Rebecca Handler

o n e w o m a n p a r t y

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Someone has to protect this family from the scone who protects this family.

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Imagine Breaking Bad with all of the characters played by baked goods. Walter White, the temperamental perfectionist, would be a soufflé, and Jesse, a brownie. The part of Hank would go to a toasted onion bagel slathered in cream cheese, and his wife Marie would be a macaroon, preferably purple. The role of Skyler would go to some sort of bun.

And Gustavo Fring, the immaculate, philanthropic businessman who also kills people, would be played by the lemon blueberry scone from Baker’s Delight in Subiaco, Western Australia. It’s hiding in plain sight and it’s deadly.

The unassuming killer is covered in a sticky sugary frosting. When you bite into it, you get the sweet ooze before you’re hit with the sour lemon. The blueberries are there only to offset the butter. The experience is not unlike the Amy Winehouse documentary I saw this past weekend – completely wrong and strangely fulfilling.

The gateway was the free sample. I swear on this half-eaten scone that I walked up to the counter to buy a loaf of bread. But I am the person at the Stonestown Mall in San Francisco that says why yes thank you to the girl standing outside of Panda Express with the cold chunks of orange chicken on toothpicks.

I’ve since returned many times to try Baker’s Delight’s range of products. The date scone is decent and can pass as breakfast. The cheese and chive one could be less cheesy and more chivey but who cares because BUTTER.

Baker’s Delight is to a bakery what the Apple store is to an iPhone factory. It is a showcase for perfection, not a place to get into the nuts and bolts of how things are made. I’ve seen an oven behind the racks of bread, but airplanes also have ovens and no one’s cooking on an airplane. As they reheat muffins upon request, the young ladies behind the counter tolerate their Daisy-from-Downton-Abbey inspired uniforms, probably because they have unlimited scone access.

According to its website, the tagline for Baker’s Delight, a national chain, is, “We’re for real,” clearly the work of a brand management consultant who surveyed customers immediately after they inhaled scones. “You’re kidding me with these scones,” customers would exclaim. “No,” the consultant would reply. “We’re for real.”

Baker’s Delight lemon blueberry scones create a false sense of happiness and confidence, followed by symptoms of withdrawal and a craving for more. I guess the baker’s real delight is that she figured out a way to incorporate meth into her products, securing lifelong junkies. She’s slingin’ mad volume, yo.

I met a strange lady. She made me nervous.

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I lived in a village in France in the spring of 2006. The name of my local grocery store was Attac, which, in retrospect, was a bit of a red flag. If you shop at a store called Bully, you shouldn’t be surprised when someone stuffs you in a locker.

The day I arrived in Thomery, I drove to Attac to stock up on essentials and got yelled at by three different people. I was pushing the cart too fast, I should have known to bring my own bags, and I needed to understand things more quickly.

I had been living in France for less than 24 hours and already I had encountered some of its more impassioned citizens.

Other countries take a bit longer to pull down their pouch and show off their joey.

I’d say Australia, or at least Perth, is a very peaceful place. Sure, the spiders and snakes can kill you. But as far as humans go, everyone has been very kind. I chalk it up to the sunshine and good coffee.

But two weeks ago, an old man at Jualbup Lake Park stole my brand new Camelbak water bottle and suddenly you better run, you better take cover.

Who steals a water bottle – from a gazebo, mind you – with “Bek” written on it in Sharpie? I’ll tell you who. An old man with a fedora and a walker in an otherwise deserted park. (Here I am tempted to make a “once a convict, always a convict” joke but I haven’t known my new friends long enough to gauge whether or not this would be appreciated. Non-native Australians can be sensitive about their origins. So I will put parentheses around this point in hopes they skip it.)

My day in the park with Moondyne Joe launched a litany of eccentric characters. A lady with large clip-on earrings and a pink scarf cornered me at the butcher to challenge my order of ground beef and lecture me on the rules of homemade hamburger patties. I walked to the post office and passed a man on the sidewalk who looked me straight in the eye and said, “you’re running the wrong way.” And finally, after six months of living here, I saw someone texting and driving.

It’s like San Francisco knows how much I miss her, and is speaking to me the best way she knows how. Message received. Perth may have the best beaches and coffee, but no one does crazy better than my hometown.

The Layover

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The Crowne Plaza Hotel at Changi Airport is designed to calm the senses. It is located at the end of Terminal 3, just past the bubble tea place. One minute, you are in the famously clean brightly lit Singapore airport, and the next minute you are an extra in Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse.  

The floor and walls in the lobby are black, and the lighting is soft and low. The couches are magenta with black felt pillows that look like big bunches of grapes.

The check-in staff wear monochromatic jackets from Muji. The man speaks softly. He asks for the details of your connecting flight and inquires as to whether or not you’d like a wake-up call. He offers to help with your luggage, and nods sympathetically when you say no thank you. Of course you want to be with your bags.

You order a glass of red wine from the hotel bar and ask if you can take it to your room. Certainly, the bartender says sweetly, and tops you off. And a Tiger Beer for my husband. You can’t forget about him, she giggles.

You walk down the dark corridor to Room 318, and notice you’re walking a wooden plank, a moat on either side. The water is still. It is sleeping.

The color palette in the room is black, white, and beige. On the walls are large blurry photographs of orchids. All the furniture has rounded edges and the bathroom door slides open to reveal a large oval tub. The body lotion has essences of sage and lavender.

Your youngest daughter crawls into bed with her book and blankie. You keep the lights low as you turn on your computer and drink your wine.

Soon your glass is empty. You brush your teeth and join your sleeping daughter in bed. You hear planes taking off. You could be anywhere.  

Monkeys: They’re Just Like Us

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The cover of the Lonely Planet Borneo book is an orangutan swinging in a tree. Yes please. Monkey vacation.

We are staying at a hotel in Sabah that is next door to an orangutan rehabilitation center. Because as we all know, apes can’t stop drinking. Thank you I’ll be here all week.

Our visit to the center began as most tours do, with an introductory video. This one featured Cinta, a baby orangutan who had been deserted by his mother and brought to the center by a local farmer. Cinta was bottle fed by volunteers. Cinta loves hugs and bananas. Cinta got to ride in a Land Rover! His story was heartwarming, as all furry baby stories tend to be.

I have a genetic predisposition to laugh in situations that call for more contemplative behavior. This is why I am incapable of joining a museum tour or participating in a ceremony at a sacred Chinese temple. And why I fear funerals and Indiegogo campaign videos. As the other tourists were oohing and ahhing over Cinta’s touching story, one heartless visitor was giggling uncontrollably.

My more earnest family members and I were thankful when the movie ended and we went to see the two resident orangutans. Our group of twenty or so hiked to a platform where we were told to be very quiet and wait patiently. The guide stepped up to a smaller platform opposite us and turned over a bucket of chopped up fruit and vegetables. After two or three minutes, he solemnly announced, “I will now call the orangutans.” I prepared myself for some hee-hee-hoo-hoo business, but as it turns out, if you want to summon an orangutan, you use their name, go figure. He called, “Intiban! Kolapis!” and then something in Malay, which I’m guessing means, “These people paid to see you eat carrots. Get over here.”

The wait began. One minute, five minutes, ten minutes. Where are they? On a binge at the beach bar? At the spa getting waxed?

It was during this waiting period that I first became aware of the Junior Rangers, four preteen girls having an invaluable experience they will never appreciate. The blond one with resort braids started whining, “Where ARE they? I’m bo-o-ored.” Her sunburned friend in the green Junior Ranger polo shirt agreed, “That’s not fair. We cut up the food. Why don’t we get to feed them?”

The guide shushed them. The Danish guy shushed them. I shushed them. But they continued moaning until an orangutan appeared in the distance, swinging high in the branches.

Clearly Intiban had shown up to smack those girls in the face but then got distracted by the smell of sugarcane coming from the platform. I half-expected to hear Elton John belting out a Disney ballad as the beautiful ape leapt from tree to tree. Kolapis showed up soon after and the two of them played and ate, just a few meters away from us. My eyeballs almost popped out of my skull just to stare back at me to make sure I was watching every minute of this.

When the gang of 20 long-tailed macaques descended, the Nature Channel got real. These monkeys clearly missed the Cinta video; they don’t give a hoot about rescuing orangutans.

Like a horde of pregnant women at IKEA, macaques are determined, fearless, and greedy for more. The tyrant of the group took his place next to the pile and screeched at the orangutans, “Party’s over my friends. Scoot.” The apes objected at first but then caved, as there were only two of them. Carrot Monkey picked six carrot chunks out of the pile and clutched them awkwardly, hopping away on one foot. A mother and child fought each other for a slice of banana. Bully Monkey continued to lash out at random. It was hilarious and delightful.

At this point, the Junior Rangers started asking the guide, “Can we go now? When can we go?” If macaques were meat-eaters, I would have thrown those girls off the platform to a round of applause from the rest of the group. I felt sorry for our poor guide as he escorted those kids back to the ranger station.

All humans can’t be expected to sit quietly and watch monkeys play. Heck, some of us can’t even get through a short video without losing it. We’re animals after all. Hairy, goofy, and beautiful.

A Sharky Day

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Living in Western Australia, I spend a lot of time thinking about sharks.

I also spend a lot of time hearing about sharks. I haven’t met anyone who’s personally run into a shark, but everyone has a friend who has a surfer friend with an escape story. Big Aussie blokes turn into tiny crayfish at the very mention of a great white. And when my “no worries” mates admit to being scared of something, I pay close attention.

Recently, one of the four Fionas I’ve met used the expression “a sharky day,” as in, “I reckon it’s a bit of a sharky day. I wouldn’t go near the ocean.” From what I understand, a sharky day is similar to earthquake weather: a little cloudy, a little quiet, dogs are pacing.

I started following Surf Life Saving WA on Twitter and now read posts like, “3.5m white shark sighted 100m offshore. Moving west.” I frequent a website that tells me to stay away from schools of fish “behaving erratically.” I have learned that I should be paying more attention to migration patterns of humpback whales, as shark bite frequency is directly correlated to whale populations.

A few days ago, I read an article in the West Australian called, “Sharks Not So Keen on Deterrent Tests.” You already know the story. But let me break it down for you.

In 2012, off the coast of Perth, great white sharks killed five people within ten months. As a result, the University of Western Australia received government funding to evaluate shark deterrents, everything from flashing lights to underwater sound machines. Equipped with candy necklaces and glow sticks, the scientists began staging their subaquatic rave.

The team soon encountered one minor problem; they couldn’t find any sharks. Apparently after their human feast, the greedy bastards were reclining on the ocean floor sipping cuppas and watching footy.

So, the researchers packed up their bubble machines and killer whale noisemakers and hopped over to South Africa where they found 60 sharks waiting patiently, ready to be tested. They discovered the following:

1. Sharks don’t give a shit about blinking lights.

2. When sharks hear artificial sounds of killer whales (their predators), their only thought is, “that’s a machine so there must be a human nearby. Yum.”

3. An electric ankle device serves as nothing more than a crunchy appetizer.

They did find something notable with The Shark Shield, coincidentally the name of my future band. The Shark Shield is a little box that emits a small three-dimensional electronic field, just like the one in that episode of Scooby-Doo. The field causes the approaching shark to experience what the researchers refer to as “mild discomfort” and swims away.

Here’s my thinking on this Shark Shield business. Shark encounters little box sitting in middle of ocean. Shark experiences “mild discomfort” and swims away, angry and sad. Shark spots human. Human loses arm.

I’ve read the stats. I am 30 times more likely to get struck by lightning in Western Australia than I am to get bitten by a shark. And I am aware of an easy way to eliminate the risk completely. But I’m a swimmer, and there’s only so much time I can spend in chlorinated pools.