lisamariecorso lisamariecorso

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Lisa Marie Corso  ✏️ Word nerd / non-professional eater & yes, my parents named me after Elvis' spawn. It could have been worse right? At least my name isn't Apple

Mystery of the day: Are we starring in the reboot of Breaking Bad or are we robbing honey? Or are we just really early with our Halloween planning? Or getting ready to paint a house? Or taking the boiler suit look to the streets? Or is it the last day of our wash cycle and we have nothing to wear? This got confusing real fast. (Correct answer: robbing 🍯 with @_dnbl_ and @honey_fingers and 20,000 🐝 .)

PSA: I often think of Lindsay Lohan crying in the toilets in Mean Girls. A) because best movie ever, duh B) because the women’s toilets has long been a place for women to hide their suffering. In the last week two different women I know told me they cried in the toilets at their work because another colleague bullied them. And what’s worse is that it was a woman bullying another woman. Legit cry face emoji. This is not the time in society for women to be against each other, especially when people in power are attempting to make women’s rights regressive. Did you know women only received the right to vote 125 years ago (thank you New Zealand!) - when the world has actually been orbiting the sun for thousands of years? Do you know the name Donna Strickland? Because you should! She’s the third woman to win the Nobel Prize in Physics. Ever. And she won it this year, 60 years after the last woman. Did you know Barbara Walters was one of the first women news anchors and only got paid half of her male co-host for doing the same job? We’ve come a DAMN long way in a century, so let’s not get in the way of each other and finally allow ourselves to use the toilet for dumping our physical shit, not emotional shit. Over and out, sisters. 🙏🏻

AMATEUR CAKE BAKER DIARIES: My name is Lisa Marie Corso but it should be EXTRA AF CORSO because I really don’t know how not to be over the top. This comes out in various forms: From putting the laundry away to deciding I need to reorganise my entire wardrobe Marie Kondo style. To washing my face and seeing a dust speck on the mirror to cleaning the entire bathroom and scrubbing my toilet on all hands and knees. To watching one episode of TV to all three seasons in a week. It’s extreme behaviour. So when I had the ‘excellent’ idea (translation: worst idea ever) to bake myself 4 x birthday cakes I thought it’d be a challenge but doable. It turns out it was doable but the challenge was of Mt Everest cream cheese frosting proportions. For a control freak like me and an amateur baker - cakes are a lesson in humility and teaching you that life comes with surprises no matter how prepared or compulsive you are. You can follow every instruction and take your seemingly perfect looking cake out of the oven then when you remove it from the tin it crumbles to pieces. WHICH MINE DID. (I then threw it down my apartment bin shoot.) You can attempt to bake a sponge then open the oven two find two thin crispy looking pancakes instead of springy cakes. WHICH I DID. You can worry about your gluten free friends and make gluten free self raising flour then realise your entire cake has sunk. YEP, THIS ALSO HAPPENED TO ME. But learning to adapt in the moment and repurpose that sponge, rebake the bin cake and tip the sunken cake onto its other side so it was miraculous even again and then top everything with a crap load of cute flowers and cream was SO REWARDING. Even if I did stress FaceTime 4 people during the baking process. Lesson learned: NEVER APPLY FOR THE GREAT BRITISH BAKE OFF BUT EAT CAKE ALWAYS. (Final cakes were @nigellalawson orange blossom, @juliaostro pear, date and ginger cake, @donnahaymagazine spiced chocolate with cardamom, star anise and cinnamon syrup and her strawberry and cream sponge AND my mum who baked me a lemon polenta labs olive oil cake). 🎂😭🎂😭

Oh my god I turned 30 today. Here’s the before and after shot.

Counting my steps brings me so much joy. More joy than waking up on your birthday. More joy than turning on Free to Air TV and seeing the opening credits roll in for the movie Suddenly Thirty. And more joy than having a good hair day. I can’t even remember life before counting steps was a thing because obviously my banal attempts at exercise weren’t consistently validated. Now I wear my Apple Watch in the house, even when I stay home all day, to measure my steps to the fridge, to the letterbox, to the toilet and to the fridge again. You’d be surprised how many steps you clock just by walking around your house. So obviously reaching 31,000 steps in a day was a good day - no wait - a milestone day for me. Is this how athletes feel when they win the race? Probably. But only one of us is sweaty, the other smug as hell (me). Living life checking my step count is a constant joy except for when you check your tally at the end of the day and realise none of your steps registered. ZERO. Even though you parked a million meters away from your destination so you would get extra steps. Even though you avoided the elevator and climbed the stairs juggling your groceries. Even though you swung your arms back and forth while standing stationery because technically your watch recognises it as a step (yes it’s cheating but I was desperate). And you think was any of today’s exhaustive steps worth it if they were never measured? Did today even happen? Then you feel a throb in your lower calve, you bend over and feel your Achilles tendon pulsating aggressively. And think: Yes, yes it was. #StepsAreMyEverything 💕

I HATE CLOTHES SHOPPING. I would rather clean the toilet every day for the rest of my life then go into a shop and try on clothes, then deliberate in a mirror, then try on the same outfit in a different colour and deliberate some more, then text my sister an unflattering change room selfie and hope to god the photo doesn’t one day end up exposed on the cloud and reddit for everyone to see. You should feel exasperated after reading that sentence because it was so long and exactly how I feel when I change in and out of outfits. Then I wait for my sister to text back to confirm or deny entry of the outfit into my everyday life and it takes forever. So I just scroll on Instagram while the sales assistant probably thinks I’m weeping or looking at my pores in the privacy of the change room mirror (aka the best mirror to check one’s pores). Finally my sister texts back with a resounding: NO. So I text her another picture but my phone is now out of service, which means the worst thing in the world is about to happen: I WILL HAVE TO MAKE AN INDEPENDENT DECISION. Flummoxed by all of this, I give up. Put everything back on the hangers neatly, a side affect of being an ex-shopgirl, and leave with nothing. I vow to never put myself through that painstaking ordeal again and become one of those Forbes millionaire women who claim the secret to their success is wearing the same outfit everyday. This lasts a minute until I see a 17ft tall mannequin with her arm outstretched wearing high waisted pants that would never fit 5ft me, and without my better judgement enter another shop with the optimism of a short term memory loss goldfish and do it all again. 🐠🐠🐠

AMATEUR BAKER CONFESSIONS: I’m not a professional swimmer or DJ but I’m a legit freestyler in the kitchen. I love making things up or using a recipe as a guide but FFS baking is something else. I have to precisely measure, I have to reads recipe, I have to seive, beat, whisk, grease and that’s even before I have put anything in the oven. Then I’m so impatient I set a timer on the oven but can’t help myself but open the oven door every 15 minutes to check that my cake hasn’t died a premature 180 degree Celsius death. Baking to me is like using Google Maps - don’t think you can beat it on your own - when some Silicon Valley tech head or Cordon Bleu cook has tested the route for you. SO yesterday I baked this cake (in the front with the flowers) for my Nonna’s 80th birthday and it was an education in ‘Getting to Know Myself’. Firstly there was so much cake batter even though I measured everything out properly (why?!), then it didn’t cook in the 45 minutes suggested time (double why?!) and when it came time to remove the cake from the tin a little bit decided it would exercise it’s tenant’s right not to vacate. Disaster city! Give up right then? No. I put that orange cake on a plate and took matters into my own hands. I made a creme fraiche frosting and iced all grievances away like a plasterer restoring a North Carlton Victorian House. The cake looked better but not complete. So gave my mate Mother Nature a call and she provided the goods: flowers. And voila here’s the finished cake. Moral of the story: don’t give up on your dreams, even if they are small, modest baked ones.

Baby’s first jam. No I’m not pregnant, I’m just the baby and I made my first batch of jam - Seville Orange and Mandarin with star anise - to be precise. I’ve been writing from home a lot the last two weeks which is very productive but can occasionally send one mad where a phone call from the call centre could legit turn into a 2 hour conversation about my life story that no one asked to hear (I promise that one time I ended up in hospital in Tokyo is a worthwhile story!) because you haven’t spoken to anyone for 5 hours. The type of call that ends with the call centre operator begging to get off the phone. This hasn’t happened yet but the probability is high so I implemented a ‘cook something fun a day rule’. Today was me battling it with food science as I waited for pectin to do its thing. I even put a plate in the freezer for 15 minutes to do the wrinkle test and see if my jam had set and sterilised jars to kill bacteria. I’m pretty sure I’m now a Julia Child x Walter from Breaking Bad love child. And the jam actually worked besides the incident where I nearly burned my hot plates to shreds with sugar water. All I can say is food as therapy and thankfully I will not be answering any call centre calls trying to sell me 6 types of health insurance, a self driving car and Vitamix with 2 complimentary free movie tickets tomorrow.

Europe Food Chronicles, London Edition Part II:
My new name is Glutton Marie Corso and I am not ashamed of who I am. Also full disclaimer this is an abridged version of my London gorge. Remember folks, gorge is just a shorter word for gorgeous.
1. Scotch egg. This egg morsel wrapped in mince then fried in breadcrumbs - that’s atleast 2/3 of the food pyramid right and therefore a nutritional addition to my life.
2. Some words like like Handmaid frighten me but other words like Handmade excite me. Like this handmade pappardelle with beef cheek ragu, ravioli with ricotta, sage and lemon zest and the third pasta not pictured to retain dignity: gnocchi in a butter sauce from Padella.
3. Never underestimate the power of a good sandwich - like this salt beef one. A sandwich never judges, ‘eat me with your hands sitting in a London gutter at the Borough market’ - and I did just that. A gutter is surprisingly a comfy makeshift chair.
4. Dinner at Ottolenghi’s NOPI, was like reading all of his cookbooks without the stress of ransacking my pantry for 247 ingredients.
5. A Sunday roast from the pub. Look at that little Yorkshire pudding gravy bath. You better believe I took my roast potatoes for a dip, facial and exfoliation in there.
6. Seriously getting ludicrous now. DUCK CONFIT in a roll! Kill me now, actually please don’t, my intestines will beat you to it as they try and make sense of this nonsense. They’ve already called the Culinary United Nations to make an exit plan.
7. And...a raclette on a bed of potatoes with some Cornichons for a side of #healthyliving - food is life and life is one big messy mouthful with a little salt and pepper in between the seasons.

Europe Food Chronicles, France Edition Part I:
1. Me being a Perrier cliche and loving it sick. I paid $7 AUD for this small bottle accidentally, but for the amount of selfies taken it was worth it.
2. Steak and frites with paper table cloth, endive and celeriac salads, and escargot not shown. First go at snail, the oyster of the pavement world if you ask me. Doused in enough garlic to kill a flock of Twilight vampires.
3. Infinite chocolate mousse. This is not a hoax but some effed up Charlie and the Chocolate Factory miracle. The mousse just never ends and is the gift that keeps on giving until your hunched over nursing severe stomach cramps.
4. Baguette from La Grenier au Pain with gamon ham, Dijon, and my little loves cornichons eaten on the steps of Sacre Couer as suggested by @claudn. Not sorry I flaked baguette all over this religious icon.
5. I flexed my Niciouse salad muscle for our hosts so basically I’m a French citizen now.
6. This grated carrot salad is every where - hopefully eating this many carrots will cure my abhorrent eye sight. It’s called science.
7. This thing I just discovered, it’s yellow and comes from cows. I THINK it’s called cheese.
Now someone please send me a box of elastic waist pants ASAP.

Wake up in Paris and baguette about your problems.

It took 29 years but I finally mastered the art of making myself look fraudulently taller than someone (in this case @_dnbl_) in a photo.

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