A little while ago, this dodgy, fine-textured powder that has a srs effect on one’s nasal passages found its way into the Palazzo Trivialista postbox, evidently passing beneath la radar of the NSW Drug Squad.
It was from La Mamma Trivialista in the Bane of Bris. It’s her world-famous curry powder, which she learned how to make at her “Entertaining for Moderns” course in approximately 1983.
Here’s a much annotated and splodged copy of the recipe.
La thought it might be a good way to induct the loin fuits into the Hall of Spice. So I set about cooking.
It’s très retro in its sensibilities, the accompanying recipe. Contains apples and sultanas. Some people despise the thought of meatflesh and fruitstuffs cottaging and frottaging up to one another, but I do not count myself among their number.
OK, so this photo won’t cause Petrina Tinslay to break into a sweat about competition from La anytime soon, but you can’t deny this piccie gets your salivas going.
As would this one:
See, apparently these are key to getting Junior Cost Centres to eat curries. And at our Palazzo we don’t dum our pappas the healthy way like Mamma Trivialista used to, in the microwave — no sirree bob. We deep fry ’em. Only downside is the stench of smelly, expired cooking oil that lingers beneath the dusty rafters long after it’s welcome.
Everything seemed to meet with the female JCC’s approval. Favour curried, job well done. Thanks Mamma Triv.
Something’s going on with the Consumer gods right now. Not sure what it is but damn sure I don’t like it.
Hot on the heels of Macleans discontinuing la beloved Mildmint Protect fangpaste, Net-A-Porter seems to have erased — either through error or design — La’s entire Wishlist (what you want) and Closet (what you got) from their site. How the hell is Seriousimo supposed to be guided on birthday and Christmas purchases I ask you?
La’ve invested vast quantities of precious, valuable
work time into building that Wishlist. Every bag, top, frock, pant and pump was judiciously selected with an eye on me lunching in St Tropez (with impeccably behaved Junior Cost Centres who would of course be reading Nicholas in French), sipping ouzo-based cocktails at sunset on Skopelos and strolling nonchalantly through St Germain-des-Pres, being asked for directions because I bore such a startling resemblance to a local. All that effort, all those dreams…for nowt.
Have sent the NAPsters a suitably stroppy email. Let’s hope I can wish la Wishlist — and la more glamorous life — back into existence STAT.