AIN’T IT FUNNY HOW TIME SLIPS AWAY...JUST DON’T MENTION THE “C-WORD”!

Heads or Tails!

Let's give her a serve!!

Actually, it’s not funny how quickly times slips away.  Our feelings about the fleetness of time this year may differ, though.  Already we’re past halfway through another year.  

Of 2020...there is only 20 left!

 How did it happen?  

I feel as if I’ve been in this position before...and not very long ago!  

 “June is bustin’ out all over!”  We were on a carousel!  June has burst and blown off into the ether, not to be seen again until 2021...which won’t be very long if the pace doesn’t slow down.

In case you’re not aware, it is July!  Talk about the Roaring Twenties!  2020 is roaring by at a rapid rate of knots, ensuing it will be one year not easily forgotten.  With little to celebrate, no one is doing the Charleston....

I’m unable to kick up my heels these days, other than in my mind.  I can barely touch my toes without a very loud groan...loud enough to wake up the whole mountain village.

Having to be confined to quarters hasn’t bothered me – isn’t bothering me.  I’m always a hermit...by choice...happy to be one, and one alone.   I prefer being at home, alone...although, not quite alone. My two furry mates keep me company, or vice versa.  No urging is necessary for me to stay home. I do it willingly.

If there is need for me to venture out into the environs I have to be dragged, kicking and screaming.  I put up a hell of a fight, holding onto the door frame, refusing to let go.  I push and pull, and am very difficult to budge.

When I set forth to do my weekly shop at IGA, and to visit the friendly newsagency crew, I’m never away from my regular perimeter...out of my preferred boundaries...for very long.  

 Different strokes for different folks...I don't mind being "different".  I can only be me...not anyone else.

It’s just as well I'm not a "gad-about" who's out and about all the time, after the reprimand I received from my two furry roomies when I arrived home the other day.

 Usually, I shoot out early...as early as possible.  The supermarket and newsagency both open at 7 am.   I prefer to get my shopping over and done with early, and then the rest of the day is mine to do with as I choose...at home. 

There is never a likelihood I will run out of anything.  A habit I picked up from my grandmother and mother.  Throughout my childhood our cupboards were always well-stocked.  We may not have had much money, but the money we had was well-spent...carefully spent.  Our plates were always full, and good, clean clothes were on our back.

Never could I be bothered going out in the afternoon to do shopping.  Nothing is ever so drastically needed that it can’t wait until the following morning...or the one after that...

However, the morning I’m describing in this present tale, I went out later than usual because the dump (rubbish dump/tip – garbage dump) doesn’t open its gates until 9 am.  Normally, after completing my shopping duties, I’m home again well before 9 am. 

Because I’d extended my visa and usual boundary limits I felt it best to utilise the out-of-the-ordinary occasion to the utmost by hitting every post along the way...not literally, of course!  

On route to the dump I stopped off to raid the ATM next to the Post Office to draw out my rent money.  After dumping my rubbish at the dump, I swung into the servo to refuel my car, and exchange pleasantries with the very pleasant young bloke there.  

By the time I reached our local IGA supermarket, having first popped into the newsagency, I was promptly questioned by some of the staff to explain myself...as to why I was later than usual in doing my grocery shop! 

For goodness sake!  I can’t get away with anything!  A camouflage outfit might be required.

It was around 9.45 am as I’d begun to fill my trolley!  

While trying to explain my lateness, an impatient, BBQ chicken was squawking at me from the deli section.

Over its din, I apologised humbly for my tardiness, promising never to be late again.   

The chicken’s aroma was impossible to resist, so hastily, flapping my own wings, I explained the reasons for my tardiness.  

The staff members at the supermarket are a fun, friendly, helpful lot.  We always partake in a few high jinks each time I pay a visit.

I should have stayed at home, indoors, that morning.  I would’ve done so, but dump duty demanded I do otherwise. 

Arriving home after being out longer, and later, than is my normal practice, I was immediately jumped upon by my two furry rascals...not literally.  

Remy and Shama are indoor cats, as I mostly am. They keep to themselves; as I mostly do.  Sternly reprimanding me, both cats didn’t shut up in expressing their thoughts about my thoughtlessness.

In no uncertain terms they demanded a plausible explanation from me as to why I’d been absent for so long.  Their displeasure was apparent; my position in this household was made crystal clear.

I spluttered and stammered my apology.

Not only did I have to explain my behaviour to IGA’s staff, but I had to go through the Spanish Inquisition...not the Spanish Flu...all over again when I arrived home!

After I’d accounted for my lengthy, thoughtless truancy, crossed my heart and promised never again to be so inconsiderate, I unpacked the groceries...with no help from my furry bosses.   

Remy, of course, with a nose more alert than that of Sherlock Holmes, Cyrano de Bergerac and Pinocchio put together, immediately picked up the scent of the barbecued chicken.   

My furry rascals set the rules leaving me with no alternative but to obey their every command.

That morning they let me stew for a while.  

Fortunately, lunch time was just around the corner, so the BBQ chicken helped diffuse the situation.  By sharing my lunch with them (mainly Remy who is particularly fond of...loves...BBQ chicken. I only have to whisper the word “chicken” and Remy, in a flash, magically appears at my feet)...I was forgiven...until the next time!

Chicken & Dumplings: Preheat oven 200C. Season 6 boned chick breasts; coat lightly in a flour. Heat 3tbs olive oil in casserole dish; in batches, brown chicken on both sides over high heat; remove chicken; set aside. Reduce heat; add 3 onions, cut into wedges and 200g bacon lardons; cook 5-8mins; add 3 sliced garlic cloves: add 3tbs plain flour; cook 1min. Add 300g large flat mushrooms, sliced, 2 bay leaves, 2tbs redcurrant sauce and 3 strips orange zest;  add 300ml red wine, can of diced tomatoes, 2tbs tomato paste, and 300ml chick stock; season. Bring to the boil; return chicken to casserole; make sure it is well covered with liquid. Put on lid; cook in oven 30mins. Prepare dumplings: Put 100g S.R flour, 100g fresh white breadcrumbs, 1tbs wholegrain mustard and 140g butter in processor; blitz to a crumb consistency. Add 2tsp fresh thyme, 2tbs chopped parsley, 2 eggs; season. Add 1/2c grated Parmesan, if desired.  Briefly blitz until mixture forms a fairly moist dough. Using floured hands, roll dough into 6 large, even-sized balls. Remove casserole from oven when the 30mins is up; sit dumplings on top. Pop lid back on; return to oven for a further 20mins, until casserole is cooked and dumplings have puffed up. Spoon chicken and sauce onto plates; top each with a dumpling.

Golden Syrup Apple Dumplings: Peel, core and quarter 2 Granny Smith apples. Combine 2c S.R. flour, 120g butter, 1 lightly beaten egg, and 1tbs milk. Divide dough into 8 pieces. Roll out; fold around each apple piece. Place dumplings into greased baking dish. Place 3tbs golden syrup, 1-1/2c water, 1/2c sugar and 100g butter into saucepan; bring to boil.  Pour syrup carefully over dumplings; bake at 180C, 30mins or until golden brown. Serve with ice-cream or custard.  

THE JUICY BITS...HOW SWEET THEY ARE....HOW SWEET LIFE CAN BE...IF WE LET IT BE....

The faceless, nameless “they”...they, who appear to be everywhere, often say to anyone who bothers to listen;  “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” 


The proverbial phrase is supposed to encourage optimism, positivity etc. 

(The people of the world certainly need bucket-loads of the latter, at present, particularly if some continue to act like brainless idiots.

History...the good parts, and the bad parts, can’t be erased; should not be erased; neither the good, nor the bad should be erased. What purpose would doing either, serve?

We are taught...or, at least, most of us are...from a young age...to learn from our mistakes; and, as we progress in life we should be aware enough to learn from our mistakes. It is human to make mistakes. I certainly have made more than my share of them throughout my life...and my life is not yet over.....

Also, we should continue to learn from the good we’ve done, and do, in our lives...that, too, should continue.  In my humble opinion, the above are the most sensible lessons to follow.

The ignorant fools who are...in this country, and elsewhere throughout the world...defacing statues, and/or knocking them down, are proving they have not learned a thing from history...not the good...not the bad. Those fools are too foolish...too ignorant...to realise how foolish...how ignorant they really are.  Each and every one is a joke of the highest order.  Their actions leave much to be desired...very much)

I admit openly and honestly, I haven’t always followed the rules, or phrases, or what “they” tell me to do.   Some things don’t, and won’t change.....

When life...meaning....when my little lemon tree springs into life, and shares its bounty with me...I don’t make lemonade.

Instead, I take the lazier, but healthier route.  I juice my lemons every morning along with oranges and/or other citrus fruits I have on hand at the time. I’ve written about my juicy squeezing previously...my apologies for repeating myself.  What a juicy life I lead!

My lemons aren’t lemons, though. There’s nothing defective about them.  They are perfect, yellow containers of juicy juice.

Sadly, the season is now at an end. My generous tree is preparing to have a well-earned rest until next year.  Only a couple of small, green fruit remain on its branches, ripening slowly, but surely.  Come September, as I always do each year, I’ll spread fertiliser around its base. I’ll then wait patiently (impatiently) for its next bountiful, juicy crop.  Of course, in the meantime, my fruit bowls will bear fruit, even if they don’t actually bear the fruit.  The fruit will be store-bought.  My life would be unfulfilled if it wasn’t filled with fresh fruit!

When I was a kid I never had to be forced or cajoled into eating fruit.  I’ve always loved fruit of all varieties.  Such fun it was raiding our loquat tree, which grew in one corner of our front yard, and the mulberry tree up the back.  Purple fingers and lips were always dead giveaways we’d been feasting on mulberries.  Plump red strawberries, planted by our mother, also grew in our garden when the season was right for strawberry runners to run free, and produce.

While on the subject of fruit....the mention of fruit, particularly citrus fruit has turned my thoughts to my late brother...

One Sunday when my brother, Graham was around 12 years old, he and his mate, who lived next door (whose father was one of the local Gympie cops)...had a sneaky feed of slightly under-ripe Poorman oranges, believing them to be Valencia oranges.

The lads nicked the fruit from a tree around the corner and down the road a bit...if you know what I mean!  The tree was in someone else’s backyard. 

“Stolen fruit is the sweetest!”  The fruit they gobbled wasn’t so sweet, though. Both lads ate a lot of it, too...more than their fill. Forbidden fruit is desirable, but unlawful.  The consequences for falling prey to both must be faced!

That very same night my brother was raced off to hospital to undergo an emergency operation to have his appendix removed. Eating an abundance of under-ripe, stolen, forbidden fruit had stirred things up inside him quite a bit.  The pain he felt struck hard and fast.   

An immediate appendectomy was necessary.  His inflamed appendix was disposed of, post haste.

Being the "little sister", so often I was the prey...the victim of my brother's teasing, and boyish sense of humour....put on this earth solely for his entertainment!

I made the most of the time my brother spent in hospital, incapacitated.   Finally, for once, he, the tormentor, was at my mercy; the worm had turned. ..in my favour!

Helpless, unable to escape my childish high jinks, in his infirm state, he was my captive.  How I loved making him laugh!  Acting the clown, I had so much fun.  (Hospitals, churches, meetings and other such places where one is supposed to be sombre and behave one's self do that to me).

Graham demanded Mum and Nana not bring me with them to the hospital.  I was having great enjoyment acting the fool, clowning around, making him laugh. 

What a twisted kid I was, relishing the chance to be the teaser for change.  (Perhaps I was the inspiration for the heavy metal band "Twisted Sister" to choose that name for their band!!)

Because of his sore stomach, it hurt Graham when he laughed.  For a brief moment in time when my wounded, bed-ridden big brother couldn’t retaliate, the shoes were on the other feet...mine!  He was my prisoner!  I had the upper-hand.  I was only trying to lighten things up a bit...brighten the sterile, hospital atmosphere!

Aware my time being in control was limited, being able to be the circus clown for a change I made the most of my ‘window’...I made hay while the sun shone, and when the hospital lights were on, too.   

Before long, however, he was once again fit and ready to be the boss on the battlefield of our backyard!   

The bows and arrows were taut and ready; broomstick horses grazed, eager for the charge to begin; the wagons were circled; water pistols were loaded.

Every time I drive to and from our local supermarket I pass by the area where my brother’s ashes were spread..  

Each time I pass by the area that looks down to the valley below and across to the western range, I acknowledge my brother...my loss...and the love I still feel for him...along with the same feelings, emotions, for our late mother and grandmother.  

We were the Four Musketeers.  Together, we faced many hurdles...some were won...some were lost...  

Memories remain...

The curtain is slowly descending on the dying day
Proudly the sun bows giving an encore display
Its cloak of many colours whetting our appetite
As it languishes after a spectacle of brightness
How rapidly the hue changes as we gasp in awe
From blue to grey, merging gently into purple
Tinges of pink, flashes of crimson and orange
A potpourri of colour unable to be recaptured

Birds in final flight safely wend their way to nest
Tools laid to rest men tread wearily on their way
Home before the departure of the fiery gilded orb
A prelude to darkness encompasses land and sea
Afterglow openly teases as we grasp the remnant
Of the dying day in readiness of what lies ahead

Suddenly\engulfed in stillness in sombre light
Moment's depression witnessing a farewell salute
 

Day is replaced as the heavens magicallycome alive
Sparkling phosphorescence dancing gaily above

Quietness descends as the mysteries of night unfold

Thoughts of the past, present, of what may lay ahead

Envelop final lingering moments as sleep takes hold

A new day awaits backstage hidden behind the drapes

Adventures to explore some unknown some the same

Beginning afresh shared with players in Life's game 

 

Steamed Orange Pudding: Grease an 8 cup-capacity metal pudding steamer; line base with baking paper. Using electric mixer beat 185g softened butter, 3/4c caster sugar and 2tsp finely grated orange rind until light and fluffy. Add 3 eggs, one at a time, beating to combine. Sift 1-1/2c S.R. flour over mixture; add 1/2c milk. Fold until just combined. Spoon mixture into steamer. Smooth top. Secure lid. Place in large saucepan. Carefully pour boiling water into pan until halfway up side of steamer. Cover pan. Place over med-heat. Bring to boil. Reduce heat to low. Simmer 1-1/2hrs’ top up with boiling water when necessary. Make syrup:  Combine 1/4c orange juice and 1/2c caster sugar in saucepan over med-heat. Cook, stirring until sugar dissolves (do not boil); then bring to the boil; reduce heat to low. Simmer until thick and syrupy. Remove from heat. Add orange segments from 2 peeled oranges. Remove pan from heat. Carefully lift steamer from water; stand 10mins. Turn onto a plate; spoon over syrup. Serve with cream.

Lemon Roasted Garlic Spinach Dip: Preheat oven 175C. Squeeze excess moisture from 400g thawed spinach. In pan heat 1tbs olive oil; warm 1 head roasted garlic (about 8 cloves) and lemon wedges from half a lemon (wedge half; slice other half). Cook gently until garlic is soft and warm and lemon is breaking down into very soft pieces. In bowl mix 1/c sour cream, 240g cream cheese, 155g Laughing Cow cheese or other soft cheese and 1/3c grated parmesan; add 1tsp smoked paprika, 1/2c mozzarella and 1/2c gouda. Fold in  roasted garlic and spinach. Place in an ovenproof dish; top with 1/c shredded mozzarella, 1/2c shredded gouda, lemon slices and fresh thyme leaves. Bake until topping is golden, about 20mins.  

DON’T SQUAWK! LET’S WAWK THE WAWK, AND TAWK THE TAWK!

It’s an understatement to say English is a complex language. It masquerades under a multitude of guises. 

I’ll try my best to write wot I mean out right.  Having started this train thought, it’s my rite of passage to explain!  

See…sea…what I meen…ummm, mean? 

After this you might be left with a thoughtful and solemn mien if you understand the following.  You’ll see what I mean…..

“Word” is pronounced “werd”, not “ward”, or “wawd”.   “Word” doesn’t rhyme with Ord, the river in the Kimberley region of Western Australia. 

“Nerd” is “nerd” – why, then, isn’t “word” spelled/spelt… “werd”? 

“Heard” the “herd”?  

Blindly following the herd, many presently are shouting and hustling to be heard - part of the herd to be heard, solving naught.  

Instead of being rabble-rousers causing trouble, perpetrating violence, making matters worse, they ought to lay down their “sawds”. 

Why isn’t “sword” pronounced with the emphasis on “sw” as in “sweet”?

Hear me say…“Here I am!”

Please bear with me as I bare my thoughts; not my soul, nor sole…my thorts…“thawts”.  

If “bear” is pronounced “bair”, and not “beer”, why then is “hear” not “hare”, or “hair”, instead of “heer”?

“Dear” is “deer” - not “dare”, or “dair”.  Should “dare” be “d-ahh”?  “Are” is!  Why isn’t “are”, “air”, not “ahhh”?  “Hair” is “hair”.  Air is “air”, which makes sense because “air” is as it appears, even though air can’t be seen – not in any scene, so don’t tie yourself in a knot if you can’t see it.

 “Coup” is “coo”.  Due to no fault/folt of its own, “coup” lost its “p”; its right to be pronounced as written, and its right to sound like “ou” in “sound” and “couch…ouch!

Hey! After the coup they flew the coop in a coupé knocking over a bale of hay in the process!  

Said” is “sed”.  

And it is said that “shed” is shed, not “shaid. 

One is “wun”; “won” is “wun”.  “Won” doesn’t rhyme with “on”…“wan” does.  How can that be?  

“Two is “too”, and “to”, too!   (I sound like a train running beside a lane. I’ve popped a vein, I think!)

To make peace before I sat down to enjoy a piece of steak, I threw a slab of teak I’d used as a stake through the bushes before the usher saw me. He’d be sore at me.

As I did that, I spotted the “toff” from over the way fill the horse trough with worter/water.   His chilled only child lives down Childers way with his own two children.  

The father lives farther away, but he holds the reins. He reigns; but the kids don’t let him rain on their parade.

They produce the farm produce. They’d never desert the land for dessert, or when drought causes the ground to be like a desert – even if some are of the thought they ought.

The buck does stop with them.  Dear me! The buck skids to a halt when it spies the does on the deer farm nearby, and then it does a bolt. 

About to sow seeds, Joe saw the sow escape the pig pen. Joe was close to the door, but he forgot to close it.  

A dove dove into the shrubs to escape the sow.

 “I thought it’d already sown its wild oats,” Sue, sewing by the sewer, said to Stu.  On her lap were a shirt she’d sewn, and her phone.  Before beginning to sew she made a stew.

Confused yet?  I am…and I’m the one telling the tail…tale!

I’ll wind up now.  I have to close the windows.  A strong wind has begun to blow across the bow, and my bow has fallen from my hair...oh, yeah!

If I cood, I wood wound my wound tightly with a bandage, but I can’t because my aunt would taunt me, and start to rant.

Beef and Barley Stew: Season 1.5 to 2kg chuck or round steak, cut into suitable-sized cubes. Add 1tbs olive oil to large, heavy-based pot; heat over med-high heat; brown beef. Add 300g thinly sliced mushrooms, 8 large carrots, cut into pieces, 6 minced garlic cloves, 4 or 5 potatoes cut into pieces, 1 or 2 sliced celery stalks, 1 or 2 chopped onions, 6c beef stock, 1c dry red wine, 1/4c tomato paste, 2 cans tomatoes, 1tbs Dijon mustard, 1/4c Worcestershire sauce and 1or 2tsp mixed herbs or Italian herbs; stir in 3/4c pearl barley; add 1 or 2 bay leaves. Cover; reduce heat to low; simmer on stove top for a couple of hours until cooked through and full of flavour.  Remove bay leaf/leaves before serving.

Bourbon Steak aka Berbon or Bow-bon Stake: Season 4x3cm sirloin steaks; set aside 20mins. Rub steaks all over with Dijon mustard. Place steaks, 2 at a time, in a hot cast-iron pan over med-high heat; add 1tbs butter. Cook steaks until browned, and cooked as desired doneness; remove from pan; set aside. Repeat with remaining steaks. Bourbon Sauce (Berbon Source!): In small bowl, combine 1/3c bourbon, 1/4c soy sauce, 1tsp Worcestershire sauce, 1/4c packed brown sugar, 1/2tsp each, dried basil and dried rosemary; whisk. Add to hot pan; cook over med-heat for about 2mins, or until slightly reduced. Stir in 2/3^rd cup half milk-half cream; cook a couple of minutes, until thickened. Remove from heat; place steaks back in pan; turn to cover – the steak that is; serve.