BEFORE YOU BAIL ON THE QUAIL…READ THIS TALE!

BudgerigarsMy Birthday on Hinchinbrook Island


Purposefully, I fly under the radar whenever I can; which is always if I can get away with it. It’s how I like living my life. I keep to myself as much as possible. I enjoy my own company; I cherish privacy and my own space. I never experience pangs of loneliness. Being alone is how I’m meant to be, I believe. If that is the case and my destiny, I can see no point in my bucking against it. Go with the flow is my motto; it surely makes life easier. I spent my working life dealing with people...many people, at all times. And, often - 24/7 - in many various situations.

Nowadays, when my minutes, hours, days and weeks are my own to play with at my own will and choice, there are times I fly so far beneath the radar I practically skim the ground. The grass beneath me stirs from the breeze caused by my gliding so close to it. I think I’m becoming a quail. Hang on for a second or two while I shake my tail feathers! Look closely now because quails don’t have much as far as tail feathers are concerned. If you blink you might miss the life-changing event!

I’m not fond of caged birds. Don’t misunderstand me - I’m very fond of birds. I love birds. It’s the cages I don’t like. I’m against the imprisonment, in cages, of free-spirited creatures, which include me!

When we were kids, my brother built a large, airy aviary, wherein he kept colourful budgerigars and a variety of finches. The aviary’s bottom-dwellers, keeping the area clean, were a family of quails. The birds were my brother’s responsibility; I had little to do with them. In those days, many people had aviaries in their yards; my brother wasn’t alone in his hobby.

An uncle, thrice-removed or even further away along the family tree (he was married to a cousin of our grandmother) who lived not far from us in Gympie converted his back garden into a magical wonderland. Stone-paved paths meandered through a multitude of blooming rose bushes, lush hydrangeas, daisies, chrysanthemums, lilies and a profusion of other flowering plants of denominations I’ve since forgotten; or of which I never did have knowledge.

In the midst of the kaleidoscopic garden well-trimmed, glossy-leafed hedges mimicked a maze. The mini-maze intrigued and thrilled all visitors to the garden. It created a world of fantasy to children and adults alike. Intermingled with the picturesque landscape large aviaries housed birds of wide and varied plumes. At their own free will, proud peacocks nonchalantly wandered around the garden, disdainfully ignoring the presence of all other creatures, human or otherwise.

Often I have difficulty eating small birds! Chickens, ducks, a goose, even, never deter my appetite, but if a small bird, cooked, of course, is placed before me, I tend to ponder a while…whether I should; or whether I should not…

Allow me to explain.

One Saturday night many years ago, I prepared a meal of Chicken in the Basket for my then husband and me. No sooner had I placed our meals in front of us on the table we both looked at each other rather gloomily; and then we looked back at the poor little golden-roasted poussins aka small, young, spring chickens surrounded by crisp French Fries in their napkin-lined baskets.

Simultaneously, we removed the ill-fated birds from the baskets and returned them to the kitchen; our dinner that blighted night consisted of hot potato chips and side salads.

Sunday arrived. I disguised the chickens by de-boning them and turning the flesh into a curry.

For a while in 1969 and 1970, I worked part-time at night at a little eating house on St. Paul’s Terrace, Fortitude Valley. It was called “The Pelican Tavern”. The tavern no longer exists, but it hosted many, many fun-filled nights of eating pleasure from the late Fifties through to the Seventies. Every Sunday afternoon at the tavern a popular trad jazz group of the time, “The Varsity Five Plus Two”, entertained the tavern’s happy, satisfied patrons. The trad jazz band consisted of a group of university students…as the name gives clue to.

The Pelican Tavern’s builder-owner-chef, Kyriol Wypow originally came to Australia from Kiev in the Ukraine, having left the country of his birth after the turbulent years following the Russian Revolution. When Kiev became part of the Soviet Socialist Republic in 1921, Mr. Wypow decided it was time for him to leave and seek his life adventures elsewhere. He trekked south, down through Turkey, finally ending up in Australia; the country that became his home until his death. I still feel honoured and fortunate having known Kyriol Wypow. Back during the time I worked for him, he and I became great mates.

Saturday nights at the Tavern were always busy. Many patrons returned week after week, having fallen victim to the tavern’s ambience; and to the good, simple food it offered.

It was a busy Saturday evening - a first-time diner ordered Chicken in the Basket. When his meal was placed before him, he proceeded to pour the contents of his finger bowl over the chicken while the others at his table and beyond looked on aghast! Not a word was uttered as he tucked into his tucker! Everyone put their heads down and acted as if nothing out of the normal run of events had occurred. No one wanted to embarrass the poor fellow. I often wonder to this very day, if he ever did realise his blunder!

Back in the mid-Eighties, when I was manager of the resort at Cape Richards on the magnificent Hinchinbrook Island in tropical north Queensland, my staff successfully planned and pulled off a surprise birthday party for me. I hadn’t a clue what was in store.

I dined out on the deck surrounding the resort’s pool that evening; beneath the twinkling stars with the sounds of the ocean lapping the shore. Dome of my island guests and members of my staff joined in on my unplanned-by-me birthday celebration.

With a wide smile on his face, one of my island chefs presented me with a specially-prepared meal of Brandied Quail with Apricots.

The meal and evening were both memorable; and highly enjoyable!

Roasted Quails with Apricot-Mustard Glaze: Season 4-6 semi-boned quails; place skin-side in pan; drizzle a little brandy over birds; bake 15mins in 230C oven. In saucepan, stir together 1/4c apricot jam, 1/4c brandy, 2-1/2tsp dry mustard and 1/4tsp each salt and pepper; stand 10mins; then put on med-low heat; simmer 2-3mins; reserve half of glaze. Brush quail with glaze; bake 10mins or until rich golden; don’t overcook. Add 1/3c brandy and 1/4c diced dried apricots to reserved glaze; simmer 6-7mins; spoon over quails.

Grilled Quail with Couscous & Winter Carrot Salad: Preheat indoor or BBQ grill, med-high. Toast 1tsp each coriander and cumin seeds in pan until they begin to pop; grind in grinder or mortar and pestle. Combine 3tbs honey, 2tbs orange juice, 2tbs lime juice, 1tbs sherry, 1tsp minced ginger, 2 minced garlic cloves and the toasted spices; add 4 butter-flied quails; toss in marinade; marinate 1hr. Remove from marinade; season. Place on grill skin side down; cook 5mins; flip; grill another 5mins or until cooked; don’t overcook! Boil any leftover marinade; drizzle over the quail. Winter Carrot Salad: Heat oil in pan, add 8 blanched baby orange and purple carrots halved lengthwise; add 2tbs honey and 1tbs butter; toss; stir until caramelized; season. Couscous: Melt 1tbs butter in saucepan; sauté 1/2c chopped onion until it begins to caramelize; add crushed garlic clove; sauté 2-3mins; add 2c chicken stock, 2tbs lemon juice, 1ts ground cumin, 1/2c dried apricots and 1/4c currants; bring to boil. Add 2c couscous; season; stir well; cover; remove from heat. Stand until all liquid is absorbed; fluff with fork; add 1 chopped green onion/shallot, 2tbs each chopped mint and parsley.

Chicken in a Basket: Place two poussins in roasting tin; throw in a few unpeeled garlic cloves to add a bit of flavour, if you like. It’s up to you. Brush with oil; season. Roast in preheated oven 200C (400F) for 30 minutes or until juices from the legs run clear when pierced with a skewer. Meanwhile, par-boil some potatoes; when cool, cut into chips; heat oil in deep-fryer, saucepan or deep-sided frying pan; fry chips until golden; drain well. Arrange napkins in two small baskets. Place chips in the folds of the cloth. Place poussins in basket, surrounded by the hot potato chips aka French Fries. Serve with bowls of side salad. Grab to other bowls – place a wedge or slice of lemon in each bowl; top up with lukewarm water. Serve the finger bowls with the chicken in the baskets…so you can dip your fingers in them between pulling the chickens apart! This is an “eating with fingers” dish! Don’t pour the contents of your finger bowls over the chicken!!!!!

MAMMA MIA! I’M NOT KEEPING MUM ABOUT MUM!

My mother, Elma...aged 18 yearsElma...18 years oldMum modelling in a fashion parade in the early FiftiesMy Nana on her wedding day; Ivy aged 16 and my mother taken on her third birthday...17th February, 1922.
A Flamin'Redhead



When I started thinking about what I’d write in honour of mothers – it being Mother’s Day this coming Sunday, 12th May - like a bolt out of the blue it suddenly hit me that I’ve lived longer without my mother in my life than I did with her in it!

My mother passed away unexpectedly 39 years ago. She was far too young at the age of 54. I was unprepared for such a massive loss.

Very few amongst us are prepared for the passing of a loved one, even in cases when served notice of pending consequences. Knowing that nothing, and no one, lasts forever makes no difference when one is confronted with one’s own personal, individual loss and grief. Hours aren’t spent practicing beforehand learning how to cope with the emotional rollercoaster of losing a loved one.

There is no time limit on grief. It’s my belief that grieving is endless. However, as time passes, we learn to compartmentalize; but, in my humble opinion that doesn’t mean we cease grieving.

No matter how much we scream, scratch, kick and complain about change, change happens. Nothing remains the same.

I’ll be eternally grateful to my Mum. She gave me the two greatest gifts of all...life and love.

As is the case for many of us, I’m sure; I rue the hugs in which I was deficient; for the too many words left unspoken; for the hasty, harsh, at times, sarcastic utterances; the thanks I negligently forgot to bestow; the sacrifices I selfishly failed to recognise.

A mother’s love is unconditional. It’s wonderful that one day out of 365 or 366 at a leap, we celebrate mothers; but the celebration should continue throughout every day of the year; not just for one day.

Many of us leave it until it’s too late to say the words we wish we’d said; when it’s too late to say “Thank you” and “I love you”.

My mother wasn’t perfect, but, to be candid, who amongst us is?

Mum did her best in raising my late brother and me. Times were tough, but she and her “Mumma”, our Nana, instilled within us good values and manners.

When we were children, my older brother and I were taught to acknowledge the absurdity and futility in many of life’s situations. Our Mother and Nana taught us not to be ashamed of our tears or fears; they opened our hearts and minds to laughter.

Our pantry was always well-stocked. We were never without clean clothes on our backs, nor were we ever without shoes on our feet; except, of course, when tearing about the yard barefooted!

In their heydays, Mum and Nana were tall, attractive women.

Both Elma, my Mum (maiden name “Hay”) with her deep auburn hair and Nana aka Ivy Hay (maiden name “Hose”) with her rich chestnut-coloured hair had no need for henna enhancements. The names “Hay” and “Hose” are of Scottish origin.

A source of constant amusement and teasing within our small family troupe was Mum’s harmless superstitions. She never wore green unless it was accompanied by red, whether it be a concealed red thread sown into the underside of her dress hem or a red button hidden somewhere; either would suffice to ward off whatever needed to be warded off. Spilled salt caused more salt to be tossed over her left shoulder – just in case - better safe than sorry!

I miss my Mum, even after all the years since her passing. We’ve a lot to talk about and much laughter left to share. You may not always see eye to eye – but honour and love your mother - you’ll have no other.

And I miss my mother’s mother, my Nana - who passed away two years after my mother.
It was too sad to watch her sorrow of the death of her daughter – my mother.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers.


Fluffy French Toast: Slowly whisk in 1c milk to 1/4c plain flour; add pinch salt, 3 eggs, 1/2tsp cinnamon, 1tsp vanilla and 1tbl sugar; whisk until smooth; saturate 12 thick bread slices in mixture. Heat lightly-oiled pan over med-heat; cook until golden on both sides. Serve drizzled with Maple Syrup, strawberries, sliced bananas or other fresh fruit.

Streusel-topped Stuffed French Bread: Melt 2tbs butter over med-heat; add 2tbs each sugar and water; stir to dissolve; stir until foamy; add 2 bananas, sliced into ½-inch thick rounds (or 1c sliced strawberries); cook until tender; cool. Combine 50g cream cheese and 2tbs butter; fold fruit through cheese (if using strawberries, mix strawberry jam into cheese). Cut a 2-inch slit ¾ way through 6 x 1-1/2-inch thick bread slices; spoon cheese into bread; gently close pocket; chill. Whisk 2c full cream milk, 6 eggs, 1/2tsp cinnamon, vanilla and 1/2 cup sugar; saturate bread in egg mixture, 10mins; turn occasionally. Place 1-1/2c toasted almond flakes on plate; coat both sides of bread with almonds; place on baking sheet. Combine 1/4c brown sugar, 1/4c quick oats, 2tbs plain flour and 2tsp cinnamon; using fingertips, rub in 1/4c butter to make crumble; sprinkle over bread. Bake in preheated 175C oven until golden, about 25mins. Serve hot with maple syrup.

Berry-Ricotta Pancakes: Combine 1/2c whole-wheat flour, 1/4c plain flour, 1tsp sugar, 1tsp baking powder, 1/4tsp bi-carb and 1/2tsp nutmeg. Whisk together until smooth, 3/4c ricotta, 1 large egg, 1 large egg white, 1/2c buttermilk, 1tsp lemon zest and 1tbl lemon juice; stir dry ingredients into wet until just combined. Place oiled non-stick pan on med-heat. Pour 1/4c batter for each pancake, 2 at a time into pan; sprinkle each pancake with un-thawed or fresh blueberries. Cook until edges dry and bubbles begin to form; flip! And flipping great served with vanilla yoghurt and berries on the side!

Flamin’ Redhead: Pour 3ml cranberry juice into shot glass; add 3ml maple syrup and 24ml vodka. Enjoy!

SOME NEED PROPS; OTHERS DON’T – THEY JUST PEG ALONG…

When I was a little girl sporting plaits and a sprinkling of freckles across my nose, the family washing was always, reliably done on a Monday. Never on a Sunday; Saturday was never considered because Saturday, religiously, was movie matinee day. Tuesday morning was devoted to the ironing, and Tuesday afternoon was set aside to go “down town” to do the weekly shopping. Wednesday was for completing the ironing that didn’t get done on Tuesday, along with other household chores that needed attending to. Thursday had its designated activities – housework never goes away, not even back then; so Thursday's activities were a bit of the same, I imagine; but quite often on Thursday nights we went off to the “pictures” again, because it was Family Night at Gympie’s Olympia Picture Theatre; and Family Night was not to be missed, not if we could help it. Friday was spent tidying up loose ends in preparation of the weekend ahead - so, Monday, without argument, was set aside for the washing.

If we ever lost track of time and days, we’d always know when it was Monday because the family washing day would be underway! No doubt Monday was chosen because it was thought ideal to start any given week off with not only a clean slate, but clean sheets, pillowcases, towels and clothes, as well!

This natural phenomenon wasn’t just confined to our household; the activity went on in 99% of the households throughout the country and in other parts of the Western world, as well – and probably, even further afield!

Our mother, whose name was Elma, was the main income-earner in our little family unit; a unit that consisted of Elma, her mother Ivy, our grandmother, whom we called “Nana”; my older brother, Graham and me. Graham beat me into this world by two and a half years. A fact he was keen to often remind me about!

Nana maintained our humble home, attending to all the relevant chores pertaining thereto; other than gardening. Gardening was our mother’s domain. Mum enjoyed getting soil under her manicured, polished nails. For her, gardening, along with fishing and mud crabbing, was a relaxing pastime during her time off from work. My brother Graham also took an interest in gardening. I took an interest in the garden; but my enthusiasm was mild. My keenness was more directed to the picking of flowers; and to the eating of fresh, juicy tomatoes off their gangly bushes; and the enjoyment of munching on succulent, crisp, green peas straight from the vine.

Our backyard didn’t resemble a bowling green by any stretch of one’s imagination. The ground was uneven; grass grew, but a smooth, lush lawn was non-existent; its length was mostly controlled by our family of guinea pigs; those that didn’t escape, that is! Every other day there was a lot of scurrying going on as my brother and I went in hunt like hunters in an African safari to recapture the escapees before the neighbourhood dogs and cats (or ours) laid claim to them. Sometimes the hand-mower was run over the wayward grass, but it wasn’t the main chore uppermost in our minds. Graham and I had more important things to do.

Important occupations such as climbing the two healthy camphor laurel trees growing along the fence line in our backyard. The roots of the trees were set firmly in the ground. Both sheltered sturdy tree-houses amongst their strong branches. Each tree-house was built by the skilful, industrious hands of my brother. My girlfriends and I were allowed in the tree-house in the smaller tree of the two. The grander house (or palace) in the larger camphor laurel was designated “Boys Only”. Woe betide any girl who dared venture forth into that sanctified realm!

Beneath and between the two trees was a fowl house that accommodated mainly bantams, with the odd chicken if it dared to cross the road to our yard! Joseph, the cocky, titian-feathered bantam rooster ruled the court, the roost and all who roamed and perched within. Up the sides and over the roof of the bantams’ resting and laying house grew an obligatory choko vine.

On the other side of the yard, and to the rear of the property stood an open-fronted laundry shed,which consisted of three walls; a concrete floor; a sturdy, leak-proof roof and three concrete laundry tubs with cold-water taps feeding into each. Out front and to the right of the laundry shed where a lot of the action took place, stood an almighty copper/boiler!

The laundry shed also doubled as a theatre; a stage upon which my girlfriends and I re-enacted the Saturday matinee movies (or pictures as we called them during those days of the Fifties). So many times Tony Curtis, Rock Hudson or Audie Murphy, amongst other heartthrobs came to my rescue like gallant knights in sparkling white suits of armour.

Every Monday morning, Nana stoked up the fire beneath the copper’s belly. Sheets and pillowcases were the first victims to be boiled, followed by towels and tea towels. In turn, the washing loads, after draining for a few minutes in a laundry basket, were transferred to the water-filled wash tubs that patiently waited in line for their turn. The washing was then rinsed, with the whites going into a final blue rinse using Reckitt’s blue bags to keep the whites white.

All our bed linen was white in those days; coloured bed linen was still a thing of the future; or something seen in a Hollywood movie only. And all our laundry was done by hand. Much heavy lifting was incurred. No doubt, our mothers and grandmothers of the Fifties, Forties and earlier decades were strong of wrists, arms and shoulders.

After years of use, the wooden washing stick used to not only stir the items in the copper, but to lift the heavy wet articles out of the boiling, sudsy water, also, gained a “soapy” soft grey appearance. The end that spent most of its time in the hot water grew soft around the edges from years of hard work; however, after a few days rest between washes, it toughened up again before the next Monday arrived.

Clothes that needed boiling were the last cabs off the rank. The copper would be refilled with fresh, clean water. Those items of clothing that needed boiling would simmer away above the heat of the fire while the rest of the washing was attended to in the tubs in the laundry shed. One tub was used for starching. Not everything required starching, but a lot did.

Our clotheslines, unglamorously attached at each end to solid wooden posts buried into the ground, were strung width-wise across the yard. The lines sagged under their burdens of wet clothes, sheets and towels, but once the washing was pegged, the lines were held aloft by wooden props, which, until we “caught up with the times”, were made from trimmed, forked tree branches. Eventually, my brother made new props out of planed timber.

We thought we were very flash and up-to-date when we got those new fancy-dancy props! Forget the Joneses! They were running to keep up with us!

The washing was secured to the lines with wooden dolly pegs that defied the strongest winds.

Once dry and smelling so clean from the sunshine and fresh air, the washing was brought in. Items not requiring ironing were immediately folded or hung, and then put away into their rightful places. That which needed ironing was dampened by water spray…meaning lightly splashed on by hand. Spray bottles came much later.

Washing day was an event; a day-long event.

Monday night dinners were always prepared from Sunday lunch leftovers.

The following feasts were part of our Monday night fare: Corned beef fritters; Shepherd’s Pie made with leftover leg or shoulder of lamb; Beef Curry from the remaining beef roast. Monday night dinners were always eagerly anticipated and highly enjoyed.

Often for breakfast on Monday mornings after we’d enjoyed corned beef or silverside for our Sunday lunch, the leftover vegetables were turned Bubble and Squeak. The humble old B & B was a most delicious breakfast before we headed off to school.

Bubble & Squeak: In a frying pan, heat 2tbs oil; add 1 chopped onion; sauté over med-heat until soft but not brown. In a bowl, mix the onions with leftover potatoes, cabbage, sprouts, swede turnips, and whatever other leftover vegetables; season to taste. Heat 2tbs oil in same frying pan over med-heat; add the vegetables to pan; press mixture evenly into large patty. Cook until bottom is brown, 10-15mins. Holding a large plate over pan, flip the pan and plate over, turning patty onto plate; add a little more oil to pan; when hot, return patty, browned side up. Cook until the bottom is brown, about 10mins. Cut patty into wedges; serve with fried eggs, sausages and/or bacon.

Shepherd’s Pie for Two: Preheat oven, 200C (180C fan). Heat 1tbs oil in large frying pan; when hot, add 1 finely-chopped onion and 2 carrots cut into 1cm thick discs; sauté until onions are soft and carrots softened. Add leftover roast lamb, chopped into bite-size pieces; cook for a few minutes. Add 1tbs plain flour; stir through. Add 200ml stock, 1tsp tomato puree, a handful of frozen peas, a good splash of Worcestershire sauce and seasonings. Simmer for 10mins. Add a little more stock if mixture is too dry, or flour if the gravy needs thickening. Adjust seasoning as desired. Transfer to oven-proof dish; spread mashed potatoes on top. Scratch the surface of potato with a fork. Bake until potato is browned, and the gravy is bubbling around the edges – about 30 minutes.


Leftover Roast Beef Curry: Dice 2 onions, 1 or 2 peeled Granny Smith apples; sauté in 2tbs oil. Add 1tbs curry powder (or to taste); OR make your own curry paste - by sautéeing in peanut oil - 3 chopped garlic cloves, 3 chopped green chillies, 2 inches fresh ginger, crushed or grated, 1tsp garam masala, 2tbs medium curry powder, 1tsp ground coriander, 2/3rd tablespoon cumin seeds and a dash or two of turmeric) and ground black pepper. Add 1-1/2tbs plain flour; fry gently 1 minute. Blend 1-1/2 cups beef stock with 1 cup coconut milk or cream; add to onions, apples and spices; add finely-sliced celery and carrots (add chopped kumara, pumpkin or potatoes, too, if you like...it's all up to you): bring to boil. Add 2tbs fruit chutney, 1/3rd cup sultanas or raisins and 2 thinly-sliced bananas. You can add a drained can of tomatoes, if you like. Simmer 30 minutes. Dice cooked beef into bite-size pieces; add to sauce; season; simmer gently, 15-20mins.

SOFTLY, SOFTLY, SWOFTY…THERE’S A SSWOSY IN THE ROOM….

I heard an interesting snippet of useless information on television a couple of months ago. It’s not an uncommon occurrence, I know, but this particular morsel of worthless trivia caused my ears to perk. I’m not sure how my ears perk; but they did; and often do. The next time I become aware that I’m about to hear intriguing snippets of valueless trifles I’ll stand in front of a mirror to witness the actions and reactions of my ears! I might even set up a camera to enable the phenomena to become general viewing. I could make a fortune on YouTube! The possibilities are limitless!

Failing that, it certainly will be an interesting pastime if any or all of the following meanings apply. I’ll be kept amused for a while, at least!

Perk meanings: 1. To stick up or jut out: 2. To carry oneself in a lively and jaunty manner.3. To percolate: 4. An incidental benefit awarded in employment; fringe benefit etc. 5. Gain or regain energy.


To simplify; My attention was immediately put on high alert when I heard the “interesting snippet of useless information” as described below – in my own words…

Apparently, being a Cougar is old hat nowadays. Count your lucky stars Demi Moore; you escaped before becoming old hat! No! No! I didn’t say “old bag!

The Cougar has been replaced by the ”Swofty – Single Women Over Fifty”!

I wonder what I am.

I fitted the Cougar mould back in the mid to late Eighties when I had my obligatory fling with a young Italian stallion who visited this wonderful Land of Oz from Italy's Emilia-Romagna area.

I could still be classified as a reasonably young filly back then, but,unashamedly, I must admit, he was just a colt.

However, cut me some slack; hold your horses; shut the stable doors! I was only doing what I was told I should do.

Back in the early Seventies when the Fiat 124 Sport Coupe was released the Fiat Motor Company urged everyone to have an Italian love affair. Actually, Fiat didn't "urge" one to do as they bid...we were ordered to do so!

I didn’t follow their sage advice at that time, but I made up for my 1970s’ inability to do so a decade and a half later. I just put my own slant on it…I chose a human over a car!

The Sixties might have been Swinging, but the Seventies were Sexy! And even though my enjoyable Italian interlude was during the Hiatus Eighties, the timing didn’t hamper a thing; it enhanced it, if anything!

Henceforth, when my Italian affair had galloped its course after 18 months or so, my penchant for being a Cougar didn’t dim. Although not purposely on the prowl, future paramours who crossed my path – and I theirs – were all younger than me. Some by a only couple of years; others by more.

With my mind going into overdrive as I write (and I imagine your minds are, too – I may have started an avalanche of thoughts), does all of what I mulled over above mean now that I’m in my sixties I can start swinging again?

What a wild thought; and one worth cherishing, and perhaps considering! I'll set aside the pondering for another day.

Hmmm…well…I’m cherishing the thought...and the memories (relishing even), even if you aren’t! I don't care - they are my thoughts. I’ll claim them!

Every young lady out “there” - those like you and me; we who still are capable of kicking up our heels, even if only in our minds; those of us who trip and fall into this category; every one of us in our sixties or thereabouts should now be known as a “Sswosy – Single Sexy Women Over Sixty”!

Okay! Okay! Calm down!

I know my imagination is running riot; this is nothing new; it’s not as silly an idea as you might originally have thought it was. Hang loose for a moment; chill out - give my whimsical whim time to sink in. After all, you and I (or some of you, and definitely me, and those others who can only wish) were part of the fabulous Swinging Sixties when the Revolution began – that has to mean something!

And let’s face it; the Sixties were lots of fun – if you can remember them!

Butternut Lasagne: Peel a couple of large butternut pumpkins; cut into ½-inch chunks (about 1-1/2 to 2 kgs worth); toss in x-virgin olive oil, 1tbs chopped sage leaves, 1tbs lemon thyme, 1tbs fennel, ground black pepper and salt; spread, single layer on lined baking sheet. Roast 40-50mins until begins to brown. Puree in processor with grated nutmeg. In bowl, mix puree with 2c ricotta, 1c grated parmesan and 2 large eggs; test seasoning. Grab 24 or so al dente spinach lasagne sheets; brush with oil. Make about 4 cups béchamel sauce - adding some minced sage, lemon thyme, garlic and nutmeg to the milk. Butter a 9x13-inch pan; spread sauce over base; place layer of lasagne sheets on top; spread with some puree; sprinkle with grated mozzarella and parmesan; repeat layers; finish with cheese and béchamel over noodles; cover. Bake in 190C oven, about 1 hour; remove cover; bake further 15mins.

Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Sage and Brown Butter: Cook 100g peeled red-skinned potatoes and 200g kumara, both cut into 3cm cubes until tender; set aside to cool slightly; let moisture evaporate; mash until smooth; remove any lumps; season; add 1c plain flour; mix together with rubber spatula; gather dough into a ball. On lightly-floured surface, knead gently until smooth. Divide into 2 portions; roll each into log, 2.5cm thick; cut into 3cm pieces. Shape the gnocchi by rolling a piece of dough down the outer side of the tines of a fork, using your thumb to create an indentation on the other side. Bring a large, wide saucepan of water to the boil. Cook gnocchi in batches until they rise to the surface, about 3 mins. Remove with a slotted spoon; transfer to a large plate. Melt 125g butter in pan; add 2tbs shredded sage leaves; cook until butter browns; add gnocchi; toss lightly to coat. To serve - drizzle with the butter; season with black pepper.

Ravioli de Zucca: Preheat oven to 190C. Cut 1 small to medium butternut pumpkin (about 1kg or so) in half; scrape out seeds. Spread 1tbs molasses in the cavity; season. Place cut side down on roasting pan; cook in oven until very soft, about 1 hour. Cool to room temperature; scoop out flesh into food processor; puree until smooth; then spread on baking sheet; return to 190C oven to dry; about 10mins. The consistency will be like mashed potatoes; scrape into mixing bowl. Heat 2tbs unsalted butter in saucepan over med-low heat until it begins to brown. Immediately remove from heat; add 1tbs molasses and 2tsp balsamic vinegar. To the squash, add 1/4c mascarpone, 2tbs freshly-grated Parmesan, 1/4tsp each cinnamon and nutmeg. Season, to taste with salt and pepper; mix well. The recipe can be made ahead to this point (makes 2 cups filling,) Cover well and refrigerate 4 hours or up to 2 days. To fill the ravioli: Lay out a sheet of pasta dough on a lightly-floured board. Cut into circles with a 3-1/2 inch pastry cutter. Put 1 tablespoon squash filling in the center of 1/2 the rounds using either a pastry bag or a small spoon. Leave a 1/2-inch border all around the filling. Moisten borders with water; top with remaining rounds of dough. Press all the air out, and seal firmly by pressing all around with fingertips. Lay ravioli out to dry on a lightly-floured board or baking sheet and lightly flour the tops. Repeat until you run out of dough and/or filling. To cook: boil in lightly salted water until tender, about 3 minutes. Reserve ¼ cup of the cooking water. Sage Brown Butter: While raviolis are cooking, in a large sauté pan, melt 4tbs butter with 8 fresh sage leaves and a pinch of salt until it foams and becomes light brown; reserve. On med-heat toss the cooked ravioli in the sage butter; then transfer to a serving platter or dishes. Add the 1/4c reserved cooking water to the pan; swirl with any residual butter. Spoon the butter sauce over the ravioli; then finish with a generous grating of Parmesan and bittersweet chocolate (optional)

SILENCE IS GOLDEN

Since I ceased working (retired, I guess, is another word for what I've done) a few years ago one of the greatest pleasures I’ve gained are those first few moments upon waking. Moments when I can lie in peaceful harmony with the early morn, gathering my thoughts together; or not thinking at all, if I feel so inclined. Five minutes, maybe 10, or somewhere in between the two in total silence is all I need.

When I was slogging away in the workforce as soon as I opened my eyes, I’d leap out of bed. I had things to do; preparations to be made in readiness for the day, and more often than not, the night ahead, as well; a place to go to, or sometimes, places; people to see; others who needed attending to in so many ways, and, probably most important of all, people to feed! Impatient, empty, growling stomachs of diners aren’t prepared to wait for anyone!

To my way of thinking, there are many good things about living alone…and I really do enjoy living alone. I must do because I’ve lived by myself with only my furry rascals as my housemates, for the past 27 years since my marriage break-up.

One good thing about living alone is being able to spend, not only those quiet moments upon waking, but those moments after rising, as well. Not being inundated with unnecessary, pointless chatter first thing in the morning is something I cherish dearly.

My ex-husband, Randall, never understood my desire for only the sound of silence as I went about preparing coffee and our breakfast. I needed that hushed space in the morning, but he was the polar opposite. He found it necessary to jabber away incessantly with idle, joyful trivia!

Each to their own, of course; I understand. And, I’m not in anyway being unkind about my ex-husband. Randall and I are still good mates…but, no matter how often or how many times I tried to make him understand my wish for silence at that time of our mornings, he failed to have empathy. Natter away he would; and then wonder why I’d constantly get cranky!

Randall would say to me: “Why do you always get up in a bad mood?”

Exasperated, I'd glare and growl at him; “I don’t get up in a bad mood! After all this time, and after being told every day, you still don’t know why I get grumpy, do you?”

I became sure that he behaved that way on purpose just to stir me up; and as hard as I tried, his early morning joyfulness still made me grumpy! His efforts worked, time and time again!

No one should be that cheerfully noisy first thing in the morning…other than the birds!

I’m not sure if it’s a male thing or not, but my older brother knew how and when to push my buttons, too. Sometimes he and Randall worked together in tandem against me when my brother visited. I’d grit my teeth in an effort to show them they weren’t succeeding in their endeavours to raise my ire! My ability to ignore their childish efforts grew somewhat over the years, but it still failed me at times, too; more often than not, if I must be honest! I found it best to walk away from their inane laughter; but more often than not, to my dismay and their enjoyment, that was difficult for me to do, too!

Another time I cherished silence was after a successful fishing outing.

When my husband and I first moved from the city to the Sunshine Coast, we stole a few weeks to ourselves, away from the madding crowd and workplaces to plot out our future.

I’d been working in the fashion industry, and had been employed in my job for 14 years. I had taken six weeks off at the most during those years. There were times, also, during those 14 years I’d worked part-time at nights and weekends in the restaurant industry.

Every other day throughout our chosen leisure, pondering time, we went fishing. Randall was always after the “big one”; his fishing gear was rigged, accordingly. He wanted to catch the biggest jewfish aka mulloway on the Sunshine Coast or beyond. Needless to say, he never did catch that elusive prey; but his determination in trying to do so was as potent as his determination to keep chattering in the early mornings!

Mulloway/Jewfish can grow up to 2 metres in length (6ft 6 inches).

So while Randall was up one end of the beach trying to snare his dream, I’d be down the other end rigged up to catch bream; and catch them I did! Our chosen fishing spot was the northern side of the mouth of the Maroochy River. Back in 1979, progress hadn’t progressed down that far to the river’s mouth. There were no buildings, no houses or people; just sand dunes, grasses and She-Oaks along the ocean front; and mangroves protecting the upper banks of the river. It’s a different scene today.

There was a perfect sand bar out just to the right of my preferred fishing spot. The bream fed off the side of the sand bar. I had a 12-foot surf rod with an Alvey side-cast reel. I’d cast out to the inner rim of the bank. Using fowl gut as bait, the bream were hungry little beggars; some were not so little! In no time at all, I’d be reeling them in, one after the other, filling up the ice-filled esky.

Randall, in the meantime, would still be in the hunt for the “big one” further along the beach! However, our pattern worked well.

Once we arrived back home, it was my job to scale, gut and fillet them. Sometimes, if I was in the mood to do so, I’d even skin some fillets. It was my choice to do all of this. I was happy to be the one taking care of the fish I caught. Meanwhile, Randall was in charge of cleaning our fishing gear and storing it in its rightful place.

I'd pack the fillets into meal-size portions etc.

Our neighbour was a lovely, gentle elderly lady. She'd been widowed a couple of years before our becoming neighbours. I used to love seeing her eyes light up when we gave her a few portions of the fish. Her meals were covered for the week; and we’d keep some also for my husband’s parents when they visited…and they visited every weekend. They were happy with their regular fish supplies, as well.

When we first moved to the coast, we lived for the first few months in my in-laws new home at Coolum, a Sunshine Coast beach area. They'd built the home they’d for their retirement, which was only a matter of months away. However, at that time of our own arrival to the coast, my father-in-law was still working; and they were still living in Brisbane. They offered their vacant new home to us until we bought our own house. We covered all costs, including utilities while living in their home, telling them to always arrive empty-handed in exchange and gratitude for their generosity. Staying in their home allowed us time to breathe. We welcomed their weekend visits.

Come dinner the nights of our fishing excursions, I’d cook up a feed of fresh bream fillets for Randall and me. Without fail, I’d just begin eating my delicious meal of freshly-caught fish when Randall would begin to describe, in detail, our fishing outing and the fish caught!

Every time he would go into minute details about this and that about the fish; how they were biting; how good the fowl gut bait was etc., etc., et al! And every time, he’d put me off my meal because I’d been the one, who had caught, scaled, gutted, filleted and cooked the fish that now graced his and my plate!

I didn’t want to discuss the ins-and-outs of the fishing side of it; that was gone; in the past. I wanted to block all of that from my mind and pretend that someone else had caught, scaled, gutted and filleted them! I wanted enjoy my meal. I wanted us to either talk about something else, or eat in silence, but Randall made it impossible for me to do either! No matter how many times I asked him not to discuss the fish while we were eating it, he never heeded my wishes! And every time, I lost my appetite for the delicious, fresh fish before me…but I found my crankiness with no trouble at all!

I think Randall had a death wish!!

While bream are silver – silence is golden!

Beer-Battered Bream Fillets: Grab 1kg bream fillets, skinned or otherwise. Beer Batter: In a bowl, add 1 egg, 1tbs olive oil and pinch of pepper; whisk together. Add 375ml of cold ale; whisk again. Gradually add 1-1/4c self-raising flour (or plain flour with 2tsps baking powder added). ¼ cup cornflour and salt to taste; whisking all the time; the consistency of the batter should be like cream; don’t over whisk, a few lumps don’t matter. Lightly coat the bream fillets in flour, shaking off excess; and then dip into the batter; drape fillets on edge of bowl so excess batter drips off. Cook fish in preheated oil (180-190C) in small batches, until golden; allow oil to reheat between each batch. Drain on paper towels; serve with lemon wedges (or vinegar, if you prefer), crunchy hot chips and fresh salad!

Tarragon Butter Jewfish Provencale: Blend together until light and fluffy - 250g softened unsalted butter, 1tbs chopped fresh tarragon, 1tbs lemon zest, 1tspn lemon juicel season with salt and white pepper; cover and chill until firm. Place 8 garlic cloves, 8 chopped anchovy fillets and 2tsp fresh thyme leaves into a pestle and mortar; pound until it forms a smooth paste. Stir in ½ olive oil and 1tsp mashed roasted red capsicum; mix well. Place 4 mulloway-jewfish fillets and marinade in baking dish; coat the fish evenly in the marinade; cover and chill, 3 to 4 hours. Preheat barbecue on high; turn down to almost the lowest heat. Brush grill with oil. Brush the solids of the marinade off the fish; grill fish 3 minutes; turn over (the fish, not you); cook for a further 2 minutes. Remove fish from the heat, keeping it warm, loosely covered with foil for about 5mins to rest. Serve fillets topped with a spoonful of the tarragon butter. Serve with steamed new potatoes and a tossed salad.

ODE TO SUNDAY

The Gouldian Finch, also known as the Lady Gouldian Finch, Gould's Finch or the Rainbow Finch are unique to Australia.


may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even it it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

Poem - courtesy of e.e. cummings




Painting by Lee

A CLOAK OF MANY COLOURS

Some feel the need to embellish their past. I have neither the desire nor the need to do so as far as my own is concerned. My past is embroidered by myriad threads of multiple tones; more colours than a thousand assembled rainbows; or Joseph's multi-hued cloak, even.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m a “black and white” person, but my hair lets me down. Nowadays, it adds more than fifty shades of grey to the mix. It’s a bit rich, I know, but I’ll call my present hair colour “silver”.

My life’s palette consists of more greens than vast verdant vistas; from forest to apple green, inter-weaved with all variants in between; reds from amaranth to wine entwine with cerise, crimson and vermillion. Variations of violet, purple and puce mingle with more than a few blue hues. My personal colour wheel abounds in sunny lemon, mellow yellow and chartreuse; included in the range, an intense diversity of enthusiastic orange. I’ve more than enough diverse aspects to keep me occupied and amused; and others, bemused!

The grandiosity of my description could be considered a contradiction to my stating I have no need to embellish; but, if you think about it, it is clarification no such superfluous adornment is necessary when the truth itself is its own kaleidoscope. The danger of being caught out spinning a fanciful, colourful yarn constantly lurks within dappled shadows. Therefore, it’s more attractive to remain true to you. yourself; or in my case, me to myself; and to the truth. Tell the facts as they are; by doing so, one's integrity is retained; and one's believability.

It was my first day in a new job; in a new town. I had lived and worked in Collinsville previously when I was chef/manager at the Mess that catered for the coal miners; not only in the filling of their bellies, but also managing their accommodation requirements. As I've mentioned in previous posts, I was then employed by Morris Catering. So, in truth, Collinsville wasn't "new" to me; I was revisiting ground previously trodden.

I'd left Collinsville for a few months, relocating to Townsville, but for whatever reason, I was drawn back to the coal-mining town by a job offer to become chef in the kitchen of the Collinsville Town and Country Hotel-Motel. Perhaps I felt I had unfinished business in Collinsville...who knows? I do know that I had a lot of fun times in that little town.

Arriving at my new workplace at the predetermined time, the departing chef and I chatted casually as he showed me the ropes of the kitchen.

As we set up our mise en place (preparing the night's menu requirements), he asked questions about my past experiences...restaurant experiences, that is!

I regaled a lengthy, humorous tale about a crazy Saturday evening almost 20 years previously that occurred at a Brisbane restaurant in which I was working part-time in the mid-Seventies. "Scaramouche" was its name; a French-style restaurant in a magnificent, historical old building on the corner of Turbot Street and Coronation Drive. "Scaramouche" was the "In" restaurant during the time I worked there. It was owned and run by Peter Fluckiger, later to become Peter Hackworth. Peter, during the early days of "Scaramouche", also owned another restaurant, "Manouche", situated on Milton Road, Toowong. She was and still is a legend in Brisbane's restaurant industry. Manouche is French for "Gypsy". The restaurant then became known as "Two Small Rooms". However, sadly, after operating for 20 years under that name, it closed its doors for the final time in March this year...2013.

http://www.womenshistory.com.au/person.asp?pID=209

http://www.peterhackworthgroup.com.au/bio.html

Peter (female - her mother had believed she was going to have a son, and when a daughter appeared on the scene, the mother decided to stick with the name she'd chosen, as well as the spelling of that name) married Colonel David Hackworth...the most highly decorated US soldier. Peter and David met through a mutual friend.

Sadly, David passed away, eight years ago, 4th May. He had returned to the US, the country of his birth, after he and Peter divorced.

David Hackworth was an outstanding man. I will always be grateful that I was fortunate enough to get to know him. He was fun to know; but he wouldn't have been fun to cross!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Hackworth

He had spent much of his R & R here when he was in Vietnam. After David quit the US Army during the Vietnam campaign, he decided to settle in Australia. He'd begun questioning the US involvement in Vietnam; he lost belief in the war; arriving at the belief the US shouldn't be there. David had been a career soldier, like his father before him and his father's father before him. David and I shared the same birth date...but all of this is another lengthy story for another time; not today.

In the meantime, a little bit of interesting trivia to whet your appetites: Two of the major roles in Coppola's "Apocalypse Now" - Martin Sheen's Captain Willard. and Marlon Brando's Colonel Kurtz were based on David Hackworth.

Now that I've given you a bit of background...the chef in the kitchen of Collinsville's Town & Country Hotel-Motel listened without interruption (an unusual phenomenon in itself) until I completed my story.

Standing side by side at the vast commercial 8-burner gas range, he turned to me.

A smile spread across his face as he declared; “I know that story! I remember it well!”

“Really! How on earth...?” I exclaimed in disbelief.

“That story spread throughout the trade – restaurant to restaurant. It became part of the Brisbane’s restaurant folklore!” He laughingly replied.

Dumbfounded, I stared at him.

He and I were strangers. We’d met for the first time only a couple of hours before; and yet, he was familiar with the story I’d just described in detail.

He left town the next day. We never met again. I hadn’t exaggerated nor had I gilded the night’s events in any way. I related it as it had unfolded.

After the chef’s reaction, my belief that embellishment isn’t necessary was consolidated.

Because I’ve probably already taken up more than enough of your precious time, I’ll tell you the story I told my newly-met co-worker another day...another story to be related on another day, along with the one about David Hackworth; or perhaps I'll separate the two to be told on separate days!

Blame my grey matter if I forget to do so

Roasted Rainbow Trout: Preheat oven to 225C (205C - Fan). Get a hold of 4 whole rainbow trout, cleaned and gutted. Season trout inside and out with salt and pepper. Combine 90g unsalted butter, softened at room temperature, 1-1/2tsp chopped sage and 1-1/2tsp chopped flat-leaf parsley in a small bowl; blend until smooth. Divide mixture between trout cavities; then close. Brush a large baking dish with 1tbs extra-virgin olive oil. Arrange fish in one layer; pour over 1/2 cup dry white wine. Bake fish, 10mins, adding another 1/2 cup of the wine after 5mins. Drain liquid into a saucepan; tent trout with foil to keep warm. Pour about 1/4 cup of wine into saucepan; stir over high heat until mixture reduces and emulsifies. Transfer fish to heated plates; pour sauce over the trout. Meanwhile, place 500g red and yellow cherry tomatoes on the vine in a lightly-oiled baking dish; season; drizzle with oil. Bake 10mins or until tomatoes start to burst. Serve with the trout.

Rainbow Cake: Preheat oven 180°C/160°C fan-forced. Grease 3x7cm-deep, 20cm round cake pans or 3x 4cm-deep, 20cm round cake pans; line bases and sides with baking paper. Grab 2x340g butter-cake mix (or 2 quantities homemade butter-cake). Prepare 1pkt as per directions; divide batter between 3 bowls; tint one lot blue; one green and remaining lot yellow; spread one portion into one cake pan. Repeat with remaining 2 portions and pans. Bake 25mins; rotate halfway through. Cool 5mins; turn onto racks to cool completely. In clean, greased, lined pans, repeat the above process using 2nd cake mix: Meringue Frosting: Place 8 egg whites, 4c caster sugar, 1tsp vanilla and ¼ cold water in heat-proof bowl; whisk to combine; place bowl over saucepan of simmering water. Beat 15mins with electric hand mixer until stiff peaks form; remove from heat; beat until cooled. Place blue cake on board; spread with 1/2 cup frosting. Top with green cake; repeat with remaining frosting and yellow, pink, orange and red cakes, using 1/2 cup frosting for each layer. Spread remaining frosting over top and side of cake. Sprinkle with 100s and 1000s.

Lemon Shortbread: Beat 10tbs unsalted butter, 1/4c icing sugar, 1-1/2tbs white sugar, 1/4tsp salt and 1tsp lemon zest until very fluffy. Gradually sift in 1-1/2c plain flour; mix well. Sprinkle over 1/2tsp lemon juice; lightly knead until dough holds together; if too dry, add a little lemon juice; don’t over-moisten. Press into 8x8-inch pan; pierce deeply with fork in a pattern; bake at 162C, 40-45mins. Turn out of pan while warm; cut into bars; sprinkle with sugar; cool.

Rainbow Orange Wedges: Halve 9 oranges; remove segments; set orange “cups” in muffin tins. Prepare 6 flavours of jelly (use a little less water than directed). With each colour, fill 3 orange cups up to the top; repeat until 6 flavours are used. Chill 5hrs/overnight. Remove orange cups; use sharp knife to slice each into 3 wedges. Place wedges on serving platter – light to dark. Chill.

Addendum: For many years I lived just around the corner from the original "Manouche". Before it became the restaurant it was a second-hand furniture store. I purchased an old Bentwood chair there that I had for years. The original building was a little, quaint old weatherboard shop, built in the early to mid-1900's, I imagine. When Peter turned it into a restaurant the outer facade remained as it had been throughout its early years...and the interior dining area was just one room for dining and the restaurant's kitchen was at the rear left-hand side of the premises, looking at it from the street. "Manouche" had a warm, intimate feeling about it...it wasn't wide open like shown in the picture after it had morphed into "Two Small Rooms".

COME TO ME, MY LITTLE CHICKADEE!

What a pretty little bird the Chickadee is. The vocal, pint-sized songbird is native to North America and parts of Canada. It’s also the state bird of both Maine and Massachusetts; all of which is probably useless trivia you’re not remotely interested in; but then again, may be you are!

My only prior knowledge of chickadees was 1940’s most successful film after “Gone with the Wind” - “My Little Chickadee” that starred the cleverly-inspired pairing of Mae West and W.C. Fields. So my previous image of a chickadee was one of Mae West! How wrong could one image be?

“My Little Chickadee” ran second to Scarlett and Rhett’s blockbuster; and that must have blown the producers, director and actors away!

As an aside, and, perhaps, this is just another piece of totally futile, ineffective trivia, I was named after Vivienne Leigh aka Scarlett O'Hara...with the different spelling of "Lee" tossed into the mix. I prefer my spelling of the name...but that is by the by...gone with the wind!

Just so you are aware...1940 was a bit before my time; but that doesn't lessen my interest and liking of old movies, stories (as in books), music etc., etc., et al.

I always have one foot firmly planted in the present, but I do enjoy waving the other one around in the past, as well, while trying to remain evenly balanced and upright in the meantime. If I had a third foot, I’d plant it in the future in an attempt to discover what it has in store. The future is a cagey, secretive critter. It never wants to divulge much of what it has planned, believing surprise to be its best strategy. I don’t wholly agree with that policy, but, unfortunately, there’s little I can do about learning what undetermined events of the earthly hereafter lay ahead.

A few clues wouldn’t go astray!

“My Little Chickadee”, the movie, is set in America’s Old West. Buxom, tightly-corseted, shamelessly impudent Mae graces the screen as “Flower Belle Lee”; gruffly enigmatic, button-holed, top-hatted Fields is con man, “Cuthbert J. Twillie”.

The movie grossed upwards of $20m in the US alone; an extraordinary amount of money at the time; an extraordinary amount these days, too, I might add! I wouldn’t say “No” to such a sum! Without hesitation, I’d swallow my pride and accept it with thanks - thank you very much!

Scarlett O’Hara would have declared, if she’d been aware: “Fiddle-dee-dee! I do agree! That’s a mighty fee, Chickadee!”

The movie’s stars remain at the heart of cinema history; and in the hearts of their millions of fans, young, old and in the middle; the unique talents of West and Fields will long be remembered; as will their many witty quotes.

Some might say Mae unintentionally let her guard down, setting aside her fruitiness to display a tender, somewhat Christian aspect of her nature when making the statement: “Love thy neighbour – and if he happens to be tall, debonair and devastating; it will be that much easier!”

And that she was an adroit mistress of perception is clearly discernible when she mocked: “Those who are easily shocked should be shocked more often!”

Mae West's insightfulness leapt boundaries previously unconquered when she declared: “I wrote the story myself. It’s about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it!”

A diva to beat all divas, West never attempted to disguise her brazen honesty: “I only read biographies, metaphysics and psychology. I can dream up my own fiction.”

Crusty W.C. was also a reservoir of witticisms.

I’ve flushed out a few of his quotes, as well - such as: “I’m free of all prejudices. I hate everyone equally!”

Along with: “I never worry about being driven to drink; I just worry about being driven home.”

And then there’s this piece of good advice from the irascible rogue; “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again; then quit. There’s no point in being a damn fool about it!”

And another of Fields' many, indisputable, truthful disclosures: “I cook with wine; sometimes I even add it to the food.”


Red Wine-Balsamic Chicken: Combine 1/4c balsamic, 1/4c red wine vinegar, 1tbs olive oil, 1tbs honey, juice of half lemon or orange, 1 minced garlic clove, 1tsp minced onion, 1tsp salt, 1tsp dried thyme and cracked black pepper. Pound 5 boned, skinned chicken breasts/thighs to uniform thickness – about 1-inch; add to marinade; coat evenly; cover; chill 2hrs or overnight. Bring chicken to room temp. Heat grill, med-low; place chicken on grates; cover; cook, untouched, 5mins. Flip; cook about 10mins; flip again; cook further 2mins.

Strawberry Chicken with Red Wine: Hull and slice 3c strawberries; set aside. Heat 2ts olive oil in small saucepan; add 2/3c sliced shallots, 1 chopped garlic clove, 1 bay leaf and 1/2tsp dried thyme; stir 2-3mins. Add 3/4c sliced strawberries; cook 1min; stir constantly; add 2tbs balsamic; simmer 1min. Add 1/3c red wine; simmer until reduced by half; add ¾c chicken broth; simmer 5mins. Whisk 1-1/2tsp cornflour in 2tsp water; add to saucepan; boil 1min; stir until thickened; strain; season. Reheat just before serving. Lightly coat 4 boneless, skinned chicken breasts with oil; season; grill 4-5mins per side; serve chicken over combined long-grain rice and wild rice; surround with remaining strawberries and warmed sauce.

Dry-Rub Grilled Spatchcocked Chicken: Grab 1 whole chicken; split down the middle...spatchcocked. Season the chicken with ample dry rub. Dry Rub Ingredients: 1tbs ground black pepper, 2tsp cayenne (optional), 2tbs chilli powder, 2tbs ground cumin, 2tbs brown sugar, 1tbs granulated sugar, 1tbs dried oregano, 4tbls salt, 1tbs white pepper, 3tbls celery salt, 1tbs garlic powder and 3tbs dried parsley. Store leftover rub in container; keep in the fridge. When barbecue is at an even temperature, lay opened/spatchcock chicken on grill; cook with cover on; turn occasionally...about 1-1/2 hours or until the centre of the thickest parts are cooked through.

Spiced Wine with Dried Fruit: Place 2 chamomile tea bags in cup; pour over 2c boiling water; let stand 4mins; discard bags. Combine tea, 750ml semi-dry white wine, 1/2c sugar, 1/3c orange juice, 1/4c light rum, 2tbs lemon juice, 1tbs raisins, 1tbs chopped mixed dried fruit, 1 bay leaf, 1 cinnamon stick and 1/8tsp nutmeg in saucepan. Stir over med-heat until sugar dissolves; bring to just simmer; remove from heat; cover; steep 20mins. Re-warm over low heat; don’t boil. Discard bay leaf and cinnamon stick. Ladle into mugs; serve.

Enjoy yourselves, my little Chickadees!

CORNY AS A KERNEL; FRUITY AS A BAT; NUTTY AS A FRUIT CAKE!

Oh! My Gourd! It’s a-maizing! I think I’m going bananas, particularly when everything around me is going pear-shaped; but no one else appears to give a fig; so, why should I?

It gives me the pip when my voice gets husky from sprouting forth too much; or, more appropriately, from not having spoken to a fellow being for a while. There are times my eyes feel a little grainy; there are even moments I feel a bit seedy. My wild oats were sown years ago, during which time I stumbled over a few forbidden fruits; and enjoyed the stumble! I didn’t need a gooseberry as chaperone.

When the last mangoes at season’s end I’m distressed; but I blow a raspberry; and then, move on.

Don’t upset the apple cart by misguidedly prejudging me. I might appear to be as withered as a raisin in the sun or as a dried prune, but nuts to that idea! My pulse continues ticking over at a regular rate proving there are still signs of life in this old sugar plum.

I’m as cool as a cucumber. I’m no damson in distress.

I have no fear of turning into a pumpkin because I’m never out late nowadays; nor am I out late now at night. Come to think of it, I’m not out late afternoons, either. In other words - I yam what I yam; and I don’t give a jackfruit!

I always turnip early! I’m not a bad apple, and, if you must split peas rather than hairs, I’m not a tough old chick. I’m not always an angry old broad, either; only when I get cranky; and then I’m as prickly as a prickly pear!

There are times I’ve a few sour grapes, but I’m no melon collard, baby! I can have my cake and eat it, too. I use my coconut, and triple the quantity; and then, everything is just peachy!

The point is - I love fresh vegetables, fruit, raw nuts, pulses/legumes/lentils, sprouts and grains. I have done so since I was a kid; nothing has changed in that department. All have starring roles in my day-to-day menu.

As a child I needed no cajoling, coaxing, blackmailing, duping or tricking into eating the wide variety of food types placed before me. My brother and I had absolute, unfailing faith in our mother and grandmother. We knew they had no evil intentions of poisoning us. Our little family unit may not have had a lot of money in the coffers, but our cupboards were always full (as were our stomachs); there was always food on our meal table.

Refrigeration and refrigerators were what other folks had; in our home, we had an ice-chest. The "iceman cometh" every other day. Protecting his shoulders from the hessian sugar bags filled with the cold, damp block ice was a piece of leather. One important chore for us kids was to keep an eye on the tray underneath the ice-chest that caught the melting ice water. If our diligence slipped we all were in danger of slipping on the water-drenched floor!

Always, during our formative years, there were healthy productive vegetable gardens out the back and down the side of our house, along with a few fruit-bearing trees. In the backyard, an orange tree grew at one side of the laundry shed; a lemon tree on the other. Of course, a choko vine crept over the chicken coop. The chicken poop fed the vegetable garden; the vegetable scraps fed the chickens; around and around cycle cycled. As well as the backyard orange and lemon trees was a mulberry tree; and keeping it company was a peach tree. The peaches were hard little bullets. My brother and I ate them, anyway. Our silkworms ate the mulberry leaves. In the front yard was a loquat tree; the fruit flies’ favourite. A war continued between the pests and us to see who’d get to the fruit first. I think it was a draw each loquat season! My brother and I were fair combatants in the battles.

Loquat jam and chutney, as well as loquat crumbles and tarts were constants on our table.

Now I pine for an apple. Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana. On that note, I’m going to make like a banana and split…bye!

Chickpea-Corn Rainbow Salad: Steam 240g green beans, chopped into thirds, 2-3mins; immediately place under cold water to stop cooking process; put in salad bowl. Sauté 340ml drained corn kernels (or fresh) until browned; about 8mins; add to beans. Add 1 can drained, rinsed chickpeas (or cook your own), 1 large red capsicum, diced, 1/2c diced red onion, 1 diced avocado, 10 torn spinach leaves, 2c halved cherry or grape tomatoes, 4 sliced shallots and a 6-8 torn basil leaves. Add 1c cooked quinoa – optional. Whisk together 2tsp lime or lemon zest, 3tbs lime/lemon juice, 3tbs olive oil, minced garlic, salt and pepper; pour over salad; toss gently. Toss in some sliced, pitted black olives if you like.

Grilled Vegetable-Chickpea Salad: Cut 1 eggplant and 2 zucchinis lengthways into slices (not too thin); core and quarter a red and a green capsicum so pieces are relatively flat. Toss vegetables in olive oil; season. Heat a grill or hot pan until quite hot; cook the vegetables until just tender and caramelised. Cut vegetables into equal-sized pieces; toss with well-drained can of chickpeas, crumbled feta, to taste, 1 crushed garlic clove, sliced fresh parsley; season; drizzle over olive oil and juice of 1 lemon.

Kale & Sweet Potato Salad: Cut 450g sweet potato into 3/4-inch cubes; toss cubes in a little olive oil, 1/4tsp thyme; season. Spread cubes on lined baking tray; roast in 200C oven until light golden on edges. Grab a bunch of kale; tear leaves from stems. Chop a few at a time into thin strips; place in colander; rinse and drain well. Put into bowl; add dressing; toss to coat, making sure all the curly bits are dressed. Pile roasted cubes on top; sprinkle 1/4c each sunflower seeds and dried cranberries over top; serve.

Sprout-Spinach-Rocket Salad: Combine 4c sprouts (any combination e.g. mung, lentils, chickpeas, quinoa, alfalfa etc.), 3c spinach leaves and rocket, 1 small red onion, diced, 4 carrots, grated, 3 mushrooms, sliced and 1 sliced red or yellow capsicum; toss with dressing; top with 1 cucumber, sliced, and 1 diced tomato.

Loquat-Srawberry-Macadamia Nut Crumble: Preheat oven to 175C (350F). Toss 2c peeled, seeded, halved loquats and 1c halved strawberries with 2-3tbs chopped crystallized ginger, cinnamon, 1/4tsp ground cloves, 1tbs lemon juice and 1/4c raw sugar. Place in oven-proof pie dish. Combine 3/4c raw sugar with 3/4c plain flour, 1/2c or so of chopped macadamia nuts aka Queensland nuts. Using your fingers, rub in 1/2c cold butter (or use processor on pulse); until mixture resembles semi-moist breadcrumbs. Add some dessicated coconut if you like...and balance out the butter etc. Sprinkle evenly over the fruit in the pie dish. Bake around 35 minutes. Serve warm with custard, whipped cream or ice cream (or all)!!