are all sorts of companies in Tasmania. Tasmania Carpet Cleaning, Tas Paints… you probably get the picture. Any, Party Pies. It ain’t a Party if there are no Party Pies. Unless you are at the Footy where there will be National Pies and Hutton Footy Franks. It is unlikely you will find a Party Pie there. Footy is serious.

For Christmas, I cooked myself a dozen Party Pies in lieu of a luxurious crayfish lunch on Christmas Day. And here is a picture of my labours. If you want to make some for yourself, try this recipe.


April 25th, 2010 | Posted by The Booyah Cook in Travel - (0 Comments)

As the hemisphere changes and I end up standing the opposite way to the centre of gravity from 24 hours ago so does my taste in men change, it seems. It is funny how the smalled detail changes everything. For example, waiting for the sniffer dog beagle to go through everyone’s luggage I saw this guy with a short beard all the way down his neck and hair kinda short, bit neanderthal looking but worth looking at twice. BUT ONLY IN AUSTRALIA .

Yes – a small percentage of these guys here will have a bullet engraved with your name before he shoots you point blank in the head and drives off in his ute after you cheated on him with his best mate (or not) – but THE MAJORITY probably work on a farm, winery, have a fishing boat – healthy out doorsy lifestyles know how to shear sheep – all of which infers hot and sweaty rumbles in any of the afpremntioned venues. And he can brobably hold you up against the wall while he is doing it. Gays – something for you too cause some of these men are gay too. Only a percentage more than the psychos but def worth a nod and a wink in the local bush ‘hotel’ (i.e. Pub).

A man of similar appearance in the UK is either a) Australian and there to promote the wine from his family estate or b) a British nutter and the only job he could get is working for the council getting weeds out from between the paving stones or picking litter from the motorways at night (that is a real job). The British version lives with his mum, will set up spycams to watch you poo, stalk you and kill your cat. Before tying you up with those plastic tie things, losing his erection, crying and having to shoot himself leaving his brains all over your face.

I just re-read that. I don’t know what has happened to me in my life to make me think about things like that. But there is my whole psyche on a plate I guess.

On another note, it’s ANZAC day here so a minutes silence for our war heros. LEST WE FORGET.