Overcoming online hedonism

Until recently, my friend Art did not have data on his phone – or, rather, he didn’t realise that he did because it was not switched on in his phone’s settings. But once he turned it on, all hell (aka: the world wide web) broke loose into Art’s life 24-7.

Now, instead of waiting to get home at the end of the day, where he’d have access to wifi, he was like a child in a lolly shop. At every opportunity – on the bus, in the train, on the toilet, while waiting in line – Art found himself touching base with his online world via his little device. How many likes and comments did his latest Facebook post get? Who emailed him in the last five minutes since he checked? Where was that restaurant his friend told him about…

This newfound freedom of being able to teleport into ether whenever the urge bubbled up was, in Art’s words, “utterly exhausting”. That’s because it wasn’t freedom that Art had found, it was enslavement.

Art is not an exception. Many of us will find our hands unconsciously reaching for our devices at any spare moment, at any hint of boredom or at any time we’re working on something that requires thinking and effort – like writing this article!

It’s the easier thing to do – hedonistic, even, given the instant gratification. But what price are we paying? Minutes, hours, days, years are whiled away by doing the hedonistic rather than the meaningful.

Sadly, once the online habits solidify, it takes much effort and willpower – and self-created boundaries – to help break the addiction cycle.

Alexandra Franzen, a writing teacher whom I admire for her generosity and sage advice, has a good set-up: on most days she flicks her phone to silent mode and  places it face down on the other side of her apartment; she has also deleted all her social media accounts.

Alexandra has laid these boundaries so that she can have peace and space in her life – and mind! – for all the things that make her time on the planet more meaningful – for example, like running a successful business, mentoring people who want to become better writers, giving her partner Brandon her full attention.

Similar to Alex, I have canned all my social media profiles. But when it comes to the internet, I’m more like my friend Art: I can’t resist the urge. I check my email when I’m bored, and give in to the itch of googling something that has popped up in my mind, usually when I’m in the middle of doing a task that’s taxing my brain.

My push notifications are already all turned off. And I’m toying with the idea of checking email only twice each day, as well as pushing myself to write something – by hand in my A5-sized journal, even if it’s just a page – before I allow myself to google anything. I’m not sure whether this reward-based tactic to reshape my online habits will work, but it’s worth a try.

There is no right way. If you wish to change your relationship with technology, only you can find out what will work for you.

As for Art, I have a feeling that the novelty of being able to jump into cyberspace at a whim is wearing off. But I can’t be sure unless I ask him. So I’ll do just that when I next connect with my friend in real life, instead of sending him a text this minute – since I really don’t need to know right now, do I?

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(Am I) ugly or pretty?

“You’re so pretty”, Sally had said.

I can recall the day like it was yesterday. It was our very first day of moving into the university’s halls of residence. We were both 17. And it was a warm summer’s afternoon in February 1992.

This was the first time I ever met Sally. And that was the first thing she ever said to me.

I blinked at her, stunned. Eventually, I spluttered a thank you, with my gaze held downwards, my cheeks hot.

I remember feeling confused. I had believed myself to be ugly, well, ever since I moved to Australia. You see, in year 9, aged 14, not even a full year after migrating to Melbourne, I was told as such in the girls’ bathroom while washing my hands.

“Gosh, you’re ugly,” a classmate had pronounced out of the blue, as if it were fact. Her name was Deirdre.

I recall my words getting caught in my throat. My body shrinking, as my spine slouched. I had simply wanted to disappear.

Taking Deirdre’s words as gospel, I had believed myself to be grotesque. So when three years later Sally remarked on my beauty, I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know whether I should believe her. But a small part of me thought, what if she’s right? And a bold part of me candidly thought, “Can’t people decide whether I was pretty or ugly?

How naïve was I. As if it were someone else’s call to decide. As if someone else gets to decide.

As a society, we’ve placed external beauty on a pedestal. It’s obvious in every type of media. It can be the reason for getting snubbed or being revered. It can be the reason for getting the job, or applying for the next one because you didn’t.

And if someone hasn’t been cruel to us as bluntly as Deirdre was to me, we are cruel to ourselves. With our self-talk. With our seeking validation outside ourselves.

For example, while “Does my bum look big in this?” is the butt of many good-humoured conversations, it still gets posed on a serious note.

Heck, even I sometimes ask my husband before we head out somewhere, “How do I look?”

You know how he answers? Like this: “If you’re happy with how you look and feel, then why does it matter what someone else thinks?”

Smart man. Because what he is saying is that you don’t need my – or anyone else’s – endorsement to feel beautiful.

The thing is, people will always judge our exterior. And if we absorb someone else’s opinions about ourselves as the truth, we give away our power to be who we are.

Skin-deep beauty is fickle. So, you might as well hold on to your power, and love your own unique exquisiteness.

How? By telling yourself that you’re beautiful. With your self-talk, with your behaviour, with how you treat yourself.

No one else gets to decide. Not even Sally.

A note to self

You have a lot to give yourself and to the world.

Be kind and be patient – with yourself and others.

It’s okay if you do not know your purpose.

There’s more to life than ‘werk’ and money.

Although you do need those things to a degree in the conventional world, there are other ways to give and receive abundance.

So do not be hard on yourself, dear one.

You are nothing to be fixed.

You are whole, complete in your perfectly imperfect way.


The importance of noting your little successes

Yesterday I was deep in conversation with a friend. Let’s call him Art.

For the past 10 years, Art had lived and worked overseas, where he had created a name for himself and his indie performances. But a few months ago, he moved back to Australia to help his ailing dad.

Art is in his 40s. He had used up all his savings to invest in his projects, and now this unforeseen return home put him financially in the red.

Because he couldn’t afford outings or accommodation, Art found himself housebound and living with his parents – people who weren’t supportive of his work, and made his life difficult in the past for not conforming to their ideals of success.

But one of the main blows for Art was his projects also suffered, since he didn’t have his creative networks within reach to collaborate with, or his trusty fans to perform to.

Art was teetering on a dangerous edge, mentally.

“If I didn’t do anything about it,” he pronounced, “I knew I’d find myself spiralling into a dark, deep depression.”

Looking at At’s smiling face, I asked, “So, how did you turn things around?”

“By focusing on making each day a success and writing down every little triumph I had,” he replied.

Art doesn’t recall how he got the idea, but he says it’s what  made him get out of his funk.

By focusing on and writing down his daily, run-of-the-mill achievements, he felt worthy. Worthy enough to create, live, be who he is.

What did Art’s successes look like? “Writing,” he had recounted. “Sometimes painting, cooking, and taking a walk. The key was jotting it down.”

Art went on to get a casual job in a café – so he can afford life’s little luxuries, like enjoying a cup of coffee and eating out with a friend occasionally. He also creates his art every single day.

Hearing my friend’s story, I realised that anyone – even if their circumstances aren’t that dire – could benefit from writing down their successes daily. They don’t have to be grandiose ones either. Think caring for someone, vacuuming, fitting in some exercise, calling a friend. Heck, some days it could just be getting out of bed and having a shower.

So yesterday, at the end of the day, I took a leaf out of Art’s book and wrote down my small wins of the day:

Doing 25 minutes of yoga at home, using my favourite app.

My three-hour deep-and-meaningful chat with Art, over coffee and a nutritious bowl of goodness, all of which fed my soul.

Taking my dogs to the park, even when I was tired and didn’t feel like it (looking at their happy faces as they ran around aimlessly made me feel glad that I did).

Changing the template of my blog for a fresh start, now that the plan was to write more in 2018.

Cooking the lamb skewers we had for dinner to perfection – not chewy at all!

Reading a few pages of The Happiness Project – I have read it a couple of times, and it makes for a motivating read at the beginning of a new year.

It  was gratifying experience. It’s the little stuff, daily, that matters, that makes a life, I realised. Thank you, Art, for this invaluable life lesson.

Life is full of little victories if you choose to see them. And by writing them down, you get a boost. A pat on the back. Something we all need from time to time to keep on keeping on.

I’ll be writing my daily successes in a journal for the next few weeks to see how it makes me feel. Want to try it, too?

Lesh x

2017: my year in review

What were my goals at the beginning of 2017? To be honest, I can’t recall, as I don’t believe I formally set any. I mostly went with the flow, and felt like I floated all year and didn’t really achieve much.

yearly reflections

Upon reflection, however, I found that this wasn’t true. I had subconsciously focused on movement and deeper connections – my two-word ‘goal’ of 2013. This made me realise that how long it can take – in my case years – to build habits, and that it’s always going to be work in progress.


In the case of movement, I still walk the dogs at least five days a week for 30-50 minutes, but the number of yoga classes I attended weekly declined from three or four, to one or two. This might seem like a step backwards, but it wasn’t.

After not enjoying the yoga retreat I went to in Greece this year, I lost my yoga mojo. Asking myself why, I put it down to two things – lack of variety and the need to feel feminine. The latter because my life felt ho-hum, flat, rigid. I wanted to feel sexy, fluid again. So, I shook things up, literally.

What replaced yoga was dance. My sister had opened a dance studio at the end of 2016. So, one term saw me do Bhangra Hip Hop, and another two terms saw me do Bolly Zumba. I even ‘starred’ in a promotional video clip for the studio (I’m the one in the white top – in my defence, the other three are professional dancers and I had only learned the routine in 10 minutes!)

I also took the Flow dance course with Dee Street Studios. The course was described as “Celebrating the sassy, the sensual and the cheeky from Afro, hip hop, r&b and dancehall, Flow gives you the space to release, love yourself and feel sexy and grounded.” Booyah!

And right now, my favourite way of moving is Zumba – mostly because I’ve discovered some fun instructors who run sassy classes close to home. Convenience matters for long-term commitment, I have found.

Also in the theme of movement, I bought myself a stand-up desk earlier in the year, since I have a desk-based profession. I usually have Latin dance music playing (influenced by Zumba) as I work, which sees me swaying my hips – thank goodness I mostly work from home!

Deeper connection

Moving on to deeper connection, this year I learned that by not regularly expressing myself in writing, I lost a part of me. I dabbled in a couple watercolour painting classes to reconnect to my core, and while it was fun (and daunting at times, for I was a true beginner), words, I realised, are my medium.

I also focused on making more time for people who make me feel positive and alive. To work out who they are, I observed my thoughts, feelings and behaviour patterns while in the company of people.

To make more time, I took the initiative – rather than waiting for them to get in touch – by messaging, calling, catching up with them (if they are based in Melbourne, too), and consuming their material if they are artists.

Other realisations

As I reflected on 2017, I realised I also did a healthy amount of travel.

It was my husband’s dream to see the Northern Lights, and exactly this time last year, from the 1st to 5th of January 2017, we braced -40°C in Ivalo, Finland, and crossed our fingers in hope that we got to see one of nature’s greatest spectacles.

Luckily, the gods blessed us two nights in a row. The lights danced in the pitch-black sky, and we watched in awe, momentarily forgetting our frozen faces.

northern lights ivalo finland

The lure of the lights wasn’t enough, though. I had brokered a deal with hubby before we booked the trip: If I was going to freeze my butt for his bucket-list item, we had to tag a place on the way home that was considerably warmer – and I chose Morocco. I hadn’t realised that at this time of year north of West Africa is also chilly. But I suppose 9°C is considerably warmer than -40°C.

For me, Morocco didn’t hold a candle to the experience I had in Finland, but it did satisfy my curiosity about a place I’ve always wanted to visit.

In May, the Greek island of Hydra called me for a yoga retreat. As soon as the yoga studio I had been a member at advertised this retreat in 2016, I jumped onto it. The idea of yoga on a Greek island with cobblestone streets, traditional tavernas, brightly coloured doors, a crescent-shaped harbour, and no cars (just donkeys!) held me in such a strong magnetic pull, that I just had to book in.

What I had learned is that I let romanticising get the better of me. Yes, I did want to visit the island, but not while on a yoga retreat (too much yoga for me) with a group of people who weren’t really my people.

While the above trips were pre-planned at least a year in advance, my husband proposed a question to me, out of the blue, in July 2017 – would I like to accompany him to New York in November when he runs the world’s biggest marathon? “Yes”, I sad, without a moment’s hesitation. It has been one of my best holidays yet.

The last significant realisation I had in 2017 is related to work.

In my 20+ years of earning an income, I’ve career-hopped enough times to have learned a few secrets about work. One of the keys ones is that jobs are like relationships. For relationships to have a hope of working, both parties need to be a good fit for each other. And by a good fit, and I don’t mean a person’s experience to the job description, but a person’s nature and working style to that of their boss’s and of the organisation’s. And if the relationship doesn’t work, it’s time to move on. Nothing personal.

I came to this realisation because of two things: years of trying to be myself in cultures that weren’t a good fit (and experiencing anguish and heartache for too long as a result), and finally finding one that did.

In October 2016, I wrote in my journal what I wanted out of a workplace at this point in my life:

Kind, compassionate, encouraging boss who sees my potential. Equally, I’m kind, flexible, encouraging and can appreciate the developmental opportunities my work offers me. The work is in the field of lifestyle health and wellbeing, and preventive health. I am able to work from home and it is fun!

It astounds me that only two months later, in December 2016, I landed a job that, after being in it for all of 2017, I can say wholeheartedly satisfies all the above, and is a close match to my core values.

Putting 2017 into words gave me greater insight about myself, made me realise what a phenomenal year it was for me and gave me clarity for where I’d to go from here.

If you’re feeling that 2017 flew by without your accomplishing much, you may like to, like I have, jot down all the great things you remember about 2017, and what you learned about yourself from the positive and the not-so-great stuff.

~ Lesh x

Me and the city – then and now

On Sunday, 5 November 2017, my husband ran the New York City marathon and I decided to tag along – not on the marathon, but to the City.

Lesh in NYC 2017

The last (and first time) I was in Manhattan was in July 2004, at the age of 30.

Between visits, much has changed. Mostly because my perspective – layered with 13 years’ life experience – and my priorities – now that I’m 2 years shy of, ahem, middle age – have evolved.

Despite my ‘evolution’, my propensity to worry remains. And so you’d be forgiven for thinking that my concern heading into New York would’ve been the terrorist attack that happened 5 days before our arrival. But, no, it was how I would get around in the Big Apple. Yeah, I know.

So, before jet setting, I downloaded the streets of NYC onto a nifty app, which I could use offline and watch the blue dot – me, or to be precise, my phone – traipse the streets, so that I wouldn’t get lost. I even pinned some locations.

It was a heavily misdirected anxiety, I soon realised. New York could be renamed the Grid City – it is the easiest city to get around in, if you can count and know your east from your west. I seemed to have forgotten this fact, along with how I managed to get from A to B without technology to guide me in 2004. Gosh, smart devices can make us so dumb!

In the end, I never used the app. I went old school with a printed map I had picked up from the hotel – ah ha, so that’s how I did it all those years ago – which also had the subway marked on it. I then marked on the map – with a real pen, I tell you! – locations I had looked up online, mostly places at which to eat and caffeinate.

The performance was part luddite and part technophile, and depicts me to a T.

The first time round, I used photocopied pages of the Lonely Planet – because who really wants to lug the whole thing around? – for there was no other choice. Now, however, the technophile part of me took advantage of Google, Yelp, Airbnb and Trip Advisor reviews to help find, say, the best falafel in the Upper West Side (btw, that would be the Hummus Place).

Technological advances aside – and my relationship with it – NYC has, of course, also moved on, despite the survival of 24/7 noise, smells and Sex and the City tours – one of my favourite memories from my first visit (the tour, not the noise or the smells).

The city feels safer, looks cleaner. It’s most likely because of the gentrification of once gang-filled areas like Harlem.

And I can now find Melbourne in pockets of Manhattan, also in hip places like Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where smashed avocado on toast is served alongside a flat white. A pleasing fact, because with age and living in a city that has the best coffee the world, I have developed snobbish taste buds.

Another thing that didn’t exist 13 years ago is the High Line. Which is probably best, as I wouldn’t have appreciated it back then.

The High Line is an old historic freight rail line that’s been turned into a ‘garden in the sky’ with a public pathway that runs through it. And it’s not any old pathway or garden. I discovered plenty of artwork scattered throughout, along with architecturally designed wooden benches upon which to sit and ponder life.

Lesh at the High Line 2017

But all that was not its only beauty – the High Line is elevated above the streets of Manhattan, and offered me fabulous views of Lower West Side and the opportunity to meander without having to watch out for cars.

The High Line was one of the very few touristy ‘must-dos’ we did while in the Big Apple, along with a visit to the 9/11 Memorial Plaza, which, of course, wasn’t there 13 years ago either.

We didn’t venture up the Empire State Building, like we had in 2004. Instead, I opted for a cosmopolitan (a nod to Sex and the City) on the rooftop bar of the Empire Hotel – a totally different building, in case you are wondering – to celebrate my husband’s marathon feat.

Empire Hotel rooftop 2017

Lesh with a cosmopolitan NYC 2017

We gave 5th Avenue a miss, on purpose – which meant no Tiffany, where, last time, my husband had insisted we step into, because he sneakily wanted to see which engagement rings held my gaze. He popped the question a month after that trip – not with a Tiffany ring, but with a ring he had a jeweller back in Melbourne make, I am happy to say. 

While mainstream shopping no longer holds my attention as it once did – bookshops do, especially independent ones. Two in particular had my heart smiling the whole time I was in there. Both – Spoonbill and Sugartown (what a name!) in Williamsburg and the Tenement Museum Shop in the Lower East Side – stumbled upon while exploring our chosen area of the day, usually decided the day before.

And even though Central Park is on many (every?) New York tourists’ list – I can vividly recall hubby in 2004 with remote in hand, trying to manoeuvre a hired toy boat on the reservoir – this time it took a backseat to the many other patches of green on the island.

Ambling through the farmers’ market at Union Square (we bought locally made hot sauce!), eating at the Bryant Park Holiday shops, hubby playing chess at Washington Square Park for a fiver, and squinting to see the Statue of Liberty from Battery Park were all memorable, serendipitous experiences.

Gaj playing chess in Washington square

But I have yet to mention the trump card (no, most definitely not of that Trump) I had up my sleeve for this trip – the card that made much of our unexpected adventures possible: locals!

My husband’s two cousins – a brother–sister team, one (M) studying in Manhattan and the other (J) in Boston, and both essentially half our age – enriched and amplified our experience.

Williamsburg and eating out – or looking for a place to eat, even – wouldn’t have had the number of giggles or deep and meaningful conversations (me and M, mostly) that I need to feed my soul. Plus, having locals meant being able to get more intimate with the destination.

the cousins NYC 2017

But if you don’t have a local of your own – and I don’t recommend grabbing one off the subway – fear not. Like-minded travellers from your homeland can, and do, sweeten the travel adventures.

During this trip, we had snippets of time with folk from the land down under, since the marathon attracts people from the world over.

A catch-up over Melbourne-style coffee the day before the big event with the runners from the run club my hubby belonged to and their supporters, created a happy, anticipated buzz in the atmosphere that I felt right into to my bones.

And because we had booked the marathon part of our trip with a travel organisation specialising in marathons, we had enthusiastic, impromptu chats with Australians – both runners and supporters – in the hotel lobby. You here for the marathon? Yeah, me too. Have you run marathons before? Yeah, wow, that many!

And on the marathon day itself, the cousins and I banded together at mile 14 with many supporters from the travelling group – and with a massive inflated Kangaroo that came on the subway with us – to barrack and cheer our hearts and lungs out.

The marathon was the entire reason we visited, but I hadn’t expected it to be momentous for me – for my hubby’s, yes, but not for me. It was a daylong fiesta, with the whole of New York City being charged with positive energy. Almost 60,000 participants ran through all its 5 boroughs, with supporters from around the globe cheering and ringing cowbells to elate and encourage the runners to complete their feat. And I was a part of it!

Gaj NYC marathon 2017

Gaj NYC marathon 2017

Not only that, but also the marathon along with great company and conversation, good food, and a sense of community with a joint purpose made my New York experience a soul-satisfying one. Something I don’t think would have been possible if I had armed myself with a checklist of things I must do in NYC that I had to cross off.

This trip proved to be the perfect example of why shared joy and being fully immersed (present) in the experience is vital to one’s happiness.

New York, I hope circumstances bring me to your grid-shaped streets again. For you would have changed and so would’ve I – and I’d be able to learn more about myself and relish you with newly gained insight and perspective.


NYC places and things I loved and highly recommend


A picture paints a thousand words…that you cannot see

This is a photo of me at Bisti beach, on the idyllic Greek island of Hydra.

What is it saying to you? That I’m happy? That I’m having the time of my life, frolicking in the turquoise-blue waters of the Aegean Sea? That I can afford an extravagant holiday on the other side of the world?

Maybe. Maybe not.

You don’t truly know.

But let me tell you. What it’s not saying is that I found the water utterly freezing. That I only dipped in for a few seconds because I thought it’d be a shame – and a waste of money – not to get salty seawater on my skin, having flown over multiple time zones.

It’s not saying that I wasn’t enjoying myself (the smile even fools me). That I felt lonely, even amongst people – people who were kind, but whom I couldn’t connect with. That I wished I were home with my loved ones.

Sure photos evoke feelings – but they’re your feelings of your perception of a micro moment in time.

That’s how we easily delude ourselves when we see others’ photos, as we scroll down our social media feeds. It’s how comparison sets in.

Even if we know that we can never see what’s actually going on.

It’s easy to look at people and make quick judgements about them, their present and their past, but you’d be amazed at the pain and tears a single smile hides. What a person shows to the world is only one tiny facet of the iceberg hidden from sight. And more often than not, it’s lined with cracks and scars that go all the way to the foundation of their soul.  ~ Unknown

Like the hairline cracks appearing in a relationship of a newly wed couple while honeymooning in Paris, who are slowly coming to realise the difference between romantic love and the love that’s required to sustain a marriage.

Like the anxiousness and sadness of a person out on the town, drinking cocktails with a group of friends she’s outgrown… because what she really wants is to be at home reading a book on the couch, but fears she’ll miss out or be lonely if she doesn’t play by social norms.

Like the gruelling days/months/years of hard work, failure and sacrifice behind a start-up that is now become a successful business, or of someone who’s lost 20 kilos and is now running marathons.

Like the self-doubt of a woman donning size 2 lululemon active wear, eating an acai bowl while in a pretzel-shaped yoga pose.

So, stop comparing yourself to someone else’s life – one that you’ve made up in your head.

Get offline to live your real life – every messy bit of it.


Persian love cake

I first encountered the Persian love cake an Ayurveda and mindfulness retreat last year. In case you are wondering why I was eating cake at a retreat, all six tastes – sweet, salty, bitter, astringent, sour and pungent – are considered equally important in Ayurveda. So, the sweet stuff is allowed, unlike, say, at a detox retreat.

In my humble opinion, sugar is not the problem – it’s our relationship with it. Not only that, but many of us also choose to be ignorant of what we’re eating – by not reading the ingredients list, for example. Because if you did, you’d discover that sugar – in all its guises – is hidden everywhere.

Recently, just out of interest, I picked up a jar of pesto in the supermarket to check out its contents. It had:

Water, Basil (27%), Canola Oil, Cashew Nuts, Parmesan Cheese [Milk, Starter Culture, Salt, Firming Agent (509), Enzyme], Pecorino Cheese, Salt, Sugar, Extra Virgin Olive Oil, Flavours, Food Acid (Lactic), Fruit Fibre, Pinenuts, Thickeners (Xanthan Gum, Guar Gum, Locust Bean Gum).

Oi!!! There is no reason for sugar in pesto (or the many other crap ingredients listed.)

I reckon if we were to cut out most packaged foods from our diet, we could eradicate type 2 diabetes and have our cake and eat it too – as long as we baked it from scratch, to dodge the dodgy ingredients.

But who has the time to make food from scratch, I hear you say. I agree, we’re all so ‘busy busy’. In that case, know what’s in your food and how it was produced. That way you can choose trustworthy brands – brands that don’t just care about profits, but also, ethics, quality and have a regard for ‘what we feed the human race’.

I know, real food seems to cost the earth. But it’s the cheap imitations that cost us (and the earth) a whole lot more.

Sure, some in this country struggle to buy food and, generally, struggle to survive. But I think this quote from Michael Pollan in his book In Defense of Food sums it up nicely:

“While it is true that many people simply can’t afford to pay more for food, either in money or time or both, many more of us can. After all, just in the last decade or two we’ve somehow found the time in the day to spend several hours on the internet and the money in the budget not only to pay for broadband service, but to cover a second phone bill and a new monthly bill for television, formerly free. For the majority of Americans, spending more for better food is less a matter of ability than priority.”

To Pollan’s list of modern-day expenses you could add many other things, such as eating out and, ahem, shopping online for yoga pants.

The point is, the way you spend your money speaks volumes about what your priorities are. So the excuse of no time and/or money is superfluous.

Now, before this post becomes too bitter, astringent, sour or pungent, let’s balance it with some sweetness and a pinch of salt. I present you the Persian love cake.

Persian Love Cake

Persian love cake

Adapted from Australian Gourmet Traveller.

This cake is gluten-free. It will be dairy free if you replace the butter and Greek yoghurt with coconut oil and coconut yoghurt.

Serves 8 | Takes 50 minutes


  • 360g (3 cups) almond meal
  • 1 cup packed rapdura/coconut/muscovado sugar
  • 120g unsalted butter, softened
  • ½ tsp salt
  • 3 eggs, lightly beaten
  • 250g Greek-style yoghurt, plus extra to serve
  • 1-2 tsp freshly grated/ground nutmeg
  • 1 tsp ground cinnamon
  • 45 gm (¼ cup) pistachios, coarsely chopped


Preheat oven to 180C, and line and grease a 24cm springform cake tin. I suggest lining the sides of the cake tin with baking paper too.

Then combine the almond meal, sugar, butter and salt in a bowl. Rub the mixture with your fingertips to form coarse crumbs.

Spoon half the mixture into the prepared cake tin, and gently press to evenly cover the tin base.

To the remaining mixture, add the eggs, yoghurt, nutmeg and cinnamon. Beat with a wooden spoon until smooth and creamy (you could do this step in a food processor if you prefer). Then pour over the prepared base and sprinkle the pistachios around the edge.

Bake until golden (~35-40 minutes.) Cool completely in the pan on a wire rack. Serve with extra yoghurt. The cake will keep in an airtight container for up to a week, if it lasts that long!

Eating out – the (lack of) joy

In Melbourne, eating out is a no-brainer.

Here, food is not just for sustaining your energy or feeding your hunger.


It’s a place where food is Art. Fashion, even. (Just ask the hipsters – they wear the café scene.)

And when you can get delicious diversity at a reasonable price, with food better than in its home country – OK, may be not Mexican food; LA can have that one – then why eat at home?

Not even the ‘80s-style dinner parties have survived. The way to catch up, to see people nowadays (and be seen) is usually over a coffee or a meal – at an ‘in’ restaurant.

It’s just so easy, so trendy to eat out.

Even I’ve succumbed to the habit. Coffees (magics, if you please). Brunches. Friday night dinners. The midweek dinner to catch up with a girlfriend.

I absolutely love it.

Well, I did until recently.

I’ve become too greedy for fashionable food, eating out too often. And this has had its consequences.

And I don’t necessarily mean financially. Well, not in the ‘smashed avocado–can’t afford a home deposit’ kind of way.

For me, when I eat out too often, I notice I become a little numb to the experience. That it no longer holds wonder and joy as it once did. That it becomes blasé. Nonchalant.

I don’t wish to feel this way. I wish to light up when I see a beautifully plated dish. To have all of my five senses stimulated. To not take it for granted.

The only way to do this is to choose to decrease my supply.

I pondered the idea of giving up eating out for a month. That thought only lasted for a split second. For the fear of becoming a hermit and not having a break from cooking.

So, here I am, aiming to find balance between making my own fodder and eating out.

But, if you say the magic word, I’ll be there.