The Boast Of A Roast

Bit of a strange one, this weekend. I didn’t realise until way too late that I’d be having an extra day off, so instead of booking my usual raft of appointments to hold my body together I was forced to sleep in, do things I wanted to and indulge myself. Such a hard life.

I’d already planned my Saturday. I’d be hitting the road, headed for Daylesford, Woodend and Mount Macedon to tackle some of my favourite winding country roads. To make matters worse, I’ve met this boy who happens to like hitting the open road just as much as I do, so I asked him to tag along too.

The drive was made oh-so-much better by getting caught in the midst of a cycle race for most of the highway trip, so much so that the plethora of lycra-clad, muscled thighs caused me to miss my exit to Daylesford. I’d like to say I didn’t mind the extra distance but I was getting hungry and had a perfect day all mapped out in my mind and any deviation from that plan was going to piss me right off.

My ballistics grade tantrum about missing the turn-off was certainly not my proudest moment.

Thankfully the back roads approaching Daylesford are beautifully tree-lined and amble gently through the countryside, which in concert with setting the climate control a few degrees colder to calm my reddened complexion, was enough to bring my blood pressure back to normal. By making a few quips at my own expense I was even able to get my travel companion to smile again. Now could we kindly never mention my volcanic dummy-spit again? Thanks.

Traveling in a car that has a massive glass pane in place of a normal roof allowed an open view of the rolling clouds in the crisp azure sky above. An aspect not lost on my cohort. Sadly as the driver I only got to glimpse snatches of the sky through the reflections in the chrome gear lever. Good enough I guess.

Pulling up in the centre of town revealed a problem however. Which establishment should win our patronage for lunch? The Daylesford Hotel seemed to have the largest local contingent as far as we could tell, so won out.

“What the hell are crumbed sausages?” asked the travel companion.

“It’s like a schnitzel, but made with sausages” I explained, which kicked off my craving, so that’s what I ordered, only to be greeted with an absolute mountain of food, the likes of which could’ve very well originated from my mother’s kitchen.

Of course the weather conspired against us after lunch, so after stopping for an overpriced coffee and chocolate brownie the size of a phone book, we hit the trails but elected to stay safely within the confines of the car, heater blasting and seat heaters toasting our wimpy behinds.

Somehow the evening, back in Melbourne, turned into a debauched but hilarious ‘on ice’ show thanks to gal-pal Big Red and her insistence we go ice skating with her siblings. As with my last ice skating trip one sock managed to loose itself into my skate and I’ve rubbed a hole in my left ankle – but at least this time I stayed upright, dry and free from any ice-rash. That shit is nasty.

To wrap up my weekend I decided to host what I like to term the Un-traditional Sunday Roast. For starters it doesn’t take place on a Sunday, but on a Monday as that tends to be when all involved are a little more available. The attendees aren’t all that traditional either with my very gay self, an Amazonian red head with a rope fetish and mis-placed Brit who likes to be spanked and abused (no, not by me) all converging at my house for tea.

The roast itself is far more traditional however with a towering slab of pepper-crusted beef topside, gravy, pumpkin, spuds, honey carrots and steamed broccoli finished off with choc-caramel cheesecake, the last one however was made by Sarah Lee, not me I’m afraid.

My efforts did extend to an afternoon of baking however and my kitchen is now packed with such delights as cheese and bacon muffins and my personal favourite, choc-peanut cookies, otherwise known as chocky pucks, thanks to their hockey puck-like shape and my penchant for clever play-on-words naming conventions.

So, with stomachs full of food and Tupperware containers filled with muffins and biscuits, the unlikely companions of mine headed to their individual homes, dragging their respective shibari ropes and motorcycle leathers behind them with the usual cries of: “You’ll make someone the perfect husband one day” without ever knowing to what degree they’re already occupying that void.

For as long as there’s friends to cook for, and drink Riesling with, and take home bundles of baked goods, and laugh and joke and share otherwise inane tales with, I reckon I’m covered in all the important areas.