Chip Defeat

Got home at around quarter to three this morning. Had a midnight Anzac Day service to sing at in the city, then did the Pancake Manor with all the lovely choir peoples. At least it’s a public holiday – slept to around ten, then had a two-hour nap in the afternoon.  Not exactly helpful in carrying out my wishful plans of spending the day editing.

Back to the Pancake Manor. Ordered a bit less than I normally do – short stack of buttermilk pancakes, basket of chips, and a glass of coke. Twenty dollars for that.  Bit painful, I think.  More painful, though, is that the basket of chips (by chips, I do mean the hot potato french fries-y ones, not potato chips in a packet) defeated me. Suppose it’s a good thing that I can’t eat as much as I used to. But I hate wasting food, particularly chips. Chips are … I have a certain liking for chips.

Used to have a fantasy thought of travelling as a chip connoisseur and writing a book entailing chips around the world – all the shapes, seasonings, and the best cafes and restaurants that serve them.  We’ve already located the best chips in Australia – at least, of all the places we’ve been in Australia.  If you’re ever at the Flinders Chase National Park Visitors Centre on Kangaroo Island, order the chips.  Not McDonald’s skinny, not KFC thick, cooked in sunflower oil (I’m pretty sure that’s what it was) with the most amazing herb seasoning.  We had to order a second basket the moment the first was empty.  Don’t know if they’re still served there, though – this was quite a few years ago.

The chips aren’t too bad closer to home, either. The Pancake Manor, of course, has wonderful chips, hence my reluctance to admit defeat this morning. Another good place for chips is Wordsmiths Cafe at the University of Queensland. When I was eating them more regularly as a uni student, it was a small gamble to order these – one I always took – as sometimes they just didn’t arrive at your table right: oily aioli, lukewarm, or heavily under-spiced. But when they were cooked right – which was more often than not – they’re just brilliant.

Wordies chips are ingrained in my mind as part of a normal uni experience, so much so that they appear in my first novel.  I bestowed student Eva with one of my uni habits – often if I felt anxious about an assignment or an exam, I would go and order a massive bowl of Wordies chips and devour them, all alone at a little round sandstone table.  She does just that in chapter eight – I think it’s eight – only that time, it’s not uni that’s got her feeling a bit tense.

Can’t think of any other moment in my writings when chips get to shine. And I do so love writing descriptions of food.  Maybe I could pop a chips-in-a-paper-cone shop on the Fourth Crossroads in Pulp Runner. They could work in Missing Exhibit, as well – the world is based roughly on late 19th century England/Ireland/Scotland/Wales, so there would be chips around about somewhere.

Probably not important to include chips in writing. Might even be a bit silly. But they work with Eva.

And I do like chips …



The Cheese Fondue Tiger Bread Cravings and the Fail Bread

On my ride home from the junior high and elementary schools in Minami Uji (South Uji) each afternoon, I would often stop at a certain bakery, situated just inside the doors of a large shopping centre called Aeon Mall. Rarely would I buy sliced bread here, unless I was in a pinch – a little sweet and shiny for my taste. The bakery a minute from my apartment well suited my loaf needs, though it also boasted some spectacular bread rolls – I think I blogged about them once, not long before I returned to Australia. It became a weekend routine, walking to that nearby bakery in the morning to acquire fresh and warm examples of my two favourites: one with cheese, and the other cheese and bacon, spiced with pepper. However, this bakery didn’t have what the bakery on my ride home from school did.

And what this place had were rolls of tiger bread stuffed with cheese fondue.

Cheese Fondue Tiger Bread

I had no idea, initially. The first time I bought them I failed to read the label properly, and thinking they were common tiger bread rolls, got them to eat with my beef stroganoff that night. Such a surprise it gave me, when I bit one open to find it full of some unknown dairy substance. Perhaps it was sour cream or soft cream cheese, I thought initially, but on closer investigation back at the bakery, I easily read that it was cheese fondue. Not something I ever expected to find in tiger bread.

Quickly recovering from the shock I’m sure any would experience on discovering fondue in their bread instead of coating it on the outside, I realised the taste was just incredible. The bread warm and soft, tiger’s top all crusty and crackly, glistening ever-so-slightly with oil remains, loaded with this amazingly light and flavoursome cheese fondue. I would ride home smelling it from inside the plastic shop bag dangling from my handle bars, the slightly greasy paper bag within catching my eye as I checked for oncoming traffic, full of anticipation.


Recently, I’ve been experiencing some quite full-on hankerings for this bread. Unfortunately, I’m yet to see it in an Australian bakery. I’ve been trolling about the internet in search of recipes, but, unable to find what I’m looking for, more and more I’m lamenting the sweet girl in that bakery on the last day I was there (I was returning to Uji City Hall after the summer closing ceremony at junior high, and had to pause to buy a final roll. Devastated when there were none on display, I asked when the next batch was due and waited twenty-five minutes for them to finish baking, ensuring I was late for one of our final meetings) laughing apologetically and refusing to give in when I begged for the recipe. “You can’t buy bread like this in Australia,” I told her. Still, she refused to relent to my foreigner charm, keeping her bakery’s secrets.

Tired of longing, I put yeast on our shopping list and yesterday evening attempted to re-create the amazing cheese fondue tiger bread from the Minami Uji Aeon Mall Bakery. As the only bread I’ve made before was a basic flat bread to eat with spicy mince, attempting something like this without an exact recipe probably wasn’t the best way to go. At least, not while expecting something matching your wild hopes and imagination to come out of it.

Now follows an account of the Amazing Fail Bread of January 1, 2013:

It didn’t appear a lost cause. At least, not totally. It was definitely something resembling bread coming out of the oven. That  was some consolation.

Beth had been having some major concerns between kneading and shaping and leaving to rise, sitting back in front of “Perfume” in between stages: the yeast in water and sugar hadn’t fizzed and frothed, and she may have powdered the bench with too much flour for kneading. She may, in fact, not have kneaded the dough well enough at all. After the first hour of rising, in her hope Beth though the dough may have expanded minimally, but it wasn’t much to punch down, fist becoming quickly greased and slippery with olive oil as she struck the doughy blob, wet slaps resounding.

Patted into ten little rolls, after another hour again they’d failed to puff out to double their size. But still they were stuffed with spoonfuls of cooled cheese fondue and pinched closed, placed deep within 180 degrees. Fearful that the questionable products of her experimentation would catch alight, Beth checked the rolls periodically, and with increasing sadness saw that they did not develop the lovely tiger crust, nor even brown, remaining only dense doughy blobs on twin baking trays. After forty minutes they were still quite pale, so she left them for another fifteen, wondering if the cooking time should be lengthened to allow such dense bread to cook through.

Removed from the oven, though barely risen, they were now browned. But curse kitchen ineptitude and a lack of appropriate recipes to follow! She had created fail bread!

Fail Bread

They were tough little rounds, more like biscuits than bread and as heavy as lead, a challenge for teeth to meet through. Rock-hard and chewy, her head soon ached, temporal muscles working so hard to tear her sad creation apart. And the cheese fondue within had flattened and solidified at the base of each roll, reduced to a state even tougher than the bread itself.

‘The bread failed,’ she announced rather dismally, her admittedly childish hopes of presenting her family with something not identical, but alike enough to the legendary bread she remembered so well now totally dismantled. But at least the fail bread was edible. It hadn’t exploded, nor caught alight. And having been consoled by stories of professional-standard electric bread makers sometimes failing to produce the bread promised, Beth decided that her experimentation was not in vain. With experience and patience, and flour designed especially for baking bread and pizza bases, the future would surely see her produce a cheese fondue tiger bread roll that she could be proud of.

That future, she thought wryly as she wiped down the kitchen bench, had better come before I’m rendered legally crippled by these cravings.

A Chocolate Pudding Chock-full of Tasty Procrastination

Been making a chocolate pudding.  Mum creamed the margarine and caster sugar for me.  I don’t like electric beaters very much.

Finished the chapter I aimed to finish to yesterday/early this morning, and tweaked it a little more today.  Fairly happy with it.  Shall see to further editing, adjustments, and additions once it’s had time to stew.

Planned next step:  writing a full, basic outline of what’s going to happen in the rest of Tom’s story, organising events into specific chapters.  I know exactly what’s going to happen, just not sure  in what order when I’m swapping between character point of views … and unsure whether to keep certain ideas that may turn this into something no longer a children/young adults’ book … and such.  Did this for my first novel, getting down the full intended plan after doing a fair amount of work already, and it worked wonders – was churning out chapters super-quick.

I don’t like starting with a full plan on paper.  Feels like I’m not leaving myself much breathing room.  I rely on my head, in the beginning.  Whether that’s truly a good idea or not is yet to be confirmed.

Been developing far more detailed outlines just before sitting down to the write the individual chapters too, which isn’t how I wrote the last book.  Wrote everything everywhere, then.  This seems to be working quite well, I think.  But want to know exactly where I’m going.  Want to check how long the final product should be, and that my final chapter count is an even number.  Or ends in a five.  I can tolerate a five, if I must.

My Pink Book is open next to me.

But I’m writing this little blog.  And making a chocolate pudding.  By choice.

Hooray for procrastination.

The microwave timer signals me to the kitchen to partake in tastiness.  Cannot ignore.  Pudding will burn.

Didn’t ignore.  Pudding did not burn.  Was tasty as advertised.

A Stack of Buttermilk Choir, a Basket of Japan, and a Glass of Novel, Please?

Had pancakes out at the Pancake Manor in honour of Baby Brother’s 18th this evening.  My dear parents’ youngest child is now officially an adult.  Chotto kowaii, ne?

As it was actually meant to be a proper meal, ate a tasty creamy mushroom crepe along with my regular basket of awesome chips, and devoured my customary stack of buttermilk pancakes afterwards.  Truth, the chips and the buttermilk pancakes go fantastically well together, and that is usually how I eat them.  However I do not usually enter the pancake manor with the intention of actually eating properly.

I’ve been craving Pancake Manor fare for quite some time – it was my first time back there since coming home, and I remember spending a fair amount of breath glorifying these pancakes to some of my Japanese friends as I reminisced about their fluffiness.  And I had a picture of a buttermilk stack on a card to show my school kids as an example of food that Australians like.

I am Australian.  I like these pancakes.  Makes perfect sense.

Though we made our reservation at the newer location in Garden City instead of the original place in Brisbane where we usually go, food-wise I don’t think it made a difference.  Tasted pretty much the same – awesome – though I did find an unexpected hole in my top pancake.  The menus were exactly the same – tall, narrow, and plastic.  The wait-staff were clad in the familiar all-black that most wait-staff wear.  But when it comes to atmosphere, the Brisbane location wins.  No question.

The Pancake Manor in Brisbane resides in an old church.  Stain-glass windows.  Booths made out of pews.  It’s just lovely in there.  And though I hear the service isn’t as great as it was a while ago, it is this Pancake Manor that’s bound to several prominent aspects of my life.

Firstly, the Pancake Manor is linked with my choir.  The Queensland University Musical Society (QUMS) is a very important part of my life.  When I first entered uni in 2006, I was coming out of a high school that had no real choir – it just pulled together a group of interested singers whenever it needed to pretend it had one.  To be in a real choir again after five abstinent years was amazing, particularly entering a choir that was performing such amazing music when the most complicated thing I’d sung in the past was “Walk Down That Lonesome Road,” when I was in grade 5.  QUMS was pretty much my entire social life at uni, too.  Study, family, and choir – that was my life.  Funny how it’s pretty much the same now, only I’m substituting writing for study.

Right, the link.  Every year, QUMS sings at a midnight ANZAC day service in the city.  And as the Pancake Manor is a twenty-four hour place (on Fridays, Saturdays, and public holiday, I think) it’s the perfect spot to go for coffee and such at two in the morning after the performance.  A lot of tables have to be pushed together to accommodate us all.

Next, the Pancake Minor is connected with my Japanese experience.  Not that I found any passable pancake places over there – if I had I wouldn’t have been lusting after them, so.  Suppose they might have been there, and I just wasn’t looking right.  No, the link comes from my interview to be accepted into the JET programme, which would send me to Japan if I got through that stage.  Which I did.  Hooray.

I’d passed the application round, filling in questionnaires and writing a self-promoting essay, and I’d been working myself up something terrible about the coming interview.  It was my first real-real job-like interview, and from what I’d read on the internet, the JET programme interviews were particularly nasty.  Go in expecting a police interview, was perhaps the grimmest advice I read.  But I felt really good about my interview, afterwards.  Talked to a lovely little panel of both Australians and Japanese, answered a bouquet of questions about myself and a few what-if questions about how I’d handle particular situations in Japan, and as they knew I spoke some Japanese I was asked to give a simple self-introduction.  Then I asked a few things of them as all the websites recommended I do, and then it was all over.  Needless to say, went and had celebratory pancakes with my sisters after that.

Finally, just as most everything I dredge up to warble on about is, the Pancake Manor is linked (however obscurely) with my writing.  I don’t think I’ve mentioned anything much about this story – may have dropped the name Joan in that ancient blog about naming novels.  Anyway, wrote the first seven chapters of this story in five days, my biggest writing explosion to date.  Many modifications must be made before any more actual progress comes about, but it’s fairly high up on the waiting list.  It’s set a few years after my first novel, and a few of the same characters pop up.

Anyways, back to the pancakes.  I had to give Joan and her sisters a rendezvous point where they could meet and debrief after assignments.  It had to be a place they could meet at any hour.  A place they could be inconspicuous.  That serves alcohol.  And in which a well-earned dessert could be enjoyed.  The Pancake Manor was just the obvious choice, though I’ll not mention it by name, and I’ll disguise the menu.  Was having a lot of fun giving the pancakes new names – Chocolate Lovers, Tropicano, and Health Nuts.

The Pancake Manor and I.  We have history.  It was even my plan to rush there the moment I finished my first novel to partake in joyous celebration.  Was in Japan when that goal was reached, so that never happened.  Oh, wells.  Shall save up that jolly moment for the next big writing milestone:  next novel’s completion, finding an agent, publication.

Whichever it is, looking forward to it.

Leaving Home, Going Home, and Last Meals

Leaving a place, going away, is a context most people would relate to quite well – either they’ve left home, or they’ve had someone they love leave, for whatever all our individuals reasons might be.  Job.  Love.  Independence.  Escape.  Seeking a better future.

Somewhere else.

This is probably part of why moving vans and packing boxes make an appearance in so many movies.  Somebody once told me (or I read it somewhere, not sure which) that most stories – even if they’re not about moving and settling in a new place – begin with (or involve at some point) either the protagonist leaving somewhere, or someone arriving in a new location.  Harry leaves Privet Drive for Hogwarts; Frodo sets out for Bree, then Rivendell and Mount Doom; Charlie Campion flees the government compound where he works in hope of escaping deadly Captain Trips; the Baker Family moves to Chicago unhappily for their father’s job in Cheaper by the Dozen; Cady (that’s Lindsay Lohan’s name in Mean Girls, isn’t it?) arrives in America from Africa and attends school for the first time; Mulan leave for war to save her father’s life; the list continues indefinitely.  There are probably some better examples, but these are just off the top of my head.

So, I will be leaving Uji, Japan, the town I’ve been living for the last two years, in a little under two weeks.  And I’ll be going home.

Leaving somewhere and going home is done quite often in literature as well, I believe.  The reasons for going home, however, all seem to be rather negative compared with reasons for seeking a new life in an entirely new location.  People go home to sort out troubled pasts.  To get themselves together after failures in their lives and endeavors away from home.  To seek comfort when times are hard.  But my reasons for going home aren’t so negative, I don’t think.  Things aren’t perfect with my job, but what job can claim to be absolutely perfect?  And I miss my family and friends in Australia, but if everyone started surrendering to homesickness they would all barricade themselves safely in their places of birth, and as a result much of the world’s business would come to a resounding halt.  I’m throwing out and giving away many of my belongings, but this is out of necessity.  I can only check 40kg of baggage, and taking items such as my beautiful electric piano and my takoyaki maker just isn’t sensible.  I’m not casting off memories of a tragic former life, I just don’t have a big enough bag.

My life isn’t bad here.  The reason I’m leaving – and this is hideously overused, sorry – is that it’s time to leave.  And in doing so, I think I’m mixing it up a little.  It seems in general people head to new places to begin new things.  I’m going home to Australia to begin something not exactly “new” so to speak, but to begin the life I’ve always wanted for myself.

But to make matters slightly more complicated, I’m not leaving just anywhere.  This town.  The route I take riding to work and walking to the community centre for choir practice.  My shoe box-sized apartment and futon.  The bakeries, one near my apartment and one near school.  The friends I’ve made – choir members, teachers, volunteers at Speak Salon Japanese classes.  Uji isn’t just a place I’m living, soon to become a place I once lived.  It’s home, too.  It feels like home, the way home feels to me.  Not exactly the same – that’s hard without my family here – but it has the same vibe.  I don’t feel like someone living in a town strange and foreign, or a town in which they are strange and foreign, even though I honestly know that’s still the case – the latter, that is.

Leaving home and going home at the same time feels strange.  Unbalanced, maybe, I’m not entirely sure.  It just doesn’t seem to match up with what I know of these situations, though I’m sure many others have made second homes around the world, and have been through the same thing.  I plan to come back, many times, hopefully.  If I become successful Uji may even begin to be flooded with international tourists as well as Japanese ones – some major events in my novel take place here.  I will come back, but I worry a little that it won’t feel like home anymore when I do return.

So, with only two weeks to go, I’ve been experiencing many “last” moments.  The last walk to choir practice – I tried to take a picture of the community centre on my phone, but it was too dark.  My last class at junior high school – probably the least lively of the morning, as it was horribly hot and already third period.  My last day at elementary school – two grade six girls thanked me for teaching them in front of all of grades five and six, and the staff gave me some beautiful gifts.  My last day at kindergarten – that was today, and after all the kids went home I was asked to make some signs teaching the pronounciation and meaning of several simple English terms.  Among them, of course, was “goodbye.”

And this evening, I cooked what will probably be the last meal I cook in this apartment.  Not the last one I eat, or throw together – actually, really cook.  The last, unless I get the urge amid the mayhem of packing and cleaning next week, which isn’t likely.  It’ll be all pizzas and bentos from hereon in.  This was the  last time to use the stove.  To slice with that knife.  And I just finished the accompanying last big washing up session.

This last meal was tomato cream pasta with meatballs.  The recipes for both sauce and meatballs I looked up and began making regularly here – never once have I made them in Australia.  Though I’ve altered it slightly to serve fewer people, the site I got the pasta sauce recipe is here, and the tasty fried meatballs – though I’m not sure it’s the same website, the recipe seems the same – are here.  I was thinking about jotting the methods down here, but with the links that’d be rather pointless.  And I’ve already written a fair amount.  Suffice to say, both the sauce and meatballs are very simple and straightforward to make, and the taste is – as advertised – creamy and tomato – y, a very warm and homey taste.

So, tomorrow is my last day at junior high, last full afternoon at city hall, and last Friday with a regularly paid job.  Only a few more lasts left, then I’ll be gone.  Though I will miss many aspects of Japan terribly, I’m very much looking forward to starting my new life back in Australia.  Back home.

Portholes Galore

And now, for the fifth segment of things that make you stop, stare, and get the creativity waterwheel churning.

In the midst of preparing for departure from Japan and beginning to suffer nasty packing nightmares, I’ve been doing precious little writing and nigh on no appreciating inspiring surroundings of late.  At least not that I can currently recall.  And I’ve been to some rather exceptional places recently, as well.  Nagasaki was wonderful, an amazing town – I’m sure once I reflect on it at a slightly less hectic moment I’ll recall exactly what made me stop and stare – there was more than one thing, I think.  Yesterday the grand majority of the Uji assistant English teacher cohort cruised the calm waters of Lake Biwa in Shiga Prefecture, a little neighbour to Kyoto.  Though the rush to make it to the harbour and onto the paddle steamer on time with unexpected traffic and no-shows to contend with offered a little welcome (in hindsight) adrenaline rush, and the cruise was a lovely, relaxing experience, one of our final outings together, my mind was on that group aspect of it.  It is a good thing, I suppose, to occasionally be so totally occupied by something that isn’t my own fiction.   I think I was taking everything in –  the day and the boat and lake – as a whole, as opposed to as many small associated aspects, as I generally do.  I think.  I’m not sure if that makes sense in writing.  But I get me.  Usually.

In any case, I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d be blogging about today, and had just about decided it was to be no more than an excuse saying I’ve had no time or will to be inspired.  But I went to dinner at a yakitori place with Mum and Ueda-sensei tonight.  We climbed a set of almost hidden stairs onto someone’s roof and into a tiny restaurant that gave the impression of being an attic-turned-trendy-Japanese-lounge.  And, being such a place, common windows would not make do.  Set in the walls of this attic restaurant were …


Portholes.  In a restaurant.  Not on a boat.  A restaurant.  A restaurant nowhere near sea nor lake no less, and the river’s hardly compensation.

Portholes in a restaurant.  Never seen it before – let me know if you have.  But it just worked.  Immediately I thought, “why don’t we have portholes at home?”  Just so unexpected, and gave the place a certain feeling.  Not quite mysterious, as deep ocean scenes viewed through portholes might generally offer, but an odd sensation.  Something slightly skewed from the norm.  Slightly abnormal.  Like it wasn’t quite right and all those associated with the restaurant and its portholes were only a touch aware of its unusual idiosyncrasy.  Only a touch aware, and not caring in the least for others’ nonplussed judgement.  Different, but without waving your arms around trying madly to focus all attention on yourself and what makes you different.  For me, that felt refreshing.  I love it when things and places and people that seem almost totally average have one feature – one you may not have noticed from the start but once you do it’s lit by a huge white spotlight – that makes them just that bit splendiferous, eye-catching and memorable.  Worth remembering.

Shall certainly remember these somewhat out of place portholes, I’m sure they’ll be useful at one point.  I’ll remember the food too, twas uber tasty.  Deep fried crumbed Camembert.  Enough, I’m sure, has been said.

The Best Thing If You’re Hungry

And now, for the fourth segment of things that make you stop, stare, and get the creativity waterwheel churning.

I didn’t discover this bakery until my second year here in Japan; I can’t believe I wasted so much of the first not dropping in there late on Saturday and Sunday mornings after doing a bit of brisk tidying about the apartment.  It’s called Tamaki (I think it comes under a larger company, but not positive what it’s called – pretty sure it starts with an “M”) and it had been shut for a bit over a week for refurbishing.  I was petrified (should probably get petrified over more important things … ) that I’d be unable to purchase top-quality carbohydrates there again before I left the country for good.  But Tamaki is open again.  Thank God.  My favourite long, skinny cheese loaves and the tasty pepper bacon ones weren’t there, though admittedly I biked down late, around five thirty pm – all the best stuff was probably sold much earlier in the day.  But what I wound up with was still what has always been purchased from that epic bakery … really good bread.

Bread is good.  Bread is simple.  Bread is warm and filling.  And when you’re hungry, such solid basics are, I believe, craved far more ardently than such fare as lobster mornay or a medium rare Wagu beef (steak) with truffled potato mash bathed in liberal amounts of red wine jus.  Through this simple yet uber bread, numerous hungry character scenarios have been imagined, role-played, and fleshed out.  Though I’m very lucky in that I’ve never been chronically hungry, being bereft of such awful experiences can make writing convincingly and honestly much more challenging.  But I have a fair imagination to work with, and use it extensively to build on my own small, didn’t-eat-enough-breakfast-it’s-only-ten-thirty-can’t-stop-work-until-quarter-to-one-but-I’m-extremely-feckin-peckish-right-now-esque experiences of hunger.

I imagine – I’ve just about felt myself thinking through the minds of others – that the crinkle of paper packaging as a small loaf of bread, crust crunchy and innards soft and white and light as summer cloud, is unwrapped is a jubilant herald.  The warm weight of the loaf taken in hand spreads throughout the body until eyes and lips smile blissfully at their wearer’s sudden good fortune, or in satisfaction, at last receiving a hard-earned meal.  The anticipation and simple happiness as the best of bread is raised to lips, eyes half-closed, could make even the hungriest feel – even just for a moment – all light and free within.  Lucky.  Favoured.  Then, the friction of crust against teeth sinking through it is a thrilling release of tension.

It’s your bread.  It’s fresh, it’s delicious, and it’s yours.  And now you won’t feel hungry any more.  Maybe you’ll even be free of the hollow pangs for the rest of the day.

I can think of several characters and scenes for which this bread has been used as inspiration, the most notable probably a young man called Eliyan, a young man not from any of the stories I’ve yet mention.  He has no luck at all (and that’s quite disgraceful in a society that almost runs on luck) and though he makes enough money to feed himself, most of the food he buys and prepares winds up offered at a stone grave marker in the cemetery next door.  Later it’s generally pinched by hungrier neighbourhood children.  So when he manages to get a loaf of bread to himself and is able to keep it away from the graveyard, Eliyan enjoys it immensely.

I enjoy it too, though due to being so well-fed probably not quite as immensely.  But enough.  I do like bread.  Shall definitely have to visit Tamaki as frequently as possible before the thirtieth.