PICTURE THIS - ALL I HAVE TO DO IS DREAM!

I’ve always loved the movies or the “pictures” as they were called when I was a child. I never loved the “fillums”…but I did adore the films! It was with enthusiastic expectations, every Saturday afternoon off to the picture theatre I raced.

On offer in those days were two "pictures" per matinee session. These consisted of the main feature and a movie of lesser notoriety. The lesser known "picture" was the first cab off the rank, shown prior to the interval or “half time”. But our afternoon’s entertainment didn’t stop there! Along with the two movies were cartoons, a newsreel and “shorts”, or trailers, as we called them, of “pictures” to come. But the fun didn’t stop there – to the mix was added a serial that invariably co-starred J. Carroll Naish as the villain. Funny how I can remember who played the villain, but I can’t remember who played the heroes in those on-going thrilling, nail-biting-on-the-edge-of-the-seat serials. Naish extended his wicked roles to feature-length movies, too; wherein he exhibited his versatility by playing Italians, Native Americans, and, Chinese, even. The man was of Irish descent, but never played an Irishman!

The entrance fee to partake in all of the above cost less than a bob – less than one shilling! And, we always had six pence to spend on a cold drink and some lollies!

Of course, I must not forget one of the most important parts of all…the fun of rolling chocolate Jaffas down the aisles! Fantails played their role, too. Who could resist reading the information about your favourite stars on the lolly wrappers? Not me!

I never missed a Saturday matinee at the Olympia Theatre, Mellor
Street, Gympie. The only ones I did miss were the times we, as a family, spent holidaying with our near relatives who lived at Slade Point, via Mackay; which is not "near" distance-wise. For a few years, my older brother and I (along with our Nana) jumped on a train at the Gympie railway station after New Year to spend the tail end of our school holidays in the north terrorising our cousins! However, the "pictures" weren’t ignored. They weren't put on the back-burner. We’d go into Mackay to the new Civic Theatre and get our fill there.

Stored carefully in boxes in my bedroom for frequent perusing was my collection of “Movietone News” and “Photoplay” magazines; magazines purchased with some of the coins I'd received from the drink bottles and newspapers returned to the locals stores. Together with the glossy magazines, I had hundreds of cuttings taken from newspapers; the “Women’s Weekly”; “New Idea” and other similar periodicals. Like a ravenous hound, I devoured information about my favourite glamorous stars.

The impossibly handsome, charismatic Tony Curtis, like the real-life character he played in “Houdini”, created magic on the silver screen. Curtis committed burglary of my heart. His photographs adorned my bedroom walls. War hero Audie Murphy’s baby-faced youthfulness was never a deterrent to his Saturday six-gun shoot-outs.

Chivalrous heart-breaker Gregory Peck often starred as a protagonist in my romantic daydreams. Together, the cavalier Mr Peck and I shed tears over an orphaned yearling; stood in awe beneath snowy Kilimanjaro; carefree, we explored the piazzas of Rome on a Vespa; side by side we obsessed over a great white whale; and later, we became inspired by Atticus Finch.

Unfortunately, real life isn’t a rhapsodically romantic chronicle playing out a splendid script written and revised to suit; guiding us along the Yellow Brick Road to everlasting joy! Where happy endings are a given. How great it would be if Life was that simple; that pure!

I’ve mentioned similar previously - if unsatisfied with the modus operandi, the penultimate or final chapter, all or each could conveniently be erased and rewritten to satisfy one’s personal desires. It would be so exciting, if, upon a whimsical whim, we could compose our own narrative; introduce the obligatory tall, dark, handsome, daring, intelligent, sensitive, masculine, hot-blooded hero (feel free to add more descriptive adjectives) to the scenario. And it would be even more exciting if we were capable of creating and participating in thrilling, heart-stopping adventures; to have the ability to expunge all malevolence; quell uncertainties and fears; avert destructive actions before they raise their nasty heads; banish sorrow; make happiness mandatory.

As you can see, I daydream still - and get a kick out of composing my own scripts to suit; if only in my head and in my dreams!

Cinderella lived happily ever after! Enter my fictional realm and you can, too! Now - where did I hide my handsome, sensitive protagonist?

Jaffa Cheesecake: Line cake tin; press biscuit base into tin. Cream 1/2c icing sugar, 3/4c Nutella and 250g marscapone or cream cheese; add 1/3c melted dark chocolate and 4tbls Grand Marnier. Mix 1/4c hot water with 2tsp gelatine; cool. Fold into mix along with 600ml whipped cream. Pour over base; refrigerate 5 hours. Choc-citrus sauce: Melt some dark chocolate; while melting, stir in a few tablespoons of cream; stir through some Grand Marnier. When cheesecake has set, drip sauce over top. Garnish with smashed Jaffas.

Jaffa Mousse Cake: Preheat oven 160C. Zest and pulverize 2 oranges with 100g caster sugar; add 250g S.R. flour; add 200g melted butter and 3 large beaten eggs; mix well. Bake in lined 20cm spring-form tin, 90mins. Syrup and mousse: Syrup; mix together juice of 3 oranges and 100g caster sugar; add ¼ cup of Cointreau or Grand Marnier. Mousse: Beat 450ml cream until soft peaks form and then for a further 30 seconds; fold in 250g melted chocolate. Remove cooked cake from pan; cut in half horizontally while still hot. Wash and line cake tin with Glad-Wrap. Place bottom half of cake back into the lined tin; pour on half the syrup: add mousse; top with the other cake half. Pour rest of syrup over cake. Refrigerate 2hrs; remove from tin; place on serving plate. Icing: Add 150ml cream to 150g melted chocolate; ice cake; refrigerate before serving.

Blueberry Dream Fritters: Heat some oil in large pan. Combine 1c SR flour, 1/3c cornmeal, 1tsp baking powder and 1/3c caster sugar in bowl; combine 1/2c cream, 1 egg and 1tsp vanilla; mix into flour until just combined; fold in 1-1/2c blueberries; drop spoonfuls into hot oil; fry until golden; sprinkle with icing sugar.

THE KING WAS IN HIS COUNTING HOUSE COUNTING OUT HIS MONEY

In our household when my late brother and I were children it didn’t take long to count out the family’s money supply. There was never much money in our family’s bank account; sometimes none at all. The times the household coffers were depleted, bare-faced raids were conducted upon the contents of our Commonwealth Bank tin money boxes. Those days, every kid had one beside their bed.

We never minded, nor did we expect our money boxes to be refilled. Without complaint, we eagerly attended to that pressing matter of refilling the money boxes ourselves by concentrated scavenging efforts in search of empty soft drink bottles and newspapers to lug to the local stores in exchange for coins.

Our family may not have had much money, but we were fortunate in that we had a Nana who had a wealth of stories worth much more than their weight in gold or in a bagful of rare 1930 copper pennies. Time after time, we pestered our Nana to relate her bank of stories; stories of the “olden days”, of which she never tired of telling.

There are some folks who, unfortunately, are very poor. I don’t mean in the money sense, but in their characters. Some are interested only in what material things are left when a parent and/or grandparent departs this world. Their greedy, selfish actions bring to mind the wailing women clad in black depicted in “Zorba, the Greek”; the hags who rifled through the belongings of the newly-deceased “Madame Hortense”; Alexis Zorba’s "Bouboulina”; the ex-courtesan whose still warm body lay prone upon her bed.

In the meantime, lacking compassion, like of a committee of ravenous vultures, the old hags descended upon the dead woman’s possessions, ripping her bedroom and home apart in search of material items.

People who act that way are deficient in what is most valuable in their lives…their family history. Their avid, shallow interest in the material things too often means they miss out on the myriad stories that should not be let go; stories that should never go untold. Of course, not every story is a happy one; not every story has a happy ending. That’s life, though, isn’t it? Regardless, whether happy or sad, every story handed down through a family is woven into who we are; and who our children are; and so on through future generations.

Sometimes we are guilty of feeling shame when no shame should be felt at all. Much of what has gone on before is out of our hands and control; and, in particular, that applies to what went on a century or more ago! It’s all grist for the mill of one’s life. For those with children who choose not to pass on stories from their family history to their offspring are being very unfair to the younger generations. It’s so very selfish and unthinking not to do so. Those not interested in learning the stories and passing them on are self-centred and thoughtless.

Life isn’t easy; it never has been; and I doubt that it ever will be.
The greed displayed by many; their preference for material possessions over the possession of family tales is a blight that affects far too many people. Hovering and picking over a deceased relative’s belongings; and expecting a handout is shameful.

I feel lucky. I’m rich even though I inherited nothing from my grandmother or my mother in the material sense, but I did inherit a multitude of stories.

It’ll be slim pickings when I flip over the edge. There will be no fighting over my leftovers. I have no wealth to leave; but I do possess a wealth of stories, if anyone is interested!

Leftover Roast Beef Soup: Heat a little olive oil and butter in large saucepan. Sauté 2 large onions, sliced in rings, until soft and golden, but not brown; add 4 cups of beef stock. Add 300g diced, leftover roast beef…more or less as desired, and 2 cups of diced leftover vegetables…whatever you have, and, again, as much as desired. Bring to the boil and simmer 10-15 minutes. Divide into oven-proof bowls; float thick slices of stale sourdough, hearty wheat, rye or multi-grain bread on top of soup. Cover with each with a slice of provolone or Swiss cheese. Place under grill or in oven until cheese bubbles and browns.


Leftover Lamb Curry: Cut trimmed, leftover roast lamb into strips about ¼-inch thick. Sauté 1 cup chopped onion and 2 minced garlic cloves in a little oil; stir until onion begins to brown lightly, about 6-7 minutes. Being lazy…add 2 tablespoons quality curry powder and ½ teaspoon ground cumin; stir until spices are fragrant; about 30 seconds. Stir in lamb; add 1 heaped tablespoon of fruit chutney and one chopped, very ripe banana. Add 1-1/2 cups of chicken stock; bring to boil over high heat; season with salt and cayenne pepper, to taste. Mix 2 tablespoons cornflour (cornstarch) and ¼ cup stock. Stir into pan; stir until boiling resumes. Reduce heat; simmer 30 minutes. Serve curry with hot rice and suitable curry accompaniments such as; chutney; sliced banana; yoghurt, sliced cucumber etc. Leftover cooked roast chicken is a good substitute for the lamb.

Leftover Chicken Quiche: Preheat oven to 220C (428F). Using a 23cm pre-made pie shell (put pie shell into quiche dish) – arrange chopped, cooked chicken evenly over base; cover with 1 cup grated Gruyere cheese. In a small bowl beat 4 eggs with a fork; stir in 1 cup milk, 1 cup cream, 1x35g packet of French Onion soup mix and 1 cup grated Parmesan cheese. Pour into pie shell; sprinkle lightly with paprika. Bake in oven for 15 minutes; and then lower heat to 180C (355F); bake for 30 minutes more; allow to cool 10 minutes before serving.

LITTLE TREASURES OF DAYS GONE BY DISCOVERED AND UNCOVERED

Clockwise from top left: Ivy Flora Hose (Hay)- my grandmother. Elma Flora Hay and Ivy Hay and Jack (John) Hay on their wedding day.


I’m not going to get very far today…this I know already!

Last night I wrote a list of chores I wanted (read “needed”) to do today. I have a feeling that not everything on my adventurous list will get done; no doubt, I’ll get waylaid along the way! Already a couple of disturbances and hurdles have raised their furry heads! My two four-legged, rascally friends figure there is just too much enjoyment to be had in what I’m doing; and they decided to join in the activity! Why should they miss out in all the fun, they ask – I can see it written clearly on their faces – I’m no fool! I’ve given them a choice; it’s either the bathroom with the door locked; or the bedroom with the door padlocked. Knowing what side their bread is buttered on; and what side of the bed is the most comfortable and cosy, they’ve chosen the bedroom – of course! I can’t even say that they look smarter than they are; because they both are as smart as they look; and there is no denying it! They know it, too! I don’t stand a chance!

During my diggings I came across a very old article called “The Beadle.” - which was hidden away amongst my many bits, pieces, papers and other mysterious objects The “news bulletin” is dated February, 1918. It was published by the Gympie Presbyterian Church. From what I can gather it was a monthly newsletter.

What makes it interesting and personal to me is a notice therein of the untimely death of my great-grandfather, Robert Hose.

Quote: “We regret to record the death of Mr. Robert Hose, who was killed in the Scottish Gympie Mine by the fall of a rock. He was buried on the 24th, the Rev. W.J. Taylor officiating. R.Hose was just over 50 years of age, and within a few days would have left mining to take up land at Goomboorian.”

Robert Hose left behind a widow and six children; the eldest was 20 years old when Robert died; and the youngest, nine years of age.

I have written about this previously, I know; but I’ve felt urged to write more.

Robert Hose was my grandmother’s father – on my mother’s side of the Family Tree. A couple of brave off-shoots from those limbs of the “Tree” branched out from Scotland and Ireland to seek a better life in Australia in the mid to late 1800s. My great-grandmother, a wee Scottish lass named Flora Stuart MacDonald” (of both Scottish and Irish heritage) married Robert Hose, a tall, handsome Highlander. Robert sported a ginger moustache. One of Robert Hose’s daughters was my grandmother, Ivy Flora Hose.

Down the track a bit, Ivy married John Hay. John, more commonly known as “Jack” was also of Scottish heritage.

My grandmother was 16 years old at the time of her father’s fatal accident. Nana was born on 13th November, 1901. Australia’s Federation was January 1st, 1901.

Nana’s older brothers used to spin a tale or two when they were young (as all older brothers seem to have the habit of doing). They tried to convince her that the MacDonnell Ranges in the Northern Territory were discovered by a wandering relative. Of course, the name “MacDonnell” was not the spelling of their mother’s maiden name…”MacDonald”! And, our grandmother, always an avid reader, was wise to their trickery!

Upon starting school, my mother, Elma Flora Hay was asked by one of her teachers from where she got her rich, auburn tresses! Haughtily, my mother replied: “From my grandfather’s moustache!” Where else, indeed!

My mother had beautiful auburn hair and sparkling blue eyes…a true Irish colleen! Her mother, Ivy Flora Hay (nee “Hose”) had deep chestnut-coloured hair and blue eyes.

When my late brother and I were children we’d harass our Nana night after night around our bedtimes (and at other times) to tell us stories of the “olden days”; she willingly obliged. Nana told wonderful stories; and I know they were without embellishment and were all true as they happened. How I wish that somewhere along the line and over the years before her passing in 1976 that I’d recorded her many interesting reminiscences onto a more permanent file other than my own memory!

Take heed; let it be a lesson to each and everyone of us for the sake of our future generations. The stories our elders have stored away in their minds are worthy of recording, no matter how simple they may appear to be to our untrained ears. Myriad stories need to be told and recorded for posterity. The tales they have to tell are all part of our history; they may seem minor and insignificant, but they probably are much more than they may appear to be. It’s sad that there are so many stories that shall remain untold.

We find it so easy to pick up autobiographies by strangers; biographies of people we will never meet or get to know. Hungrily we pounce upon books of fiction, and yet many amongst us are not interested in what went before in the lives of our parents and theirs before them and so on. There is still so much to learn about our forefathers…from our parents; their parents and their parents. We shouldn’t bypass these gems of information. They are there (and ours) for the taking!

My brother and I would sit in silence, open-eyed as Nana told us stories of emus poking their heads through the kitchen window with the hope of stealing the silverware. The cutlery was always hidden away out of reach of the prying eyes and beaks of the cheeky, curious emus.

An Aboriginal woman, called “Emma” used to hover around my grandmother’s childhood home at Goomboorian. Emma played with my grandmother and her siblings when they were children. Nana and her brothers and sisters adored her, and in turn she loved them. The kids teased her good-naturedly and relentlessly as children do. And from what my brother and I were told, Emma gave as good as she got! Nana and her siblings would call out to her - “Emma-Emma-Black Bum! Emma-Emma-Black Gin”; and then they’d run in all directions, giggling, enjoying the challenge they’d set – day after day. Emma would chase them around the yard, laughing all the way. There was nothing nasty or vindictive in the children’s chants; and Emma took no offence at their teasing name-calling. With her long, brown skinny legs, Emma was faster than they were; a fact that they loved, and one of which they were aware. The children and Emma enjoyed the chase and the catch! Of course, those were the days long before political-correctness was the catch-phrase of the decade!

The distance between Goomboorian and Tin Can Bay is 32kms – a 29 minute car drive away, nowadays – or quicker, depending on how fast one drives! When my Nana was a young girl the trip was an overnighter by horse and buggy. The family set up camp on the banks of Coondoo Creek for an overnight stay before continuing on to Tin Can Bay; similar occurred on their return trip home.

There is more to this story...than that that meets the eye today!

PUPPY LOVE - THE ONE THAT BROKE FREE FROM THE LEASH….

In 1960, Paul Anka sang about it when he became smitten with Annette Funicello.

Shamelessly, three years earlier he had already declared his undying love for “Diana”! Back in 1957, he proclaimed emphatically; “You Are My Destiny”! He pleaded to “Diana”; “Put Your Head on My Shoulder” while confessing his “Crazy Love” for her, but she declined. Her refusal upset Paul. He wept as he admitted he was a “Lonely Boy”.

Soon after Paul’s “Diana” infatuation palled, it was then that his affection for Annette Funicello began. He fell under Annette’s spell when he spotted her gallivanting at the ocean’s edge with Frankie Avalon at a Beach Party. Avalon, by the way, thought her his “Venus”.

Not caring who heard, Frankie professed openly – “I Will Wait for You”; but he didn’t stand a chance once Paul slid down the dunes wearing his "budgie smugglers"!

Overcome with his desire for Annette, Paul warbled “Puppy Love” whenever in her presence (and when not); she was a goner from that moment on! The passion disintegrated rapidly, however, when Paul blurted out to the world: “You’re Having My Baby!” Annette wanted nothing more to do with him. Defeated, Paul said; ‘That’s it, then! From now on I’ll do it “My Way”!’

Marcie Blane warned all the girls within earshot that she was “Bobby’s Girl”. She told Connie Francis to back off when she heard Connie scream at Bobby; “That ‘Lipstick on Your Collar’ is mine!”

Down the road and around the corner, Little Peggy March didn’t discriminate, nor did she care who heard when she belted out at the top of her lungs; “I Will Follow Him!” as she marched after him. We never discovered who “him” was. Did she ever catch up with him; or is he still dodging her; and she, still marching behind?

We listened intently to all the love songs; we sang, danced and, sometimes, wept along to them. In our dreams we wished we had someone who would sing words of everlasting devotion to us; with lyrics that would melt our tender teenage hearts, and fulfill our teenage fantasies. How we longed to experience that special feeling so difficult to describe unless possessed of poetic or songwriting abilities like those of Paul Anka, Neil Sedaka, Dion and others of their ilk; the almost indescribable emotion when one’s heart and trembling tummy felt like they were bouncing up and down on a trampoline. The lows that came with the massive highs we learned to deal with by shedding a torrent of tears while promising to no one in particular; “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again!”

I had a big dose of the “woofs” aka “puppy love” the moment I locked eyes with a handsome young drummer in a Gympie band. I was a starry-eyed 14-year old high school student. My heart was his prisoner for a few years. We only ever locked eyes! Ours was love at arms’ length! Sadly he has now passed away, but, to this day he still holds a place in my heart. That’s not a bad thing; it’s kind of romantic in a way. Puppy love is important to one’s emotional growth, in my opinion.

Veal with Artichoke Hearts: Combine 1/4c plain flour, salt and pepper. Pound to ¼-inch thickness, 250g veal cutlets; coat cutlets in the flour. Melt 1/4c butter in skillet; add cutlets; brown; add 1 can, drained, quartered artichoke hearts, 1tbs lemon juice and 1/2c dry white wine. Cook 2-3mins.

Marsala Tenderloins: With tender loving care, pound to ¼-inch thickness 450-500g pork tenderloin (fillet); coat in flour mixture as for veal. Heat 3tbs olive oil in large pan over med-high heat; cook pork 2-3mins; brown all sides; remove to platter; set aside. Add 250g sliced mushrooms and 2 thinly-sliced onions to pan; sauté 6-8mins; stir in 1/2c Marsala; (add a little cream, too, if you like); cook a couple of minutes; return pork; season; cook 3-4mins.

Cupid’s Ice Cream Cupcakes: Grab two of those rich chocolate cupcakes you made; place on individual plates; top with a scoop of chocolate ice cream. Drizzle with caramel sauce; sprinkle each with chopped pecans and toasted shredded coconut; decorate with sliced strawberries.

Sweetheart Fudge Pie: Beat 1/2c butter and 3/4c firmly-packed brown sugar at med-speed until light and fluffy; add 3 large eggs, one at a time; beat after each addition. Stir in 375g melted semi-sweet chocolate, 2tsp instant coffee granules and 1tsp vanilla; stir in 1/2c plain flour and 1c chopped walnuts/pecans; pour into unbaked pastry shell. Bake in 190C oven, 25mins; cool completely; chill.

Hot Caribbean Kiss: Heat 75ml good quality golden rum with 1tbs raisins, 1tsp marmalade and 1tsp brown sugar until sugar and marmalade dissolve. Pour into a wine glass; decorate with strips of lemon and orange zest.

TURN…TURN…TURN….TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON….

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace... I swear it’s not too late


Along with “the sun also rises” and “there is nothing new under the sun” and many other astute aphorisms, The Book of Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament attested - to everything there is a season; and a time for every purpose under the heaven.

Learned scholars date Ecclesaistes back to the 3rd Century BC; while some others of similar learning support a 4th Century dating. What’s in a century or two; either which way the profound philosophies expounded therein remain wise and pertinent to this day. I wonder if there is anyone around nowadays whose thoughts will still be respectfully quoted in thousands of centuries hence!

I’m not sure if I agree with all that was written in the above snippet. For instance, is there really a “time to kill”? In the broad sense, I guess there is...particularly if you’re not a vegetarian. But then, it could be said that vegetarians aren’t exempt…they do kill plants. And as for a “time to reap what is planted” – that, too, can have ramifications if what was planted in the first instance was illegal, if you get my drift!

It’s sad; so very distressing; and so very wrong that there has to be “a time of war”. I wish there was never again a time for the purpose of war; that “a time of peace” lasted forever.

I’ve always been a dreamer.

In 1959, noted folk singer/songwriter, Pete Seeger pondered a while upon Ecclesiastes’ “there is a season”. Seeger adapted it entirely except for the last line; and then set it to music. Within a couple of years it was spinning on our turntables as “Turn! Turn! Turn!” Pete Seeger released his version in 1962 as did the folk group, “The Limelighters. Three years later in 1965, “The Byrds” turned the song into a massive, enduring hit. Many others, including Judy Collins jumped onto our turntables and into the airwaves with their cover versions.

I feel very fortunate to have lived in such an era filled with a multiple of wonderful groups like “The Byrds”; “Crosby, Stills & Nash”; “The Flying Burritos”, to name but three out of so many.

And before those groups hit the scene, I feel so lucky to have spent many evenings sitting around with friends, sipping on coffee; searching for the meaning of life, while listening to the likes of Seeger, Dylan, Joan Baez, Peter, Paul and Mary, Mahalia Jackson, Nina Simone, Miriam Makeba, Odetta, The New Christy Minstrels, Josh White et al...the list goes on forever. And that was just in the early Sixties…before the revolution hit! Before bands like “The Byrds” came along – and then a whole new fleet of music-makers arrived on our doorsteps, taking us along for the ride. And what a ride it was!

I’ve not even crossed the Atlantic Ocean from the US to the UK, yet; I’ll take that cruise later down the track.

In the meantime, Creedence Clearwater was just being revived; and Jimmy Buffet hadn’t yet found the perfect recipe for Margaritas! Willie was still on the road...again; and John Denver was leaving on a jet plane; that was long before he decided to take the country roads back home, instead; after all, he was a country boy at heart; and he thanked God that he was.

We were all shook up when Elvis was shipped off to Germany. Upon his return we couldn’t help falling in love with him all over again. We were glad the US Army obeyed our call to have Elvis returned to sender!

Neil Diamond declared that he was a believer and the Monkees believed him; and soon, the rest of us fell under his spell, too and toasted him with some Crackling Rosie. Neil didn’t mind being a solitary man and when sweet Caroline comforted him, he turned to her and said: “Girl, You’ll be a woman soon.”

To be continued…..I’m on a roll and like a rolling stone, I shall gather no moss!

DOWN, BUT NOT OUT! FLOORED, BUT NOT FLAWED!

When we’re young - to clarify, I mean those of you who slot into my vintage; we who were young yesterday; and are mature today; now I’ve sorted that out, I’ll return to where I began - when we were young we believed we had a one-way ticket to love. However, it didn’t take me long to think beyond the box; I bought a book of tickets, rather than just one sole ticket. Our tender, innocent hearts were bent or broken more than once. Mine was, but I had a good supply of band-aids and spare tickets on hand to see me through.

There were times I felt down, but never out. Like “Scarlett O’Hara”, I believed “tomorrow was another day”; it still is. And just like Scarlett, I picked myself up; took a look around and realised that a new day invariably brought with it fresh challenges, hopes, dreams; and another, maybe even improved, un-flawed person of interest. Perhaps it was the new boy in town or the tanned Adonis flexing his muscles at the beach who deserved a second glance and closer examination, even if from afar and unbeknown by him, the unsuspecting subject/victim! Feeling down isn’t fun unless it’s the down an Eider duck has generously donated for a quilt!

We soon learn that reality isn’t like the lives depicted in novels or in movies where the scripts are pre-written; and then erased and rewritten to suit; where questions have already been answered on the pages that follow; or when the next scene unfolds upon the screen. If the author or director doesn’t like where a plot is heading, he/she deletes or yells “Cut!” whichever applies; and then starts all over again on a new vein. If that doesn’t work, they delete or cut until the story makes sense; culminating in an ending befitting the plot and the images in their mind.

The hero with his penetrating eyes; an errant lock of hair falling across his broad brow; his teasing, come-hither lips parted slightly with a hint of a sneer seductively tempts his quarry to heed his bidding. His defenseless prey (and reader/viewer) helplessly surrenders to his “come-hither-ing”. If you are a male reading this, change the above to “heroine”; you fill in the blanks.

I’m a “black and white” person, but it’d be un-Christian of me not to notice there’s a lot of “Grey” matter about lately; and I’m not going to miss out on all the fun…and games. I feel like jumping on the bandwagon or bouncing up and down on that down-filled doona.

I thought I heard a strong wind outside; I was floored when I learned it wasn’t wind! It was all the heavy breathing engulfing the mountain at the moment! While out driving the other day, I noticed every second house had fogged-up windows. When I discovered the real cause, again I was floored! The fogging wasn’t caused by log fires! Obviously, there’s nothing bland or boring about having a little grey in one’s life!

Showing great restraint, here are my somewhat grey recipes!

Christian Grey B & B (that's "Bread and Butter", not "Bed and Breakfast"!) Pudding: Preheat oven 180C; grease and line loaf tin. Pour 200ml each milk and cream into saucepan; stir in 2tsp Earl Grey tea leaves. Heat until not quite simmering; leave at this temp for 10-12mins; add 75g sugar and 1tsp vanilla essence; whisk; pour in thin stream into 3 beaten eggs. Slice 6 croissants on shallow angle, getting 4 thick slices from each. Dip slices into mixture until well-soaked. Line bottom of tin with slices; sprinkle over slivered almonds and roughly-chopped dark chocolate; continue layering; reserve some almonds and chocolate to sprinkle over top layer. Carefully pour any remaining liquid around tin edges; bake 40mins or until set.

Grey’s Cupcakes with Butter Cream: Preheat oven 176C; fill 2 cupcakes pans with liners or grease well, Beat 1c unsalted butter until creamy; add 2c sugar; cream until light and fluffy; add 4 eggs, 1 at a time; beat very well after each addition. Beat in 1-1/2c S.R. flour along with 2tbs dry Earl Grey tea; add 1c milk and extra 1-1/2c S.R. flour; stir until just combined. Fill pans 2/3rd full; bake 20-25mins; rotate halfway through for even baking; cool thoroughly. Frosting: Cream 1c unsalted butter until smooth; gradually beat in 4c icing sugar; zest 1 lemon over frosting; add 3tbs lemon juice or Limoncello; stir until smooth; spread or pipe frosting onto cooled cupcakes. Add 1tbs Earl Grey tea leaves to frosting for extra “oomph”, if desired.

Vanilla Grey Tea Cake: Preheat oven 176C. Lightly grease and flour 8-inch round cake tin. Combine 1-1/2c sifted plain flour, 1/4c cornflour, 1-1/2tsp baking powder and 1/4ts salt. In larger bowl, beat 1/2c unsalted butter, 3/4c raw sugar, vanilla essence and 1tbs finely chopped Earl Grey loose tea, until light and fluffy; add 3 room temp eggs, 1 at a time; beat well after each addition. Add flour mixture to wet mixture; pour in 1c full cream milk; mix until just blended - don’t over-mix; immediately pour into pan; bake until inserted toothpick comes out clean, about 25mins. Cool in pan 12mins before serving.

There you go! My abridged version - "Three Shades of Grey"!

EMBRACE LIFE…EMBRACE A LIFE WORTH HAVING KNOWN…EMBRACE THE MEMORIES…FOREVER

A friend from my past; of nigh on fifty years ago in my past, to be exact, tracked me down a few weeks ago; perhaps a couple of months ago, knowing how rapidly time disappears as it turns every second into the past! These days it seems a year that once contained 12 months, no longer is as long.

I touched on my reconnection with an old friend briefly in an earlier post, I know; but so many memories; so many thoughts have been stirred and shaken these last few weeks. Sorry, Mr Bond!

Every day since he and I met up again through the marvel of the internet, we’ve been corresponding in great depth and length; and within that “depth” and “length”, my new-old friend has tossed a lot of questions my way; questions that have caused me to delve deeply into my past…a past that began long before he and I knew each other in our heady teenage years; and continued as each day passed through all the intervening years between then and now.

I’ve answered many of his questions; and there are many more awaiting a response from me; I know he has a bank full of queries still to be asked of me. This has caused me to wonder in answering some questions - where do I draw the line between loyalties? I believe in honesty; but I also believe in protecting those I hold dear, and I wonder if I do, in fact, have the right to discuss them without their knowledge or permission; even if they’ve passed from this world.

My mind is always very active, but lately it’s been working overtime!

Isaac Newton once declared…(If the truth be known, he probably declared similar more than once)…“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”…or words to that effect.

Because of our reconnection, my friend from the past and I have covered a lot of ground, with much more territory to cover, no doubt. We would both make great turf-layers if the amount of ground we’ve covered is an indicator; and we still have much to cover!

From our correspondence and prompted by the strangeness of life (and I’m unable to explain how or why a lot in life happens); I asked my friend one day if he knew of a particular family who lived in the town where he spent his childhood...Maryborough. The youngest daughter of that family had been a member of my staff when I managed the resort at Cape Richards, Hinchinbrook Island. And, because “life” is so in-explicitly weird at times, he did, in fact, know the family. Proof again that life is very strange. The family lived down the road from where my friend ran a corner store years ago. And, the young lady I enquired about was just a little girl at the time; the youngest in a close-knit Catholic family. As a child, she shyly spent time in his shop; her keen eyes longingly caressing the lolly jars.

Bronwyn (Bronnie) was her name.

Bronwyn and I first met in Noosa when I owned and operated a greengrocery/healthfood store in Hastings Street. Bronnie worked in “Miss Piggy’s”; a take-away shop in the same complex as my business. Often when on a “break”, Bronnie popped into my shop for a chat and a freshly-baked muesli cookie; or perhaps a slice of carrot-pineapple cake, still warm from the oven. She was a sweet young lass; quite young for her years compared to some of her peers.

When Bronwyn heard that I was leaving Noosa to take up the management of Hinchinbrook Island’s resort she rushed into my shop one morning; she pulled up the old Bentwood chair, and with determination in her eyes, she pleaded with me to give her a job; for me to take her with me to the island.

“Bronnie,’ I said. “You have to realise that island life is going to be so much different to your life here in Noosa. All your friends are here. Your Mum and Dad are here. You go out all the time with your mates to the clubs etc; you go surfing; you go partying. There’ll be nothing like that on the island. Island life will be totally and completely different to your life here in Noosa! There'll be only a handful of us living on the island…probably no more than 12, maybe 15 at peak times…work mates; you'll be living in each others' pockets There are no roads on the island; no vehicles; no shops…no nothing! Other than the guest cabins, the restaurant and the staff quarters, there is little else! Do you think you could handle that?”

She kept trying to interrupt me with her arguments "for" her desire; and I kept bringing up all the “cons” in an attempt to make her understand the remoteness of life on Hinchinbrook Island. Hinchinbrook was like no other island resort. “The only footprints on the beach will be your own”; “maximum population 30”; and “a million miles from everywhere” were its mantras.

I recognised immediately that I was fighting a losing battle; but with one last charge, I said:

“Bronnie, I want you to go away; sleep on this overnight or longer, if you wish…longer would perhaps be the better idea. I want you to really, really give this a lot of thought. Weigh the pros and the cons; and then come back to me. Give it a lot of thought; don’t look at it through rose-coloured glasses. I’ll make my decision when next I see you.”

I had a very strong inkling that her mind was already made up. No matter what I said, my chances of changing her mind were very slim!

First thing next morning…there she was; a broad smile on her face as she bounced into my shop, full of vim and vigour; and positivity! I knew from the look upon her face that I was the loser in the battle. I’d been defeated, fairly and squarely! However, as it turned out, I ended being the winner; or better still….both Bronnie and I were winners. We tied for first place!

A month or so later, having sold my shop and my much-loved, difficult-to-part-with 1958 MG Magnette Varitone; and after having tied up or snipped off all other loose ends, I headed north to the tropics to begin a new adventure. Shortly thereafter, Bronwyn also arrived ready for whatever lay ahead for her.

During the first few weeks of my debut into island life the resort was closed to the public while certain necessary construction work was carried out. A new, large timber deck with sturdy wooden tables set permanently into it was erected around the pool. A section of the deck cantilevered out beyond the beach below.

Cyclone Winifred had passed through Mission Beach, just north of Hinchinbrook shortly before my arrival. Fortunately, the only major damage suffered by the resort was the old jetty. It was destroyed by the cyclone’s fury; but “Winnie” actually did us a favour. A stronger, larger jetty replaced the old, rickety one.

A week before the resort was due to open once again to guests, Bronwyn’s 21st birthday was due. It was evident to all she was eager to celebrate. I knew she was feeling homesick for her family and friends, and her longing was even more so at this major time in her life.

She kept hinting, quite vocally, and often, valiantly trying to learn if I had anything planned for her special day. Being one who is quite fond of teasing, I kept a straight face each time she asked what I had planned for her. Without flinching, my somewhat curt answer each time was:

“I’m very sorry, Bronnie; but you can see what’s going on around here. We’re all so busy…everyone has their time cut out for them! We’re racing against the clock! I just don’t have time to plan anything for you; not at this point! None of us has any time for anything other than trying to get all this work done; getting the resort ready for its re-opening on 8th March is difficult enough without me having to plan a party! I’m so sorry, Bronwyn, but that’s just the way it is. Perhaps I can organise something further down the track.”

I stayed strong; I remained stoic each time I saw her face fall; every time I witnessed the disappointment in her eyes; but I had a surprise party all planned for Bronnie. Unfortunately for her, she was going to be the last to know!

It was difficult to remain impassive; indifferent; and every time she asked, I felt so bad inside; but I must be honest - at the same time I was having fun because I knew that come the time of the party, Bronnie would be thrilled to pieces by what I had planned, All her pain and dashed hopes caused by my subterfuge would be worthwhile in the end!

My strategy was set in stone; and nothing and no one was going to divert me from my course and mission; not even the disappointment clearly shown on Bronwyn’s face, day after day; time after time. Her hints had soon turned into heartfelt pleas; but she was thwarted at every post! My determination was greater than hers! I refused to surrender!


The tradesmen employed to erect the deck and build the new jetty joined the resort staff at meal times. My staff spent their days eagerly tending to the finishing touches around the restaurant and guest cabins in readiness for the arrival our first merry holiday-makers. There was an electric buzz in the air.

A long table was set up in the restaurant, and each meal time, like a big family, everyone gathered together around the table sharing their stories. Laughter and much chatter normally filled the air.

Come breakfast time on Bronnie’s big day she was the last to arrive down from the staff quarters. While waiting on her appearance, I urged the rest of the staff to ignore the fact that it was her birthday; for them to pretend the day was no different to any other. Our act was going to be carried out to its not-so-bitter-but-very-happy-end! Everyone knew what I had in store, so they willingly went along with the fun, games and deceit. No one wanted to let the cat out of the bag. And, anyway, I had a far more exciting surprise awaiting Bronnie than a cat in a bag, or a “Jack-in-the-Box”!

Bronnie finally made her entrance, dragging her feet behind her. Hardly anyone raised their heads when she sat down at the table. Each gave a bit of a grunt in recognition of her joining them, before continuing with their conversations and breakfast cereals. Her face grew longer by the second, and more sombre by the minute. I excused myself from the table and went into my office that was behind the bar to collect a gift-wrapped box. I returned to the breakfasting group armed with the parcel.

Bronnie’s eyes lit up when I handed her the box; but her delight was short-lived; it quickly changed into shocked horror. Upon opening the box out jumped two cane toads! She let out a loud scream while simultaneously leaping out of her chair. She jumped higher than the toads! The toads, relieved at being released, hopped across the restaurant floor on their way to freedom. Everyone broke out in uproarious laughter …except Bronwyn. With happy birthday greetings gleefully following her, in a huff, she stomped out of the restaurant and away from all of the offenders; and she refused to talk to anyone for the rest of the day! Little wonder; but her best surprise was still in store. And I knew that she had no idea what lay ahead for her. It was as I’d wanted and planned it to be. Everything was going along so smoothly. How mean can one person be?

The day passed uneventfully. I’d asked the staff to go about their business as if it was a normal day, but to finish up a little earlier in the afternoon than they usually did; to give them time to shower, change and arrive back down at the restaurant/bar and deck in readiness for the grand celebration. Bronwyn, still sulking, naturally arrived down much later than her co-workers! At one point, I thought she wasn't going to turn up!

The look upon her beautiful face was worth all the pain; the agony; the hurt; the shock I’d put her through when she finally did show! She was so happily surprised. Her excitement was unbridled. She’d not even had the slightest, tiniest suspicion that anything had been planned for her birthday.

To this day, I can still feel her embrace; and I can still hear her words of thanks. All was forgiven; I was forgiven!

She’d never been to a live concert, so one of her “real” birthday presents was two tickets to Dire Straits live in concert on 2nd April, 1986 at Dean Park, Townsville. Amongst other gifts, a bottle of Bourbon was a fine substitute for cane toads, too.

Bronwyn banished her homesick-birthday-blues that night by celebrating high-spiritedly on the deck at Cape Richards’ Resort, Hinchinbrook Island. Surrounded by her group of new friends, her newly-found work-mates - all of whom came to love her; she and all who shared in her 21st birthday celebration had a wonderful, fun-filled evening under sparkling stars lined up in chorus to a silver moon; with the sounds of the ocean serenading in the background. How could one not have a great time in those conditions?

That night was only the beginning of many more adventures; of many more stories yet to be told; of many memories that will remain embedded in my mind; and in my heart...forever.

Bronwyn had something special about her; a light glowed from within; brightly she shone with eagerness, excitement and expectations of what lay ahead.

I received word from Bronnie’s husband last night, Saturday 4th August, 2012;
Bronnie passed away on Friday evening, 3rd August, 2012…at 10.25 pm, at the Mossman Hospital. Bronwyn was 47 years of age.

Bronwyn not only has left behind her husband, Brett and their four, wonderful children, ranging in age from 19 years to nine years; but she has left behind many, many loving, fun memories and many good friends.

All of these are her legacy.

Bronwyn embraced life…I hope she can feel my embrace, now.


Orchid Beach, Hinchinbrook Island

HANDS DOWN CONCRETE EVIDENCE THAT SHE’LL BE APPLES!

I never had a burning desire to travel overseas. I lacked that particular gene! I was just a broad who didn’t habour a need to go abroad! As my peers jumped aboard Qantas Boeings or queued for berths on ocean liners to head off to intriguing foreign shores, I blissfully bade adieu from the sidelines, not in any way envious of their wanderlust.

Later down the years I did trip briefly to Singapore, Papua New Guinea and across the ditch to annoy our Kiwi mates. I’ve grappled an apple or two on the Apple Isle, but other than those sojourns, my heart and feet have contentedly and firmly remained planted on Aussie (sorry, Tassie) soil, sand, and, once or twice, in mud; and I’ve not forgotten the time I planted my hands in wet cement; it’s set like concrete in my mind.

The setting for this story is Collinsville.

My employer, Morris Catering held the catering contract with Collinsville Coal, a subsidiary of MIM. I was Chef-Manager of the single men’s mess and accommodation. With the growing number of heads (and stomachs) more storage was needed to house dry goods, etc. I decided a free-standing shed was the answer to my problem. To execute my plan I hired a local handyman. A strange little man, he reminded me of that wonderful British actor of old, Edmund Gwenn aka “Kris Kringle” in the original(and best) “Miracle on 34th Street”. He also appeared in “Lassie Come Home”. Gwenn mostly portrayed kindly, gentle souls in his many movies. The similarity between the mild-mannered actor and my handyman proved to be superficial and short-lived. My “Jack-of-all-trades” became more like a cranky garden gnome than Mr. Gwenn.

When my odd, odd-job-man finished laying and levelling the cement for the floor he headed off to attend to another job elsewhere with the intention of returning the next day after the floor had dried. The plan was that once the shed and the shelves were in place, without delay and further ado, the area would be loaded to the hilt with cartons of dry stores, crockery, bed linen, towels and the like. As soon as “Odd-Job” left to attend to his other chores, I expressed to my staff my life-long desire to leave my imprint in wet cement! I pointed out that we’d never get a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, but our chance at emulation lay begging at our back door! Like mythological sirens luring innocent sailors, the lure of the wet cement was impossible for us to ignore. Our boss-employee bond was cemented that afternoon; and any future relationship with the handyman was shattered!

“Grumpy” was not amused upon his return the following morning! Mumbling under his breath, but loud enough for all in range to hear, he begrudgingly redid the floor, destroying our artwork forever! Immediately the job was completed, cartons and all manner of other items covered the shelves and the floor making it nigh impossible to espy!

After the shed affair, I shed the odd-job bloke! Some folk just can’t take a joke!

Pickled Pork with Stewed Apples: Stir 1/2c caster sugar, 1/4c cider vinegar and 1/2 cup water over med-heat until the sugar dissolves; bring to the boil; add 3 delicious apples, cut into wedges; cook until just tender; set aside. Place 1kg pickled pork in saucepan; cover with cold water; toss in some peppercorns, whole cloves, 1/2c cider vinegar, 1 cinnamon stick, 1tsp dry mustard, 2tbls brown sugar, 1 whole onion, 1 carrot, 1 celery stalk. Bring to the boil; reduce heat; simmer 2hrs. Drain. Serve sliced pork with apples, syrup.

Apple Coleslaw:Combine 380g thinly-sliced white cabbage, 4 coarsely-grated red apples, half a small red onion, finely-chopped, 1 finely-chopped celery stalk, celery salt, 1tsp finely-grated lemon rind and 2tbs lemon juice. Whisk together 1/4c crème fraiche or sour cream and 1tbl natural yoghurt; add to slaw; gently toss to combine; season.

Sweet Potato-Apple Tart: Preheat oven 200C; line baking tray with baking paper. Cut 2cm border around edge of 1 sheet thawed puff pastry, cutting only halfway through; transfer to baking tray. Combine 300g fresh ricotta and pinch cinnamon until smooth. Spread over pastry leaving 2cm border. Cut 150g kumara into 5mm-thick slices; cut 1 pink lady apple similarly; arrange slices over ricotta; brush with melted butter; sprinkle over 1tbl brown sugar. Scatter over 2tsp fresh rosemary leaves. Bake 30mins until golden. Serve warm.

Apple-Mint Sauce: Combine 6 Granny Smiths with 2/3c sweet white wine, 2tbs sugar over low heat; cook 5mins. Increase heat; boil, covered 10mins; puree; add 3tsp chopped mint; serve warm or chilled with pork.

PAST DISCOVERIES DISCOVERED

Uh-oh! It is true! The past does come back to haunt; mine has just bitten me in the butt. I have nowhere to hide! All escape routes are blocked! The past finds us (if we’ve done no wrong; we’ve nothing to worry about). No one is immune. Like a giant octopus trolling for prey, tentacles of the past will find us and suck us in. My past has caught up with me – again! It all began with a Gympie house fire that destroyed an historical old home; one that in the distant past I had ties to during my childhood and teen years. No! I didn’t start that fire; but I did reignite the embers under some members of my past!

Many role players from years gone by eventually find me. My attempts at disguises and false bread trails fail. I could disappear over the far horizon en route to the ends of the earth and beyond; I could go as far away as to be close enough to get a whiff of the sulphurous fumes of Hades - I’d still run into someone I know! There are people who disappear off the face of the earth never to be found; not me! I could change my identity; inject bucket loads of Botox; have a few chin lifts; raise my eyebrows; swap my lips for Angelina’s and I’d still be recognised! I’m easier to find than King Tut ever was! I must admit that I, too, am pretty good at finding people no matter how hard they try to remain hidden; even if they change their phone numbers! No place or person is safe from me when I start sniffing around for clues. No stone remains unturned; no shrub undisturbed; no hedge untrimmed. However, a few weeks ago, the tables were turned on me…again! A friend I’ve not seen for nigh on 50 years tracked me down. He’d obviously read my book; “Don’t Shirk from Being Sherlock”! I wrote it after I trained Sherlock Holmes! I taught old Sherl everything he knows; all his sleuthing tricks – I taught him those!

My long-lost friend gathered together a posse who, in turn, successfully fulfilled their tender. I was hog-tied and led to “He, the Seeker”. Every day since the successful outcome of his hunt we’ve exchanged lengthy missives. The cyber highway has been clogged. We have half a century of stories to share; many memories and so much more. We’re learning more about each other through our present day correspondence than we did in the heady days of our youth when we were too busy heeding the challenge; “How low can you go?” Time after time we defiantly conquered the limbo pole before twisting the nights away at Gympie’s record hops. Chubby Checker would’ve been proud of us!

There is no doubt that the “Six Degrees of Separation” theory exists. Since our reconnection my friend and I have discovered we have many people in common with whom we had separate dealings throughout the years. Until now, neither of us was aware of the other’s connection. We’ve learned we’ve walked many parallel paths. It’s true! All of us are closely linked once we begin a dialogue. This rekindling of a past friendship has caused me to glance over my shoulder; not only into the distant past, but also to the near past; seeing both through different eyes; and I thought: “Being young is when the future takes forever to arrive; being young is when the past is yesterday or only a minute ago; eagerly forgotten; old age is when the past is remembered with nostalgic clarity!

Char-Grilled Octopus: Thoroughly wash 8 (about 250g) cleaned baby octopus under cold running water; drain; pat dry. Combine 1/4c dry white wine, 2tsp x-virgin olive oil, 2 large garlic cloves, crushed, 1tsp mild paprika and 1 finely-chopped red chilli; season; add octopus; toss; cover; chill 30mins. Preheat char-grill on high. Drain octopus; pour marinade into small saucepan; cook octopus on grill, 4-5mins, turning once or twice. Season marinade; bring to boil; cook 1min. Place octopus on dish; pour over marinade; serve with lemon wedges.

Italian-Inspired Octopus: Bring large pot of salted water to boil; add 500g small or large octopus; return to boil; cook 1-2mins; drain. Cut octopus into large pieces; sauté in 4tbs olive oil over med-heat, 2-3mins; add 4 chopped garlic cloves; sauté 1-2mins. Add 1c white wine; bring to boil over high heat; reduce, 3-4mins; add 1c crushed tomatoes, or peeled, chopped fresh tomatoes and 1tsp chilli flakes; bring to simmer. Add 1tsp salt, 2tsp honey or sugar; cover; simmer 30mins. Add 2tbs capers, optional, 4tsp chopped parsley and 2tsp chopped fresh dill; if octopus is still chewy, cover pot; simmer up to 45mins more. About 10mins from being done, uncover pot; turn up heat to reduce sauce; add cracked black pepper; serve with pasta or crunchy Italian bread or a hunky Italian!

Pickled Octopus: Simmer 1kg large, cleaned octopus in 3/4c water, 1hr. Place octopus and liquid in bowl; chill. When cold drain octopus from liquid; cut into thin slices. Toss octopus through 1/2tbs chopped thyme, 150ml red wine vinegar, 150ml olive oil, 1/2tsp smoked paprika, 1tsp cumin; season to taste.

BEWARE…DANGER AHEAD!

I’ve said it before; I’m saying it again. I’ll continue repeating it ad infinitum. There are some who don’t need convincing! As I get older I’m becoming even grumpier that I ever was. Okay! So you’ve joined the long queue of those who are thinking: “How could she become grumpier than she already is?” (Take note of my confession, freely given; I admit to this flaw in my character; it’s not the only one)! I know what I’m talking about; I know the subject well! I’m not prone to lying or to embellishment; and most certainly not about this. If medals were handed out for grumpiness, I’d get one – every year! I’ll carry the can for being the original grumpy old woman! I discovered long ago it’s better to own up…to the good; to the bad; and to the ugly, when necessary! A couple of weeks ago I was having a welcome moment of being at peace with the world and all (well…almost all) who roam upon it. Savouring my harmonious mood, I was unaware that around the next bend a rude awakening stealthily approached; and I was in its line of fire. Seduced and wooed by the sun-caressed morning that was alive with carefree, feathered birds gleefully flittering to and fro, I’d slipped into complacency; I let my guard down.

Driving along on the left-hand side of Main Western heading south towards the show-grounds end, through no fault or cause of my own, I became really, really ridiculously grumpy (spoken in my best Derek Zoolander impression)! My feeling of peace and goodwill to all creatures big and small was suddenly and unexpectedly smashed to smithereens! As I came around a bend in the road, out of the blue, partly-obscured by the sun-filtered shadows heading towards me on my side of the road a gentleman of elderly repute aboard a mobility scooter appeared. For a brief moment I thought I was imagining the sight directly in front of me. Totally oblivious of all around him, the intrepid daredevil-risk-taker was on a mission. Nobody, including me and my car was going to deter or discourage him from his assignment. He must have been on his way to a very important date. Trundling along with his head down in a Casey Stoner-pose, he didn’t notice, nor did he blink when my car and I jumped high into the air before executing a swift movement to the right towards the centre line markings to get out of his way!

Palpitations of the heart can be exciting if they’re caused by the appearance of a mysterious, tall, dark, handsome stranger on the sunny (and correct) side of the street; but they’re no fun at all if caused by a gentleman of advanced years operating a mobility scooter on the wrong side of the track! There is a lot to be said about “living dangerously; living life on the edge”; just ensure it’s on the right edge! I was a “Happy Little Vegemite” up until that disturbing episode; after my encounter with the errant adventurer of an oblivious nature, I became very grumpy, you can be sure! It took a while before the colour returned to my face. The hair on my head is still standing stiffly on end in some places! It looks like I’ve been given a bad crew-cut by a one-eyed, inebriated hairdresser!

A Warning Before You Tread Further! The recipes below probably won't be of interest (or taste) to anyone living in the Northern Hemisphere.

Vegemite-Cheese Scrolls: Preheat oven 200C; grease biscuit tray. Process 2-1/4c S.R. Flour, 30g cold, chopped butter with salt and pepper; or rub butter into the flour using your fingers, until mixture resembles fresh breadcrumbs; add 1c milk; mix until just combined. Roll dough out to 30x45cm rectangle on floured bench. Spread generously with Vegemite; top with 1/2c grated cheese. Roll into a log; cut into 2cm slices; place side by side on tray; bake 15-18mins, until golden; serve warm.

Vegemite-Mustard Glazed Vegetable Kebabs: Combine 1-1/2tbs Vegemite, 1/4c Dijon mustard, 1tbs brown sugar and 1tbs oil. Cut 2 red onions and 1 baby eggplant into eighths, half 4 small yellow button squash, cut 1 large red capsicum into 16x2cm squares; cut 1 zucchini into 8 slices; grab 8 button mushrooms. Thread vegetables evenly onto 8 pre-soaked bamboo skewers; brush well with glaze; barbecue over med-heat, 6-8mins, brushing occasionally with glaze. Steak Sheila: Grab 4x180g eye fillets, halved horizontally to make 8 thin fillets; flatten out slightly. In two batches, cook fillets over high heat as desired. Remove from pan; cover loosely with foil; set aside to rest. Place the same pan over med-heat; melt 30g unsalted butter; add 3 finely-chopped shallots; cook, stirring 1min; add 2 finely-chopped garlic cloves and 120g sliced button mushrooms; add 1/4c brandy; flame; cook 2-3mins; add 3tsp Vegemite, 2tsp Dijon mustard and 125ml beef stock; cook, stirring 2mins. Add 1/2c thickened cream; season to taste; drizzle over steaks. Serve steaks with Sour Cream Mash; mash spuds with sour cream.

Avocado-Vegemite Toast: Spread toast with Vegemite; top with avocado slices.

LET’S TALK THE TALK; OR WAWK THE WAWK WHILE WE TAWK!

I’ll work it out, or “werk” it out! Bear with me while I bare my thoughts; not my soul, nor sole…my thorts. I’ve a dilemma. You might be able to assist me, if you care or “cair”. English is a complex language. It masquerades under many disguises. However, I find it nigh impossible to excuse bad spelling. For the record, I offer no excuses for myself when I make a blunder. On those occasions, I’m harder on me than I am on others.

If “bear” and “bare” are pronounced “bair”; why then is “hear” not “hare” or “hair”, instead of “heer”? Why is “dear” - “deer” - not “dare” as is “bear” and “bare”? Should “dare” be “dahh”? “Are” is! Why isn’t “are”-“air” instead of “ahhh”? “Hair” is “hair”, which makes sense because “air” is as it appears, even though air can’t be seen…umm…“scene”? Why is “word” not “werd”? “Nerd” is “nerd”. On the other hand, “heard” is “herd” not “heerd”! A sword is not a sawd, although it sounds like one. If “sword” is “sawd” why, then, isn’t “word” - “wawd”? Why isn’t “sw” in “sword” as it is in “sweet”?

It is said that a “coup” is a “coo”; but isn’t a “coo” what a pigeon or two do when housed a coop? “Said” is “sed”, but “shed” isn’t “shaid”. War is “waw”; “far” is “fah” - why, then, isn’t “war” – “wah”; or why isn’t “far” - “faw”? “Ward” is “wawd” not “wahhd”. “Faring” is “fairing”, not “fahhring”! To be specific, depending on which side of the Pacific one reclines “spelt” is spelt “spelled” or “spelled” is spelled “spelt”. Spelt is a flour, but not a flower. “Flour” rhymes with “our” and “hour”, why doesn’t “four”?

Are you confused, yet? One is “one”. Should it be “wun”? “Won” is “wun”; but looks like it should rhyme with “on”. “Two is “too” or “to”, too! I sound like a train, or is that “trane”? On the flip side; “on” is “on”, not “un”. If “one” rhymes with “gun”, why isn’t “gone”…“gun”? Is there no end to this? Maybe I should stop while I’m ahead; or is that “ahed”?

We’ve all words over which we stumble and trip. If I don’t inhale deeply and concentrate intently, I splutter and spit over “phenomenon” or “subliminal”, to name but two. I admit I’m a coward; I avoid them if possible. Incorrect pronunciations grate on my nerves, too...e.g. “important” pronounced as “impordand”; an erroneous “a” inserted making the abomination, “cock-A-roaches”; when an extra “d” is inflicted upon “avocado” making - “aDvocado”; and when “awf” replaces “off”. If your surname was “Head” and your parents named you “Richard”, you’d divorce them; if your surname was “Case”, with “Edward” as your Christian name, you’d raise a few eyebrows! Whew! It’s time for a Bex and a lie down! Perhaps it’s ”ly”; or is it “lye”? Oh! Dammit…fib!

Simple Spelt Bread: Grease two 9x5-inch loaf pans. Mix together 8c spelt flour, 1/2c sesame seeds, 1/2tsp salt, 1tbl molasses, 2tsp baking soda and 4-1/4c milk until blended. Divide evenly into pans. Bake in preheated 175C oven, 1hr 10mins. Placing same-size tin over loafs when baking gives a lovely crust.

Spelt Banana-Honey Bread: Grease and line base and sides of two 8x20cm loaf pans. Combine 225g each whole spelt and white spelt flour, 3/4c brown sugar, 3tsp baking powder, 1tsp bicarb soda and 2tsp cinnamon; add 1c coarsely-chopped walnuts and 1c coarsely-chopped dried dates; stir. Combine 2c mashed bananas, 3/4c vegetable oil, 3 lightly-whisked eggs and 1/3c honey; add flour; stir with wooden spoon until just combined; pour into pans; smooth surfaces; bake in preheated 180C oven, 35-40mins. Cool on wire rack.

Grated Vegetable Fritters: Peel and grate 400g potatoes and 150g carrots; add 360g grated zucchini, 125g drained corn kernels, 1 finely-chopped onion, 1/2c S.R. flour, salt, 1/4c chopped parsley and 3 egg yolks. Beat egg whites until stiff peaks; fold through vegetable mixture. Heat large pan over med-heat; add a little oil; add 1/3c mixture; cook 5mins; cook four at a time; turn, cook 5-8mins.

Vegetable Potato-Crusted Pie: Salt 2 packed cups grated spuds; drain in colander; squeeze out excess moisture; add to 1 beaten egg and 1/4c grated onion. Pat into well-oiled 9-inch pie dish; build up sides with lightly-floured fingers; bake at 204C, 40-50mins; after 30mins, brush crust with a little oil. Reduce oven to 190C. Filling: Sauté 1c chopped onion and 1 garlic clove, minced; add thyme and basil; add 3c vegetables of choice; cook, covered 10mins. Spread 1/2c grated cheese over base of crust; add vegetables; top with more grated cheese. Whisk together 2 eggs and 1/4c milk; season; pour over filling; dust with paprika; bake 35-40mins until set.

FRUSTRATINGLY ANNOYING - I'M CRANKY!

Those of you who have been following my blog for years can see that the lay-out/format has changed. And with that change, I've lost my list of co-bloggers.

I don't know how to get it back or how to add your blogs to my list of those visited by me. If anyone has a clue how I can do this little chore, could you please, please assist me! I'm tearing my hair out; which is a bit scary as I really don't want to be bald!

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, in anticipation of your assistance and advices in this matter.

A NAKED VIEW – THE BARE FACTS – BEAR WITH ME IF YOU DARE!

I’ve a fondness for some old movies. Because of this fondness, along with that it’d been filmed on Dunk Island; I watched a re-run of the 1969 movie version of Norman Lindsay’s “Age of Consent” a few weeks back.

Dunk Island is a member of the Family Group of Islands that includes Bedarra, Timana and others. All are anchored comfortably in the Coral Sea, a little north of the majestic Hinchinbrook Island that looms ominously in the distance.


I’d seen the movie a few times over the years, but my memory of many of its details had dimmed between viewings. One important detail was - I’d forgotten how wrong the movie is on so many levels. Maybe I’ve become more critical over the passage of time; perhaps with reason! Parts were embarrassing to watch. I’m not referring to, nor am I concerned by the then 22 year old Helen Mirren’s provocative exposure as a nubile, under-the-age-of consent nymph! One bare fact is, though - much-admired Mirren’s posterior appeared to be much larger in the movie than it is nowadays!


Thankfully, modern day Aussie movie makers no longer feel obliged to include every unnecessary Ockerism they can think of in their films. These days it’s not mandatory for some poor hapless soul to yell “coo-ee” at the drop of an Akubra! The unfortunate culprit in “The Age of Consent” was the late Harold Hopkins in his first movie role after his 1967 NIDA graduation. I had the good fortune to meet Harold only weeks prior to his giant step into his future. Both he and I were holidaying at Moolooloaba on the Sunshine Coast - separately - over the Christmas/New Year period of 1962/63 - he was a callow youth, and I, a fair maiden! He and I became mates for the duration of our holidays. He and his mate joined in with my crowd of friends. Once our holidays were at an end, we never saw each other again. However, over the years, I did often see him in movies and on the television screen - but he didn't know I was watching!!!

Hopkins barely made an appearance in "Age of Consent" without bellowing an awkward “coo-ee”! I kept expecting Chips Rafferty to appear as a shipwrecked stockman!

There’s a lot about the movie I don’t like; for instance, the dreadful acting! The nudity doesn’t bother me; I’d be a hypocrite to say otherwise. I, too, once was a nubile young thing who gamboled sans clothes under tropical rain and in crystal waters. Unfortunately those blissful times are long gone. Also, I doubt my landlords would be in favour of my frolicking like a mermaid in their garden ponds!


I do love the movie’s setting, though; the reason I watched it.


Nude scenes on the silver screen were unusual for the Queensland of those times. Explicitly-written books also disturbed some folk. A ban on Lindsay’s book on which the film was based was lifted in 1962. In 1965 D.H. Lawrence’s scandalous “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” was released from the garden shed. In 1972/73 furore erupted within our censorship board; the cause of their fretting - “Last Tango in Paris”. The image of butter deterred members from entering supermarkets for years! I was around 29 years old at the time and was being squired by a mature-aged gentleman; himself a member of the Queensland Censorship Board. He was horrified to learn that I’d seen the movie; that I openly admitted to liking it caused him an apoplectic fit! It’s funny how attitudes change.

Townsville press had palpitations when the cast of “Age of Consent”, having succumbed to the island’s free-spirited ambience after filming there for three months, arrived in town barefooted, wearing sarongs!

One evening in 1986 when I was managing the resort on Hinchinbrook Island I returned to the North after a week-long business trip to Sydney. Staying overnight in Townsville before going back to the island the following day, I donned my stylish ladies’ tuxedo complete with scarlet bow tie and black stilettos! With glamorous images of Monte Carlo floating through my mind, I felt like a million dollars as I strutted into Townsville’s new-opened casino.

I left within minutes; all around me were dressed in stubbies, T-shirts and thongs!


Nude Ravioli: Cook 500g spinach leaves, stalks removed, until reduced volume; cool; drain; chop finely; mix into 400g ricotta, 2 eggs, 3tbs flour, pinch nutmeg, pepper, salt and 4tbs grated parmesan; if too wet, add a bit more flour; form into walnut-size balls using floured hands. Cook a few “gnudi” at a time in boiling, salted water. When they float to surface, boil another 2mins; remove with slotted spoon. Melt 100g butter; add 8 sage leaves; don’t burn; pour over the gnudi; sprinkle with parmesan.

Brown Butter Radishes: Cut off all but ½-inch of tops of 2 radish bunches; coarsely chop tops. Cut radishes lengthwise in half; coat in 1-1/2tbs olive oil. Place cut side down on oiled tray; sprinkle lightly with coarse salt; roast until crisp-tender, about 18mins; stir occasionally. Toss pinch of salt into pan; add 2tbs butter; brown; remove from heat; stir in 1tsp lemon juice; drizzle over radishes; sprinkle with chopped tops.

Butter Chicken: Combine: ½ c yoghurt, 1tb lemon juice, 2 crushed garlic cloves, 2tsp each garam masala and grated ginger, 1tsp each chilli, turmeric and cumin in a bowl. Add 1kg boned, diced chicken; chill overnight. Heat 60g unsalted butter and 1tbl sunflower oil over med-heat; add 1 finely-chopped onion, 1tsp ground cardamom, 1 cinnamon stick and 1 Indian or ordinary bay leaf; cook until onion starts to soften; reduce heat to low; add chicken and marinade, 2tsp sweet paprika, 425g tomato puree (not paste), 75g finely-ground roasted cashews, and 150ml chicken stock; simmer 15mins; add 1c thickened cream; cook 10mins; garnish with chopped roasted cashews.

Nude Beach: Shake over ice, 30ml rum, 60ml each pineapple juice and orange juice, dash lime juice and 15ml grenadine.

PS....Painting by Me aka Lee

DON’T BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU!

Again, I've been away without leave for far too long...but I'll try to rectify my lack of attention by my following tale.

I don’t consciously feed grasshoppers. There are sufficient greens for them to devour in our gardens without any help from me. Organic, open air vegan outlets abound, fulfilling their appetites! The hoppers’ choppers chomp their way through our greens without our permission. At times they don’t know when enough is enough; gluttonous little pests! If a little hopper gets trapped inside (its own fault for sticking its nose in where not invited; but I don’t let that get in the way of a good deed), I rescue it. I put it back outside where it belongs; if, that is, it hasn’t already expired before I’ve had a chance to be its saviour. Of course, if I discover one that’s already kicked the bucket, I don’t let it lie there to be devoured by ants. Ants aren’t picky eaters. They’re carnivores, vegans and vegetarians! I dispose of the critter’s carcass in a sombre manner befitting the tragedy.

Yesterday I picked up an alive, kicking, but not screaming hopper that had become stranded inside. It’d hopped in to watch a re-run on TV of its favourite 1960 movie – “The Grass Is Greener”! One would think my Good Samaritan deed towards the katydid, bush-cricket, grasshopper or whatever variety of Orthoptera it was wouldn’t encourage bad behaviour on its part. One would think that; but it wasn’t to be. The ungrateful, uninvited little beggar nipped me on my thumb – hard! My thumb isn’t even green, but it did, briefly, turn red from the unwarranted assault! It’s been documented that vegan and vegetarians aren’t aggressive; that they have an instinctive “live and let live” policy. A word or four of advice - don’t you believe it! They have a nasty streak! They disguise it well, but it’s there, masked by their fancy-free exterior. Grasshoppers, I’m referring to – not vegans or vegetarians. Although, I’m sure there are a few of the latter who harbour a nasty streak or two; none amongst us is perfect; other than you and me, of course!

In a vice-like grip, the ungracious little critter latched on to my thumb with its jaws. I tried to smack my assailant on the butt, but its butt was too tiny for me to make worthwhile contact. My attempt was futile. Having five eyes, (the grasshopper, not me), and two antennae (again, the creature, not me – I’ve only one antennae – up on my roof), I was given no opportunity to slip in a sneaky slap! Another reason for not spanking Jiminy Cricket is - I realised that once released, he could hop off to the nearest authorities to report me for hopper abuse! Finally, after releasing possession of my defenseless, non-green thumb, my ungrateful interloper bounced, skipped and vaulted off to enjoy its freedom with nary a backward glance. He didn’t even whisper a “thank you” for my kindness and restraint from committing violence upon its carapace!

I'm sure I heard him whistling “When You Wish upon a Star” as he hopped off to find his next green, leafy meal; but that could have been my imagination at play!

Heed my warning, Jiminy Cricket! I won’t be so sentimental next time; the outcome could be detrimental to your health! You won’t be so keen to attack me then - whaaaaaaaa!

French Lentil-Quinoa-Spinach Salad: Use a fine sieve; rinse 1/2 cup quinoa (pronounced: "keen-wah") under cold water until water runs clean; in pot cover quinoa and 1 cup French lentils (du Puy) with water or vegetable stock; bring to boil; simmer 20mins; until cooked; remove from heat; drain. Sweat some roughly-chopped mushrooms in a little olive oil, 5-10mins; keep juices. Wilt 400g spinach; squeeze out excess water. Combine 1 chopped red onion, 1/2 chopped celery, 2tsps crushed, toasted cumin seeds, pepper; add lentils, quinoa, mushrooms and spinach; add crumbled feta; drizzle over lemon juice and mushroom juices; season; add diced tomatoes.

French Lentils with Walnuts and Goat’s Cheese: Put 1 cup lentils in saucepan with 1 bay leaf and sprig of thyme. Pour over 1-1/3 cup water; bring to boil; simmer until tender, 30-40 minutes; drain off excess water. Heat 2tbls olive oil in pan; cook 1 large, diced red onion until soft; add 2 crushed garlic cloves, 1 minute; deglaze pan with a splash of balsamic. Toss lentils with onion; season; put in raw spinach-lined serving dish. Scatter over toasted walnuts nuts and 125g broken pieces of goat’s cheese. Drizzle over walnut oil. Serve warm with roasted beetroot that’s been roasted in a little walnut oil.

Lentil-Quinoa Burgers: Boil 1.5 to 2c brown lentils with 1/2 cup quinoa in vegetable stock until soft. In bowl, add 1 finely-diced onion, 1 grated carrot, 1 grated zucchini and 3/4 cup grated cheese; add some cumin, oregano and 1 cup crunchy or smooth peanut paste (or enough to bind); season; mix well with hands; form into patties. Press patties into lightly-crushed pumpkin seeds. Cook in a little oil over med- heat; 6-7mins per side. Serve with salad.